The Rosecross, page 11
The first onboard, I climbed the steps and stood on the deck. The conductor requested my ticket. Because I could not purchase one at the purser’s window, I asked to buy one from him. Reluctantly, he agreed. I didn’t have the exact fare.
“Mantenere il resto dei soldi,” I said.
I suggested he keep the change. He smirked but offered no objection. With a small bag swinging from my shoulder, I entered the carriage and searched for a seat. There was a sparse selection. I sat next to an elderly lady who was sleeping in an aisle seat. Being careful not to disturb my traveling partner, I carefully climbed over her and sat next to the window. Outside, a few straggling passengers were boarding. Guerino and Rossi anchored the end of the line.
The chug of the train engine signaled that it was slowly moving out of the Taormina-Giardini station. Slouching in my seat, I noticed Guerino speaking with the conductor. His colleague, Caporale Rossi, was standing nearby. The train soon gained momentum as the melodic roll of its wheels signaled we were now on our way to Roma. It promised to be a bumpy ride.
Seat by seat, Guerino and Rossi requested identification from each male passenger. As a foreigner, either Guerino or Rossi would request my passport. Mine bore the name of Francesco Micco, the suspect wanted by the police in Taormina for the murder of an unidentified woman found near Mazzaro Bay. Guerino maneuvered himself to my side of the aisle. I produced my passport when he reached my seat. He looked at it, then at me, handed it back, face stern, and moved on. For the moment, I was safe. Tired, I sat back and dozed off to sleep as the train rolled toward the Messina Strait.
The screeching sounds of wheels—steel scratching steel—woke me as the engineer braked the train’s speed. The seat beside me was empty. My snoring had probably chased my seat partner to another carriage. Before I drifted off, I noticed that there were only two extra seats—one directly across the aisle next to the window and the other immediately behind me. Guerino now sat across the aisle, and Rossi occupied the seat behind me. I glanced out the window. The train had reached the ferry that would carry it across the Strait of Messina to mainland Italy. The Eurostar’s gliding rhythm gradually slowed as it approached the ferry. Its clanging bells were silenced as the engineer continued to engage the brakes. I leaned forward and looked at Guerino. He was sleeping. Needing to stretch following my short nap, I stood, turned around, and glanced at Caporale Rossi. It was not a good move.
I tried to focus my attention elsewhere, but suspicion settled his eyes on me. His instincts as an investigator had kicked in. He moved and sat in the empty seat beside me. Guerino continued to sleep. I could expect no help from him. Rossi’s first question was a cursory inquiry, but he was just beginning to feed his suspicion—was the passenger seated next to him the murder suspect?
“Dove va?” he asked—where are you going?
“A Roma,” I answered calmly.
A more immediate crisis soon trumped my attempt to remain anonymous. Walking down the aisle toward me was my friend from Gelatomania, Gaetano Curinga, probably traveling to Roma for a holiday. Trying to hide without being conspicuous, I slumped down in my seat and dropped my head between my hands. Hopefully, he would pass by without noticing me. He didn’t.
“Amico, Francesco, dove vai?”
Hearing my name, Rossi abruptly turned toward me, knowing that fate had handed him a clue that might trip the fleeing murder suspect. Guerino, who had not slept for two days, remained in a deep slumber, oblivious to the events that were unfolding around him. Rossi hovered over me. For the first time, I appreciated his imposing stature. He was burly and barrel-chested, at least six feet tall, with square, broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a handlebar mustache that complimented his chiseled face. His reptilian eyes—fixed on mine—were buried in deep, shadowy sockets. As his stare bore into me, he asked a question meant to stop a fleeing murder suspect.
“Mi fa vedere la sua carta d’identità?”
He wanted my identification. Trying to remain calm, I reached for my passport and glanced past Rossi, fixing my eyes on Guerino. Exhausted, he continued to doze. Holding my passport, I smiled grimly at Gaetano who continued to stand in the aisle adjacent to Rossi, my trembling, clammy fingers signaling that my liberty was at stake. Suddenly, the train jerked forward. Having failed to secure himself, the joggling, staccato movement of the train, coupled with a gentle shove from Gaetano, caused Rossi to fall backward into the aisle just as the Eurostar trundled into the dark hold of the ferry that would carry us across the Strait of Messina to mainland Italy.
Seizing the opportunity, I shoved my way through the crowd of passengers and moved toward the exit. As I glanced back, I saw Rossi stretched on the floor and Gaetano standing over him, blocking his way through the narrow aisle. The commotion woke Guerino; he sat erect and instantly saw that Rossi had somehow identified me. I continued to weave my way through the aisle as the rush of passengers collectively escorted me from the carriage into the hold of the ferry. Rossi, his gun drawn and sight fixed on my head, chased after me. As I separated from the crowd, I heard the pop of a gunshot. My arms and legs remained intact. I continued to sprint toward the stairs that would take me from the ferry’s hold onto the deck. Before reaching the stairs, I turned and saw a crowd of people gathering in a circle. I had escaped, but a gunshot may have felled Caporale Rossi.
I climbed the stairs and forced my way through a crowd gathered on the deck. Merging into the crowd, I walked toward the rail and mingled with a group of passengers assembled near the ferry’s stern. Looking down onto the port, I saw two people dressed in white uniforms—probably paramedics—slide a stretcher into an ambulance. With its siren bellowing, the ambulance sped away, probably carrying Caporale Rossi to one of Uncle Claudio’s emergency care hospitals. I turned, walked from the stern toward the bow, and looked over the side of the ferry. Standing below, I saw Gaetano and Guerino. They looked up. I waved.
“Arrivederci, amici.”
CHAPTER 35
ANOTHER MESSAGE
The Taormina police’s order to detain a fleeing murder suspect did not timely reach Rome’s carabinieri. I was able to pass through customs at Fiumicino without incident. Exhausted, I slept through most of the flight from Italy to New York. After a brief delay at Kennedy International, I boarded a commuter flight home. Gianna met me at the Pittsburgh International Airport in the late afternoon. During the short ride to New Castle, I related each event that had taken place during my visit to Sicily, including Lucia Lazzerini’s killing—but I was reluctant to tell her that I was a suspect in the murder investigation. As she drove, Gianna’s eyes, fixed on the road, never strayed, even to sneak a glance at me. For ten minutes, she listened, her hands squeezing the steering wheel, a peek in the mirror, her head nodding, saying nothing. The growing tension would worsen when I told her that I was a murder suspect—a reality I couldn’t wash away like dirt scrubbed from my hands. When we approached the tollgate, I decided to tell her.
“There’s something else,” I said cautiously.
Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel, eyes dead ahead, each tap the countdown of the executioner waiting for the guillotine to drop. There was no easy way to tell her, so I blurted it out.
“I’m a suspect in the Lucia Lazzerini murder investigation.”
She didn’t react, immune from shock, the cascading events a vaccine that immunized her from emotion.
“Did you do it?” she asked stoically.
“Do what?”
“Kill her.”
“Of course not.”
“Why are you a suspect?”
“The police found my name on a sheet of paper in her blouse pocket.”
She sighed, a deep breath, and said nothing more. Before passing through the turnstile, she pulled to the road’s berm and idled the car’s engine. Her tears flowed freely. The maddening events consuming our lives since the Judge’s death, piled one on top of the other, had become too heavy a burden for her to carry. I moved toward Gianna and placed my arm around her shoulder. We caressed until she regained her composure. Before moving back, I wiped the tears trickling down her blushed cheeks as I stared into her puffy eyes, red and glassy.
“This must stop, Francesco,” she insisted, her words firm but tinged with fear. “You can’t be running off to Italy, Washington, risking your life, leaving Michele and me alone. Are you blind? Can’t you see our lives are in danger?”
Gianna’s concerns were real. I’ve tried to balance the competing interests facing me—mostly my family’s safety and Grazia’s kidnapping. But I felt entrapped. Somehow, I had to strike a balance, realizing that my priority rested with Gianna and Michele. But, then again, I couldn’t ignore Grazia. Unfortunately, her safe return was in serious jeopardy. I had burned the Judge’s manuscript and the disc demanded as her ransom was in the possession of an unknown associate who had a secret pact with my father. Adding to my dilemma, Grazia’s abductors had failed to contact me since her kidnapping.
“I’m afraid, Francesco, terrified,” Gianna confessed, her words bordering panic. “Three days ago, Uncle Claudio had an alarm system installed in our house, and he assigned six men to guard us. They work in shifts.”
Her fear cried out to me, louder than the watchman who proclaims the daybreak. Gianna opened her purse, removed a tissue, and dabbed at her glassy eyes. Her voice quivered as she related to me news that would add yet another layer to the juggernaut bequeathed to me by Judge Giovanni Micco.
“Giancarlo called me this morning,” Gianna said softly, staring through the car’s windshield. “He couldn’t reach you.”
She loosened her tight grip on the steering wheel and passed on Giancarlo’s message.
“Uncle Claudio died last night.”
Early in the evening, I reached Giancarlo on his cell phone. Claudio Armondi maintained an apartment in New York’s Upper West Side near Lincoln Center. For the past month, my brother stayed there while working on plans for a new medical facility that Sanita per la Famiglia was building in Lampedusa, a small island off the western Sicily coast with little access to emergency care. When he answered the phone, I went directly to the purpose of my call.
“What happened to Uncle Claudio?”
“It’s too early to tell, Francesco,” he said grimly, his words drawled. “A pathologist is performing an autopsy as we speak. All I can tell you is that I came home at about seven last night and found him lying on the kitchen floor. I felt no pulse. He was dead.”
As we talked, I realized that Giancarlo assumed I knew that he worked for Uncle Claudio and Sanita per la Famiglia—rather than StarGazer, the mythical computer company with a satellite office in Italy. His employment with StarGazer was a façade designed to hide Giancarlo’s relationship with Uncle Claudio from our mother. I thought it best not to inquire about their surreptitious relationship. At least for now.
“Was he feeling ill?”
“No. But oddly, about five days ago, Uncle Claudio gave me an envelope and asked that I read the note inside if he died.”
“Did you read it?”
“Of course.”
“What did it say?”
“It concerns you. Hold on. I’ll get it.”
After a few seconds had passed, he returned and read the message:
Giancarlo,
Unfortunately, it has become necessary for you to read this message, but life is full of strange twists and turns. I accept my fate. Read this note and pay strict attention. There will be a memorial service for me in Washington at St. Stephen’s Church. You will be informed of the date and time. Without fail, make sure that your brother, Francesco, attends. Farewell Giancarlo. Always remain faithful to the lessons of your parents. You have been a true friend.
With love,
Uncle Claudio.
CHAPTER 36
STAY SAFE
Gianna and I talked in the living room for a short while after tucking Michele in bed. I told her about the note Uncle Claudio had left for Giancarlo and that he had asked that I attend his memorial service, an invitation that would drag me back to Washington. Exhausted, we turned the lights out and walked up the stairs to our bedroom without discussing the note, each silently knowing that I couldn’t ignore Uncle Claudio’s message. The six Mafioso guards, the alarm system, and the trap lights that lit our yard brighter than the lamps illuminating Fenway Park gave me some comfort. Even from the great beyond, Uncle Claudio’s ‘Italian Army’ was watching over my family—Grazia’s kidnapping a lesson learned.
I now had to find my way in the dark, my father and Uncle Claudio leaving me alone, no one to turn to, despondency making my eyes heavy, despair, the final emotion that drained my energy before a sleep that didn’t last long. As I laid in bed listening to Gianna’s breaths, I realized that my family’s safety, Rosalina’s murder, Grazia’s kidnapping, and the plot my father had uncovered were all connected. They stand together, my task being to unravel the common thread.
I woke before seven the following morning, brewed a pot of coffee, and stood on the front porch. Cup in hand, I admired the twin Japanese Red Maples that adorned each side of the walkway leading to our home, smiling as a Cardinal rested on a branch, his red crest contrasted against the white remnants of an early morning snowfall.
“Hey. You’re up early.” Gianna’s cheerful voice, who, unlike me, didn’t need a dose of caffeine to start the day. She stood beside me wrapped in a blanket. I placed my arm around her waist and drew her close.
“You’re up early, too,” I said, relieved that the new day had brightened her attitude, yesterday’s storm hopefully blown away by the breeze of a soft March wind.
“I’ll get you a coffee. Just brewed,” I offered.
“Let’s talk first,” she suggested.
“Shall we sit inside?” I asked, anticipating that Gianna wanted to discuss my invitation to Uncle Claudio’s memorial service.
“I’d rather stand here,” she said, my arm still wrapped around her waist.
“We can’t ignore reality,” Gianna began. “Grazia’s been kidnapped, the Italian police suspect you of a murder, an assassin killed your mother, and your father discovered a plot that may have cost him his life.”
As I listened to her words, my eyes remained fixed on the red maples as muted rays of sun snuck through the branches—the Cardinal’s rest now over, taking flight, his wings flapping, fueling his ascent high into the blue morning sky.
“This isn’t the perfect day it appears to be, Francesco,” Gianna said softly. “We’re walking through a storm and you’re the only one who can tame the wind,” poetic words with one thinly veiled message.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“Do what you must—but stay safe.”
CHAPTER 37
NINO VIOLA
Once again, I traveled to Washington by rail. Uncle Claudio’s memorial service was held in a small Roman Catholic Church on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington’s Foggy Bottom—St. Stephen’s. As a mixed choir sang a Gregorian chant, I walked into the church and sat alone in a middle pew admiring St. Stephen Martyr Church. Cones lining the walls funneled light onto the beige-colored arched ceiling. The Virgin Mary’s statue was nestled in a cove off to my left. Votive candles encased in red jars burned at her feet. A crucifix hung behind the altar. A round, stained-glass window high above the cross, was divided into four parts by two leaded bars forming a cross. A red rose was etched into the intersection.
The turnout was sparse. The only person I recognized was Guido Borgese, Uncle Claudio’s business associate and the gentleman I had met when I visited the offices of Marymount HealthCare in Trump Tower. We exchanged glances, mutual salutatory gestures appropriate for the sanctity of a church. I was present. The ceremony began. It was a brief memorial. First, there were two speakers. Both offered only superficial remarks. Although short on eloquence, their messages had one redeeming attribute—they were mercifully short. Finally, the priest, dressed in an Alb for the informal service, gave a brief sermon. Before concluding, he paused, turned to one side and pointed to the stained-glass window.
“I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Claudio Armondi for his generosity,” he said loudly, his voice bellowing, echoing throughout the church. “It was his gracious gift that allowed us to install the beautiful stained-glass window that now graces our church.”
He turned around, his back facing the congregation, his head raised upward, his arms stretched out toward the stained-glass window, his words meant only for Francesco Micco.
“Please pay particular attention to the red rose that casts light on our grateful community of worshipers at St. Stephen’s—a light that commands us to spread the truth.”
The service concluded. The priest headed for the sacristy as Guido thanked the gathering for paying its respects to “a true visionary.” With that remark, we were excused. I remained in my pew for a moment, contemplating Uncle Claudio’s request that I attend his memorial. Confused but wanting to leave, I joined the mourners filing out of St. Stephen’s. My exit was interrupted.
“Psst … Francesco,” a whisper that respected the church’s sanctity.
I turned to the side of the church. All I could see was a silhouette standing in the shadows near a confessional. I walked closer. It was Nino Viola. For the past three years, he had been my father’s senior law clerk. As I approached him, he turned away and slipped into the compartment of the confessional reserved for the priest—a strange place for a rendezvous, I thought. Taking the cue, I entered the side stall of the confessional used by the penitent.
