Viper - Michael Morley [132]
Ricardo Mazerelli picked up after two rings. ‘Pronto.’
‘It’s Bruno. I have a dead guard here. Shot in his hut. The cops are going to be all over the joint in minutes.’
Valsi listened closely to Mazerelli’s reply. Tried to judge from the tone of his voice how shocked he was. ‘Okay, I’ll get people round. Have you touched anything?’ The lawyer sounded unfazed.
‘Not the body, but the hut. Alfonso and some kid were here too. They’ve trampled the fuck out of the place, probably got their prints and hairs all over the stiff.’
Mazerelli noted that Valsi hadn’t even had the decency to give the dead guard a name. The guy was a monster. Nobody mattered but himself. ‘Have you called the police, or had anyone ring them?’
‘No. Not yet. You want that I do that?’
‘No. I’ll do it. Put the phone down now and get in a taxi and come straight over to my apartment. Bring with you any clothes you were wearing when you went near the guard. Don’t speak to anyone else.’
‘Okay.’ Valsi clicked off his phone and smiled. He knew Mazerelli would call the cops and make sure there were no loose ends when they came asking questions. Cleaning up was part of his job. After that, he would call his father-in-law and the old man would presume the hit had come from a Cicerone triggerman. The last thing he would suspect was that in the dead of night Valsi had sat laughing and joking with one of his own guards and had then shot him dead. What a turn-on that kill had been. No wonder the little lap dancer could barely walk this morning.
The game had begun. And like he’d told Mazerelli, he wouldn’t be playing by any rules.
7.58 a.m.
San Giorgio a Cremano, La Baia di Napoli
After the call from Mancini, Sylvia Tomms had fallen into a heavy sleep and missed the alarm. Once more she found herself being woken by the bedside phone.
‘Pronto.’ She was alert within a second. It was Pietro Raimondi. Had he not talked so fast, she would have torn him off a strip for taking to his sick bed when so much was happening. Instead, she listened intently as he filled her in on the call he’d just received. There’d been a shooting at Bruno Valsi’s home. A security guard had been killed in his gate hut. His lawyer had phoned to report the murder.
‘Where’s Valsi now?’ she asked.
‘On his way to the station house, with his lawyer, Mazerelli.’
‘Cazzo! ’ Sylvia scrambled to the bathroom. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Maybe half an hour, forty minutes. Depends on the traffic.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m only five minutes away. I’m told Major Pisano is en route as well.’
She dropped the phone and ran the shower. Thank God Pietro was back. One thing annoyed her, though. How had he known about Valsi before she had? And how come he knew that Pisano was already on his way?
8.15 a.m.
Centro città, Napoli
Thunder boomed and rolled. Forked lightning cracked the grey sky and darted across the darkened bay. It looked more like late evening than early morning as Mazerelli’s Lexus emerged from a maze of cobbled backstreets and parked at a nightclub the Family owned near the carabinieri’s central HQ.
At the front desk, Mazerelli introduced himself in a very deliberate manner. ‘I am Ricardo Mazerelli, legal representative of Bruno Valsi. A short time ago I telephoned this station and reported a murder at Signor Valsi’s home in Camaldoli. It is now a little after eight fifteen a.m. and, as promised during my call, my client and I are here to assist you in any way we can.’
‘Who did you talk to?’ asked the male desk officer, sounding bored as he ran a chubby finger down a ledger for times and notes.
‘Lieutenant Pietro Raimondi.’
The desk jockey scanned a list of extensions pinned to the top of his desk. ‘Raimondi is not stationed here.’
‘I know,’ snapped Mazerelli. ‘I called your switchboard and they put me through to him. He’ll be arriving here shortly.’
‘Then take a seat, over there.’
‘First, please make a note of the time of our arrival.’ Mazerelli turned his wrist and ostentatiously tapped his watch. ‘Eight eighteen.