Campanelli: Sentinel (17 page)

              “If he doesn’t,” Marcus jumped in, “he’s a bigger fool than he plays on HV. Del Taylor’s been on the news several times over the years, defending his clients, usually Ignatola henchmen.”

              Frank nodded and Tam regarded both men quite seriously. “I think you boys better tell someone about your chance encounter,” she said and picked up her fork. “I think you’re onto something.”

***

              The meal over, Frank poured a third bourbon. Tam stared at him hard, though he was too deep in thought over DeSilva’s possible connection to Beritoni to notice. He moved to the patio door and slid it open. The drizzle, which had not fully developed into anything heavier since the late afternoon, had ceased. The air was thick with humidity but cool and pleasant. Marcus and Tamara followed him outside, both still full of speculation and wonder over their discussions.

              The screeching roar of the last “L” train of the evening approached his building, keeping the three silent. Frank lit a cigarette and gave it a couple of puffs to wait out the seven-car length train. He could see that none were more than half full of passengers.

              “I have a feeling, Marcus,” Frank said once it was quiet enough for him to be heard.

              “Another one?” he smiled. He looked to Tam and she returned it.

              Campanelli turned to face Williams directly. In the early evening light, the sun had not sunk enough to require an adjustment to his vision. Marcus could make out every detail of his older partner’s face and could see he was serious.

              “I think Maximilian DeSilva
is
Ignatola’s money man and flight connection,” Frank said with deliberation.

              “What?” Williams exuded doubtfully. “The two are night and day. They wouldn’t have anything to do with each other.”

              “That’s what makes it perfect,” Frank insisted and took another toke on his cigarette.

              “Oh, Frank,” Marcus said as he shook his head. He took a step back, found a damp lawn chair and sat down. “Oh, Frank, that’s just too much.”

              “I don’t know, Marcus,” Tamara Billingsley interjected, “it kinda makes perfect sense.”

              “Come
on
.”

              “Wait a minute,” Frank pressed after he had taken another sip of bourbon, “DeSilva’s church is taking in money from its members, right? Maybe the crowd on the HV is fake, but I bet they’re not
all
fake. I bet that there are enough people giving this clown money that he’s able to buy and maintain aircraft and pilots.”

              “And so, Ignatola recruits passengers, puts together the ground transportation, takes in whatever they give him and he passes on a hefty percentage to DeSilva,” Williams reasoned, though still doubtful.

              “That’s what I’m sayin’, buddy boy,” Frank confirmed. He held Marcus’s sideways gaze. After a moment, Williams lost some of his reluctance. He nodded several times and bit his lip.

              “That means that Beritoni lied to us today. He would have to know about the connection…if there is one,” Williams surmised.

              “If I’m right, he has to know,” Frank agreed and nodded.

              “So, are you going to Sebastian about this?” Marcus asked after a heavy sigh.

              Frank nodded vaguely. “Yes, I am. Tomorrow morning. It would be so very good of you to back me up,” Campanelli pressed, leaning forward to emphasize his need.

              “I have to admit, Frank,” Marcus said, his head bobbing, “the more I think about it, the more plausible it sounds. Besides, if you’re wrong, what’s the harm?”

              “The harm is thousands of dollars in paid overtime to officers and two detectives that will be working to prove it,” Campanelli said.

              “Oh.”

              “Yeah,” Frank added, “and just guess who gets the nod for the next round of layoffs after wasting so much taxpayer money,” he finished with a stabbing finger against his own chest.

              “And me if I back you up,” Marcus smiled.

              “Yeah, prob’ly.”

              Marcus Williams was quiet for more than a minute. He tapped his feet in thought before rising. He held up a finger to beg for a moment, walked inside and came out with a fresh beer. Downing half of the bottle, he swallowed hard and belched. “’scuse me. Okay, Frank. Let’s talk to Sebastian together.”

              “That’s my boy,” Campanelli said and downed his glass.

***

              The next morning, Frank was nursing a four bourbon headache. Not wanting to waste his implant’s battery power on pain management, he broke out a couple of over the counter headache pills. They were expensive, but they worked.

              Meeting his partner at District One, the two men rode to CPD headquarters on Michigan Avenue. Sebastian had agreed to meet with his second-in-command that morning, though he had several appointments that had to be rearranged. His new boss’s accommodation seemed to prove his commitment to the Sentinel program.

              “Go on in, gentlemen,” the OCD Chief’s secretarial doppelganger allowed. It was not as advanced a model as the one in Beritoni’s office, but it worked. The machine rose and strode to the office door and gently plucked at the door handle, letting them inside.

              Earl Sebastian was seated behind his desk, already hard at work, studying something on his computer terminal’s monitor. His attire was as casual as it ever got. His tie was not yet around his neck and the ribbon-adorned jacket hung from the coatrack.

              “Good morning, Campanelli, Williams,” he nodded.

              “Morning, sir,” they echoed and sat.

              Marcus gave Frank a wary expression, uncertain about their ability to sell their theory to the Chief. After a moment, the head of Sentinel took his attention away from whatever was on his monitor.

              “So, Frank,” Earl began and folded his hands upon his desk, “what’s this that you and Marcus are so worked up about?”

              The Captain of Detectives obliged, detailing the initial meeting with Beritoni and their chance encounter with Maximilian DeSilva. Early on, Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead and, as Frank explained his theory of collusion between DeSilva and Ignatola, Sebastian sat back hard into his big chair, his mouth agape with surprise. When Campanelli finished, Sebastian’s widened eyes roved from Campanelli to Williams.

              “Do you agree with this?” Sebastian asked of Campanelli’s partner.

              “Well, at first I thought it was ridiculous,” Williams said with an glance to his older partner which was laced in regret, “but the more we spoke of it last night, the more I’m inclined to think that it has merit.”

              “I see.”

              “Sir,” Frank took up, striking while the iron was hot, “I want to interrogate Beritoni and Antony one more time and assign some men for surveillance on DeSilva.”

              “Wait a minute,” Sebastian interrupted with a hand raised. “Frank, I have to ask.”

              “What, sir?”

              “Were you aware that Maximilian DeSilva’s Church of the Divine Intervention, as he calls it, was a major contributor to Mayor Jameson’s election campaign?”

              Frank exhaled heavily through his nose before saying that he had not been aware.

              “I understand that may come as a surprise, considering the man’s public mayor bashing, but it’s a fact,” Sebastian explained.

              “Sir,” Campanelli soldiered on, “that may be, but I feel that if we were to bring Beritoni into the interrogation room again and hit him with this idea, he may crack all the way.”

              “Frank…”

              “We could get him to spill some names, give details about the aircraft involved, their whereabouts.”

              “Frank,” Earl Sebastian insisted harshly, silencing Campanelli. “You are suggesting that a man that has fully supported our mayor, until recently, is a big time criminal. Now, I understand that his support was not made public, but both the mayor and Mister DeSilva had their reasons. You are expecting me to believe that DeSilva has been working with the Ignatola family in their human trafficking efforts.”

              “It’s a solid theory, sir,” Frank asserted.

              “I’m not so sure it is, Frank,” Sebastian revealed. He sighed, rolled his eyes to the ceiling and folded his fingers behind his head. The OCD Chief studied the ceiling for several long seconds. “I have to admit, however,” he went on, “that DeSilva’s been creating a great amount of negativity on our efforts. You’re not the first one to suggest that there might be trouble at the rally this weekend. You
are
the first one with the idea that he and Fillipo Ignatola have anything to do with each other, though. Ha!” Earl finished, shaking his head as he quickly leaned forward. He studied the faces of both men seated across his desk for several seconds as his fingers tapped hard upon it.

              “Just let me get Beritoni and Antony back in the hot seat,” Campanelli took up. “It’ll take them by surprise. Beritoni already thinks he’s made a deal with us.”

              “He
has
made a deal, Captain,” Sebastian asserted.

              “For testimony on the fact that he harbored a fugitive working for a known mob boss,” Frank pressed. He sat forward and placed a hand on the Chief’s desk. “Sir, all we can get out of him is testimony that he was protecting Antony from Ignatola and that they were involved in human trafficking. If I can get him to admit, or even hint at the idea that my theory has merit, I want to investigate DeSilva.”

              “What you’re asking for is…is,” Earl Sebastian was at a loss for words.

              “Is a chance to finally get the Sentinel Division some positive press,” Frank said in a tone that was designed to light a fire. “That’s what you brought me and my men on board for, isn’t it?”

              Earl scratched at the white hairs on his chin. He said nothing, though his eyes narrowed. Neither Frank nor Marcus could tell whether Frank’s statement had angered the Chief or simply caused a new line of thought to occur. In either case, both men felt they were close to getting their way.

              “If there’s something to this, Antony will spill it and I think I can crack Beritoni, too, sir,” Frank reiterated. “They may give us everything we need
without
sending men undercover.”

              Sebastian nodded and continued rubbing his chin. He let out a heavy sigh and said, “Okay, Frank, okay. Break him!”

              “Thank you, sir,” Campanelli blurted and hopped up from the chair, which sent a fresh throbbing through his cranium. Marcus also stood and both men stepped quickly to the door.

              “Hold on, gentlemen,” Sebastian called after them. Frank turned back to his boss with his hand on the doorknob. “Understand something, Frank. If you can’t crack Beritoni and get him to back up your theory, you let this DeSilva thing drop.”

              “Yessir,” Frank agreed.

              “Additionally, tell no one of this,” Sebastian ordered as he stood from his big chair. “This stays between us three in case it doesn’t pan out. Interrogate Beritoni and Antony yourselves. No one else is to sit in. Understood?”

              “Yessir.”

              “Get me the recording of the interrogation ASAP, no matter which way it goes,” Earl directed. “Get outta here.”

              Without another word, the two detectives dissolved into nothing more than a breeze in the doorway. In moments, they were back in the cruiser and headed back to District One.

              “Okay,” Marcus began, “we sold it, now how are we going to deliver?”

              “Just like I said,” Frank returned, “get the both of them in the interrogation rooms and get to work.”

              “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” Williams opined with surety. “Beritoni isn’t stupid.”

              “That may be, but if he and Antony have been truthful about their relationship, we have to work on that.”

              “You mean exploit it?”

              “You bet,” Campanelli nodded and addressed the cruiser’s computer, asking for a connection to Rothgery’s lab. After a moment, it was established, sending several tones of the old fashioned land line’s ringing throughout the cabin’s speaker system.

              “Rothgery,” the forensic genius answered. He sounded annoyed and busy as usual.

              “Lincoln, it’s Campanelli.”

              “Yeah?”

              “I need your help with something.”

              “Lucky for you I’ve got nothing else to do,” Rothgery said sardonically.

              Frank ignored the tone. “Meet Marcus and me in the interrogation area in…say ninety minutes. Bring your special medical bag,” he annunciated the last few words, which drew a suspicious look from his partner.