It was raining again by the time she walked the last half-mile back to the barracks, but she was so focused she didn't even notice. By early afternoon she had the inquiry team fired up again and locked into the drudgery of sifting statements and checking information. Patience and precision were Sylvia's key tools. Never rush. Never miss anything. Jack arrived for the three p.m. briefing and afterwards retreated to a spare office to make his daily call home. No matter where he was, or what he was doing, Jack always broke from events to phone home and speak to his wife and son. Last year's ordeal with the Black River Killer had been a stark personal reminder of how precious his family was, and how much the young boy needed regular contact with his father.
'How you doing, big guy? You been having fun with Gramps and Grandma?'
Zack's voice was full of excitement. 'Guess what? Gramps took me to play baseball. He says Santa might bring me a real pitcher's glove and real bat for Christmas. D'you think he will, Daddy? Do you?'
Jack told him there was a real good chance that Santa would do that. He flexed his left hand as they talked and felt an ache run from the palm to the elbow. Nerve damage that still hadn't healed properly. Another souvenir from his hunt for the Black River Killer. A twinge that always returned whenever he was tired and stretched. 'Has Mommy been good, or has she been spending money again?'
'She's been spending. And she and Grandma have been drinking wine too.'
Jack laughed and thanked his small snitch for the inside info before asking for the phone to be given back to his mom.
'So, how are you holding up?' asked Nancy. 'You sound tired.'
You sound tired. His wife's diplomatic way of delicately reminding him of the burn-out that had once almost killed him.
'I'm okay, honey; just things are a bit more complicated than I thought.'
'They always are, Jack,' she replied tersely. 'You going to make it back sometime soon?'
He flinched. 'Not so soon. I'm sorry. I think I'm going to have to be here a few more days yet.'
Silence fell. Then she drew a deep breath and let fly. 'Jack, you said four days tops. Please don't mess us all around on this. I've got Christmas coming up, your son is bursting to see you, and my mom and dad were expecting to share a little time with you as well.'
The telling-off lasted several more minutes before he invented a white lie that there was a car downstairs waiting for him and he had to go. 'Love you, sweetheart. Kiss Zack for me.'
'I will. We love you too.' She meant it, but her voice was strained, not only with annoyance and disapproval but also with worry.
Jack tried to banish the loneliness creeping up on him. Zack had sounded so beautiful. So young. So pure. Pure.
The word cannoned around inside him. He'd become so obsessed with Vesuvius and Hercules and the geography of the place, he'd forgotten the deep importance of fire. It made things pure. In religious rites, pagan rites and all magical rites since time began, fire was always a way of cleansing impurity.
But what impurity?
What had the women done?
What was their crime against the killer?
45
Bar Luca, Napoli They ate steaks and salads for Sal's birthday lunch. From a distance it looked like they were all having a ball. But everyone around the table knew that soon – maybe sooner than even they thought – either Salvatore Giacomo would kill Bruno Valsi, or vice versa.
As far as Pennestri and Farina were concerned, they would try to avoid picking sides right up until the very last moment. Fredo Finelli was their ultimate boss and for now it was far too early to bank on the ballsy young Bruno being able to topple the Don. If anything, they would bet against it. But the two men had been Camorristi long enough to know you should never say never.
Bar Luca was a basement haunt in the city centre. Recently refurbished, it pumped out ice-cold air conditioning and the kind of atmosphere that made every minute feel like a Friday night. Sitting at a dark wood table, not far from a pole around which a half-naked girl posed and pouted, they'd finished their food and the drink was flowing.
'Fifty years old – half a fucking century, Sal, it's a wonder you have the strength to haul yourself out of bed in the morning. I salute you.' Valsi raised another cold one to his lips.
'Salute! Although, to be honest, I've never felt stronger or fitter than I do now.' Sal raised his own glass of Cola Lite.
'Maybe you should look for a new job, something softer, a bit easier on the old bones?' chided Pennestri.
Sal forced a smile. 'You know, old bones or not, I'm stronger and tougher than anyone around this table. You'd all do well to remember it.'
'Even your boss?' said Valsi. There was a hint of steely challenge in his voice. 'You think you're stronger than me?'
Sal smiled again, but this time he didn't have to force it.
'Bruno, I know I'm stronger than you.'
'Okay, birthday boy.' Valsi stripped off his jacket and rolled up a sleeve. 'Arm wrestle me.'
Pennestri and Farina exchanged glances. This was going to be good.
Valsi had wrestled plenty in prison, and had never lost. 'Guys, clear the table. Make room for me and Grandpa.'
Looking across the table, now sticky with beer, he saw no fear in Salvatore Giacomo's eyes. Pennestri and Farina moved plates and glasses from the surface.
'Break a glass,' insisted Valsi. 'Put half of it on one side, half on the other.' He grinned at Sal. 'Let's make it more interesting.'
Pennestri rolled a beer glass in two napkins and dropped it on the floor. Sal watched with amusement as he sprinkled slivers and shards at opposite ends of the table. 'I'm going for a piss, Bruno. While I'm away, take time to think about whether you really want to do this.' He started to rise from his chair but Valsi grabbed him by the forearm. 'You leave the table when I tell you, and you don't piss until I tell you. Now wrestle.'
Sal laughed at him. 'Don't be such a child. I work for your father-in-law, not you. The Don told me to keep you out of trouble, not cut you up.' He pulled his arm free.
'Just wrestle, you fucking coward,' insisted Valsi. 'Don Fredo would expect you to be a man not a chicken.'
Sal's smile dropped. He'd been pushed too far. 'Okay. Let's do as you say.' Jacket still on, he angled his elbow and opened his hand so Bruno could grip it.
'You call it, Tonino,' Valsi ordered. He moulded his fingers into Sal's grip. Tried to gain the first advantage.
Farina looked at the men's faces, then counted a beat. 'Go!'
Valsi's biceps tensed and bulged. Blue veins rippled down his arm. He powered all his superior weight into Sal's arm.
The Snake rocked for a moment. His opponent's speed and sudden force made his whole body quake. His elbow slid and almost buckled. He felt his wrist being stretched and strained. Each opponent's arm shook under the effort. Valsi slowly began to inch his way to victory. 'Birthday, or no fucking birthday, I'm going to teach you a lesson, motherfucker.'
Sal looked at the broken glass, ominously positioned exactly where his hand would be crushed back. His arm was now almost at a forty-five-degree angle, but his face still showed no fear. Slowly and very deliberately he began squeezing Valsi's hand.
It took Valsi several seconds to work out what was happening. Sal's arm wasn't going back any further. It wasn't going down. But a vice-like grip was gradually crushing his fingers.
Sal's eyes registered no emotion. He carried on crushing. He could feel the bones in Valsi's fingers grinding against each other. He kept squeezing.
The pain started to show on Valsi's face. Pennestri and Farina could see it too.
Sal hunched forward a little. 'Would you like to stop?' he whispered across the table.
Valsi said nothing. He tried to use the pain to summon a second surge of strength. He channelled all his efforts into ramming Sal's hand down on to the jagged glass. But he couldn't.
The Snake's iron grip tightened another notch.