Page 124 of An Inside Job
“Tedeschi made a couple of phone calls. Then he and Nico finished their dinner. In my professional opinion, it was not a pleasant meal.”
“Where are they now?”
“On their way to Naples, presumably for a meeting with Don Lorenzo Di Falco. If Don Lorenzo had any sense, he would kill Nico and Franco tonight and cut his losses.”
“I’m worried about Ottavio Pozzi,” said Gabriel.
“Pozzi is the least of their problems.”
“He accepted two hundred and fifty thousand euros to steal the painting. And then he told you everything.”
“You were there too, as I recall.”
“But I was the good cop. And if someone from the Di Falco clan of the Camorra shows up at his door looking for the money, Pozzi is as good as dead.”
Rossetti’stelefoninorang before he could reply. He lifted the device to his ear, listened in silence, then said, “We’re on our way.” A moment later they were speeding southward along the Tiber with the grille lights flashing.
“On our way where?” asked Gabriel.
“Ostiense.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Pozzi.”
***
It happened at 11:22 p.m. That much, at least, was certain. The killer hadn’t bothered with a suppressor, and the sound of gunfire could be heard throughout much of the neighborhood. He had approached Ottavio Pozzi from behind as he was ordering adoppioat Caffè Roma and had emptied his magazine into the museum guard’s head andback. Then, calmly, he had walked out of the café and climbed into a waiting car. No one, it seemed, could recall the make or model.
The twenty-six-year-old barman, who had been standing directly in the line of fire, was fortunate not to have been hit as well. He was being interviewed by a pair of uniformed Polizia di Stato officers when Rossetti turned into the Via Casati. A large crowd had gathered in the street outside the café, some still in their nightclothes. Others watched from the balconies of the graffiti-spattered apartment blocks, ghostly phantoms in the flashing blue light.
Veronica waited next to the car while Gabriel and Rossetti shouldered their way through the crowd and went to the door of the café. They could proceed no further; the floor was drenched with blood and littered with shell casings. Pozzi lay where he had fallen, the arrangement of his limbs contorted by death. A crime scene technician was probing the bullet holes in the back of Pozzi’s head. In all likelihood, he had never felt a thing.
Luca Rossetti swung away and raised a hand to his mouth.
“Are you okay?” asked Gabriel.
“I’m supposed to be the one asking that question.”
“I wish it bothered me, Luca. But it doesn’t.”
“Never?”
“The first time.”
“Where was it?”
“Here in Rome. I was just a kid.”
“So was I when I saw my first dead body. They left him in the street outside our apartment building so everyone could see what happened if you crossed them.” He stared at the body lying in a pool of blood on the dirty linoleum floor. “I’ve always hated them.”
“You should have his brother moved into solitary confinement. Otherwise he’s next.”
Rossetti stepped away to make the call. The crime scene technician was searching Pozzi’s clothing. In the outer pocket of his blood-soaked overcoat he found an ID badge for the Musei Vaticani. It disappeared into an evidence bag.
Rossetti returned a moment later, his face ashen. “Sandro Pozzi was stabbed to death an hour ago. It appears to have been the work of a Camorra prison executioner.”
Gabriel looked at the body of Sandro Pozzi’s younger brother—the brother who would still be alive if only he had told the truth on a job application.
