The Rosecross, page 10
Reading nothing more, I blindly fed the manuscript to the fire’s flames. Chapter after chapter, the charred remains faded to brown and then crispy black as each page of the manuscript was sucked up through the chimney chute, scattering the Judge’s manuscript into the swirling winds of a stormy night in Taormina. When I fed the last page to the fire, Anna rested the gun at her side and walked to the table.
“Now, let’s talk,” she said.
Suddenly, I heard the staccato pop of a gunshot and the shatter of glass. Blood gushed from Anna’s neck near her carotid artery. I rushed toward her. She fell listlessly into my arms. Gently, I placed her on the floor and, keeping low, crawled toward the window. Crouched down, I saw the taillights of a car disappear over the crest of the winding road leading to our home. I returned to Anna and fell to my knees. I could do nothing to stop the flow of blood that spilled freely. Leaning over Anna, I gently placed her hand in mine, her glazed eyes staring eerily into the endless bounds of eternity. Grimacing with pain, she fought to squeeze another moment into her life. But her slow breathing, forced and frightening, suggested that soon she would succumb to her mortality. Gripping energy from some mystical force, her eyes pierced through mine as she tried to raise herself from the floor. I placed my hand under her head, gently lifted it, and turned my ear toward her mouth. Laboring, she struggled to say something. I could barely hear her faint whisper.
“Francesco, look under…”
Unable to finish her sentence, Anna’s head fell to one side. Gently, I removed my hand from the back of her head and rested her limp body on the floor. I tried to find a pulse. There was none. The lady in black was dead.
CHAPTER 31
GUERINO REGANTINI
Idialed the emergency 113 number to report Anna’s murder to the carabinieri—the Italian police— but the telephone lines were dead. My only choice was to venture outside and make my way to the police station. But because the storm continued to ravish Taormina, I decided not to drive. Before leaving on foot, I discarded my blood-stained shirt and tossed it in a hamper. I rummaged through the clothes I kept in Taormina and found a flannel shirt. I then covered myself with a cape and zigzagged down the pedestrian pathway, fighting the wind and rain along the way. The police station—the questura—was located in the Piazza S. Domenico, a short distance away. Hopefully, someone would be on duty. When I finally reached the station, I looked in the window but saw no movement inside. It was dark. I tried to open the door, but the janitor had probably locked it before leaving the station.
Occasional flashes of thunderbolts continued to cast spurts of light on a stormy night. The daunting thought of spending the remainder of the night with Anna was uninviting. The kerosene lamp had probably spent its fuel, and the house was now pitch-black inside. Recognizing I had no option, soaked and exhausted, I decided to head back down the Corso Umberto toward the Porta Messina. But before I began to make the long trek toward the steep pedestrian pathway, a voice, intimidating but welcome, rescued me.
“Venga! Entri! Posso aiutarla? Sono Guerino Regantini.”
I was invited into the police station by an officer who identified himself as Guerino Regantini. He was the poliziotto on duty. Explaining that the storm had disrupted the electricity, he extended an invitation for shelter, which I happily accepted.
“Come mai lei e uscito con questo tempaccio?”
He asked why I had ventured out on such a stormy night.
“Sono venuto ad informarvi di un omicidio.”
After I told him I was there to report a murder, Guerino, surprisingly unmoved, said nothing. He fiddled around in his pants pocket, found a match, lit a kerosene lamp, and invited me to sit at a table. While dousing the match, he sat across from me. I now saw him better. He had loosened his tie and unfastened his top shirt button. His age was difficult to estimate, but he was probably in his late middle years, approaching fifty, I suspected. His head was balding on top, but he had a crop of hair on each side, full and combed straight back. All in all, he was somewhat messy, probably because the weather had caused him to serve an extended tour of duty.
“Come si chiama?”
“Francesco Micco.”
“Quale e nome della vittima?”
I identified myself, and he asked for the victim’s name. With a little forethought, the fabrication began. I told Guerino that the victim was a stranger and she came to my house seeking shelter from the storm. Suspicious, Guerino shrugged, his face sporting a quirky smile.
“Come e stata uccisa?”
He asked how the assailant had killed her. I explained that her assailer fired a shot through a window, and it struck my visitor in the neck. At least that part of the story was real.
“Forse sarebbe meglio se adesso andiamo a casa.”
He suggested that we go to the house immediately. He locked the questura and led me to his car. Because of the ravaging storm, Guerino drove cautiously along the narrow, winding road that led up the hill. The wind continued to howl, but its intensity had relented somewhat. With the windshield wipers whopping back and forth, Guerino kept his eyes fixed on the winding road, saying nothing, while I questioned my decision to hide the truth. But it was now too late to make a full disclosure. Judging from his stoic reaction to my story and his staid, quiet demeanor, Guerino Regantini wouldn’t believe me anyway. Who could blame him?
When we arrived, Guerino and I stepped out of the car and walked down the brick pathway toward the house. Guerino proceeded ahead of me, lighting the way with a flashlight. Side by side, we stood on the front stoop. I unlocked the door. We entered the house and walked through the dark living room and headed toward the kitchen. The wind was still blowing through the shattered window. When we reached the kitchen, Guerino flashed the light along the floor—back and forth, up and down, one side to the other. Again and again, he shined the light across the pristine floor. With the light pointed directly in my face, Guerino stared quizzically at me.
He was confused.
I was baffled.
Anna’s body was gone.
CHAPTER 32
AN ITALIAN CONNECTION
I found a small stash of kerosene stored against the kitchen cabinet’s back wall. After lighting the lamp, it flickered, providing only a glimmer of light. I placed it on the kitchen table. Guerino sat while I stood at the stove, brewing una bella tazza di caffe. While the water boiled, we chatted awkwardly about the weather and his job. He spoke fluent English, explaining that he dealt daily with tourists from the United States as a police officer. When the bubbling sound ended, I tipped the pot and poured the espresso into a demitasse cup. He drank it with a quick swallow and then made what lawyers term ‘a full disclosure.’
“Before you decide whether to speak with me about the murder, you should know something,” Guerino said, hunched forward, his elbows resting on the table with one hand covering the other and his eyes fixed on mine.
“Your grandfather, Gaspare, was my uncle,” he announced warmly as his eyes circled the room. “I often visited him in this home with my parents, especially when Uncle Gaspare traveled from the United States to celebrate the traditional Easter festivals.”
A warm, friendly smile lit his face.
“And I remember you,” he recalled, reminiscing, “much younger, bicycling on the Corso Umberto on your way to Gelatomania. And I remember Grazia and Giancarlo.”
“So, you are my cousin?” I inquired, stunned.
“Yes. Your older cousin,” he mused.
“My parents—do you remember them?” I asked hurriedly.
“Of course. Your father and I shared many good times. We were like brothers. And your mother, Rosalina…”
Guerino paused as his eyes, glassy once again, circled the kitchen.
“…she was beautiful and kind.”
Because Guerino was my cugina—my cousin—I decided to tell him the entire story. Through the waning hours of the night and into the early morning, I related to him the events that have plagued my life since my father’s death. While I talked, he listened, saying nothing. I spared no detail—factual, personal, or emotional. It was a matter of innate trust. Guerino was a magnet that attracted my confidence.
After Guerino left, I dozed through the following morning. At noon, the ring of my telephone woke me.
“Pronto,” I said.
It was Guerino.
“Buon Giorno, Francesco.”
“Buon Giorno, Guerino.”
Before leaving, Guerino assured me he would gather whatever information about Anna Angilsanti that was available from the Director-General of the Italian National Police. He also had connections at The Agencia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna—the External Intelligence and Security Agency, Italy’s version of the CIA. He began by saying that Anna’s dossier was short but telling. Then a pause. I suspected he was reluctant to pass on information that the Italian government may have labeled as classified. But I imagined that he had decided to help me, moved, I’m sure, by the strange events that have invaded my life since my mother’s murder—and because of our family connection.
“Ho scoperto che il nome di Anna Angelisanti era solo una copertura. Il suo vero nome e Lucia Lazzerini,” he informed me.
Anna Angelisanti had duped the Judge. Her real name was Lucia Lazzerini. I suspected that there was more, but I sensed that Guerino was torn between two loyalties—his position as a carabinieri and his bond with the Micco family. I heard him shuffling through papers, either searching for details or deciding whether to pass on more classified intelligence. I suspected the latter. In the end, after struggling between allegiance to work or family, he opted for the latter.
“It’s more complicated than I had suspected,” Guerino said, hesitating before passing on information that would add another layer of intrigue to the mission bequeathed to me by my father.
“Lucia Lazzerini was a federal undercover agent,” he related stoically. “She worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency at the Pentagon.”
CHAPTER 33
A MURDER SUSPECT
Within two hours, Guerino arrived at my Taormina home. Judging from his disheveled appearance, I suspected he had not slept but spent the night trying to shuffle through the mess that was suffocating my life. My flight did not leave from the Catania Airport for Rome until about nine in the evening. I again brewed una bella tazza di caffe, and we sat together at the kitchen table. It was my final chance to quiz Guerino. My initial query related to Claudio Armondi. His membership in the Mafia has been a mystery for years.
“Guerino, mi dica, Lei sa se e di Cosa Nostra?”
Our eyes locked. Guerino’s contemplative stare, coupled with a lingering silence, suggested that he was reluctant to tell me if Uncle Claudio was a Mafioso. After some thought, he relented.
“Si, lui e di Cosa Nostra.”
Rosalina’s assessment voiced many years ago proved to be true. Claudio Armondi was a member of the Cosa Nostra, and his dossier with the Italian National Police was extensive. After Claudio was discharged from the Army following his Vietnam tour, he returned to live with his family in New York City.
“Where did he work?” I inquired.
“He sold insurance for a Hartford Insurance Company.”
“That didn’t satisfy his business appetite?” I asked rhetorically.
“Hardly. While working for Hartford, he contrived a business plan designed to provide medical assistance to people who didn’t have immediate access to health care facilities,” Guerino explained, a nod to Uncle Claudio’s entrepreneurial skills as well as his penchant to help the less-privileged. “There was just one glitch. He had no money. He was, however, the nephew of John Gotti.”
“The boss of the Gambino crime family in New York City?” I asked, stunned.
“Yes.”
“Gotti funded Marymount HealthCare?”
“He did. But Claudio had bigger ideas,” Guerino said, grinning. “He expanded the business internationally to southern Italy. He named the Italian company Sanita per la Famiglia—Family HealthCare.”
“The business grew, I assume?”
“It did. By leaps and bounds,” Guerino explained as his grin widened. “The Italian government, through the Servizio Sanitario Nazionale, bought into his idea.”
“Gotti was still in the picture?” I asked, a senseless question given the Mafia’s proclivity to launder ill-gotten gains.
“Of course.” Guerino answered, chuckling “He was Claudio’s Italian Mafioso connection. Sanita per la Familgia built medical facilities in Puglia, Campania, Calabria, and Sicily.”
Guerino’s expression faded grim.
“Interestingly, each of the facilities were located in areas with a significant Mafia presence—in Puglia, la Sacra Corona Unita; in Campania, la Camorra; in Calabria, la n’Drangheta; and in Sicily, Cosa Nostra.”
It was sheer genius, I thought—the wedding of good and evil. Claudio Armondi provided healthcare to the people in southern Italy while laundering Mafia money at the same time.
“The business continued to grow?” I asked, impressed by Uncle Claudio’s ingenuity.
“Dramatically,” Guerino answered, citing both the good and the evil. “With the influx of government money, as well as the endless flow of cash filtered through the company by la Mafia, Sanita per la Famiglia flourished.”
Guerino paused, smiling comically.
“Claudio was indeed clever,” he admitted. “His facilities became recognized as the most advanced medical providers in Italy.”
Recalling my brother Giancarlo’s visit to the Marymount’s office at Trump Tower, I decided to raise a delicate subject. Something peculiar joined Giancarlo and Uncle Claudio in a relationship shrouded in secrecy. Giancarlo lived in Sicily, near the four facilities operated by Sanita per la Famiglia, and he had free access to Marymount’s office in New York. Is Giancarlo connected to the Mafia? I wondered. Guerino satisfied my curiosity.
“Francesco, Giancarlo lavora per la Sanita per la Famiglia. Per quanto ne sappia, lui ha ‘amici’ nella Mafia.”
Once again, the prodigal son had strayed—but not too far. Santa per la Famiglia employed Giancarlo. He was the administrator of the medical facilities in Puglia, Campana, Calabria, and Catania. Thankfully, Uncle Claudio vetoed his application for membership in the Mafia.
While we talked, Guerino’s cell phone rang. Excusing himself, he moved to a corner of the room and answered it. As the caller talked, he listened, occasionally nodding his head. Whispering, he tried to mask the calls urgency. When the call ended, he related to me the information passed on to him by one of his colleagues.
“The carabinieri have found Lazzerini’s body,” he informed me somberly.
“Where?”
“Near Mazzaro Bay.”
“Have they identified her?”
“Not yet. But the body meets your description. Tall, blond, caramel strands of hair. A gunshot wound that punctured her carotid artery.”
“Why wasn’t her body thrown into the bay?”
“Because the assassin wanted the carabinieri to find her.”
“That’s odd.”
“Not really,” he said, pausing. “The assassin planted evidence.”
“Connecting me to the murder?” I guessed.
His fixed stare was enough to answer my question.
“Her assailant scribbled your name and address on a sheet of paper found in her blouse pocket.”
Not only did the carabinieri want to question me. I was the prime murder suspect.
CHAPTER 34
A TRAIN RIDE
My relationship with Guerino stood at a pivotal juncture. Wedged between two loyalties, he held my fate in his hands, but Guerino’s next words—a warning—told me that he had decided to help.
“Non può partire da un aeroporto! Deve prendere il treno fino a Roma e poi l’aereo.”
I couldn’t leave Sicily from the airport in Catania. The government had ordered the police to seize my passport and to detain me for questioning. My escape had to be through an alternate route.
“Travel by rail to Rome,” he suggested.
Guerino offered no other advice or help, nor did I expect any. We hugged. He moved back and grasped my arms, his hold tight, his eyes welded to mine.
“Buon viaggio,” he said—have a safe journey.
He walked to the door, opened it, and, without glancing back, Guerino was gone. I gathered a few belongings and hurriedly climbed down the pedestrian walkway leading to the Corso Umberto. My destination was the bus terminal located on Via Luigi Pirandello, below the center of town. Before entering the terminal, I carefully surveyed the ticket office and the surrounding area. Thankfully, I was not confronted by la polizia. Their stakeout, hopefully, was restricted to the Catania Airport. From there I took a bus. It slowly snaked down the narrow road carved into the mountainside. In about five minutes, I reached the Taormina-Giardini rail station. I exited the bus and slowly walked toward the train station. As I approached the railroad agent to purchase a ticket, I observed Guerino standing alongside a poliziotto—a policeman— dressed in full regalia. His name tag read: “Caporale Rossi.”
I quickly turned away and mingled under the arrival-departure board with the crowd waiting for the next train. Hoping Guerino would direct Rossi’s attention to another part of the station, allowing me to purchase a ticket, I turned to one side, observing Guerino and his colleague. Their conversation was animated. Voicing an objection, Guerino raised his arms into the air while Rossi pointed in the direction of the passengers who were awaiting the arrival of the next train. The train station’s venue belonged to Caporale Rossi, and he would not voluntarily surrender his jurisdiction to Guerino. Together, they slowly walked toward me as I blended in with the other passengers huddled beside the train tracks.
As Guerino and Rossi approached the passengers, I worked my way onto a platform, searching for cover. A railway attendant gathered most passengers under an elongated canopy that straddled the tracks. The powerful sound of its diesel engine signaled the approach of the Eurostar. It began to stop, and its piercing whistle muffled the screech of its steel wheels scratching the steel tracks. With its horn bellowing, the train got closer. The crowd moved toward a gate marked “Roma & Napoli.” The public address announcer blared the arrival of the train. With its bells loudly clanging and with steam spilling from its undercarriage, the Eurostar chugged to a stop.
