The two men walked quickly back along the pier. Every so often the water beneath them emitted a swirling sound around the piles, attesting to the strength of the current.
“Louie is not going to be happy about Yoshiaki,” Carlo said.
“Tell me about it,” Brennan said, having cooled down a degree. “But the situation would have been ten times worse if the guy had made it to Manhattan.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t bring it up unless he asks. Hell, as strong as the current is, who knows where he’ll end up. He might even make it to the ocean, where he was supposed to end up.”
Brennan cast a quick glance in Carlo’s direction. “It’s your call. It’s your job to communicate to the capo, but if you’re asking if I would go behind your back and tell him, that wouldn’t happen.”
“Good,” Carlo said. “Then I won’t tell him unless he asks.”
“How are you going to explain Arthur?”
“I’ll tell him the truth. These Japanese guys are wild, which is why we wanted to get rid of them. They don’t think twice about taking out their pieces and blasting away. Hell, Arthur’s a good example.”
Back at the car they found everything was okay. Ted had bandaged Arthur’s wound with the arm of Arthur’s shirt, and there was only slight bleeding. The main problem was that Arthur was in serious discomfort. Although initially it hadn’t bothered him much, once the numbness wore off, he claimed the pain was terrible.
Stashing Susumu’s body in a body bag and then into the rear storage area of the SUV, the men piled back into the vehicle and made their way out of the American Fruit Company’s compound and headed back to Elmhurst. As soon as they were on the expressway, Carlo called Louie.
When Louie disconnected the phone line from talking to Carlo, he didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. From experience he knew that hits could go well or they could go bad. He was relieved to a degree that it was over but upset that Arthur had been wounded. Four against two seemed to have been more than adequate odds.
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Without hanging up the handset, Louie pulled his address book out of his desk’s center drawer and got the number for Dr. Louis Trevino. Doc, as he was known, had been the doctor for the Vaccarro family for many years. He’d been recruited from St. Mary’s Hospital, where he’d done an internship and had handled most of the Vaccarro crime family’s needs over the years, including a number of clandestine gunshot wounds.
The phone rang many times before a tired voice answered.
“Doc, it’s Louie. We got a problem with Arthur.”
“What is it?”
“A gunshot wound to the right upper arm, through and through.”
“The bone involved?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s a blessing. How about the major vessels?”
“Negative again, or so it seems so far.”
“Where is he?”
“I told them to go straight to Saint Mary’s. I’d guesstimate they’ll be there in, say, a half-hour.”
“I’ll meet them in the ER,” Trevino said, and hung up.
“Thanks, Doc,” Louie said, even though he knew it was too late.
With the call to Doc out of the way, Louie sat at his desk and prepared for the next call. He knew what message he wanted to convey but wasn’t sure of the words. As he pondered, he glanced out the window of his study off the living room of his grand waterside house in Whitestone, New York. With no leaves on the trees, he had a partial view across a neighbor’s yard of the graceful Whitestone Bridge with its illuminated cables. Looking at the bridge reminded him of his much better view of the Throgs Neck Bridge from the living room, which faced in the opposite direction down his sweeping lawn to his dock.
Thinking of his dock reminded him that it was soon going to be time to get his boat out of winter storage.
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Pulling his mind back to the issue at hand, calling Hideki Shimoda to deflect any suspicion of Vaccarro involvement in Susumu’s and Yoshiaki’s disappearance as Paulie had cleverly suggested, Louie wanted to get it right. The key ingredient, he was aware, was that he had to act truly pissed off.
Galvanizing his courage, Louie made the call. To his surprise, the phone was picked up with a simple “Hai” after a single ring, as if Hideki had been sleeping with his hand on the receiver.
“All right, Hideki, what’s the fucking story, and I don’t want any bullshit,” Louie roared. “I just got a call from my guys, who are still hanging around fucking Union Square waiting for your fucking guys to arrive. What’s the fucking story?”
Louie rarely used profanity, but he had pulled out all the stops, thinking Hideki would expect it. The response was less than he hoped for. “Excuse me, I think you want to talk with my husband.”
Louie rolled his eyes as a gruff Hideki came on the line. Louie tried to repeat the opening salvo but with significantly less profanity. After the mistake of not ascertaining who’d picked up the phone, it was the best he could do.
“Is this Barbera-san?” Hideki questioned.
“Who else do you think would be calling you at this hour?” Louie demanded, sounding as irritable as he could manage.
“You say Susumu and Yoshiaki not show up tonight?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And I want to remind you that this operation was being done for your benefit, not ours.”
“That is true, Barbera-san,” Hideki admitted. “Hold the phone for one moment.
Let me call them to ask where they are. There must have been a misunderstanding. I am sorry. They are my most reliable aides.”
Louie could hear Hideki speaking in Japanese to whoever was there with him.
Then he came back on the line. “My wife is getting my mobile phone. I am most sorry about this. Is there still time to make the raid?”
“Let’s see where your men are. If they are near Union Square, perhaps we could squeeze it in.”
Louie could hear Hideki try to make two calls. Unsuccessful, he returned to Louie. “I cannot get them. This is very strange.”
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“So far as you know, they were aware the break-in was for tonight?”
“Absolutely for tonight.”
“When was the last time you spoke to them?”
“Not since they drove me back to the office after visiting with you, Barbera-san.
At that time they were eager to work with you again tonight. They said so specifically.”
“Do you think there is any chance something could have happened to them?”
Louie questioned.
“How do you mean?”
“Last evening my guys told me that your guys had expressed some fears about your rivals. Something about a threat they got if they went ahead and killed Satoshi.”
“Which rivals?” Hideki asked warily.
“The Yamaguchi-gumi.”
There was a pause. Louie let the idea germinate for a full minute before adding,
“I could ask Carlo and Brennan if they remember exactly what was said.”
17
MARCH 26, 2010
FRIDAY, 7:21 a.m.
T
he taxi dropped Laurie off directly in front of OCME. She paid the fare and climbed from the vehicle. She was alone. Jack had half asked, half told her he wanted to get back to his beloved bike. Laurie didn’t like the idea and feared for his life as she had from day one, but didn’t stand in his way. Part of the reason she was disappointed he didn’t accompany her was because if they traveled together it was easier for her to justify the expense of a cab, yet she’d taken one anyway because she was particularly eager to get to work as quickly as possible with what she had learned the evening before about her one and only case. She was brimming with confidence that it was going to be an interesting day. Little did she know.
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The handoff that morning with JJ had been flawless and much easier than it had been the day before. Leticia had arrived earlier than scheduled. JJ had clearly recognized her and acted delighted to see her, so there were no tears. And Laurie, being less anxious than she had been the day before, had managed to have everything ready before Leticia appeared.
“Good morning, Dr. Laurie!” Marlene Wilson said in her usual lilting voice. Laurie returned the greeting and got buzzed into the ID room.
Sweeping into the room like an invading force, Laurie tossed her coat into one of the overstuffed vinyl chairs. Then she stopped abruptly. It could have been the previous day! There were the same people in the same spots, doing the same things: Arnold Besserman was at the desk going through all the case folders of the bodies that had come in overnight; Vinnie Amendola was in the same chair he was in the previous morning and was equally absorbed in this newspaper; and most surprising of all, Lou Soldano was back again, fast asleep with his feet propped up on the radiator cover, the top button of his shirt undone, and his tie loosened.
Arnold was the only one who noticed her. He greeted her rather perfunctorily, without looking up from his work. After his greeting he went on to say, “I do want to thank you for taking over on the unidentified case yesterday morning.”
“You’re welcome,” Laurie said, on her way to the coffee machine. “It’s turning out to be quite a case.”
“I’m glad,” Arnold said with a tone and attitude that discouraged further discussion.
Suit yourself, Laurie thought silently. She would have explained a little more if Arnold had specifically asked, but she was glad he didn’t, as she’d already decided not to talk about it with anyone, particularly with Jack, until she learned more about the cause of death. Overnight her creativity had hit on another idea, which was going to require redoing the external exam.
“Where’s Jack?” Laurie inquired.
“Haven’t seen him yet,” Arnold said. “He didn’t come with you?”
“He’s back to his bike,” Laurie said.
“The fool,” Arnold pronounced.
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Laurie did not respond. Although she agreed with Arnold about the bike riding, she did not think it was Arnold’s place to criticize Jack. To change the subject, she asked about Lou, wondering why he was there two days in a row.
“He came in with a real doozy, a floater, to be exact, and another unidentified individual.”
“Oh?” Laurie questioned. She was immediately curious. A floater meant someone who’d been fished from the water. As there was a lot of water around New York because Manhattan was an island, there were frequent floaters. There were enough so that when one attracts the attention of a detective captain to stay up all night, it had to be unique in some way. As Laurie put sugar in her coffee, she decided to ask what the story was.
“There’s not much of a story,” Arnold said, finishing up with a case file and putting it on the to-do pile. “I mean, it was fished out of the water around Governors Island, which isn’t all that unusual. What’s unusual about it is that those who have seen the body claim it should be an exhibit in the Museum of Modern Art. The corpse’s supposedly an unbelievable mass of tattoos from around his neck down to his ankles and wrists, and everything in between. I actually haven’t seen it yet, but that’s how it’s been described. When I finish here, I’m going to take a peek.”
“Can you tell the ethnicity?” Laurie questioned.
“Asian.”
“What’s the apparent cause of death? Drowning?”
“No. The description in the case file is multiple GSW. The MLI wrote that she thought someone had opened up with a machine gun from behind because there were as many as a dozen entrance wounds.”
“Wow. Whoever killed him wanted him dead,” Laurie commented as she recalled a similar case she’d seen in a pathology journal of a Japanese man with astounding tattoos who’d been shot multiple times and beheaded with a classical Japanese samurai sword called a katana. As described in the article, the man had been killed along with a number of others during a turf war between rival Yakuza families in Tokyo, Japan.
Laurie glanced over at Lou’s sleeping form, becoming progressively curious why he would make the effort to come in for a floater. She doubted it was the tattoos. She imagined whatever it had been that had caught his attention must have been compelling since it required him to stay up all night two days in a row.
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“Why did Detective Captain Soldano come in with the body? Did he say?”
“I’m sure it’s because he’s interested in the autopsy. Why specifically, I have no idea. Why don’t you ask him?”
Sipping her hot coffee, Laurie strolled over to Lou and gazed down at him. He looked equally as tired as he had the previous morning, if not a bit more. Again, he was not snoring but breathing very rhythmically and deeply. Remembering Jack’s comment about Lou being better off the sooner he got into a real bed, she reached out and placed her hand on top of his. Lou had his hands resting on his chest, fingers intertwined.
“Lou!” Laurie called softly, trying to wake him as gently as possible.
“It’s me, Laurie,” she said, continuing to gently shake his hands. She watched as his eyes opened and went from confusion to recognition within a second or two.
Then he pulled his feet from the radiator and sat up straight.
“Do you want a little coffee?” Laurie asked, straightening up.
“No, thanks,” Lou managed. “Just give me a second.”
“You don’t need a doctor to tell you this habit of no sleep isn’t good for you. Talk about burning the candle at both ends!”
Lou blinked his eyes a few times and then took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said.
“I’m firing on all cylinders. Where’s Jack?”
“He’s riding his bike this morning. I came by cab, and there was no traffic. God willing, he’ll be here in a few minutes. I don’t even want to think about the alternative. Can’t you get him to stop?”
“I’ve tried,” Lou said with frustration. “Hey, did you see what I came in with?”
“I assume you mean the floater. I haven’t seen the body, but Arnold here described it.”
“It’s unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told. But I assume the tattoos are not what brought you in.”
“Heavens, no,” Lou said with a short laugh. “I’m in here with the concern that there might be some kind of underworld war in the making, particularly with some of these newer Asian and Russian gangs moving in and bumping up 156
against each other. Business is not great for normal people these days, and when normal people suffer, so do the gangs, and they can get at each other’s throats. It’s standard policy to notify me if the Harbor Control Unit picks up any bodies that suggest a professional hit. The harbor is a key dumping spot December through March, when the ground up in Westchester or over in Jersey is too hard to dig.”