The Chessman (30 page)

“Farris got Daddy and Sanfield to clean up for him.” Cady could visualize how it went down in his mind’s eye, had suspected the generalities, but the heartbreaking truth was no easier to absorb.

“A sobbing Farris spilled his guts to Sanfield, telling him every detail so the Magician could best work his sleight of hand to fix the situation. Smart move, frankly, to get Farris and his fattening lip off the scene. As though he were never there.”

“All that bloodletting, Westlow,” Cady said, squinting against the afternoon sun, “but it was never enough to bring Marly back.”

“So much for playing God, huh, Agent Cady?” Westlow responded. “Funny thing, though. When I blew Alain’s brains out in the rest stop and then Adrien’s out on his boat, I mentioned Marly’s name before I pulled the trigger. Both times I got the same demented smile from each twin right before I sent them back to hell.”

Nothing was said for several seconds.

Westlow finally spoke. “As much as I’d enjoy hobnobbing with your colleagues, Agent Cady, I’m afraid I have to leave now. There’s a bouquet of red roses on the Imagine mosaic. Do you see it?”

Cady looked at the memorial to John Lennon. “It’s littered with flowers.”

“There’s a freshly wrapped bouquet sitting dead center.”

“I see it.”

“You’re a kindred soul, Agent Cady. I’ll certainly miss our little chats, but it’s time for me to fade away. I suspect you may be too smart for my own good.”

And with that, Westlow was gone.

Cady let the stares bounce off his back as he walked across the mosaic, making certain to step nimbly around the flowers that had been left in memory of the murdered Beatle. At the center he picked up the fresh bouquet of roses. He held it in his arms like a newborn and then peeled back the light blue wrapping with his left hand. The first thing he saw were three five-by-sevens, medium-range shots of two men he’d never seen before, talking together on a busy street—perhaps near Times Square. A yellow Post-It note on the bottom of one read: “I would advise keeping these in your utmost confidence. Marco, as I came to call him toward the end, told me that your mole would know these men. If warned, they’ll disappear like cockroaches under the fridge.”

He peered in the bottom of the wrapped bouquet, down by the stems, and saw the second item. An item marked specifically for Cady and Cady alone. It was a cell phone with another Post-It attached. The note read: “I’ll use this to reach you if you ever decide to lose your entourage.” Cady thought for a half second, then palmed the phone into his suit pocket as he turned around and stepped off the mosaic. Agent Preston stood on the path waiting for him.

“How did the bead on his phone shake out?”

“You were right about that; we found it dropped in a bush. His last call points at 81st Street, but we’d already pulled everyone in to cover the park.” Agent Preston looked like she could sleep a year. “What have you got there?”

“Pictures, Liz. And a major problem.”

Chapter 38

T
he dark-haired man known to Hartzell as the Coordinator was secretly delighted that the Yankees had won a 5–4 victory over the Sox, secretly delighted to grudgingly peel a hundred-dollar bill off his money clip, shake his head in faux displeasure, slap it into Hartzell’s hand, and watch as the two blottoed accountants followed suit. It was hard not to be partial toward the smooth-talking flimflam man, and the Coordinator knew that people were, on some unconscious level, seduced into
wanting
—or more accurately
needing
—Hartzell to like them back. But the Coordinator also knew the fate that was coming swiftly down the pike, so he was delighted to let the New York Investor Extraordinaire savor his winning night at the ballpark.

He wondered if Loni’s flight had been on time, if she would be waiting for him in the Star Lounge at the Ritz-Carlton where he’d been living these past weeks. The level of his anticipation amazed him; he missed her and couldn’t wait to give the stewardess a bear hug as though years, not merely days, had passed. He’d take a long sip of her Shining Star served up with the Ketel One Citron, order a bottle of Dom and the two of them would head up to his room. If only the cabbie could make quicker time as they skirted Central Park. Duilio Fiorella had told him not to get too accustomed to living the high life, but Hartzell was booming business, so the Coordinator had been spoiling himself rotten. Central Park across the street, Broadway and Park Avenue a few Frisbee tosses away. Damn, he was going to hate leaving the Big Apple and returning to the Windy City.

The assignment, for the most part, had been cushy. Vince and David on Hartzell twenty-four-seven, St. Nick had the girl under his thumb, and after his pop-bys with the investment scammer were done, he had free days…and nights. And this stewardess—good God—Loni knew more about what made him tick after one night than Gina back in Chicago could possibly fathom after six years. Sure, Gina was a ten, no doubt about that, and she’d be the perfect mother to any potential sons or daughters, but the thrill had dwindled and now she just lay on her back while he did all the heavy lifting. He’d spot Loni an easy eight and a half, a strong nine in low light, but the flight attendant had titties out to Montana and enjoyed reverse cowgirl as much as he did. And she’d been screwing him dry near nightly.

The Coordinator still felt the occasional pang of guilt, especially when Gina called during one of their trysts one evening and the stewardess, dominatrix-like, demanded he answer his cell phone. He pressed the green button, did his best to sound normal, but Loni slid his right hand, gripping the phone, slowly down their moist torsos toward the wet sounds of their lovemaking. After several thrusts of heightened exhilaration he jerked the phone back up to his mouth.

“What’s that noise?” Gina asked.

“It’s coming down cats and dogs, honey. Cats and dogs. I’m at the window sneaking a smoke.”

And Gina bought it. Told him he’d better be careful about getting in trouble with the hotel. After he clicked off Loni rolled on top and brought him to the greatest orgasm of his life.

Though not for a lack of living space, Fiorella had barred the Coordinator from living with the subject in the Midtown Manhattan penthouse, like the bean counters were.

“He’s charismatic. A snake charmer, a pied-fucking-piper,” Fiorella had warned him. “That’s how he’s made it this far. If you’re around Hartzell for more than the daily check-in, it could prove unhealthy—a person might fall into the man’s orbit, go native, and start thinking the wrong thoughts. It’s axiomatic, but it would break my heart if St. Nick or our quiet friend had to pay someone I’m fond of a visit.”

“No worries, Boss,” the Coordinator had responded. He and St. Nick were friends, even shared season tickets at Soldier Field, but if Fiorella pointed St. Nick his way, well, Nick would feel awfully sorry as he ripped out the Coordinator’s liver. “When have I ever let you down?”

“Have some fun, see the sights, but no other business besides handling Hartzell. Stay off the radar, too. The last thing I want to do in life is to kiss Moretti’s ring. That fat Long Island fuck will demand half.”

“I’ll be a light touch,” he told Fiorella. “New York will never know I was there.”

So the Coordinator found himself in the Big Apple with copious free time on his hands. After his morning touch-base with Hartzell, he hit the tourist spots—the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, a forgettable sprint through the Museum of Modern Art, a tour of the NBC Studio—and then prowling the after-hour spots come nightfall. That’s how he’d bumped into Loni that first week in the city that never sleeps, at a nightclub on 11th called Webster Hall. Sappy as it sounds, and no way would he waste time trying to explain this feeling to St. Nick—
lust at first sight
, the big man would call it—but their eyes met from across the room as he leaned against the bar and she worked her way slowly toward him, neither one breaking the gaze. Fifteen minutes of loaded chitchat later, they could barely keep their hands off each other. An hour after that they were back in his Ritz-Carlton suite for a marathon humpathon, the first of many, on or against every possible surface the room provided. They’d even momentarily studied the chandeliers, but the Coordinator figured it would never support their weight.

Loni had the JFK-Heathrow route and had taken to staying with him between flights. He’d flown Gina out one weekend while Loni was in the UK. Alas, the sex had been unsatisfying. He found himself closing his eyes and fantasizing about what he and Loni had done nights earlier. Not a good situation at all since Gina wore his engagement ring and was planning some grandiose pain-in-the-ass seashore nuptials for next summer. Gina was also the daughter of Duilio Fiorella’s cousin, which meant…fuck.

But it was no use to think about any of that now. The Coordinator couldn’t wait until he and Loni got back to his suite, to see what the stewardess had in store for him this evening. And he longed for the following weekend, because he was booked, first class, on Loni’s flight to London and had been promised that, after the meal had been served and the passengers had settled in for the night, Loni would fetch him and soon after that he would become a proud new member of the mile high club. That rite of passage would help take the sting off of how the Hartzell matter was going to end…and end badly. The bean counters had grudgingly conceded what he already knew: that after all the give and take of the past weeks, Hartzell remained a vastly untapped oil well.

Fiorella had given him a courtesy heads-up that Hartzell’s concerns regarding Gottlieb and that pesky Kellervick woman were indeed about to be addressed in full. The Coordinator pondered the wisdom of making such brazen moves; he played mental gymnastics, evaluating both pros and cons, but ultimately kept any trepidation to himself. It was ballsy. He did chuckle at the twisted brilliance of Fiorella’s plan and realized again why it was that his mentor ruled Chicago: two parts genius and one part iron fist. Fiorella had even instructed him to play dumb with Hartzell on Gottlieb and that Boston analyst bitch, but to provide a not-so-veiled threat if pressed.

He had also been instructed to glean any news about the ongoing investigation from that maggot in the New York Attorney General’s Office, but mostly get the lowdown from their trump card at the FBI. In fact, his bureau source had tipped him as to how the real Chessman had been poking about the hornet’s nest, hadn’t been happy at all with their borrowing his greatest hits, had even fucked with that Elaine Kellervick woman’s boss, and had recently killed again, dismembered some poor anonymous schmuck who’d evidently been in the wrong place at the right time…real sicko shit. Serial killers—whattaya gonna do? At least having that motherfucker in play, Fiorella pointed out, would keep the Fibbies marching sideways.

The Coordinator tossed a couple bills at the cabbie, pressed a fiver into the doorman’s palm after he opened the cab door and sprinted into the lobby, then walked over to the Star Lounge. He saw Loni immediately. Her back was to him; she sat alone at a high top table, sipping her Ketel One Citron and waiting on him. She’d yet to spot him, but he was able to watch her in the wall-length mirror spanning the far end of the hotel’s watering hole. He also caught sight of a few businessmen at a neighboring table sneaking peeks in her general direction. He was a lucky bastard. And what in hell had he been thinking? An eight and a half? On a scale of one to ten, Loni was a goddamned fifteen. Suddenly an errant thought struck the Coordinator. The thought being that he mighy just be head-over-heels for this woman, truly in love with her—he’d never felt this way before, about anyone. It was absolutely terrifying, and he wondered what the fuck he was going to do.

Shit.

The Coordinator suddenly back-stepped toward the coat check and pulled out his cell phone. Stouder had called him during the baseball game, right at the moment when the only home run of the game had occurred, with New York sending in two runs. The crowd roared in good cheer as he had brought the cell to his ear.

“Fuck is it?”

“What’s all that noise?” Stouder asked. “I can barely hear you.”

“I’m at the game. Anything up?”

“The usual daily chatter.” Stouder still spoke with that grating aura of self-righteousness. “You know, it might help if you could specify what it is that you’re after.”

“Anything. Everything,” the Coordinator said dismissively. “I’ll call you after the game.”

The Coordinator’s least favorite part of his assignment in the Big Apple was dealing with this Peter Lorre motherfucker. He’d lied to Hartzell that first night; his crew hadn’t just arrived in the city that day. No, that would have been rushed and stupid. He and St. Nick had already been in New York City close to a week getting their ducks in a row. Chief among the ducks was this sad sack of child-abusing shit named Stouder. Fiorella’s web guru—a pimple named Gordy Hoyt—had been cracking into the private e-mail and Internet trafficking of several key staff members in the New York Attorney General’s Office and hit pay dirt with this fucking scumbag. The perv made his skin crawl. The Coordinator wanted to shower after every time he spoke with Stouder. He’d have Loni scrub his back tonight.

Duilio was going to owe him big time when this venture was over. He knew that the leveraged-against-Stouder boy would be returned safely and, after a short amount of time had passed, Stouder would be wrapped up by Fiorella’s stealthy exterminator as the final loose end of their New York adventure. But he would lobby hard that it should really be St. Nick paying Stouder that last late-night visit, and that it should be drawn out, highly painful, all culminating in one particular organ being torn asunder at the root. Just having to talk to this budding pedophile made the Coordinator queasy. He punched in the number for the cell phone he’d given Stouder.

“Hello.”

“So nothing major to report?”

“Pretty much status quo,” Stouder replied.

The Coordinator was tempted to hit the red button to end the call and then help Loni finish off her Shining Star, but thought better of it. Another thirty seconds to complete the daily debriefing with the scumslime wouldn’t kill him. “Walk me through it.”