Hooked (11 page)

The girls were all pretty. Most were white, some of mixed ethnicity, a couple were African American, one Latina, although she could have been Indian.

“Th
ose two have stopped going to the building,” Walsh said, referring to the two other photos. One was blonde, quite pretty, a little too much makeup. She wore slacks and a sweater that accentuated her full bustline. “Melody Carnes is a model on Seventh Avenue.”

“A little busty for modeling.”

“Well, she’s not anorexic, for sure. She’s been holed up in her apartment, went out once that we saw, although our surveillance has been spotty at best. When she did, she wore dark glasses and a ball cap. We could pick her up, but I don’t want to do that until you see what you can come up with. Might screw up what we have going. We haven’t been on this very long. Our guys took pictures in shifts, doing their best to identify the women. We recognized some of the johns, regulars on the club circuit. Rich guys with too much money and overactive libidos. We’re not interested in them right now, only the ladies. Busiest time ranges from early evening to late at night for both men and women.

“This gal―” he swapped Melody’s photo for a younger, thinner girl, with an eager quality― “went to the townhouse a few times, but we haven’t seen her in over a week. She’s not in our files, so we have no idea who she is. She could be on a week-long cruise somewhere or decided she didn’t like the life.”

Tawny knew women like these. Pretty, good figures, thought life in the fast lane was exciting. But perceptions differed from reality. Some learned how to deal with it, some didn’t. Some got out; some liked the life, others got in too deep and couldn’t get out for a variety of reasons, drugs being primary.

“Cooper’s not there all the time, but two other men are,” Walsh continued. “Tax forms say the smallish fellow, Colin Harwood, is the building manager; and the doorman, Charles Higbee, lives in the basement apartment. Neither has a record. One other guy showed up once in the last couple of days. Not the usual customer. T-shirt and jeans. His picture matched a man by the name of Richard Hansen, or Dirk,
according to his sheet. Domestic violence and battery, so not a nice guy. He might be a boyfriend. We’re doing a deeper check.” Walsh took his picture from the two he kept in front of him. “Know him?”

Tawny studied it. “Not a very good picture, but no. Never saw him before.” She examined the photo closer. “Pretty boy. Model or actor, I’d guess. His hair’s professionally streaked, and he works out, which means he probably goes to a gym.”

“Hmm, sure you weren’t a profiler in another life?”

“I’m observant. Trick of the trade.” Tawny expected a snort. Walsh let the remark pass with little more than a glance.

“Well, you’re right. He calls himself an actor, but we can’t verify he’s had any work recently. Might model, but nothing on that either. Since we haven’t been on to Cooper until the last couple of weeks, we don’t know how long these ladies have been working for him. And like I said, we haven’t been there every night, so there may be more women.”

Walsh slid the last photo in front of her. “If this were your kid they pulled out of the river, wouldn’t you want to see justice done? Sarah’s mother does.”

The picture almost made her gag. The bloated body lay naked on a stainless steel table, waxen and otherworldly. Sarah Marshall was definitely a victim. Tawny drew a couple of deep breaths and managed to choke out a few words. “Yes, I would.”

“Then stop regarding this as an act of treason.”

She bit her bottom lip, eyes riveted on the poor creature’s picture staring back at her. Walsh had a purpose for showing her the picture, and it worked.

“How…how do I report to you? You can’t call my cell phone. It’d be too suspicious, and I’m not a good actress.” She caught his slight blush.
Probably thinks I fake orgasms.

“Give me your phone.” She did. “Since I’ve called you, my number’s in here. I don’t
want you to access it.” He pulled a small notebook from his back pocket and wrote his number, then tore out the piece of paper. “Memorize it, toss the paper, then whenever you call make sure you delete the number from your phone bank, like I just did.”

“This is all so cloak and dagger.”

“You’re in the spy business, Tawny Dell. You’re hooked.”

“Interesting analogy. I’m that all right.”

“Remember, you might be saving a young girl’s life. Maybe even one of your kids, down the line.”

“Not mine, Walsh. No kids in my future.”

“Don’t bet on it. One day you’ll get tired of being alone, feel your biological clock ticking down, and turn into everything you think you’d never be. I’ve seen it happen more times than not.”

His words hit deep in her gut. “Don’t
you
bet on it.” She got up and opened the dishwasher, set the dishes inside, but not before tears filled her eyes.

Walsh followed her to the sink. “Hey, what is it? What
did I say?”

“Nothing. I’m tired. This is more of a strain than I thought.” She closed the dishwasher. “I guess I wasn’t prepared for dead bodies and young hookers, that’s all.”

He turned her toward him. “No, it was something else. I said something to upset you?”

“This whole business upsets me.” She shrugged away and walked to the window. “Time to go, Walsh.” The building across the street was dark. The streetlights and lighted shop windows below gave off a soft glow that warmed the street. But that’s all it warmed. She wanted this guy out of her house. Out of her life.

“Please,” she said. “You’ve given me all the information I need. I’ll do what you want and report back. Now I’m tired, and I want to go to bed. Got a big week coming up.”

He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, gently rubbing the tight muscles on her neck. His heat rippled through her like sparks igniting a long-dead fire.

“You can―”

“Go.” She turned around and forced a smile. “Please. Thanks for the pizza.”

He wiped a tear she didn’t know had escaped from the corner of her eye. “Are you all right? Did I―”

“I’m fine.” She turned back to the window and their gazes met in the reflection of the dark glass. “Good night, Walsh.”

He turned and headed for the door. “Good night, Tawny.”

“Better take your wine. It’ll go bad if you don’t.”

* * * * *

H
e took the stairs rather than wait for the slow freight elevator. There was something more to Tawny than filled her sheet. He’d struck a nerve, and all her posing couldn’t stop the raw hurt from showing. When he got to the street, he looked up. He could see her silhouette in the window, watching him. He waved, but she didn’t acknowledge him.

Linc wanted to head home. Tawny was closeting a skeleton, and whatever it was must have happened before she came of age, or else he’d have found it by now. He wanted to know. Had to know.

He got to his car and drove through the Holland Tunnel to Jersey City, where he rented a one-bedroom on the second floor of an old Victorian that had been divided into apartments. He was lucky to find it, and it cost a fraction of what he’d pay in Manhattan. Home to him was a bed and a place to make morning coffee. Other than an occasional weekend watching sports, he wasn’t there long enough for it to be anything else.

He poured a glass of wine from the bottle he’d brought with him, took a drink, then called Tom Lu’s cell on his landline. Luckily, Tom picked up. After a few minutes of small talk, Linc got to the point.

“I need you to check out someone for me. If you can’t do it, tell me straight out. It might mean digging into juvenile records or whatever else might be off limits.”

“You could do this through the department, you know.”

“Yeah, I could if I wanted to. I don’t.”

“Name?” Lu asked.

“Tawny Dell. Marblehead, Massachusetts.” He recited the date of birth. “I’ve got everything there is to know, except something that isn’t out there.”

“Sounds like a stripper. Tawny her real name?”

“Yup.”

“Get back to you. Might be tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Tom. I owe you.”

“Buy me lunch.”

Linc took a shower and got into bed with a book, but he couldn’t concentrate, and shut off the light. He’d dozed off when the phone rang. Tom Lu told Linc what he found. Marblehead wasn’t very big. It started with a newspaper article, then one thing led to another, and Lu put it all together. It happened when she was sixteen, and it changed her life forever.

B
enny had seen Mario Russo once, years back, in an Italian restaurant in Little Italy. Surrounded by sycophants, Russo possessed star power that commanded attention. He wore a cashmere coat slung over his shoulders that, on him, looked neither pretentious nor dramatic. His bodyguard removed it and hung it on a coat rack. Maybe Russo had the same neatness fetish Benny did, he thought at the time. Russo’s wife was plain but pretty, in an old-fashioned, European way. No makeup but beautiful skin and dark eyes, lustrous black hair pulled into a chignon. Certainly not the flashy starlet type one would expect a leading mobster to have on his arm. Russo was overtly affectionate toward her the whole evening. Benny watched, finding the scene unexpectedly sweet.

How had Russo avoided the recent slew of police arrests that weakened the decades-old structure of organized crime? Many of those remaining ruled their crumbling families from prison, and were, like Russo, old. He’d managed to avoid the net, due to the meticulous way he did business. No one squealed on Russo. And lived.

So Benny heard.

A minute ago Benny was sweating. Now his fingertips felt like ice cubes. He dreaded this meeting because it meant Russo knew about Rick Martell and wanted to make sure nothing would leak from Benny’s end. Since the crime boss would unlikely rat out his own man, he and Benny had that in common.

Charles called Benny when Russo arrived and ushered him to the apartment. Benny offered the old man a drink. He accepted. Scotch, like Benny. Only Benny bet he needed his drink more than his guest, who appeared calm and self-assured. Sure, Benny thought, why wouldn’t he be? Not many people picked a bone with a man who’d made his own bones multiple times over the years, according to the papers. Not unless they wanted to wind up in the foundation of one of Russo’s construction projects.

The mob boss had aged considerably since that night at the restaurant, but he still controlled the space. With his custom-made suit and expensive shoes, he radiated an intimidating quality that defined his power. He spoke in a soft, cultured voice, not the rough New York/New Jersey dialect one would associate with a crime boss. No hint of Tony Soprano or John Gotti.

“We have a problem, Mr. Cooper.”

No shit
, Benny thought. “If you mean Mr. Martell, there’s no problem, sir. The matter has been taken care of.” Russo’s smile curdled Benny’s blood. Only his lips moved; his eyes remained static and cold.

“Mr. Martell received a call from someone who knew what happened. The caller’s voice was electronically disguised, and he asked for one hundred thousand dollars to keep the incident quiet. He said there was film.”

Benny lost the ability to speak. Hot prickles shot through his body as if someone had jabbed him with a hot poker. “But…but that’s impossible, Mr. Russo. No one here would do that.”

“Do you film your clients?”

No point in lying. Russo’s people would come in here and tear the place apart until they found what they were looking for. “Yes. For self-protection. That’s all. We’d never use anything unless someone threatened to expose us. Surely you understand that, don’t you?”

Russo smiled again, this time with his eyes. He nodded. “Yes, I believe in insurance. But you have someone working for you who lacks your common sense and ethics. That means either one of your girls or one of the two men who work here. Since I’ve done some checking, I have my suspicions. I expect you to find the culprit and deal with him, or her. If you don’t, I will.” Russo drained his glass and leaned forward. “Do you understand?”

Benny swallowed hard. He needed a Xanax, maybe two. “I do, sir. Yes, I do.”

“I’m going to let this one go, Mr. Cooper. Mr. Martell has a lovely wife. My wife’s niece, in fact. He should be lucky to have her. A man half the size of Mount Everest should be grateful for a beautiful spouse, and if he’s going to fuck around on her, he should be more discreet. I don’t want her embarrassed. But he is never to come here again. I’ll see to it on my end; you see to it on yours.”

“Never again. He is off limits.”

“If I may ask, what happened to the unfortunate young woman?”

The ice in his veins had melted, and now a trail of sweat trickled down Benny’s back. A million thoughts ran through his mind, but again, he wouldn’t lie. “I had someone remove her. I don’t know to where, but as you know, she hasn’t been found.”

“Did you have anything to do with the woman who washed up in the harbor? What was her name? Sarah something?”

“Marshall. She worked here, but I had nothing to do with her death. I was shocked to read what happened.” Benny wiped the perspiration from his forehead, which had started to drip down the sides of his face. “This has not been a good time for me, Mr. Russo. First Sarah, then Cindi. Both deaths were truly tragic, but Cindi’s was an accident. A horrible accident.”

“Mr. Martell is getting counseling for his problem. I don’t want something like this to happen again while he’s married to my wife’s niece.” He motioned for a refill, and Benny obliged with a shaky hand. “Good scotch.”

“If you’re going to drink, I say drink the best.”

“I agree.” He sipped his drink and sighed. “There’s another young lady, I understand. What are you doing about her?”

“I’ve taken care of her too. She doesn’t want her parents to know what she’s been doing and begged me to keep it quiet. Of course, she’ll be well taken care of financially. She’s going to take a vacation until this blows over.”

“Women should know the risks when they embark on questionable careers. But they don’t always.” Russo drained his glass. “Maybe the Gods are pissed off at you, Mr. Cooper. See that your problems don’t leave your house.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure.”

“Our business is finished for now. I want Mr. Martell’s tape. He said there’s a puny little fairy who controls this operation from the office. I suggest you have a nice long talk with him to determine if he’s your weak link. My guess, he is. If you don’t, I will. And if the incident with Mr. Martell becomes public…well, I’m not one to make threats, you understand, but if you think bad things are happening to you now, you have no idea how bad your life can get.”

Russo’s eyes resumed their cold stare, and Benny’s knees weakened. If he were standing, he’d surely crumple to the floor in a sweat-sopped heap.

“Get the tape. I’ll pour myself another drink and wait.”

Benny wobbled to his feet, left his apartment, and strode shakily to the office. With every step, anger boiled inside him. He glared at Colin. The little man shriveled into himself. “Get Martell’s tape.”

“But―”

“Get. It.”

Colin unlocked a cabinet and fingered through the tapes until he found the right one. “This could put us in jail. You realize that, don’t you?”

“What would you prefer, you fucking little backstabbing cocksucker? Jail or death by Russo?”

Colin handed him the tape.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Benny said. “We have to talk.”

“I…I have to leave,” Colin said. “I have an appointment.”

Benny pulled Colin up by his Polo shirt. “I ought to pulverize you myself, but if you aren’t here when I get back, I will inform Mr. Russo that you are a fucking loose cannon who should be dumped into the next building excavation.” He threw him back into his chair. “Do I make myself clear?”

Colin nodded nervously.

It was only right the motherfucker should be as scared as Benny. He left the office with the tape. His hands shook so much he could barely hang on to it. He’d never spoken to anyone like that. At what point had he crossed the line and lost control of his operation? At what point had he become a fucking accessory to murder and blackmail? Because even though he had nothing to do with either, he’d aided and abetted the cover-up of both. His nightmares were now reality.

If Russo was feeling the scotch, he didn’t show it. He took the tape and placed it inside the flat leather folder slung over his shoulder. “Remember what I said, Mr. Cooper.”

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“I’ve heard that before. It isn’t always true.”

Benny popped open the door of his apartment. What could he say? Russo was right.

“Nice place you have here. I’d hate to see it closed down. There’s a need for places like this. I’m curious how you got into this business. It isn’t exactly the career change I’d expect from a hedge-fund manager.”

“Well, sir―”

“Curious,” Russo said, “not interested. There’s a difference.”

Benny walked him to the front door, an idea forming in his fertile brain. “Mr. Russo,” he said, “I have a proposal.”

* * * * *

“W
hat the fuck were you thinking, Colin? Do you know how close you came to getting us both killed? You think Russo didn’t know who called Martell to blackmail him? If it wasn’t me, you stinking little shit, who do you think he’d pin it on? One of the girls?” Benny knotted his fist and pulled back his arm, ready to strike. Then he dropped the pretense. “What am I doing? I don’t hit people. I’m a peaceful man. I go to temple twice a year.”

“That bastard Martell called my bluff, Benny. I thought he’d roll over and play. Who’d have thought a fat accountant had steel
cojones
?”

“You’ve seen his
cojones
,” Benny said. “It takes some doing to find them, but they’re big ones. Steel? They’re fucking cement.” Ordinarily he would have chuckled at the thought of the big man’s hard-to-find balls, but he wasn’t in a chuckling mood. “Jesus, Colin, don’t you make enough money? You have to fucking blackmail a mob accountant? Did I say you were a genius? You’re a moron.”

“I thought it was worth a shot.”

“How many times have you done this?”

Colin wagged his head and shrugged.

“Christ. We’re finished. Now Russo has something on me to drag out whenever he needs to. I’m his bitch. I should fire your ass right now.”

Colin swiveled his chair to face Benny, his thin, pinched face set hard. “You don’t know how to do what I do, Benny. I’m the one running this operation. Without me, you’d be a horny ex-hedge fund manager paying for sex or sticking a dildo up your
own ass.”

“Don’t get us confused. That’s your shtick. I’m never that horny. And don’t forget, I own this building and the others. I furnished them, pay the utilities, and the clubs were my idea.”

“Bullshit. The clubs were Eileen’s idea. She’s the one with the balls in your family. All you have is the cock. And it’s got to be so worn out I don’t see how you get it up any more.”

“I get it up just fine. And as long as I pay your salary, you’ll keep my cock out of this. Besides, a rich guy can always get a beautiful woman.”

“Maybe, but because of me, you get it for nothing. And frankly, that’s really all you do around here. Get fucked. The least you can do is appreciate my talents.”

“Appreciate? You’ve been blackmailing clients. Clients who put their trust in a safe environment. One thing to pick men who frequent other clubs. They’d never be sure who’s putting the squeeze on them. But who do you pick? Mario Russo’s money man. And what do you do? Threaten him with exposing something that could only have happened here. It took Russo two seconds to figure it out when I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. He called you a puny little fairy. He figured that out too.”

Colin twisted his mouth and fidgeted in his seat, a repentant expression on his face. “Okay, so it wasn’t my most brilliant move. I figured Martell for the big score. I didn’t think he’d tell Russo. Fact is, I thought Russo would be the last person he’d want to know.”

Benny leaned into Colin’s face, almost nose to nose. “Martell is married to Russo’s wife’s niece. He’s freaking family.” Benny whacked the palm of his hand against Colin’s forehead. “Family. Get it?”

Colin recoiled. “I get it, I get it. So I screwed up. Sorry. But it all worked out, didn’t it?”

“Who knows? If he feels threatened, he could take us out, and we wouldn’t see it coming. If he does, I hope he pops you first. Knowing that would pleasure me no end before I meet my maker.”