Campanelli: Sentinel Page 12

  “That’s just great,” Campanelli muttered and rubbed his forehead.

  Another question was asked by a reporter, but Frank was too distracted to hear it.

  “Well, the rally that Mister DeSilva is holding at Daley Plaza is not altogether unwelcome. I understand the minister’s message to be not all that different from that of the Mayor’s Office. In fact, Detective Campanelli and myself will be in attendance and will be speaking there.”

  “What the mother…!” Campanelli was interrupted by his ringing telephone. “Mute!” he shouted at the holovision set. It quieted, but Sebastian’s mouth was still working. Frank cursed his new boss again before picking up the phone. “Hello,” he said too harshly.

  “Hello to you, grouch,” Tam said. “I guess you do have the news on.”

  “I do,” Frank replied and let out a loud breath of air. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” she said. He could hear the news anchor speaking through the phone. The HV at Tam’s Place was on, in fact, she had turned up the volume. Looking to his set, he confirmed that his boss had finished spewing his name over the air. “So, you got him today, huh?”

  “Antony? Yeah,” Campanelli answered as he directed his implant to connect with the CPD server. He was sure to have messages.

  “Did he get hurt?”

  “Broken wrist and…I punched him,” he said as he checked the knuckles on his right hand. They were sore, but he felt it was worth it.

  “Good!”

  “Listen, you wanna come by tonight?” Frank asked. His CAPS-Link flagged a new message from Marcus about the ongoing interrogations of their prisoners. It required a conversation, not his presence.

  “And visit my favorite celeb? Try stoppin’ me,” Tam said cheerily.

  “All right, all right,” Frank replied as he poured himself a glass of bourbon. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Okay, I’ll bring dinner,” she promised. They said their goodbyes and ended the call.

  Frank stared at the silent holovision for several seconds. He read Williams’s message again and snatched the receiver back up, quickly punching the number of the surveillance room’s phone into the keypad.

  “Lyman,” his underling spoke.

  “Campanelli,” Frank identified, “What’s new?”

  “I’ll let Williams tell ya,” Hank answered, sounding triumphant, “hang on.”

  “Frank?” Marcus said a moment later.

  “Yeah.”

  “We got just about everything we hoped for,” his partner said happily.

  “Except the name of the money man.”

  “Well, yeah,” Marcus admitted. “I have to tell you, I don’t think they know who it is.”

  “Did they sign their statements, yet?”

  “Yes,” Williams answered, “and I got the DA to talk to Beritoni. It looks like they reached an understanding pretty quickly. He’s going into the lockup here for tonight before the transfer to a safe house. He’s none-too-happy about the accommodations.”

  “I’m sure,” Campanelli said as he commanded the holovision to change the channel. To his surprise, the reverend, minister or whatever Maximilian DeSilva called himself was already on the air. A spinning symbol at the corner of the viewing area indicated that it was a live broadcast. “Say, Marcus?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Drop by in a while would’ja?” Frank asked as he commanded the set to record the broadcast.

  “Sure, Frank. Somethin’ up?”

  “I think maybe there is,” he answered tentatively as he walked slowly toward the image of DeSilva. “I just want to bounce an idea off you.”

  “We’re all done here,” Williams said, “I’ll be by in a few.”

  They ended the call and Campanelli turned up the volume. At first, it sounded like the same garbage.

  “…the mayor says, ‘We’re on it! We’re takin’ care of it!’ You know what I think brothers and sisters? I think that he needs to understand where we’re comin’ from!!”

  The congregation sang their praises of the Lord and DeSilva.

  “The chief of police needs to hear you! The mayor needs to see you! We need to get our will enforced! The will of the people shall command them to stop the sinners from their exodus to that evil planet!”

  The roar of the audience reached a crescendo that halted Maximilian’s speech. He nodded like a broken puppet with their misguided adulation. He paced the stage with his back arched and his hands behind his back. To Frank, he looked rather like a rooster that has just awakened the hen house.

  “This guy is trouble,” Campanelli muttered and savored his bourbon. The possibilities of what might happen at this man’s rally ran through his head. So violent was the collective voice of Maximilian’s followers that he considered contacting Sebastian and recommending an activation of additional patrolmen for a Saturday riot. The cameras panned across the mob. Otherwise intelligent-looking men and women pumped fists into the air and howled for the microphones. The expressions of anger and frustrations on their faces gave Frank a chill throughout his spine.

  He sat and watched the broadcast for many minutes, taking in the message that DeSilva was issuing to his followers. There was more nonsense, more misinformation and more unqualified negativity spewing forth from that stage than from any news broadcast he had ever witnessed in his life. According to Maximilian, the police had no intention of enforcing the anti-migration law and that the OCD chief’s announcement about the new plans was a complete falsehood.

  Frank poured himself another bourbon as the doorbell rang. It was Marcus. He let him in and ordered the holovision to play his recording from the beginning.

  “Hey, Frank,” Marcus greeted but was immediately distracted by the yelling man on the screen. “Who’s this?”

  “Shhh. Listen,” Campanelli directed as he retrieved a bottle of beer for his guest. Williams did not care much for whiskey.

  Williams accepted the beer quietly and did as his partner told him. Five minutes into the rant, Marcus said, “Hey! Pause this.”

  “Pause!” Frank commanded. To Marcus, he said, “Crackpot, right?”

  “Well, yeah, but,” Williams shoved a thumb toward the image of DeSilva projected on the far wall, “I’ve seen him before.”

  “Yeah, we have,” Frank emphasized.

  “We? Okay, where?”

  “Beritoni’s office.”

  Williams snapped his fingers and nodded vigorously. He took a huge tug from the beer before he went on. “What the hell was he doing there?”

  “Who knows?”

  “And…follow up question…isn’t it a conflict of interest that Beritoni represents this preacher who is so against migration and Ignatola’s people?”

  “To say the least,” Frank agreed. He allowed the recording to continue.

  “The mayor will hear us, by God! He will put a stop to this sinning against the Lord!” Maximilian’s voice had risen in pitch and volume over the last few minutes. The oration was coming to an end, he felt sure, as the haunting church music had begun to play.

  The doorbell rang again. Frank let Tam inside.

  “Hi Frank, Hi Marcus!” she greeted, surprised to see Frank’s partner. The man projected on the far wall grabbed her attention next. “Oh, this guy.”

  Frank helped relieve Tamara of the bags of food in her arms, placing them on the counter and giving her a peck on the cheek. The three of them said nothing as the holovision preacher wrapped up his show.

  “Show your support of us next Saturday, brothers and sisters! Remember to keep an eye and an ear upon your friends and neighbors, your acquaintances and for strangers, who would carry out their sins against our Lord! The migrations must stop!!”

  “Holy crap,” Tam declared, drawing looks from Frank and Marcus. “Literally,” she added, earning chuckles from the both of them.

  Maximilian DeSilva said goodbye to the crowd in his usual, boisterous manner, among the thrumming music and the maniacal cheers. Frank shook hi
s head in disbelief.

  “That guy is friggin’ dangerous,” Marcus said with certainty, his finger shaking at the fading image.

  “Thank you,” Frank granted.

  “Oh! I don’t know,” Tam said through a bemused grin as she unpackaged the food, “he’s just a holovision minister. No one’s taking him seriously.”

  “Did you not hear the roar of the crowd, my dear?” Frank asked incredulously.

  “Who says those people are real, Frank?” Tam stopped, cocked her head to one side and put a hand on one hip, like she always did when she had a point. “They could be computer-generated. Special effects.”

  “Hmmm,” Marcus granted.

  “That’s a good point that can be easily proven,” Campanelli admitted, “but that’s not the immediate concern here.”

  “Then, what is?” Tam asked as she turned her attention back to food preparation.

  “The concern is this…well, rally he’s holding,” Frank went on. “Whether the crowd is fake or not, Tam, the question remains, does he have an effect on the populace?”

  “We should prepare ourselves for this thing,” Marcus said.

  Frank nodded and turned to Tamara, who still appeared dubious.

  “I think you guys are overreacting,” she said, but changed the subject. “Who’s hungry? Don’t you go nowhere, young man!” she prodded Williams, who appeared to be begging off. “There’s plenty for three.”

  Marcus acquiesced, grabbing a plate of the roast beef, bread and vegetables that Tam had brought from her diner. The three of them continued their discussion of DeSilva’s influence, but Frank’s mention of their chance meeting at Beritoni’s office stopped her cold.

  “Wait a minute,” Tam said, putting down her fork with a metal on glass clatter, “you two saw this DeSilva guy at the same lawyer’s office that the Ignatola crime family uses?”

  “Yeah,” Campanelli said around a mouthful of bread. He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “You think DeSilva knows about that?” she asked with her head tilted again.

  “If he doesn’t,” Marcus jumped in, “he’s a bigger fool than he plays on HV. Del Taylor’s been on the news several times over the years, defending his clients, usually Ignatola henchmen.”

  Frank nodded and Tam regarded both men quite seriously. “I think you boys better tell someone about your chance encounter,” she said and picked up her fork. “I think you’re onto something.”

  ***

  The meal over, Frank poured a third bourbon. Tam stared at him hard, though he was too deep in thought over DeSilva’s possible connection to Beritoni to notice. He moved to the patio door and slid it open. The drizzle, which had not fully developed into anything heavier since the late afternoon, had ceased. The air was thick with humidity but cool and pleasant. Marcus and Tamara followed him outside, both still full of speculation and wonder over their discussions.

  The screeching roar of the last “L” train of the evening approached his building, keeping the three silent. Frank lit a cigarette and gave it a couple of puffs to wait out the seven-car length train. He could see that none were more than half full of passengers.

  “I have a feeling, Marcus,” Frank said once it was quiet enough for him to be heard.

  “Another one?” he smiled. He looked to Tam and she returned it.

  Campanelli turned to face Williams directly. In the early evening light, the sun had not sunk enough to require an adjustment to his vision. Marcus could make out every detail of his older partner’s face and could see he was serious.

  “I think Maximilian DeSilva is Ignatola’s money man and flight connection,” Frank said with deliberation.

  “What?” Williams exuded doubtfully. “The two are night and day. They wouldn’t have anything to do with each other.”

  “That’s what makes it perfect,” Frank insisted and took another toke on his cigarette.

  “Oh, Frank,” Marcus said as he shook his head. He took a step back, found a damp lawn chair and sat down. “Oh, Frank, that’s just too much.”

  “I don’t know, Marcus,” Tamara Billingsley interjected, “it kinda makes perfect sense.”

  “Come on.”

  “Wait a minute,” Frank pressed after he had taken another sip of bourbon, “DeSilva’s church is taking in money from its members, right? Maybe the crowd on the HV is fake, but I bet they’re not all fake. I bet that there are enough people giving this clown money that he’s able to buy and maintain aircraft and pilots.”

  “And so, Ignatola recruits passengers, puts together the ground transportation, takes in whatever they give him and he passes on a hefty percentage to DeSilva,” Williams reasoned, though still doubtful.

  “That’s what I’m sayin’, buddy boy,” Frank confirmed. He held Marcus’s sideways gaze. After a moment, Williams lost some of his reluctance. He nodded several times and bit his lip.

  “That means that Beritoni lied to us today. He would have to know about the connection…if there is one,” Williams surmised.

  “If I’m right, he has to know,” Frank agreed and nodded.

  “So, are you going to Sebastian about this?” Marcus asked after a heavy sigh.

  Frank nodded vaguely. “Yes, I am. Tomorrow morning. It would be so very good of you to back me up,” Campanelli pressed, leaning forward to emphasize his need.

  “I have to admit, Frank,” Marcus said, his head bobbing, “the more I think about it, the more plausible it sounds. Besides, if you’re wrong, what’s the harm?”

  “The harm is thousands of dollars in paid overtime to officers and two detectives that will be working to prove it,” Campanelli said.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” Frank added, “and just guess who gets the nod for the next round of layoffs after wasting so much taxpayer money,” he finished with a stabbing finger against his own chest.

  “And me if I back you up,” Marcus smiled.

  “Yeah, prob’ly.”

  Marcus Williams was quiet for more than a minute. He tapped his feet in thought before rising. He held up a finger to beg for a moment, walked inside and came out with a fresh beer. Downing half of the bottle, he swallowed hard and belched. “’scuse me. Okay, Frank. Let’s talk to Sebastian together.”

  “That’s my boy,” Campanelli said and downed his glass.

  ***

  The next morning, Frank was nursing a four bourbon headache. Not wanting to waste his implant’s battery power on pain management, he broke out a couple of over the counter headache pills. They were expensive, but they worked.

  Meeting his partner at District One, the two men rode to CPD headquarters on Michigan Avenue. Sebastian had agreed to meet with his second-in-command that morning, though he had several appointments that had to be rearranged. His new boss’s accommodation seemed to prove his commitment to the Sentinel program.

  “Go on in, gentlemen,” the OCD Chief’s secretarial doppelganger allowed. It was not as advanced a model as the one in Beritoni’s office, but it worked. The machine rose and strode to the office door and gently plucked at the door handle, letting them inside.

  Earl Sebastian was seated behind his desk, already hard at work, studying something on his computer terminal’s monitor. His attire was as casual as it ever got. His tie was not yet around his neck and the ribbon-adorned jacket hung from the coatrack.

  “Good morning, Campanelli, Williams,” he nodded.

  “Morning, sir,” they echoed and sat.

  Marcus gave Frank a wary expression, uncertain about their ability to sell their theory to the Chief. After a moment, the head of Sentinel took his attention away from whatever was on his monitor.

  “So, Frank,” Earl began and folded his hands upon his desk, “what’s this that you and Marcus are so worked up about?”

  The Captain of Detectives obliged, detailing the initial meeting with Beritoni and their chance encounter with Maximilian DeSilva. Early on, Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead and, as Frank explained his t
heory of collusion between DeSilva and Ignatola, Sebastian sat back hard into his big chair, his mouth agape with surprise. When Campanelli finished, Sebastian’s widened eyes roved from Campanelli to Williams.

  “Do you agree with this?” Sebastian asked of Campanelli’s partner.

  “Well, at first I thought it was ridiculous,” Williams said with an glance to his older partner which was laced in regret, “but the more we spoke of it last night, the more I’m inclined to think that it has merit.”

  “I see.”

  “Sir,” Frank took up, striking while the iron was hot, “I want to interrogate Beritoni and Antony one more time and assign some men for surveillance on DeSilva.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sebastian interrupted with a hand raised. “Frank, I have to ask.”

  “What, sir?”

  “Were you aware that Maximilian DeSilva’s Church of the Divine Intervention, as he calls it, was a major contributor to Mayor Jameson’s election campaign?”

  Frank exhaled heavily through his nose before saying that he had not been aware.

  “I understand that may come as a surprise, considering the man’s public mayor bashing, but it’s a fact,” Sebastian explained.

  “Sir,” Campanelli soldiered on, “that may be, but I feel that if we were to bring Beritoni into the interrogation room again and hit him with this idea, he may crack all the way.”

  “Frank…”

  “We could get him to spill some names, give details about the aircraft involved, their whereabouts.”

  “Frank,” Earl Sebastian insisted harshly, silencing Campanelli. “You are suggesting that a man that has fully supported our mayor, until recently, is a big time criminal. Now, I understand that his support was not made public, but both the mayor and Mister DeSilva had their reasons. You are expecting me to believe that DeSilva has been working with the Ignatola family in their human trafficking efforts.”

  “It’s a solid theory, sir,” Frank asserted.

  “I’m not so sure it is, Frank,” Sebastian revealed. He sighed, rolled his eyes to the ceiling and folded his fingers behind his head. The OCD Chief studied the ceiling for several long seconds. “I have to admit, however,” he went on, “that DeSilva’s been creating a great amount of negativity on our efforts. You’re not the first one to suggest that there might be trouble at the rally this weekend. You are the first one with the idea that he and Fillipo Ignatola have anything to do with each other, though. Ha!” Earl finished, shaking his head as he quickly leaned forward. He studied the faces of both men seated across his desk for several seconds as his fingers tapped hard upon it.