“Go on and ask him if he wants a cup of coffee or something, and I’ll be there shortly.”
Justin and Troy Cross were sitting at the interview table discussing the weather when I walked in. Around thirty-five years old, Cross appeared extremely nervous and agitated. By the time I sat down and set my tape recorder on the table, he had shredded his Styrofoam cup into pieces.
“Excuse me, but are you going to tell me what this is about?” he asked defensively.
“Mr. Cross, I’m Sergeant Gallagher, and before we begin, I want to express my condolences to you for the loss of your wife.” I could certainly feel his pain. “I can assure you that the reason we’re here today is simply procedural, and you are by no means considered a suspect in this case.”
He began to relax, which was the point. Getting the “not a suspect” out and on the table first usually makes the rest of the interview go that much smoother. Essentially, I went through everything Justin already had, confirming his answers on tape, before I got down to Cross’s salary and savings account.
“Mr. Cross, you stated your salary is, on average, approximately seventy-five thousand dollars per year. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Your savings account is showing a balance in excess of two hundred thousand dollars. Where did that money come from?”
He stiffened. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Wrong answer. Whenever someone answers a question with a question, they’re hiding something. This is a standard rule in police questioning, along with “I swear to God” or “I swear on my children.”
“It’s just a discrepancy is all, Mr. Cross. I’m sure
once you clear it up, that’ll pretty much be it.” I smiled, calm and cool.
“I, uh…I go to Las Vegas a lot, gambling,” he stuttered. “Most of that was made there.”
Another lie. “When was the last time you were in Las Vegas, and do you have any receipts proving you were there? Airline, hotel, restaurants, anything?”
He pushed his chair back. “Look, no, I never keep that stuff. I swear on my child, that’s where the money came from. I just lost my wife! Can you please tell me what any of this has to do with her murder?”
“I’ll move on. Have you ever heard of LifeTech Industries?”
He tried to hide the shock on his face, but it was too late—I had already seen it. He clearly had heard of LifeTech. Before he answered, I saw a small bead of sweat run down from his left temple.
“LifeTech? Uh, no. What is it? Does it have something to do with Alisha’s murder?” He fidgeted.
“I’m not sure. You’re sure you’ve never heard of it?” I locked my eyes on his.
“Yes…I mean, yes, I’m sure I haven’t heard of it.” He looked down at the floor.
“Okay. I guess that wraps it up, Mr. Cross. I’m all done here. Do you have any questions for me?”
“No, I don’t.”
Justin showed him out while I played the tape of the interview. Troy Cross was on the payroll of LifeTech; there wasn’t a doubt in my mind. And that was where his money had come from. This all confirmed that LifeTech had a large, if not the sole, role in the murders. Which brought me back to the doctors. Troy Cross had not even asked if we were close to finding his wife’s killer. That’s because he didn’t
want us to be. If we did, his own life might have been in jeopardy.
“What do you think?” Justin asked when he came back in.
“I think my hunches were right. I think this guy is on the payroll of LifeTech, and those doctors have a hell of a lot to do with our murders.”
“Now what?”
“Now”—I looked at my watch—“I have other things to do. Do me a favor and start a more thorough background on both doctors and LifeTech. Keep at it until you find something. I have to leave early today, so if you need anything, call me at home.”
Most of my appointments were that afternoon, and I had every intention of keeping them, with the exception of my teeth-bleaching, which was the following morning. Feeling considerably better after my appointments, I started toward home. There was a lot of planning to do.
Before going home, I stopped at a nearby pay phone. The phone call I’d received the night before had me more than paranoid. Any and all of my arrangements would be made outside of my home and preferably not on my cell. The call was to my father, who I instructed to leave immediately and call me back from a pay phone near his house. Being in law enforcement for over thirty-five years, he didn’t argue and knew why I was asking. Fifteen minutes later, my own pay phone rang.
“What’s going on, honey?” He sounded concerned.
“I remember, sometime in the early eighties, you worked a case involving the Mafia when you were in Major Crimes, am I right?”
“Yeah, what’s this about?”
“Please believe me when I tell you that right now, I can’t get into much. What I need is someone on the inside. Did you ever have any contacts? Anyone that’s still around you could hook me up with?”
There was a long pause. “Let me think…Hon, let me call you back, I need to make some phone calls first.”
“All right, call me at this number, and use the pay phone. Don’t call from your house.”
“You think you’re talking to some two-year patrolman? For crying out loud, CeeCee, I was doing this job before you were even a thought!”
I laughed as my dad huffed and hung up the phone. Sometimes it’s hard for me not to be so bossy—even to my father, whose experience puts mine to shame. A little more than five cigarettes later, the pay phone rang.
“Nine o’clock to night, go down to the Wiener Castle restaurant and park across the street—”
“You mean the rumors are true!” I interrupted.
Since I was a child, there was a fast food restaurant named Wiener Castle that sat along Lexington Avenue in the city. In all of my years, I had never seen one person go inside, but it miraculously remained open. On any given day, one could drive by and see someone working the counter, but never a customer. The rumor throughout law enforcement over the years was that it was a front for the Mafia; they owned it, and it was their meeting place. We all laughed about it. I clearly would never laugh about it again.
“Just listen, CeeCee. There’s a guy named Jimmy Garito who’ll meet you in the back. Nine o’clock sharp! I knew he was still around, but I’d heard he got out of his Mafia dealings in the late eighties. I guess he has, but he keeps in touch with family in Cleveland and still knows what’s going on. He’s owed me a favor for the last twenty years, and I just cashed it in. He’s in his early sixties now, so look for him.”
“Thanks, Pop.”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll tell you
something. I’ve dealt with these people more closely than I ever cared to, and they are dangerous. Please be careful.”
“I will. I’m going to have Eric bring the girls to your place tomorrow evening for my visit. Even though I talk to them on the phone every night, I miss them like hell.”
“See you then.”
My next series of phone calls, also made from the pay phone, were to make my upcoming travel arrangements. More calls would be made from home—a smokescreen to confirm if my paranoia was warranted. I had about three hours before I was to meet Jimmy Garito, so I stopped and grabbed something to eat, forcing it down before grabbing a few things at a nearby shopping center. By the time I got home, there was just enough time to make my other calls before leaving to meet Jimmy. Taking my personal car, I left a half hour early to drive around and make sure no one was following me.
Standing at the back door of the closed restaurant at approximately eight forty-five p.m., I was startled when the door opened behind me. An older, heavyset man with black and gray hair, wearing a black velvet sweat suit, poked his head out.
“CeeCee?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Garito?”
“It’s Jimmy, not sir. Come on in here—quickly, before someone sees you.”
He led me directly down a flight of cement steps into a large room that was situated underneath the restaurant. For the most part, the room was empty, with the exception of a large metal folding table with
metal chairs around it in the center. Jimmy pulled a chair out for me and motioned for me to sit. He chose the chair at the opposite side of the table. Reaching into my coat pocket, I pushed the record button on my hidden tape recorder.
“I’ve known your father for a long time. He’s a good man,” he began. “He’s the only reason I agreed to talk to you. Now, he didn’t tell me much, but it sounds like you’ve gotten yourself mixed up with some bad guys.”
I filled Jimmy in on everything, since there was no other option but to trust him. When the part about Michael’s car-bombing came up, I felt myself fighting back tears. After giving him the names on the files, my theories, and the information on my murders, I sat back and waited.
He took it all in, remaining silent for several seconds while he tapped his fingers on the table.
“Before we get to anything, you must assume that your home is wired and they can hear everything you say and do. Trust me on that. Since your father told me you called him from a pay phone, I can presume you’ve already figured that out.”
I nodded and swallowed. My paranoia was sufficiently confirmed, at least by Jimmy. Sitting here with him now, I realized how nervous I’d been.
“Now, what is it that you want from me?” he asked directly.
“I need all the information I can get on these families. As I said before, some of the files were missing. I need a history of some sort—where they came from, what they’re into, and why they hate each other.”
“May I ask if this information is for personal or professional use?”
“Strictly personal.”
He nodded. “Before we begin, I have to say this. What ever happens, or what ever you do with this information, nothing came from me—understand? We have never met. Got it?”
“Of course.”
“You’re dealing with two of the most dangerous organized-crime families in the country, especially the Filacis. They are directly connected to the Vicari crime family in New York, one of the top five, understand?”
I nodded.
“I have to tell you, if they have any idea you’ve come upon this information, they will see you as a major problem, and they will not hesitate to take care of it. They have connections in all factions of law enforcement, including the FBI, so even they can’t help you. Get it?”
“I got it.”
“Probably got people on their way down here now. God forbid they find out you met up with me. Not a good thing…” He looked uncomfortable for a moment. “You want a drink? I keep a bottle of scotch stashed in the cabinet over there.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I was anxious to hear what he had to say.
He clapped his hands together. “All right, here it goes. I’ll start with the Filacis first. In the 1920s, a successful Cleveland businessman named Alfred Basilici started supplying corn sugar to area bootleggers. It was prohibition, and if you didn’t know, corn sugar was a legal ingredient used for making whiskey. Basilici’s top guy turned to the competition, the Agliata brothers, and had Alfred Basilici killed. At
that point, Frank Agliata took control of the cornsugar business and essentially became the Cleveland boss. Then came the 1930s, when Basilici’s son Tony avenged his father’s death by having both Agliata brothers killed, which turned control back over to the Basilicis. You with me so far?”
“I think so.”
“During the forties and fifties, the Basicili sons brought in a couple Jewish gangsters. When this happened, Cleveland became one of the most potent crime operations in the nation. By the late fifties, Cleveland had more than sixty made members, and many, many associates. These were the people that saw Cleveland’s move into Las Vegas. So that brings us up to the Cleveland Mafia wars in the midseventies.
“At that time, the Mafia was led by Alfred’s grandson, Leonardo Falaci, Leon, the son of Alfred’s only daughter. He did a piss-poor job in keeping tabs on everyone, and basically let his guard down. A competing mob faction rose, led by Irish gangster Kenny Giblin. What followed that was the bloodiest mob war the nation has seen since prohibition. There were over forty car bombings and hits in Cleveland within a two-year period. Same with Youngstown, since Giblin was playin’ the two against each other, but we’ll get to that. The war ended when Giblin went to a doctor’s appointment and was blown to pieces in his car. The Filacis put a bomb in the hollowed-out section of his passenger door. To this day, the Filacis are still run by Leon, who they call Leo the Lion, and his two sons, Joseph and Niccolo—well, now only Joseph, who I hear was heavily involved with Vincent
Vicari’s daughter. Word is he hooked up the two families not that long ago—a very bad combination.”
“How’s all of this play into Youngstown?”
“Giblin was a greedy Irish fuck, that’s why. He wanted control of both cities, so he was fighting ’em both at the same time. The Iacconas have always controlled Youngstown, and no one ever thought about taking them on. They’re Italian Catholics who came over in the early twenties to a neighborhood everyone called Hunkeytown. A lot of badasses came from that part of town, including Larry Beneditto, Salvatore ‘Singin’ Sal’ Iaccona’s cousin. Ever hear of him?”
“The state senator?”
“Yup, that’s the one. Before that, he was the county sheriff. A guy by the name of Mono Rigati bribed him with thirty thousand dollars during his campaign and threatened to expose him afterward. He disappeared and was never found. Now along comes Rigati’s wife, who breaks the vow of
omertà
. This is a code of silence that all mobsters and their wives live by, no matter what. So Mrs. Rigati takes tape recordings that her husband made between him and Beneditto to the feds. They try him on all kinds of shit. The guy winds up representing himself in court, is found not guilty, and goes on to be a fucking state senator.” He shook his head in disgust.
“Youngstown is also known as Murdertown, USA, by Mafia and law enforcement. In the fifties and sixties they had over seventy-five car bombings and murders. There’s no end in sight for that place. In 1999, a new county prosecutor took over, Edward Narillo. He shot his mouth off all over town about
how he was going to rid Youngstown of corruption for good, and reopens the Mono Rigati case. On Christmas Eve of the year he was elected, he was almost shot to death in his own home. He survived and is still out there trying to bring everyone down. The guy’s got some balls, I’ll give him that. Supposedly, Salvatore Iaccona arranged the hit on Narillo to protect his cousin. Salvatore is still the boss, and has his sons, Damien, Antonio, and Petey running things for the most part. His lieutenants are some of the worst in the business, including Frank Trapini and Tommy Miglia. I swear Frank Trapini is Satan himself. That is one bad dude. If it was the Iacconas that killed your husband, Frank and Tommy would’ve been the ones to do it, no doubt about that.”
“Do you know why my husband was investigating both of these families?” I rubbed my eyes, trying to absorb everything.
“Not for sure, no. The Iacconas build shopping centers and office buildings, which of course are all a front for something else. They’ve had their own offices bombed five times in the last ten years. The Filacis are to blame, I suspect. The word is that the Iacconas were trying to move in on a lot of the Filacis’ business contacts. Now this is where it gets fuzzy, and I don’t know nothin’ for sure, but lately I’ve been hearing a lot of grumbling from up there.”
“About what?”
“About what the Iacconas are involved in. Allegedly, it’s something big. Only Sal’s closest captains and lieutenants know about it—no one else, and no one dares ask—but it’s big money. The rumor is that Niccolo Filaci tried to get a piece of it but was turned
down and threatened to overthrow the business. That’s when he was killed.”
“It has to be LifeTech Industries,” I thought aloud.
“Could be.”
“What are the Filacis’ main businesses?”
“They control most of the banks in Cleveland. They also hold most contracts to the high-end construction in the city. And they happen to be co-owners of the Cleveland Browns football team.”
“Wonderful.” I sighed. “Jimmy, if you don’t mind me asking, how were you involved with these families?”
“I worked directly for Leon Filaci himself,” he said matter-of-factly. “I met your father when a cousin of Leon’s set up shop here in Mansfield. The guy was a fucking idiot—even Leon knew that. He was bringing in a substantial amount of money, so Leon let it go. Your father caught me with my hands in the cookie jar, so to speak, and let me go if I rolled on him. Your father promised me the guy would never know where the information came from, and he kept his promise. I’ll always thank him for that. If not, I’d be in prison or dead. What my exact role was, I’d rather not say.”
I understood, and really didn’t want to hear it. I had a feeling if I looked into Jimmy Garito, I’d probably find out he’d been one of Leon Filaci’s top hit men.
“How’d you get out?”
“I walked right up to Leon and told him I was finished. He knew me well enough to know I’d take my secrets to the grave, but I had children, and the feds were all over me. We still talk every once in a while, but not about business.” He paused. “I’ll tell
you something, and remember it. If you find out the people responsible are the Iacconas, you’re going to need some help. And as bad as it sounds, the person that could help you is Joseph Filaci. Known him since he was a boy, and he’s really not that bad of a guy. I do know the tension is rising since Niccolo’s death, so I expect things to come to a head real soon. But also remember this if you’re dealing with the Iacconas: they have contacts that go right into the United States Justice Department. They’ll be difficult to break.”
“Do you know any of the places where the Iacconas meet? Where they do their business?”
“There was an old ware house on Washington Street, downtown, where they used to meet once a week. Keep in mind, that was years ago, but it’s a start. You got a pen?”
I gave him a pen and piece of paper, on which he wrote several addresses, including some in Cleveland.
“You’ll want to check these, but again, be careful, young lady. These people are not stupid. The phone number I wrote down is how you can get ahold of me directly. Memorize all of those and burn that paper.”