Campanelli: Sentinel (15 page)

              “Frank,” Marcus gently interrupted, “do you want me to go talk to Beritoni?”

              “Uh-uh,” the Captain of Detectives answered. “Let’s just let him stew for a few moments.”

              Williams was anxious. He wanted to get to the heart of the matter and try to expose the money man behind the Ignatola family’s trafficking operation. Minutes ticked by, smoke floated by, his patience was growing thin and he was hungry. He excused himself and left his partner to smoke and watch the monitor.

              In the hallway, the four former homicide detectives milled about the vending machines, looking as if they shared his angst.

              Lyman spoke first. “What’s the Cap’n doin’?”

              “He wants to make them sweat a while,” he replied and slid money into the snack machine.

              Davies and Chavez nodded in understanding. Williams ripped a bag of potato crisps open and began munching them when the door to the surveillance room flew open, slamming against the wall and sending a thunderous report throughout the hallway. Marcus smiled. There was no way Antony or Beritoni could not have heard it.

              Campanelli stormed out of the room, trailing smoke from the cigarette in his fingers. He applied the same rough treatment to Antony’s interrogation room door. Another wood on wood thunderclap traveled through the hallway. Enthralled, all five detectives moved quickly to follow. From the doorway they could hear Campanelli harshly whispering something into Antony’s face. His repressed voice floated unintelligibly into the hall. Marcus was about to augment his hearing when Frank came out, fast.

              “No! Wait, please don’t hurt ‘im!” cried Jimmy Antony as Frank slammed the door shut. Campanelli’s eyes passed over Marcus’s face and onto the others as he gave them all a slight, sinister grin. Most of the detectives gathered there had never seen Captain Campanelli show any kind of enjoyment whatsoever. To them, the grin’s presence was a shock. Frank strode by them without a word and entered the interrogation room where Gianfranco Beritoni sat, looking much more nervous than before.

              “No? Wait, please don’t hurt him?” Davies mocked lowly.

              “Yeah,” Williams answered.

              “What in the hell did Frank say to him?” Charles Morgan wondered aloud.

              As a unit, the five men quietly shuffled into the surveillance room to watch the proceedings. They were astonished to find Antony wiping away tears with the barely exposed fingers on his bad hand.

              “What the hell?” Davies whispered.

              Marcus turned up the monitor’s volume to hear the exchange between the attorney and Campanelli.

              “Gianfranco,” Campanelli spoke calmly. “We have you under arrest for harboring a fugitive. I’m sure someone told you?”

              “Yes, I’ve been so informed,” Beritoni answered in his theatrical manner. His voice was clear, but Frank heard a slight hitch within it.

              “You wanna tell me why
you
, a successful, wealthy partner of a prestigious law firm wanted to have anything to do with a cop killer like Jimmy Antony?”

              Gianfranco was quiet, though his eyes left Campanelli’s face after a moment.

              “You can’t deny that you knew we were after him,” Frank went on, “especially after my partner and I visited you.”

              “He dropped by last night, looking for help,” Beritoni lied.

              “Bullshit!” exclaimed Frank, not letting a second go by after the attorney had stopped speaking. “My men found clothes in the drawers of
your
bedroom that aren’t yours,” he added, reading the report that Morgan had sent via implant. “He’s a smaller man than you, Gianfranco. His shirts are smaller, pants are smaller. Some clothes of his size are in the laundry room, freshly cleaned and folded. Enough clothes to indicate that he was planning to stay for a few days.”

              Gianfranco steeled at that, his eyes burned in their sockets as he stared at the Captain of Detectives. He said nothing.

              “Why didn’t you just put him in an unoccupied condo down the hall? Unless he’s more than just a guest, Beritoni.”

              “I want to call my attorney.”

              “Did you know that Antony’s employer, Fillipo Ignatola wanted him dead?”

              “I’m not saying any…”

              “You must think pretty highly of that little scumbag for you to take a risk like that,” Frank pressed, leaning forward in his chair.

              “I’m not saying…!”

              “Don’t get me wrong, Gianfranco,” Campanelli shouted over Beritoni to be heard, “I’ve got nothin’ against homosexuals, but what I can’t understand…”

              “Goddamn you!” Beritoni boomed. The man’s eyes were tearing up and he gave the cuffs a hard tug. The bolted down table only vibrated at the sudden movement.

              “…is why some rich guy would want anything to do with such a low life.”

“Shut up about Jimmy              !!” the proper, Shakespearean manner of speech had broken, leaving the man across the table from Frank sobbing like a spoiled opera diva whose rival got the part that she wanted. “I can’t help it, Campanelli!”

              “You like the bad boys, huh?”

              Beritoni shrieked unintelligibly and gave the table another hard yank with the handcuff chain. The metal cut into both wrists that time, drawing blood.

              “All right! All right!” Frank shouted through the man’s embarrassing sobs. “Calm down!” He was surprised over how easily the attorney broke. It proved to him that Beritoni had experienced much stress over the dangerous relationship.

              Gianfranco did try to calm himself. He caught his breath and shook his head to the right several times to send his hair from his eyes.

              “You want some water?” Frank asked almost kindly. “Coffee?”

              “Water would be grand,” Beritoni answered, forcing himself to recover some of his composure.

              Frank left him momentarily and returned with a cup. Gianfranco actually thanked him.

              “How did you find out that he was staying with me so quickly?” the attorney asked once he had taken in some water.

              “We found his
Mako
in the parking structure…,” Frank began to explain.

              “What? That little son of a bitch said he left it at his mother’s!” Gianfranco protested, turning more effeminate with every passing moment. “Wait…I never saw it in there. You do mean
The Park
Monroe
’s lot…don’t you?!”

              Frank shook his head patiently. Gianfranco’s eyes widened as Frank spoke. “We found it on the fifth floor of the condemned structure on Wabash.”

              “Whaaaat?!!” Gianfranco shrieked like a wounded cat. “That little prick! I bought him that fucking car!!” he went on. Self-control lost once again, he gave the table another yank.

              “Knock that off!!” Campanelli thundered.

              “Well, I apologize, but that car was expensive!”

              “Just calm down, Gianfranco.”

              “I want my attorney,” Beritoni breathed.

              “Yeah,” Frank said, “about that…you may want to think that over.”

              Beritoni repeated his request, lowly and sincerely.

              “And your attorney is…?” Frank inquired as he coolly leaned back into his chair and took another puff from his nearly spent cigarette.

              “Del Taylor!” Gianfranco spat, knowing full well that the detective would know the name.

              “Oh, okay,” Campanelli held up a hand and leaned forward as if to stand. “Your lawyer is your boss, whose boss is Fillipo Ignatola, the guy that wants your sweet Jimmy dead. That makes sense. I’ll go get ‘im on the phone,” he said and stood. He took two steps toward the door before he was stopped.

              “Wait. Ummm, let me think,” Gianfranco sputtered as his eyes seemed to search the wall in front of him, a telltale sign that he was trying to use his bio-electronic implant to connect to an internet server. “Damn it!”

              “Oh, yeah,” Frank volunteered as he retook his seat, “your implant can’t communicate in here. High-frequency jammers are installed everywhere.” Campanelli left out the fact that the inhibitors played havoc with his full service ocular lenses. Within the interrogation section of the station, his vision was mildly distorted and he was lightheaded. Frank’s implant increased the amplitude of the signal to remain in contact with the lenses, forcing the Captain of Detectives to keep his visits to the section brief to conserve battery life.

              “Well, then,” Beritoni rolled his eyes, “you’ll just have to let me have my phone call.”

              “I could do that,” Frank said, “but here’s something else to think about. How many of the law firms left in Chicago don’t know about Taylor’s business relationship with Ignatola?”

              “I could not care less.”

              “Oh? You should. How’s about I bet you that no firm you call will take your case? I’ll even give you…five phone calls instead ‘a one. No one will touch you, Beritoni,” Frank said with conviction as he watched the attorney swallow nervously. “You’ll end up with some public defender.”

              “Suppose you tell me what I
can
do, detective.”

              “Sure,” Campanelli said with a smile and lit another cigarette. “You talk to us. Tell us everything we need to bring down the Ignatola family human trafficking network and we’ll give you protection.”

              “I want relocation,” Beritoni said so lowly that Frank could barely hear.

              Frank nodded. “Of course. Change of identification, all that.”

              “Give me some time to think,” Gianfranco all but pleaded.

              Frank agreed and left the room, joining the five men in the surveillance room.

              “Nice work, Frank,” Williams granted. Others nodded.

              “Anybody could a’ done that,” Campanelli answered. “He’s been stressing over it a while before we got to him.” He finished with a rub to his temples. In addition to dizziness and power drain, the inhibitors often gave him a headache.

              “Frank, you better get out of here,” Marcus advised, well aware of the problem. “We can take over.”

              “Yeah,” Frank agreed and crushed out his cigarette. “I’m goin’ home. Get as much as you can outta him,” he indicated Antony with a jerk of his thumb. “Send me a report as soon as you put one together.”

              “Sure thing, Frank,” Marcus agreed.

***

              Campanelli went to his cruiser, happy to have the implant unimpeded even though the headache remained. He drove straight home and found Luke McKay and Old Bill sitting outside the door, enjoying the weather.

              “Aft’noon,” McKay greeted. Old Bill remained still, except for his eyes, which followed Frank.

              “Good afternoon, Mister McKay,” Frank returned. He hoped it would not be a long conversation. His head was beginning to shout. Soon it would scream if he did not take something for it and shut the
CAPS-Link
down for a while. “Thanks for fixing the sink. It’s nice not to have to dump a bucket every day.”

              “Sure thing,” Luke returned. “Say, Ol’ Bill an’ me’ll be out here late if’n you wanna share a jug,” he offered with a grin.

              Despite his headache, Frank said, “I might take you up on that. It’s been a pretty good day.”

              With that, he gave the maintenance man and his dog a scout salute and went upstairs. Ditching the tie and sport coat, Frank opened the patio door and some windows to obtain some airflow through his residence. He poured himself a glass of cold water and spent a pair of pain pills. With his
RadarCane
in hand, he stepped out onto the patio. The sun was bright and warm, but the air was cool.

              He stretched out on his lawn chair and shut down his implant, putting himself into a world of soothing darkness. He sipped water and relaxed, taking in the sounds of the city around him. A dog barked, cars rolled by and the wind whistled over the patio, lulling Frank into a sound sleep.

***

              The icy sharp stings of raindrops awakened him. A nasty dream escaped his mind as he felt for his cane and rolled out of the chair.

              Frank’s headache, while not completely gone was at least in check. He initialized his
CAPS-Link
and stepped to the living room couch, the tones and taps of his cane guiding his way. He sat and retracted the cane as his vision returned. Campanelli was somewhat surprised that almost three hours had slipped by. It was just after five and nearly time for the first of the five evening “L” trains. It was also time for the news, so he accessed the HV and activated it.