Omerta - Mario Puzo [25]
There was a reason for his beliefs. He knew that traffic in drugs could only survive if police officials were paid off, and he had word, not good in court, that Di Benedetto and Aspinella were on the drug lord’s payroll.
. . .
Before Cilke interviewed the Don’s daughter, he decided to take his chances with the older son, Valerius Aprile. For that he and Boxton had to drive up to West Point, where Valerius was a colonel in the United States Army and taught military tactics—whatever the hell that meant, Cilke thought.
Valerius received them in a spacious office that looked down upon the parade grounds where cadets were practicing marching drills. He was not as affable as his brother had been, though he was not discourteous. Cilke asked him if he knew his father’s enemies.
“No,” he said. “I’ve served out of the country for most of the last twenty years. I attended family celebrations when I could. My father was only concerned that I get promoted to general. He wanted to see me wearing that star. Even brigadier would have made him happy.”
“He was a patriot, then?” Cilke asked.
“He loved this country,” Valerius said curtly.
“He got you your appointment as a cadet?” Cilke pressed.
“I suppose so,” Valerius said. “But he could never get me made a general. I guess he had no influence in the Pentagon, or at any rate I just wasn’t good enough. But I love it anyway. I have my place.”
“You’re sure you can’t give us a lead on any of your father’s enemies?” Cilke asked.
“No, he didn’t have any,” Valerius said. “My father would have made a great general. When he retired he had everything covered. When he used power, it was always with preemptive force. He had the numbers and the materials.”
“You don’t seem to be that concerned that somebody murdered your father. No desire for vengeance?”
“No more than for a fellow officer fallen in battle,” Valerius said. “I’m interested, of course. Nobody likes to see his father killed.”
“Do you know anything about his will?”
“You’ll have to ask my sister about that,” Valerius said.
Late that afternoon Cilke and Boxton were in the office of Nicole Aprile, and here they received a completely different reception. Nicole’s office could be reached only by going through three secretarial barriers and after passing what Cilke recognized as a personal security aide, who looked as though she could take both him and Boxton apart in two seconds. He could tell by the way she moved that she had trained her body to the strength of a male. Her muscles showed through her clothing. Her breasts were strapped down, and she wore a linen jacket over her sweater and black slacks.
Nicole’s greeting was not warm, though she looked very attractive, dressed in a haute couture suit of deep violet. She wore huge gold hoop earrings, and her black hair was shiny and long. Her features were finely cut and stern but were betrayed by huge soft brown eyes.
“Gentlemen, I can give you twenty minutes,” she said.
She was wearing a frilly blouse beneath the violet jacket, and its cuffs almost covered her hands as she extended one for Cilke’s ID. She looked it over carefully and said, “Special agent in charge? That’s pretty high up for a routine inquiry.”
She spoke in a tone that was familiar to Cilke, one that he had always resented. It was the slightly scolding tone of the federal attorneys when they dealt with the investigative arm they oversaw.
“Your father was a very important man,” Cilke said.
“Yes, until he retired and placed himself under the protection of the law,” Nicole said bitterly.
“Which makes his killing even more mysterious,” Cilke said. “We were hoping you might give us some idea about the people who might have a grudge against him.”
“It’s not so mysterious,” Nicole said. “You know his life much better than I do. He had plenty of enemies. Including you.”
“Even our worst critics would never accuse the FBI of a hit on the steps of a cathedral,” Cilke said dryly. “And I wasn’t his enemy. I was an enforcer of the law. After