All He Saw Was the Girl (31 page)

    He
stopped at a
tavola calda
and bought two ham sandwiches, a liter bottle
of carbonated Panna water and a Coke, and put all that in the bag too.

    He
took a cab to Auto Europa at 38 Via Sardegna. He had reserved a Fiat Croma, a
four-door sedan with a stick shift and air-conditioning. The rental agent, a
short, balding man about Ray's age, gave him a city map and highlighted the
route to Mentana. It was twelve kilometers, about seven and a half miles. It
looked easy, just take the GRA that looped around the city, and look for exit
A12.

    But
it wasn't easy. He got lost three times and finally pulled into a BP gas
station. An attendant came out of the booth, walked up to the Fiat. Ray said,
"
Dove e Mentana
?" Giving it his best pronunciation.

    The
attendant pointed to the highway and said, "
Dritto, a destra,
dritto."

    Ray
took out his dictionary and looked up the words.
Dritto
meant straight
and
a destra
meant to the right. So to get to Mentana he had to go
straight, take a right and continue straight.

    It
was a scenic drive into the green rolling hills, vineyards on both sides of the
highway, stretching to the dark heights of the Apennine Mountains, clouds
hanging on their peaks. Fifteen minutes later he was driving up a steep hill
into the walled village of Mentana. He parked in a municipal lot next to the
castle and walked into town up Via Monte San Salvatore. There was no one on the
street. It was deserted except for a couple of cats that disappeared down a
dark alley. He saw laundry hanging from rope strung between buildings. He
wondered where all the people were, and then realized it was siesta; they were
having their main meal of the day and then taking a nap. No worries. No stress.
This was how the Italians had been doing it for thousands of years.

    He
passed a bakery and a meat market and a cheese shop and three
enotecas -
all closed - and the Hotel Belvedere that was open. He walked uphill to the end
of the street, looked at the Garibaldi Monument commemorating the Battle of
Mentana in 1867, a piece of Italian history Ray was not familiar with. He
walked around the monument and sat on a brick wall, looking down at the valley
that extended below him east and west. To the north he could see the peak of
Mount San Lorenzo. He slipped off the backpack and took out the binoculars and
scanned the countryside. Don Gennaro's villa was in the hills south of the
mountain. Ray didn't have an address but he had directions Teegarden had gotten
from his contact at carabinieri headquarters.

    Head
north out of Mentana. When the road forks follow it left toward Monterotondo,
another town a few kilometers away. The don's villa is about 500 meters
northwest of the fork on the right side of the road. Look for a driveway
flanked by stone pillars and a steel gate.
There was a map that showed
Mentana and the main highway that went north. He saw the fork in the road, and
an arrow indicating the location of the don's villa.

    "His
estate's on 250 hectares," Teegarden said.

    "What's
a hectare?" Ray said.

    "I
knew you were going to ask me that," Teegarden said. "Two and a half
acres."

    "That's
a big piece of property," Ray said, "You've got photos of the place,
don't you?"

    "How
do you know that?"

    Ray
said, "You don't do things halfway."

    "Just
do me a favor, don't tell me what you're going to do," Teegarden said.
"I don't want to know, okay?"

    He
handed Ray eight-by-ten prints, aerial photographs of the estate: the villa, vineyards,
olive grove, outbuildings, and private road that led to the highway. There were
also surveillance photographs of the villa, different angles, all shot with a
long lens and printed in black and white.

    "There's
the man himself," Teeg said. "Carlo Gennaro."

    "I
remember him from the funeral."

    He
handed Ray another shot that showed the don in a bathing suit, sitting on the
patio behind the villa next to a good-looking girl in a bikini, drinking a
glass of wine. She looked about thirty.

    Teegarden
said, "Doesn't look like much, but he's got style, the hair and
sunglasses."

    He
reminded Ray of an Italian actor, an older version of Marcello Mastroianni or
someone from that era. "I can see how you might tend to underestimate
him," Ray said. "Although I like his taste in women. Who is
she?"

    "Chiara
Voleno, a model."

    "Not
bad," Ray said. "What do you know about Carlo Gennaro?"

    "He's
Sicilian," Teegarden said. "His wife and son were killed twelve years
ago by a rival gang. Stabbed Carlo four times and assumed he was dead."

    "That's
usually enough to get the job done."

    "The
men who did it were found decapitated in an apartment, the don sending a
message."

    Teegarden
handed him a photograph of the crime scene, two bodies without heads and blood
everywhere. "The newspapers called it the Ribera Massacre."

    Ray
said, "Why did he come to Rome?"

    "He
has a daughter who hid the morning the mom and son were killed. I guess he
decided to distance himself from his enemies, go where it was safer. Twenty per
cent of the shops in Rome now pay him.
Pizzo,
it's called, protection
money. He makes fifty thousand dollars a week."

    "That's
two and a half million a year," Ray said.

    "And
it's only a small part of his business. He's invested in real estate, clinics,
retirement homes, supermarkets, funeral parlors, bakeries." Teegarden
paused. "He's also a cultured Mafioso. Loves opera, has an extensive art
collection. Makes his own wine and olive oil."

    "A
real Renaissance man, huh?" Ray said.

    "Which
is more impressive when you find out he quit school after fifth grade."

    Teegarden
handed him another print.

    "The
villa's half a kilometer from the road. He has his own private drive that's
guarded twenty-four hours a day. The only other way in is a two-track path that
cuts through the vineyard. The don has two barns where he keeps his equipment,
and a stone building where he makes and stores his wine. He hires locals to
come and pick the olives and grapes during harvest. Grape season's over but
olives are harvested in November. You could hang around and taste the new
crop."

    "The
daughter live with him?"

    "She
isn't in any of the photos so I'd say, no."

    Ray had
been driving along a wall of oak trees, and saw something on the right. He
looked back at the entrance to the don's estate, saw the ancient stone pillars
flanking the driveway, iron gate closed, car blocking the driveway on the other
side of it. He drove three hundred meters past the estate, and now there were
vineyards on his right, the branches thin and bare after the harvest. Ray
looked for a place to pull over and saw a dirt path that led into the field. He
hit the brakes and took a right and drove in far enough so the car couldn't be
seen from the road. He walked out and checked.

    He
hiked back to the don's property through a forest of oak trees, leaves turning
yellow at the edges, marking the distance off with three-foot strides, counting
three hundred and knew he was close. He went twenty yards further and heard
voices. Still inside the tree line he saw two guys standing at the pillared
entrance to the estate, a dark sedan, some kind of Fiat parked, blocking the
driveway.

    They
reminded Ray of two Italian guys from high school, Giancotti and Veraldi. Ray
watched them for a couple minutes. Giancotti was on his cell phone, pacing,
having an animated conversation. Veraldi was smoking a cigarette. He took a
final drag, dropped the butt on the gravel drive and stepped on it. They were
both right-handed and had guts and thinning hair. They weren't muscular or even
especially big. Giancotti had a Beretta in a holster on his belt. He was
wearing sunglasses and a long-sleeved white dress shirt tucked into jeans.

    Veraldi,
with an HK MP5 sub-machine gun on a strap over his shoulder, concerned him
more. Ray didn't worry about them hearing him; they were making too much noise.
He started moving again, due north this time, toward the villa, heading through
the trees. He paced off four hundred yards and came to an olive grove that
extended into the hills for as far as he could see.

    To
his right was Don Gennaro's sprawling villa that made Joe P.'s suburban
colonial look like a shack. It had stone walls and a tile roof and had to be
seven thousand square feet. Behind the villa was an enormous stone veranda that
wrapped around the back of it, and had two levels. He took out the binoculars
and focused on a dark-haired girl, had to be the model, stretched out on a
lounge chair, sunbathing next to the pool. She was either wearing a
flesh-colored bathing suit or she was naked.

    He
scanned the edge of the grove and saw two guys wearing berets, white shirts and
black vests, peasants with shotguns slung on straps over their shoulders. They
were talking and grinning, watching the girl. While they were distracted Ray
decided to make his move. He came out of the woods and went left into the
grove, circling around behind the guards for a better view of the villa.

    The
sun was almost straight up and it was hot. No wonder the girl wasn't wearing a
bathing suit, she was trying to stay cool. He moved through the grove, smelling
olives, the trees heavy with them. When he was directly behind the villa he
slipped his bag off and took a few gulps of the Panna water and put the bottle
on the ground. He was about fifty yards from the veranda. He couldn't see the
guards but assumed they were still watching the girl. He was too, studying her
with the binoculars. She got up and moved to the pool and stuck her t— in the
water and stood there posing. Knew she had an audience. She stretched and
touched her breasts that were big and perfect, and had brown nipples the
circumference of silver dollars.

    He
walked up the hill behind him, higher ground for a better angle. He scanned the
vertical second-floor windows that opened like French doors and had balconies.
He could see beds and furniture in the first room, a maid cleaning in the next
one, and a skinny guy built like a teenager on the third balcony, hands on the
railing, staring at the grove as if he knew someone was out there. Ray
recognized him from Joe P.'s funeral.

    He
panned right across three more windows, looking for Sharon and Joey, but didn't
see anyone, just rooms of furniture.

    When
he panned back the other way the skinny Sicilian was gone. Ray looked down and
saw the guards on the edge of the veranda. They were probably trying to get a
better view of the girl who was getting out of the pool, skin glistening, hips swaying,
teasing the men as she went back to her lounge chair.

    Ray
saw the Sicilian come out of the villa now and move down to the lower level of
the veranda where the guards were standing, said something to them and pointed
in Ray's direction. He could see them coming toward him through the trees. He
moved down the hill, picked up the backpack, gripped the SIG and started to
run.

    Mauro
stood against the railing, windows open behind him, feeling the warmth of the
sun. He had just returned from America, the funeral for Joey's papa in Detroit,
Michigan. The don was asleep, tired from the journey and he was too. It was a
long way to go in a short time, two days, but if the don asked that of him he
did it. He was looking down at Tulio and Franco. Like Mauro they were Sicilians
from Ribera. They were told to watch the villa, but instead were watching
Chiara climb out of the pool, their eyes never leaving her. This had been going
on since the hot days of summer. She would come out to the veranda late in the
morning when she awoke. Always wearing the robe. Always untying the sash, and
looking surprised when the sides of the robe opened, knowing Tulio and Franco
were nearby, usually in the grove but always watching. She would take her time,
playing to them before removing it, posing without clothes.

    Mauro
enjoyed looking at this woman as much as anyone, but she was a distraction for
the men. How could they do their job with a naked woman standing in plain
sight? He was going to say something to the don, but the don would say, if she
is a distraction, why are you looking at her?