Page 63 of Letting Go
Nikki sits up straight and quickly looks to her colleague before snapping her head back to Luna. “Honey, that’s not a small name. Do you know what he does for a living?”
“Yeah, I know, he’s all important with the Vietnamese mob all over the Midwest, and you now know I’m right that if he finds out I’m talking right now that I am as good as dead,” Luna admits. Adrenaline shoots through my body as I realize we not only havea new connection to our cases, but for the first time, we have a possible direct connection between two of our victims in two different cities.
“If not from him, then his wife will for sure kill me. I didn’t even know he was married when he first became a regular, but some of the girls at the club talk, you know? I guess his wife is even scarier than he can be and that’s like saying a lot.” Luna huffs and unscrews the lid of the water bottle in front of her and gulps down a drink.
“His wife indeed has a reputation, and we are aware of her as well. What else did you hear from your client, Luna?” Nikki asks.
“Nam was like really pissed off at these guys and about how he didn’t have the time to take care of this mess. The thing about Nam is that you cannot cross him. If he even suspects it, you’re guilty whether or not you did anything wrong. I didn’t know the tattoo guy personally, but one of the girls said Kenny was cool when she got some ink a few years ago. I guess he was well-known in certain circles of guys with similar but different organizations or whatever, so Nam was worried if he personally was connected to the hit, it would have negative blowback with his … business endeavors. He told whoever he was talking to that he was now forced to call The Susurro for this because of some other families that liked this guy. Nam said he was going to handle his own guys, and they would go out with a bang.” Luna slowly shakes her head. “I always knew he was crazy, but then when I heard from the girls at the club about the explosion, I couldn’t believe it.”
“What explosion?” Nikki asks her.
“Well, like what, two days after Kenny the tattoo guy was killed, Peanut Butter and Jelly were killed when their car exploded on our club’s street.”
“And who are Peanut Butter and Jelly?”
“That’s not their real names. We just always called them PB and J because they were always together. They were the guys that Nam was pissed at, and they were regulars at the club, too. Their real names were Hieu and Duy. Hieu was alright and kept his hands to himself, but Duy was handsy and tipped like shit. He wanted you to think he was a big deal, but he was more like an annoying cockroach.”
“And you said Kenny the tattoo guy was killed by someone named Siro?” Agent Wallace clarifies.
“No, The Susurro. I remember thinking that was a weird last name, so I googled it on my phone when Nam went to the bathroom off the private room. I didn’t even know it was a Spanish word, but I guess it means the whisper. Nam was talking like it was this guy’s name, so maybe it’s like his nickname or maybe his last name? I don’t know, I probably would’ve forgotten it all together if that guy hadn’t gotten shot like a week later and then a few days after that, those guys got blown up like two blocks from the club.” I stand up and start to pace as we continue watching the video footage, but this is it. This is the break we have been waiting for; I can feel it in my gut.
“When was this phone call and what else did you hear about The Susurro?” Nikki asks.
“The call was late one night just after Thanksgiving and like a week or so before that tattoo guy was killed by a sniper downtown. I heard about the shooting but didn’t realize it was Kenny the tattoo guy until some of the girls at work were talking about him, and it gave me chills. Like that can’t be a coincidence. When he was on the phone that night, Nam was just super pissed because he said it was going to be an expensive call to make, but it was the only way for him to take care of it while keeping his hands clean and without blowing back on him. He was really mad at those guys for making this mess over too many drinks at a tattoo shop. I’ve seenhim pissed a few times, but never like that. It was kind of scary, actually.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No, it’s not like I was asking for the details so I could call this guy up. That’s what I know, so now I want a deal, I want protection, and I want a fucking shower,” Luna rants as Tara signals to Mason to pause the video feed.
“There isn’t anything else relevant to our cases after that point, but this is significant,” Tara tells our team.
The Susurro may mean The Whisper in Spanish, but whoever they are will not remain a whispering secret for long, especially now that we have an alias to go on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a name,” I say as I sharply clap my hands together, finally feeling like we have something relevant to chase. “Mason, is that name showing up anywhere?”
We can all search the same databases but Mason is a tech whiz and always seems to find the answers twice as fast as the rest of us. His fingers have been swiftly typing on his laptop since pausing the video feed. I know without having to specify that he’s running the alias through the multiple national and international databases for anything about The Susurro or The Whisper.
“I’m not seeing anything in our domestic databases but I’m going to put it in Interpol’s databases next, give me just a moment. I’m searching all available databases with some keywords along with a few other international databases and a media database.” Mason doesn’t look up as he continues working. Shaking his head as he sits at the table. “I also want to see what, if anything, pops on the dark web.”
“Good work, Tara,” I tell her. “This is good thorough investigative work, guys. We knew something would give. We just all had to keep putting in our best efforts. I’m really proud of all of thoseefforts. Now let’s dig in, identify this asshole, and bring him to justice.”
“Walker, I got … I got something … I’m not sure what this is actually,” Mason says as he reads a document on his screen with his eyebrows scrunched down.
“Share your screen, man. Let’s see what you have,” I tell him. For as smart as Mason is, sometimes his instinct is to be a lone wolf, so he occasionally needs to be nudged to let the team help him too.
“Right, of course … there.” Mason looks up as the team starts reading the search result. “My Spanish isn’t fluent enough to read this, but I can throw it in a translator here in a second,” Mason says.
“I’ve got it,” Kelly tells the team. People easily forget that the same guy who can talk about any sporting event and is a former college football star is also fluent in six languages. “This looks like a news story from an international sharpshooting competition. ‘Mi hijo es como un fantasma. Nadie puede verlo venir. Sus disparos no son más que el susurro de la muerte,’” Kelly reads out loud, as though we know what he’s saying. “When and where is this from, Mason?”
“It’s from a local newspaper in a small village in Spain, but it was published … fifteen years ago,” Mason replies.
Kelly reads the rest of the article before addressing the team. “This story is from a town where this man’s son used to live, but it sounds like he lives in Italy now or did fifteen years ago. The quote you highlighted with the matching keywords translates to, ‘My son is like a ghost. No one can see him coming. His shots are but the whisper of death.’ The father goes on to say that his son will be a wonderful asset for their country and further in the article, it identifies the son’s mother as a woman from the village where this newspaper is from, but she appears to have passed away some time before this article.”
“So, the son won an international sharpshooting competition at the age of fourteen and his mother’s hometown published an article about it. What is the sharpshooter’s name? Or the dad’s name? Someone’s name? There must be more information on there,” I ask the room.
“The father’s name is Alessio Galletti, and he still holds records in Italy for his accuracy as a sniper in the Italian Army. To this day, looks like that’s where he spent his entire career and with their Carabinieri special forces. His one and only known son’s name is Matteo Antonio Galletti. Matteo Galletti was born and raised in Spain until the death of his mother when he was nine years old, at which point he moved to be with his father in Italy,” Mason reads from some other file on his computer. “It looks like his parents had a short-lived relationship after … oh wow, after meeting at a European sniper competition. His mother was a sniper as well!”
“How did his mother die?” Harlow asks.
