Promise Me Eternity (7 page)

“I was about to do that. Only got it today,”
he said as if bored by the whole thing.

“What a liar! Because of you I’ve wasted
valuable time!”

“It’s true, Carlo. I swear it.” He said this
with a mocking undertone.

“You’re a damn liar! Every word that comes
out of that filthy fat mouth of yours is a lie!”

“I swear, Carlo! What can I say to make you
believe me? C’mon, don’t act so weird.”

“There’s nothing you can say to me. Nothing
at all. I am totally sick of you.”

He reached inside his jacket, pulled out the
revolver, and put it against the fat man’s head. At the same
moment, the two men next to Carlo jumped back to protect themselves
from any possible bloodstains. With a choking noise that echoed
down the hallway, the fat man fell with all his weight on the
wooden floor, causing it to shake a little. His mouth was still
strangely open, as if he had something more to tell them.

Carlo Vucci said, excitedly, “Did you see how
that asshole lied to my face, looking straight in my eyes? I can
forgive a lot of things, but not that—when somebody looks me
straight in the eye and lies.”

“Boss, let’s get out of here. The hooker
could wake up any minute,” the black man said.

“Why should I give a damn about some whore?
I’ll do the same to her as I did to him. How ‘bout it? Whaddya say
I kill her too?”

“Come on, boss, we’d better just go. She
doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

He nodded his assent and wiped off his shoes
with the sheet the man had been dragging behind him. “Damn it all,
I always mess up my shoes. And they cost me a bundle.”

The three men went downstairs and left the
house as if nothing had happened.

Chapter 11

_______________________

Special Agent Steven West, a
twenty-seven-year-old African American with short hair and a
pleasant symmetrical face, was examining on his computer screen the
pictures from the scene of the crime that had taken place two weeks
earlier. He observed with disgust the images he had seen with his
own eyes. The shapeless male body, with six bullet wounds to the
head, was photographed from different angles. Due to the number of
shots, the victim’s face was unrecognizable.

“Obviously a Mafia killing,” said Sandra
Grant, a special agent who worked on nearly every case with him and
had a desk in the same office.

They had been working together for more than
six years and got along extremely well. Sandra was a few years
older, with short, dark hair and glasses, which gave her an
intellectual look. She was plain, with thoughtful, questioning
eyes.

Steven crossed his arms. “I agree, but I
don’t know who it could be. The victim was killed in the evening,
without anyone hearing or seeing anything. The only evidence we
have are two cigarette butts dropped near the bathroom. Whoever did
this is obviously a cool character, being able to smoke after all
this, but at the same time very stupid since the DNA in the saliva
can certainly be used as evidence.”

Sandra moved her chair closer to Steven in
order to see the photographs. She thoughtfully studied the details.
While she was working out how the man had fallen to the floor, her
cell phone rang.

“Hello? Yes, of course. Aha, thank you.” She
hung up. “They’ve finally established who the victim is. His name
is Paulo Gratti. He’s thirty-five years old and has twice been
charged with theft. Spent three years in prison for sexual
harassment and five for money laundering. Seems it really is a
Mafia killing.”

Steven raised his upper lip in displeasure
and held it there for a few moments. “Why did we have to get this
case? As far as I’m concerned, it’s not even worth investigating
who the murderer is. Let them kill each other.”

Sandra shot him a reproachful look. “We have
to find out who the murderer is. It’s our duty. The rest doesn’t
matter.” Again the phone rang. “Where? … When? … Of course, we’ll
leave right away.” She turned to him. “Another murder. Come on,
you’re half asleep.”

He let his hands fall lazily to his side.
“Damn, why today? Do you realize how foggy it is outside? It’ll
take us at least two hours to get to the crime scene.”

“Quit moaning! Let’s go.”

Chapter 12

_______________________

“At this speed I won’t get there until the
early hours,” Carlo Vucci grumbled.

Will, the black man behind the wheel, said,
“Boss, I would drive faster, but the fog is so thick, I can’t.”

“Yes, yes, step on it, please. My wife will
be wondering where I am. I feel we don’t spend enough time together
lately. I’m too busy.”

Both men in the front seat nodded, showing
him they understood. Will accelerated gently.

“My God, you know the route by heart. Faster,
please, I don’t have the nerves for this.” Carlo wearily dragged on
his cigarette, which was threatening to go out at any moment. He
had to open the window, as the smoky air inside was thicker than
the fog.

The limousine driver sped up. Staring ahead,
he prayed they wouldn’t hit anything large. Visibility was down to
fewer than ten yards.

Carlo picked up his cell phone and stabbed at
it, dialing the number. “Darling, I’ll be home soon. … Don’t worry.
… Yes, I’m hungry. … Of course, me too, see you.” He put the phone
down beside him and ran his tongue over his teeth. “Damn it, didn’t
I tell you to go faster?”

Will said, “If I drive faster we might hit
someone. I think it’s better—”

“Faster!” Carlo snapped. “What do I care if
we hit something? The car is fully insured.” When he burst out
laughing, the men laughed with him.

The vehicle accelerated even more.

They drove on, no longer laughing. The man
who was driving kept a sharp lookout, the other was thinking what
to buy with his next paycheck. Vucci was a generous employer. He
paid those loyal to him well. If they weren’t loyal, he got rid of
them.

A young girl ran across the road and screamed
when she saw the black limousine bearing down on her. It was so
sudden that the driver barely had time to turn the steering wheel.
Luckily he missed the girl, but the vehicle hit a high curb at full
speed and crashed into a metal fence. Before the three of them
realized what was happening the limousine was rolling down a steep
slope.

To their misfortune, the girl had run across
the road just before a long bridge over the river, so they broke
through the railing and rolled down the riverbank. A screeching
sound assailed the ears of the girl’s mother as she took her in her
arms. The big limousine ended up in the water and engulfed in a
disturbing silence.

The first to gain consciousness was the
driver, who felt cold water pouring onto his feet. Seeing what was
happening, he screamed. Looking to his right he saw his bearded
colleague, who had blood all over his head and was unconscious.
Then he turned and with horror realized that Carlo Vucci wasn’t in
the vehicle. He shook his friend, who woke immediately.

“We have to get out of here. Now!” the driver
said.

The ice-cold water was already at waist
level. They pushed against the door with all their strength, but it
wouldn’t give. The driver thought of opening the sun roof. They
climbed onto the car roof and jumped into the water in a matter of
seconds. A few minutes later they lay, gasping, on the
riverbank.

“My God, where is Carlo?” groaned the second
man.

“I don’t know. Maybe he got thrown out while
the vehicle was rolling over. Let’s have a look around.”

Sure enough, they found him some minutes
later lying unconscious on the bank with his feet in the water. His
legs and stomach were covered in blood and at first he didn’t even
look alive.

“Let’s call an ambulance,” Will said.

Half an hour later, Carlo Vucci was taken to
hospital.

The two men huddled in the waiting room,
their elegant clothes filthy from earth and sand, waiting for
someone to tell them how he was. If their boss was dead they would
be out of a job. That was the last thing they needed, since before,
both of them had worked in a factory and had hardly earned enough
to make ends meet.

Finally the doctor showed up, saying, “I’m
Dr. Patterson. Were you with Mr. Vucci?”

They nodded.

“Tell me what happened.”

They briefly described how they had toppled
down the riverbank.

Dr. Patterson shook his head. “I thought it
would be something along those lines. Mr. Vucci has severe head
injuries and minor stomach injuries. Everything else is OK.
Obviously the vehicle rolled over him. He’ll need surgery.”

The men were surprised. “You mean to say he
got crushed by the limo?”

“Yes. His arms and legs are OK, but as I
said, he has serious head injuries.”

They both grimaced. Will asked, “And when
will you know more?”

“Hard to say. In a few moments we’ll operate.
First his head, then his stomach.”

“What are his chances?”

Dr. Patterson pulled a face. “I’m afraid I
can’t promise anything. His condition is very serious. We can only
hope for the best.” Then he left.

Jack called Christine Vucci and, with dry
lips, waited for her to pick up the phone.

“Hello!”

“Christine, it’s me, Jack. I’m sorry to tell
you we had a real bad accident.”

“What? What happened?”

“The fog was so thick we couldn’t see much. …
We fell into a river and—”

The woman’s troubled voice interrupted him.
“What happened to Carlo?”

“His condition’s very serious. He’s waiting
for surgery.”

“Where are you?”

“Central Hospital.”

“I’ll be right there.” The line went
dead.

Chapter 13

_______________________

The impressive two-story house was wreathed
in thick fog. Special agents Sandra Grant and Steven West parked
their car on the pavement and hurried toward the grand entrance,
which was guarded by two young police officers. Showing their
police ID they asked where the crime scene was. One of them pointed
to the upper floor.

Upstairs was packed. Three police officers
were dusting the surfaces in the hope of finding fingerprints. A
female officer was taking a large number of photographs. Two
others, wearing surgical gloves, were rummaging around looking for
evidence that might be used against any possible suspect. Sitting
on a wide leather chair, a tearful young woman with creased
clothing covered her face with her hands.

Sandra took a quick look around the room and
then approached the girl. “What happened to you?”

The girl shook her head. Her eyes were
stained from mascara. She had gained consciousness, only to find
the man with whom she’d had intercourse dead on the floor.
Horrified, she then thought about how the murderers had been right
behind her and she started screaming hysterically, calming down
only when the police arrived.

“Tell me what happened.”

Again she shook her head. She wanted to say
something but her tongue would not obey her. In shock and afraid of
the possible consequences, she was trying to figure out what to
say. “You have to promise me not to tell my parents anything. They
mustn’t know this happened.”

Sandra Grant put her hand on the girl’s arm.
“I can’t promise that, but I can say that we will try not to expose
your name.” Her face became serious. “I must warn you that you’re a
witness to the murder that took place in this house. You will most
certainly be called to testify.”

The young woman hid her face in her hands
again. She had gotten herself into a terrible mess and it made her
stomach churn. She was thinking what she should do. She had become
involved in prostitution to get back at her father, who had cut
back her monthly allowance. Ever since she was little her father
had bought her everything she wanted, but over the past year he had
been punishing her for failing to pass even one of her exams. She
had managed to get through her reduced allowance in fewer than ten
days, buying the usual expensive clothes and cosmetics. For the
rest of the month she was left with only enough for cigarettes, so
she’d almost starved. The anger boiling up inside her stopped her
calling home.

She had got in touch with her first client
over the Internet. She had scrubbed herself under a hot shower
straight after the event to get rid of the unpleasant male smell.
Then she went to the mall and bought herself a new dress and shoes.
She spent the evening crying and saying to herself that it was her
dad’s fault.

Before long she returned to the same website
to raise more money, never thinking it could get her in trouble.
She decided to tell the police only half the truth.

“What kind of relationship did you have with
the deceased?”

The words were hard to get off her tongue.
“We met in some bar in town …”

Sandra jumped in, saying, “Do you remember
the name of the bar?”

The young woman’s creased forehead showed she
was thinking. “The Cat’s Tail,” she said, blurting out the name of
a bar she had seen somewhere downtown.

“You claim to have met him only today. Can
you tell me the victim’s name?”

However hard she tried she couldn’t remember
his name, so she again had to make something up. “He introduced
himself as Leon.”

Sandra was writing down the answers on a
small pad. “And what happened then?”

“This has never happened to me before, but I
liked Leon right away. I’ve always been attracted to older
men.”

And grossly overweight ones,
Sandra
thought. She had seen the man who had been shot, lying in the
corridor. It was clear to her that the girl was not telling the
truth. She was probably a prostitute, but she could not ask the
question yet. She decided to ask at the end, after the girl had
told her story.