Greed: A Detective John Lynch Thriller (17 page)

“Another thing we haven’t thought enough about,” said Bernstein. “This second guy, Mr .22.”

Starshak nodded again. “Ideas?”

“Refugee makes it Africa,” said Lynch, “and that makes it Hardin. Except this guy is shooting everybody but Hardin.”

“Which, if Hardin really has some diamonds, maybe makes it about the diamonds,” said Bernstein.

“What do we know about those?” Starshak asked.

“Checked on it a little,” said Bernstein. “The conflict diamond issue was way bigger ten, fifteen years back when the civil war in Liberia was still going good – how a lot of those guys got money for their weapons. Your mainstream diamond guys – De Beers, the Russians and whatnot – they put this certification system in place. Kimberley Certificates, to cut down on the black-market business. So if Hardin has uncertified diamonds, he’d have to work through an insider to get them into the system.”

“Was Stein an insider?” Starshak asked.

“His family started out in diamonds, back in New York. A lot of Jews in that business,” Bernstein said. “He’d know people.”

“But how did Hardin know Stein?” asked Lynch.

Bernstein shrugged. “Don’t know. Stein, he was real tight with Israel, traveled there a lot. Hardin, we know he was in the Middle East with the Marines. But we don’t know what he was up to for quite a while after that.”

“So one way or another, Hardin got some rocks off of somebody,” said Starshak. “And this .22 guy, maybe he’s trying to get them back?”

“Something’s still off,” said Lynch. “Hardin had just left Stein when Mr.22 showed up and popped him. And Hardin had just been down at South Shore when Mr .22 shows up there, pops another guy. He’s after Hardin, how come he’s following him around, shooting everybody else?”

“Don’t know,” said Bernstein. “One other thing? On the diamonds? You’ve had Lebanese merchants all over Northern Africa for centuries, and they’ve always been active in the diamond business. Hezbollah, guys like that – a lot of them are out of Lebanon.”

Starshak rubbed his face with both hands for a minute, blew out a long breath. “So we got Stein, who’s tight with Israel. We got maybe some terrorist types, who don’t like Israel. And got this Hardin guy with a big hole in his history.”

“Yep,” said Bernstein.

A little pause.

“That philosophy razor of yours, you got anyway to shave this down?”

Bernstein shook his head.  

 

 

CHAPTER 33

 

It was Corsco’s lawyer’s office, but Tony Corsco sat behind the desk, leaving Ringwald, and this Munroe guy to take the guest chairs. Ringwald had called him at 7am, sounding a little panicked, insisting he take a meeting with this Munroe fuck. OK, so he was here. But Ringwald was a pussy. Good lawyer, but a pussy. No way was Corsco showing his ass for this Munroe, whoever he was.

“I’ll be blunt,” Corsco started, wanting to get the first word in, wanting this guy back on his heels. “I’m not used to being summoned to meetings, not on this short notice, and certainly not with your disrespectful attitude, but my lawyer strongly advised that we speak, so I’m here. However, I am a busy man. Whatever your business is, get to it directly.”

Munroe turned to talk to Ringwald. “I gave you a number to call. Did you check me out?”

“Yes,” Ringwald said.

“Then fill this asshole in. I don’t much care for his attitude, either. And I’m not the one with his dick in the wringer.”

Corsco’s face reddened and he started to rise from his chair, but Ringwald held up a hand.

“Tony, he’s from the government, well sort of the government.”

“The Feds?” said Corsco. “Is there a warrant?”

Ringwald shook his head. “Not the Feds. The intelligence side of things.”

Corsco looked puzzled. “What? CIA? NSA? What?”

“His role appears to be, eh, unofficial. But you need to listen to him. Please.”

Munroe finally turned to face Corsco, who was still half standing, his hands on the desk. “I solve problems. I’m not FBI, I’m not NSA, I’m not Agency. I’m not anybody. But I can have anybody I want – Justice, IRS, name it – so far up your ass so fast that you’ll think you’re back in the prison showers. Or I can make one phone call and you’ll be gone by morning. Not just dead. Gone. Jimmy Hoffa gone. I don’t send dumb-ass goombahs like you sent after Hardin, I send Navy SEALs. Now sit the fuck down and listen to me, because this is not a negotiation.”

Corsco sat.

“What’s your business with Nick Hardin?”

Corsco forced a smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Munroe just nodded and took out his cell phone, hit send, put the phone on speaker and set it on the desk. A voice answered.

“It’s for you,” Munroe said to Corsco.

A voice on the phone, sounding a little panicked. “Tony? Do what he wants. Whatever he wants. Do that, you’re OK. Don’t, then we’re all against you, all the families. I shit you not, Tony. You want no part of this guy. We’ve dealt with him before.”

“Carmelo?” Corsco said, puzzled.

“Just do what he wants.”

Munroe reached out and killed the connection and put the phone back in his pocket.

“What’s your business with Nick Hardin?” Munroe repeated.

Corsco looked at Ringwald. “I’m supposed to stick my head in a noose for this guy, Gerry? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“I have, eh, assurances that Mr Munroe’s involvement is of an, eh, entirely extrajudicial nature. There are no legal ramifications attached to this conversation.”

“Extrajudicial,” Munroe said. “I like that. So, Hardin?”

Corsco opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. “A favor for a friend,” he said, finally.

In one smooth motion, Munroe reached inside his coat, pulled out his small, flat Walther, the suppressor already attached, leveled it across the desk and fired, the pistol making a soft bark, the round smacking into the leather of the high-backed chair just to the right of Corsco’s neck, so close that it left a crease in the padded shoulder of his suit.

“Jesus!” Corsco gasped.

“I got no time for twenty questions,” Munroe said. “So I’ll ask one. Guess how many times I can shoot you from here without hitting anything vital?”

Corsco’s eyes went wide. “Fenn! Shamus Fenn! Fenn wanted Hardin whacked over that Africa business!”

Munroe’s turn to be surprised. “The actor?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s Fenn got to do with the diamonds?”

“What diamonds?”

“You said the Africa business.”

“That Darfur thing. Hardin punched Fenn out, it got on all the news shows, comedians ragging on him, nearly crashed his career.”

Corsco and Munroe looked at each other across the desk for a moment. Munroe remembered the Darfur thing. Just never imagined it had anything to do with this.

“What diamonds?” Corsco asked.

“Diamonds?” said Munroe. “Who said anything about diamonds?” Munroe slipped the pistol back inside his jacket. “OK, here’s the deal. You guys work for me now – and by guys, I mean your whole organization. First thing, get Fenn under control. There are major issues at play here, gentlemen. Great men in important places are thinking big thoughts. In the end, there will be one story. I’ll get you your lines if you’re cast for a part. But I don’t need some punch-drunk actor pissing on my narrative. Fenn’s your problem, you solve him. But if Fenn fucks up my play, I’m charging it to your account.”

Munroe took a cell phone out of his pocket, put it on Corsco’s desk.

“That rings,” Munroe said, “it’s me. And you answer it. I don’t care if you’re throwing a hump into the missus, you climb off and say hello. And there’s one number on speed dial – mine. I want a line on this Hardin. This is not optional. There is no Plan B. You found him once, find him again. I don’t get some kind of useful intel out of you, then maybe you’re dead, or maybe I just send a tape of you confessing to putting a hit on Hardin to the DA.”

Munroe got up, headed for the door.

“Tape?” Ringwald said. “DA? You said this was off the record.”

Munroe pulled a small digital recorder from his pocket and wiggled it at the two men. “I lied,” he said. “I do that sometimes.”

CHAPTER 34

 

The crew for Fenn’s picture had staked out the vacant lot on Wells between Randolph and Washington – a mess of trailers parked there with semis loading and off-loading all day, fucking up traffic, a chain-link fence up around the lot to keep the rubberneckers out. Lynch badged the guy at the gate, him and Bernstein getting shunted to some gofer. Kid made half a dozen calls on his hand-held, finally took them over to a trailer to see Fenn.

“Shamus Fenn,” said Fenn, getting up off the couch along the far wall, his hand out, wearing a pair of chinos and a dago-T, guy obviously spending some time on the weights. Half smile, just a regular guy. “What can I do for you fellas?”

Lynch caught the look from Bernstein. Fenn was playing it all wrong, playing it cool. Cops come to see you and you don’t know what it’s about, you should be nervous.

“I’m Detective Lynch. This is Detective Bernstein. We’re working a homicide. A few of them, actually.” Leave it there for a second, see where Fenn went.

Fenn turned his palms up. “I’m not following you here, guys. Somebody I know?”

Bernstein took a picture of Hardin from his pocket, screen grab off the
Oprah
video, handed it to Fenn. “Know this guy?”

Fenn took the picture in both hands, flopped down on the couch, head falling forward, elbows on his knees, picture dangling from his hand.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know him. Nick Hardin. He’s dead?”

“We don’t know. He’s missing.”

Fenn blew out a breath. “Look, you guys obviously know what went down with him and me or you wouldn’t be here. But I really don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t seen Hardin since, well -” Fenn held up the picture “- since this.”

“Yeah,” Lynch said, “we saw the clip on
Oprah
, you and Hardin. And now both of you are in town. Curious, you know?”

Fenn nodded for a long time, not like he’s agreeing with Lynch but like he’s agreeing with some conversation in his head.

“I can see you guys coming to talk to me,” Fenn said. “But I really got nothing for you. Honest to God, last time I saw Fenn, he was busting my nose. And I had it coming.” A sigh, a pause. “Look, you guys, you got real jobs, so I don’t expect you’re keeping up with
People
magazine, don’t know what you’ve heard about me lately. I’ve been a dick most of my life. I’m trying to get in front of that now. The shit I pulled on Hardin, back in Darfur? What can I say? I took the spotlight off the benefit there. God knows what that cost the poor SOBs in support. And this Hardin guy? He lost his gig over my shit. Seemed like a stand-up guy. If he ended up in something desperate, I mean on account of me, then I gotta carry that too, you know?”

Fenn looked up, eyes filling.

Lynch nodded. “How about Tony Corsco? You talk to him?”

“What makes you think I’d be talking to him?”

“Because he sent his lawyer to brace you at the Hawks game last night. Gerry Ringwald. I saw you two chatting. You didn’t look real happy.”

Another nod from Fenn, a weak smile. “Your town, right? Gotta figure you’d have it wired. And I gotta learn that my shit is all gonna come back on me. Gotta stop trying to step out of the way.”

Fenn got up, went to a fridge at the back of the trailer, pulled out a bottled water. “You guys want anything? All I got is water and juice, trying to stay away from the booze for a bit.”

Lynch shook his head.

“OK,” Fenn said. “Tony Corsco. I made another picture here a while back,
Cal Sag Channel
? You guys see that?”

Lynch shook his head again.

“Anyway, it was a mob pic, and we had Tony in as, I dunno, kind of a consultant, I guess. What I heard, also he maybe had some money in the picture. Anyway, me and Tony, we hit it off pretty good. This was back in my asshole days, OK? Seemed like a safe source of coke, knew places in town where you could… well, let’s just say misbehave. He likes the ladies. I’m ashamed to say, a couple of the girls working the picture – not the A-list talent, you know, but the kids with two lines, trying to break in, the ones who got hired on their looks, think they’re gonna grow up to be Meryl Streep? They see me hanging with Tony, and Tony’s making his play on them, and I’m going along with it – not exactly saying it’s gonna help them out, you know? But not saying it isn’t, either. Anyway, I know he did at least a few of them. And he came out to LA a couple of times, looked me up, we’d party, girls would see us…” Fenn looked up. “I really need to go on?”

“You need to tell me why Corsco’s got his mouthpiece bracing you at the Hawk’s game, yeah,” Lynch said.

Fenn nodded. “We set up here for this shoot, and I start getting the calls from Tony. And I’m not returning them. I mean, I’m trying not to be who I was; I don’t need Tony Corsco in my life. Guess I should have at least called him back, though. This guy last night, what did you say his name was? He didn’t introduce himself.”

“Ringwald,” Lynch said.

“OK,” said Fenn. “He’s at that box – local guys with money in the picture – he pulls me aside, asks me who the fuck do I think I am not returning Tony Corsco’s calls. I should have manned up, talked to the guy, I guess. Anyway, this Ringwald, I told him, I was out of that shit. I told him to tell Tony.”

Fenn looking up now, the tears again, holding Lynch’s eyes. Lynch thinking that you could put this guy on a box and he’d flatline the sucker. That right at this moment, Fenn probably actually believed this shit.

“See, what I was thinking?” Lynch said. “This Darfur thing? You took quite a beating over that. Got to thinking maybe you blame Hardin. Maybe you see Hardin here in town. Maybe you think a guy like Corsco, he could even up the score for you.”