Authors: Frank Hughes
“I don't need your
fucking charity,” I said. I went out the door, slamming it behind me.
Briggs and Stanton were
perched on an empty desk nearby. They stood up and closed ranks in front of me.
I was in a mood. “Who's
first?” I said.
“Let him go.” It was
Roma, standing in the open door of his office.
Briggs and Stanton
stepped aside. I brushed past them. Roma's voice, oddly pleasant again,
followed me out of the office.
“Enjoy your time off,
Nick.”
I took the subway uptown
and walked across to the West Side. I was shaken by the news of Raviv’s death,
and feeling a little perplexed, too. Roma treated me like a long lost brother
in front of the staff, but I was a bum in private. I tried calling Moyshe to
express my condolences, but it went right to voicemail. Not surprising,
considering the agony the family must be going through, not to mention the
arrangements and dealing with the press.
It’s hard to believe
someone is gone, when you’ve only heard about it. That person is still alive in
your mind until you’ve seen the body and the process of grieving and accepting
begins. Once it did, I’d have to deal with the new hole in my life and consider
the dwindling list of my friends.
I wondered who grieved
for the two men I’d killed the previous day. Everyone has someone, a wife, a
child. A barber. I certainly didn’t grieve for them. The process when you took
the life of someone who was also trying to take yours follows a weird course.
At first there is a sense of elation at having won and survived, followed by
the shakiness that comes with the realization of how final it might have been
for you. Eventually, if there is any civilization left in you, comes sadness.
You’ve taken life away from another human being, whatever the justification.
After that comes the shame no one ever seems quite able to talk about.
I stopped in the bodega across
the street from my building to get a six-pack of Heineken and a roast beef
hero. While I was paying, a mechanic from the auto repair shop came in and
began idly poking through the candy display.
“Hey, Nick. What's
shaking?”
“Absolutely nothing,
Magic. You’d be surprised how well my life is going. How's with you?”
“Can't complain.” He
glanced outside. “Something going down, though,” he said in a low voice.
“Really? What makes you
say that?”
“Guys in suits on 28th,
in a car no self-respecting person would buy for himself, sitting around,
reading the paper and trying to look all casual.”
“That so?”
“Is true,” the cashier
chimed in. “We selling a lot more coffee to go, I tell you.” He handed me my
change and finished putting my purchases in a grocery bag. “And the day old
Danish go fast today. Never happen before.”
“Cheap bastards, those
FBI,” I said. I took my groceries. “Thanks for the tip, guys.”
As I crossed 28th I
glanced west. Sure enough, as Roma had promised, there was a Government Issue
sedan parked near Scores with what looked like three guys inside. Very
stealthy. I’m sure the bad guys wouldn’t notice. Well, at least there would be
someone nearby to shove me in a body bag.
I trudged up the stairs
to my place, certain of what I would find. Sure enough, it had been thoroughly
tossed. The day was now perfect. No warrant pinned anywhere, but with the FISA
Court, who needs one?
I turned up the heat,
which I'd left just high enough to keep the pipes from freezing, and dropped my
bag on a chair. I suppose I should have been all bent out of shape, but there
was nothing left in the tank.
When I finished eating I
dumped the contents of Roma’s envelope on the table. My watch, wallet, and cash
were all there. I dug into my overnight bag and found my phone. There were no
phone messages, which was not surprising, since almost no one had my number. In
email there was the usual junk and a note from Moyshe, sent the previous
evening with a PDF attached entitled ‘Verdugo’.
It was a brief overview
of everything he’d learned in his Internet search. Manuel de Verdugo, Cory’s
father, was a Cuban carpenter who came to Florida with his wife as part of the
Mariel Boat lift in 1980. Having no criminal record, he was granted amnesty,
finding employment almost immediately. He took English classes at a community
college and worked construction. Within two years he had his own business.
He’d picked a great time
to get into home building. The Miami area was awash in money from the exploding
cocaine trade. Manuel gained expertise in large scale projects by building the
sort of elaborate and gaudy mansions drug dealers found so desirable. He
expanded into developing resorts, and eventually began managing them as well.
Over the next two decades his tiny company grew to become a major player.
Despite the growth, Manuel never took the company public.
He was dead five years
now, burnt to a cinder in the crash of his corporate jet. His wife was already
dead from cancer by then. As the last blood relative, Cory inherited the
company and assumed the presidency, but it seemed to be an open secret in the
business world that she was merely a figurehead, and some partner or group of
partners actually ran the company. A Business Week article reported that
despite a degree from the Warrington School of Business she spent almost no
time at the office. When she did get involved, it was mainly for public
relations events or parties.
Whoever ran things, they
weren’t getting good reviews from analysts. Verdugo was considered headed for
trouble, negating the profits from its successful public resorts by pouring
money into the development of the ultra exclusive enclave The Retreat at Diablo
Canyon. Analysts considered the expense of construction and upkeep, not to
mention the environmental cleanup, to be so enormous there was no way to turn a
profit in a reasonable amount of time.
I shut the PDF and laid
the phone down on the table. Something was nagging me. After a few minutes of
thought and a bottle of beer, I remembered that I’d left my phone and overnight
bag in my Vermont hotel room. Somehow both items had managed to make it to New
York long before I did. Briggs and Stanton hadn’t stopped for it, we’d come
straight from the crash site. Yet, there it was in Roma’s office. That meant
the phone and bag came down ahead of us by helicopter or plane, which was
considerable trouble to go to over a guy now relegated to the sidelines.
I tossed the bag in the
corner. No sense searching it; if they’d put in a tracker, I wouldn’t find it
without tearing the bag apart. As for the phone, if they’d given it the full
treatment they could not only track me, anything I read, said, or typed would
be captured and analyzed. I decided to give them a chance to check that
everything was working by dialing the mobile number on Boyd’s business card. It
went straight to voicemail. I disconnected without leaving a message. Next, I
tried his office.
“Tarantino, Rosen, and
Parisi, how may I direct your call?” said the cheerful female voice at the
other end.
“Jeffrey Boyd, please.
Nick Craig calling.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Craig.
Mr. Boyd is out of town on company business and cannot be reached at this time.
Can someone else help you?”
“No, I- yes. Can you
connect me with Ms. Ricasso?”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Craig.
Ms. Ricasso is accompanying Mr. Boyd and they are in transit at this time.
Would you care to leave a voicemail for Mr. Boyd?”
“No, thank you, that's
okay.” I hung up on her “Happy Holidays.”
The radiator was
rattling to let me know it was working, and the apartment felt warmer. I looked
at the disarray and realized I had little desire to straighten up. I was pissed
at being used and tired of being two steps behind.
I showered, shaved, and
dressed in fresh clothes, adding a black turtleneck sweater to the ensemble. I
wanted a warmer coat and better shoes than I’d had in Vermont. I put on
insulated hiking boots and found my old ski parka. I couldn't remember the last
time I'd used it, but the gloves were still jammed in the goggle pocket.
Since my own bag was now
suspect I dug out an old tactical bag that converted to a back pack using
hidden straps. I packed a few changes of clothes, my long underwear, and some
heavy socks. The ski gauntlets went in on top.
My spendable cash was
eleven hundred thirty-eight dollars, plus a Metro card and some local train
tickets. That won't get you far in the Twenty-first Century. I took off my
stainless steel Rolex, a Christmas gift from my wife, who’d be the first to
understand if I pawned it. My Luminox diver's watch was a better choice for
most situations anyway. One thing you didn’t know about a Rolex until you owned
one is they keep lousy time.
I needed to avoid the
watchers below. The High Line, an elevated railway converted to a park, ran directly
behind my building. It wasn’t close enough to jump to, but the roof of the auto
repair shop next door ran right up to it. All I had to do was get myself to
that roof.
I went out onto the fire
escape, which was visible to only one small sliver of 28th Street. I didn't see
anyone there watching and the few hardy souls braving the cold weather on the
High Line hadn’t noticed me. I crept down the steps to the third story, and
heaved my bag over the gap and onto the roof. There was too much distance for
me to jump, so I launched myself off the rail of the fire escape into the
branches of an intervening tree, wrapping my arms around the trunk. Once I
found stable footing, I shuffled out sideways on a thick limb, using a higher
one as a handhold. Before I reached the spot I had in mind, the branch under me
began to bend alarmingly. I decided not to take any chances and jumped from
there. The branch gave me less spring than expected and I barely made it,
slamming into the edge of the roof chest high. I hung for a moment, then
planted my right elbow and rolled onto the roof.
My antics had attracted
the attention of the people on the High Line. Someone was no doubt already
dialing 911. I tossed my bag over their heads into the park and scrambled over
the railing and flower beds.
“Sorry,” I said, “her
husband came home early.”
While they digested that
bit of news, I threw the bag on my back and took off for the 30th Street
stairs.
My train pulled into
Belmar at dusk in the midst of an icy rain. The small New Jersey shore town’s
sole claim to fame is Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band, which took its name
from the address where the band practiced in its early days. Once on the
platform I moved to a sheltered spot and watched my fellow passengers sprint
for the parking lot or dive into waiting cars. A couple of people popped
umbrellas and hurried off on foot. By the time the train pulled out, I was
alone. Just to be sure, I gave it a few more minutes before leaving the
platform and crossing the tracks.
I splashed diagonally
across the wide expanse of 10th Avenue, weaving through the cars in the central
public parking lot, reaching the sidewalk in front of Vesuvio pizzeria. Despite
the weather, the restaurant was packed. I passed up the siren call of freshly
baked dough and melted mozzarella and walked to Carl Josephson's jewelry shop.
I stood outside and
watched through the window. Three connected display cases formed a U shaped
counter. Carl was hunched over the left side of the U, a jeweler's loupe
screwed into his right eye. A tall, thin man with deeply set eyes watched
anxiously from the customer side as Carl examined a ring.
Carl was a mustachioed
bear of a man, and not in the cuddly, teddy bear sense. He had the look of
someone you just didn't fuck with, someone so tough he didn't have to prove it.
In his college days, as a semi-pro arm wrestler he was so competitive he'd
broken his own arm winning a match. He always wore a knowing smile, as if privy
to secrets you would never understand, and there was a permanent twinkle in the
coolly appraising brown eyes. He and his wife bought and sold estate pieces
from people down on their luck or just eager to cash in Grandma’s baubles. You
could count on Carl for a knowledgeable appraisal and a fair price. He was an
honest man in a usually shady business, and I would trust him with my life,
which I was about to do.
I'd first met Carl when
our paths crossed during a drug investigation. He was a DEA agent who, like me,
had no time for inter-agency rivalries. We'd helped each other over the years
sharing information and tips. The professional association had grown into a
friendship that came to include our wives. Those two, seemingly polar
opposites, were soon thick as thieves. Carl's wife Sharon was not part of law
enforcement. She was as delicate as Carl was tough. Her particular passion was
caring for injured and abandoned cats. Their home was like a pet hostel, but
supported by love and Benadryl, Carl was quite happy with the arrangement.
His examination
finished, he stood up straight and pulled the loupe from his eye. He made his
pronouncement, which was met with a mildly disgruntled look. Carl handed the
ring back and spoke some more. The man nodded and said something to Carl. I'm
no lip reader, but I know “I'll think about it” when I see it. The two shook
hands and the thin man left the shop. He passed behind me and walked off in the
rain. When I turned back to the window, Carl was looking right at me, that
familiar smile on his face. I was certain he'd known I was there the whole
time.
Pointing forked fingers
at my eyes, I made a switching motion with my other hand. He nodded, limped
over a few steps to the far end of the display and reached behind it. Another
nod told me he'd switched off the security cameras.
I opened the door and
stepped inside.
“Hello, Carl.”
“Nick. Been a long
time.” Carl reached behind him and retrieved the cane leaning against the wall.
Then he limped around from behind the counter to shake my hand.
“Good to see you.”
“You, too. How's the
leg?”
“Okay, I guess.” He
switched the cane to his other hand and rubbed his right thigh. “This weather
doesn't help, though.”
“I can imagine. They
ever get it all?
“Yeah. There was a piece
right up against the femoral that took a couple of operations, but I'm lead
free now.”
“Good.”
Carl had taken a couple
of .223 rounds during a drug raid in 2001. The rounds tumbled when they hit,
leaving massive wounds that would have killed a lesser man. As it was, he not
only survived, he managed to keep the leg. However, the injuries ended his
career. He pensioned out on a disability and took over his brother's failing
pawn business. Now he had two shops, well placed and managed by people he'd
personally trained. Keeping his little empire running well meant Carl usually
worked seven days a week almost the whole year round.
“Where's Sharon?”
I said.
“Home with the new cat.
It's in pretty bad shape. Chemo, prednisone, the whole nine lives.”
“I’d say to give her my
best, but it’s better that she doesn’t know.”
“I got that much from
your phone call.” He lost the smile for a moment. “I was sorry to hear about
Raviv. He was a good man.”
“Yeah. Did you get a
chance to talk to anyone at NYPD?”
He nodded. “I know a
guy.”
“Of course you do. Any
details?”
“He confirmed the strangulation.
And the other thing.”
“What else?”
“Not much. From the
marks on his neck, he was strangled with something metal.” He ran a finger
across his throat. “Dug deep.”
“Garrote?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing thin like that. Whatever it was didn’t break the skin. Garrote would
have taken his head off. My source says the M.E. likened it to a Thugee
strangling cloth, something that chokes and crushes at the same time. Got him
right on the massage table. There was an imprint in his back, like someone’s knee.”
“Suspects?”
“They’re going with the
terrorist angle for now. And Raviv wasn't the only victim. They found the real
masseuse dead in a linen closet.”
“Strangled?”
“Yup. Looks like the
same weapon, although her autopsy is a lower priority.” He paused for a moment.
“The killer knew the one time and place to get close to Raviv, when he had no
weapons, no bodyguard.”
“Not very hard, you
could set your watch by that massage.”
“No happy ending this
time,” said Carl.
It was cop humor and
didn’t bother me. “Any word on his driver?”
“No. No one has seen
him.”
“At least he wasn't
found strangled. Seems to be a lot of that going around lately.” A thought hit
me and I paused. “Do me another favor will you?”
“Sure.”
“See if you can get them
to look into the murder of a Cynthia Simmons. Strangulation, you'll be shocked
to hear. It would be within the past couple of years. See if there are any
similarities.”
“Who was she?”
“My client's secretary.”
His face took on that
old look I remembered from his active days. “You’ve got something.”
“Just a hunch.”
“Your hunches usually
pay off.” The smile got wider, the eyes more penetrating. “I heard about what
happened in Vermont. You okay?”
“Yeah. Did you dig out
that stuff you're holding for me.”
“In the back. Lock the
door and turn the sign off for me, will you.”
When I'd complied, he
led the way around the glass display cases. Once behind the counter, he stepped
aside to let me through the curtained opening to the rear of the store. There
was a workbench strewn with little tools. A fat magnifying glass on an
articulating arm was screwed into the tabletop. I put my carryon down next to
it.
“How about a beer?” he
said.
“Couldn't hurt.”
“Little fridge,” he
said, pointing. “Under the workbench.”
“You?”
“No thanks. Still
working.”
I retrieved a bottle of
Smithwicks and popped it open on the edge of the bench. While I took a long
swallow, Carl limped past me to the ancient safe that stood at the back of the
room. I could have stood up in the damn thing. He fiddled with the combination,
while I politely looked the other way. The handle squeaked and I heard the door
groan open. I turned back to see him digging beneath a pile of brown and white
envelopes bound with string. He produced a battered steel box with a
combination lock and carried it to the workbench.
“I went to the Seaside
shop and got it right after you called.” He gave me that sly smile. “Shall I
leave?”
“That's okay, although,
you might want to step back. It's better if you don't know too much.”
He nodded and moved
away, leaning on the cane and watching me with that bemused look.
I unlocked the box and
opened it. A brown, waxed envelope secured with rubber bands lay on top of an
oily rag. Inside were a passport, a Pennsylvania driver's license, two Visa
cards, and an American Express, all in the name of David Somerset. My picture
was on all the IDs.
“Are those still good?”
When I glanced at him, he said, “No, I didn't look. I'm just not stupid, is
all.”
“The passport and Amex
are still valid, but flagged in the system. It’ll do for ID in this country,
but I can’t leave the States on it, someone would notice.” I hefted the license
and other credit cards. “These are all expired.”
“Maybe you should take
the hint.”
“Maybe.” I stuck the
documents in my carry on.
“Rumor is you’ve been
told to butt out.”
“Rumor’s true.”
“So, naturally, you’re
going to keep going. What’s the plan?”
“So far there’s one
consistent thread in this, Verdugo Properties.”
“How so?”
“Boyd is counsel for
Verdugo. The snowmobile the killers used was owned by Verdugo. The place that
got attacked in Colorado is run by Verdugo.”
“Not very clever using
one of their own snowmobiles.”
“It was short notice and
they didn’t expect to get caught. Anyway, they hedged their bet and called in a
theft report a couple of hours before the shooting.”
He frowned. “So your
theory is a construction company is running around the country killing
environmental activists?”
“Why not? It could be
they’re taking proactive steps to prevent any more ‘accidental’ fires.”
“Murder seems like a
drastic business strategy.”
“Not when there’s a lot
of money at stake. This Retreat thing, it might spook potential investors if
they thought it was a terrorist target. My grandfather used to say if they’d
shot a few anti-war protestors back in the sixties that decade would have been
a lot less stressful.”
“Your grandfather sounds
like a pleasant fellow.”
“You have no idea.”
“What do you intend to
do?”
“Better if you don’t
know the details, but I intend to find out who killed Raviv. And locate the
boy, if he’s alive.” I zipped the bag shut. “Did I mention I ran into
Imperatrice last night?”
“With a truck, I hope.”
“No such luck.”
“How’d he get involved?”
“He works for Verdugo,
head of security.”
“Interesting
coincidence.”
“You don’t believe in coincidence
any more than I do.”
“I never told you, Nick,
but Mary asked me about him.”
I stopped what I was
doing. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Shortly before, you
know. Anyway, I think she was investigating him.”
“When was this? What did
she say?”
“It was at one of the
dinners at our house. Oh, it was all casual, 'Poor Nick and his horrible boss,
you ever meet him? Nick had to take that transfer', blah, blah, blah.” His eyes
hardened. “I know when I'm being interrogated.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Sharon had you off
meeting the new cats.
“What did you tell her?”
“I just told her I
didn’t like the guy.”
“That it?”
“Pretty much. She didn’t
push it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I pulled a brand new
cell phone and charger out of my bag and laid it on the work bench.
“I picked up a few
burners at the K-Mart in Penn Station.”
“There’s a K-Mart in
Penn Station?” he said.
“Geez, don’t you ever
explore?”
“I never make it past
the Cinnabon.”
“It shows. Anyway, keep
this handy, just in case I need to get in touch with you.”
“Where's your phone?”
“Halfway to Rutland on
the Green Mountain Express.”
He laughed. “No doubt
with the GPS locater turned on.”
“Yeah, not that it
matters. I’m sure they fucked with my phone.”
“You sure they'll bite?”
I shrugged. “Makes sense,
I left one of Raviv's cars up there. Transportation is the first thing I'll
look for. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you have a car I could use?”
Carl heaved himself away
from the work bench and went back to the open safe. He reached in and took a
small manila envelope from the top shelf.
“Just repossessed it.
Year old Ford F150, seventy-five thousand miles on it, and just one owner, an
89 year old widower.”
“I’ve heard this one: he
only used it once a week to drive to church. On the Moon, apparently.”
“It's in good shape.” He
threw me the envelope.
Inside were two keys on
a ring and the New Jersey registration card.
“Still in his name?”
He nodded. “I haven't
submitted the paperwork yet.” He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder.
“It's around back.”
“Good.” I took the keys
out of the envelope and put the registration in my pocket.
Carl gestured with his
chin towards the box. “There's something else in there you may need.”
I pulled at the oily rag
and the black shape of a Beretta 92F thumped onto the bottom of the metal box.
“Mine?” He nodded. “I
thought I told you to sell it.”
“This is New Jersey,
Nick. Pawnshops can't sell guns.”
“Then dump it in the
ocean.” I flipped the rag back over it.
“Whatever you say.”
“I need some cash,
Carl.”
“How much?” he said,
with no hesitation.