Campanelli: Sentinel (21 page)

              “’K.”

              Frank stood and again began to pace. On his way past the HV, he touched the base and turned it off. As he waited for his partner to find something, he perused Beritoni’s statement. The attorney had given the names of six pilots and indicated that as far as he knew, that was all of them. Campanelli scratched his scalp in thought. Six men and aircraft were plenty to transport people to a location where their identifications could be changed. According to Beritoni, DeSilva’s network could transport entire families to either Cape Canaveral or San Francisco, where they would board rocket-trams that would take them to space. From there, they would board shuttles to the moon and at some point, simply vanish.

              “Quite a racket,” Frank murmured to himself.

              “Ah,” answered Marcus. “Reading Beritoni’s statement?”

              “Yeah.”

              “If we could shut this down, it would be big,” Williams opined. “Okay. Fillipo Ignatola has four vehicles registered in his name. According to the satellite service, three of these are at his home. The fourth, his limousine, is parked near a restaurant he is known to frequent in Little Italy.”

              “Get somebody over there,” Frank pounced. “Now, Marcus.”

              “On it,” Williams assured him as he picked an available detective unit from the computer. He entered the location and the person they were to find and watch, then sent the request. In less than twenty seconds, the unit responded. “Okay, I have detectives Tomlinson and Miskowski on the way there now. It’ll take ‘em twenty minutes to get there.”

              “Fine,” Campanelli said.

              “According to the computer, DeSilva doesn’t own a car, Frank.”

              “Mmmm. It might be under the name of his church. Uh, what was it? Church of the Divine…whozits?”

              “Intervention,” Williams provided. “Ah, here we are. Tour bus, check. Two vans, check. Three limousines and a…get this…the church owns a Ferrari.”

              Frank chuckled darkly. “Where are all of these vehicles?”

              “Tour bus, vans and two of the limos are on church grounds. The Ferrari is located at DeSilva’s residence on Lake Shore Drive. The third limo is on the move.”

              “Heading where?”

              “It’s heading west on Forty-sixth Street, moving towards the church, which is at forty-six twenty-seven South State Street.”

              “Okay,” Campanelli said excitedly and halted his pacing. “Make your calls to DuPage County Sheriff, Bolingbrook and Wheeling police. See if we can get officers on those pilots. Get someone to help you.”

              “Got it.”

              “I’m on my way out the door and I’m coming to get you.”

              “Where are
we
going?”

              “To church,” Frank announced and hung up.

***

              Campanelli replaced his shoulder holster and grabbed his sport coat and star on the way out the door. McKay and Old Bill were still loitering about the condo’s front doors, but with a quick hello and goodbye, Frank headed toward the street. Crossing it at a jog, he quickly made it to the corner and strode toward the front door of the District One station.

              Just as he approached the entrance to his workplace, he spotted his dark blue cruiser rounding the corner of Seventeenth and State. Though he knew well his partner’s efficiency, Frank found himself doubting that the man had gotten the phone calls finished. Marcus saw him at the curb and brought the car to a tire torturing halt.

              Campanelli opened the door but did not get in. Instead, he leaned down to look to his partner. “Did you make those calls?”

              “Yes,” Williams confirmed, “I called the DuPage Sheriff myself. I have two other people in the office alerting Bolingbrook and Wheeling.”

              “Okay,” Frank acknowledged and dropped himself into the passenger seat. Marcus pulled away from the station and headed south.

              “You have the address for DeSilva’s church in there?” Frank asked, pointing to the navigational screen.

              “Yep, that’s where we’re headed. I received an acknowledgement from Davies and Lyman. They’re watching the law firm now,” Marcus explained as the car, under its computer’s control, accelerated through the intersection. “Lyman made a phone call to verify that Del Taylor was in the office. The receptionist said that he was. Ignatola’s still at that restaurant.”

              “Good.”

              The detectives quieted for most of the ride to the Church of the Divine Intervention. Once the car passed Thirty-Fifth Street, the landscape changed to unkempt parks, run down or closed schools, churches and the occasional commercial building. Their eyes danced upon this slowly decaying part of the city, which appeared to Williams as an open wound that was in desperate need of a healing that would not come. To Frank, the neighborhood was what the rest of the city would have become if the exodus to Alethea had been allowed to continue legally: A once proud land that sacrificed its grand buildings for the sake of starship construction. Flat, barren and mostly devoid of human life, the area screamed of loneliness and abandon.

              A thought about the case occurred to Campanelli, shoving away his unvoiced impressions of their surroundings. He accessed the CPD server with his implant, its range augmented by the cruiser’s transceiver. Bringing up the data that Marcus had looked up back at District One, he found DeSilva’s only moving limousine. Currently, the satellite had tracked it to a parking space at the church. Inquiring into the vehicle history, Frank found that it had been parked near the corner of South Michigan and Thirty-Fourth Street, two blocks north and one block east of the CPD headquarters. Thinking back to the place that Campanelli had driven past perhaps a thousand times, he recalled that the area was mostly residential, though there were a few professional offices tucked within, including a handful of medical and dental services.

              Frank understood there was nothing outwardly strange about this, but suspicion spawned within him. Looking further back into the limo’s travel history, he found a visit to a restaurant at around lunch time. Before that, the car had come from DeSilva’s home.

              As was the nature of his job, Campanelli dug further and further back. He found several trips to Taylor, Taylor & Packey, including the one on the day that Frank and Marcus had met him as he was leaving Beritoni’s office. His suspicion grew when he discovered that the car revisited that same corner of South Michigan and Thirty-fourth over the past several days.

              Frank made a mental note of that as the cruiser was forced to slow down for a gaggle of pedestrians crossing their path. The group appeared to be walking away from a parking lot on their right. The sudden presence of humanity broke the drab neighborhood’s spell on the detectives.

              “What the hell is going on here?” Marcus mumbled.

              Frank said nothing as he watched the crowd cross the street from the west side. Looking to his left, he noted that the sidewalk was cluttered with groups of people heading south on foot or bicycle. As the police car rolled on, Marcus and Frank both stared in wonder into the plethora of slow-moving humanity. While most were dressed in a most casual manner, as if they had taken the day off to tour the city, others were more formal. Frank lost count of the men wearing sport coats, slacks and nice shoes. Others stood out in the crowd in suits complete with ties and vests. The women accompanying these gentlemen were equally as decked out in dressy feminine attire. Campanelli noted that many of the less well-dressed bore crosses on necklaces. Some without jewelry had crosses printed upon t-shirts.

              “Ah-ha,” Marcus uttered as he pointed a finger to a group of people to their right that was crossing in the middle of the block. The cruiser stopped and Williams waved the stragglers of the mass to continue. Upon the chests of many of these people was the likeness of Reverend Maximilian DeSilva.

              “There goes Tam’s theory that the audience was fake,” Campanelli said wryly. He saw that a number of people were wearing the same antibacterial masks that he had seen on the news. Very few wore gloves, but many kept their hands in their pockets.

              “I kinda had high hopes for that theory,” Marcus said as he guided the car slowly along.

              “Yeah,” Frank agreed. “Me, too.”

              The car’s computer announced their arrival to the programmed address and the two detectives could see that the crowd of people was making its way to the same place. Frank had researched DeSilva’s church and had discovered that it had once been a small Baptist church, but it had closed more than a decade ago. DeSilva had purchased that property and several vacant lots from the city and had leveled the old building, replacing it with an enormous complex of offices, an amphitheater which accommodated five thousand people and a large garage. From the size of the gathering they had seen so far, Frank was certain that the place would be nearly filled.

              Outside the place of worship was a metal signpost which featured a holographic image of Maximilian DeSilva. Depicted from the waist upward, the HV preacher smiled and waved at his visitors from atop the tall mast. Reading the scrolling text of the lit sign beneath DeSilva, Frank found that there were services held here on Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays. Casting his eyes skyward to take in the enlarged representation of Maximilian, Frank watched the great and twinkling blue eyes and shivered.

              “Oh, man, that is creepy,” Campanelli commented. “Drive past. Go down a block and park.”

              Marcus complied, driving the cruiser manually through the next intersection and parking it in the first available spot on the street.

              “What in the world are you doing?” Williams asked.

              “I am preparing to infiltrate this here church, partner-o-mine,” Frank answered as he took off his sport coat and removed the shoulder holster. He placed the pistol on his lap and dumped the holster on the floor. “Coming?” he goaded.

              “You want I should?” Williams mocked Campanelli’s mixed New York and Chicago accents.

              “I want you should,” Frank confirmed as he pulled out his shirt tails and tucked the firearm into his belt at the small of his back.

              A moment later, both men exited the cruiser and met on the sidewalk. They walked with restrained urgency toward the church and melted into the thinning crowd. Most had already made it to the inside of the theater/church and Frank wondered if they would end up stuck outside.

              “
So, what in the world are we doing
?” Williams sent in text.

              “
Educating ourselves
,” Campanelli replied in kind.

              “
I don’t think I want this kind of education
,” Marcus sent and elbowed his partner. Frank looked up to the big man, smiled and shrugged.

              In a few minutes, the crowd began moving again. Frank and Marcus both made it inside. With the great gathering of humanity, Frank felt a slight ping of anxiety and uncomfortable warmth. The anxiety passed quickly, but he rolled up his shirt sleeves to help cool off.

              “This way, brothers and sisters!” an usher called from dead ahead of them. “If you can’t move ahead, move to the left or right!”

              A moment later, Campanelli learned what the man had meant. Just inside the closest amphitheater entrance, the crowd slowed yet again. With the lack of forward flow, attendees had little choice but to walk to other entrances to their left or right, or if they were patient, they would filter slowly forward only to have to find another row of seats in either direction. Campanelli noted the entrances to the balconies at either end of the lobby were closed off by red velvet rope. The herd of people was skillfully steered to the main floor.

              Frank nodded to the gray-suited usher standing at the center entrance. “Is it always this crowded?”

              “Just about, brother,” he replied with a great, whitened tooth smile that Frank did not trust. “Just about.” The younger man’s smile faltered the slightest bit at the approach of Marcus, who stood a whole head taller than himself.

              “Good evening,” Williams wished the usher as he followed Frank.

              “Good evening, brother. Welcome,” he said.

              The theater hummed with the conversation of thousands of people. Frank followed the path of least resistance, finding it easier to take a left turn once he was beyond the entrance. Marcus followed and soon they approached the less populated section at the upper left corner of the amphitheater. Though many people chose the same section, it did not fill to capacity like sections further forward.

              “
Well, maybe his following isn’t all that much
,” Marcus texted.

              “
It is if he attracts this many people three times a week
,” Frank responded. Noting the time on his display, it was a few minutes until seven o’clock, which was show time. Looking about the place, his concern about DeSilva’s following waned a bit once he found that none of the sections at the rear of the facility were full, in fact, the balcony sections that had been roped off were entirely absent of people. This meant that it was up to the camera crews to give the HV audience the impression of a full house. Seeing that the place appeared smaller ‘in person’, Campanelli thought it possible that the production was ‘padded’ with stock footage of audience members from earlier shows.