Leader of the Pack (Andy Carpenter) (15 page)

He clearly didn’t have to. Edward insisted on state-of-the-art communications within his companies, and he certainly had that. He was in touch in any number of ways, all the time, and the truth is he could easily conduct at least the investment side of his business, and most of the rest of it, from anywhere.

The companies he controlled and invested in were all over the world, so except for occasional visits to keep them on their toes, in person contact was not required, and not desired by Edward. And Edward Young had reached a position in which, if he didn’t desire something, it didn’t happen.

So his routine when he was not traveling was fairly rigid. He would wake up at his Alpine, New Jersey, home at 6:00
A.M.
, exercise in his gym for an hour, shower, have a small breakfast, and leave for the office. His driver, Roger Lavin, was told to have the car out front at seven forty-five, so that he could be at his desk in midtown Manhattan by nine, thirty minutes before the market opened.

It was also early enough that he could conduct business with associates in Europe before they left for the day. Asia was a different story, and the timing often forced him to deal with issues there from home.

The limo was itself an office, with high-speed wireless computer and phone connections, and wireless combination printer, fax, copier, and scanner. Edward was a techie of sorts, and had been very exacting in his demands when the car was set up. It was a stretch limo, but one full set of seats had been removed, creating what felt like a spacious office.

There is probably not a person who lives in North Jersey, and commutes by car over the George Washington Bridge each day, who doesn’t have a preferred route to avoid the traffic.

For Edward, that meant avoiding the Palisades Interstate Parkway at all costs, and wending his way down city streets into Fort Lee, then circling and coming in the back way to the lower level of the bridge. It didn’t circumvent all the traffic, but cut the traveling time by at least twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes of Edward Young’s time was worth a lot of money.

On this particular morning, like every morning, Edward was not just sitting back, enjoying the scenery. He was always on the computer, or the phone, or reading the
Wall Street Journal,
but he was never looking around. Lavin had been driving Edward for eighteen years, and he certainly knew enough not to bother him, unless it was a matter of great importance.

So he was reading the
Journal
when the phone rang. It was one of his financial people, calling to say that a meeting had been scheduled for nine thirty. It concerned a company Edward was considering taking a large position in, and the purpose of the meeting was to make a presentation concerning the company and whether or not it would be a wise investment.

Because of the timing, Edward looked up to see where they were, and how much progress they were making. It was for that reason that he saw the car pull up next to them on the left, and saw the tinted window on the passenger side come down. Which is how he was able to see the gun.

Edward’s reaction was instant; he dove down to the floor just as the barrage of bullets hit the car. The firing was indiscriminate, blowing out windows front and back.

He yelled, “Roger!,” but didn’t know whether his driver had been hit or not. It was certainly possible that the driver didn’t hear him above the din, or that he hadn’t heard the response.

It wasn’t until he felt the limo crash into something, which turned out to be a parked car, that he believed his driver had been hurt. And it wasn’t for six minutes, after the police had arrived on the scene, that he knew Roger Lavin was dead.

My cell phone rings when I’m walking Tara. We’re having the first snowfall of the year, an inch or so, and Tara just loves it. She rolls around on her back, in what certainly seems like dog ecstasy. Then she picks up a small, fallen tree branch and holds it in her mouth as if it’s a treasure. Which it is.

I feel a little guilty going so slowly, since I know Marcus must be watching us somewhere from Marcus-land, and being both cold and bored out of his mind. I don’t see him, but I know, and hope, he is there.

I don’t usually bring my cell phone on my walks with Tara, but I do when I’m in the middle of a case. She’s pretty understanding about the interruptions; she knows that my work brings in money, and she knows how her biscuits are buttered, or something like that.

I see on the caller ID that it’s Hike, which makes me not want to answer it. In fact, it makes me want to put the phone on the snowy ground and stomp on it. This is not a moment that calls out for Hike. No moment has ever existed that called out for Hike.

“Hello?”

“You may not be a good-luck charm, boss.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“An attempt was made on Edward Young’s life this morning. His chauffeur was killed.”

This is stunning news. “Was Edward hurt?”

“Doesn’t seem like it. But the news is pretty sketchy.”

I question Hike, but there aren’t many details, other than where the shooting took place, and that the assailants escaped the scene.

I was initially willing to accept the idea that Nicky Fats’s death right after talking to me was a coincidence, but there’s no chance of that here. Soon after I talked to Edward Young, and almost immediately after I put him on the witness list, someone tried to gun him down.

Nicky Fats spent his life with dangerous people, many of whom could reasonably be thought to be his enemy. Edward Young is a respected businessman, an investor and financier. He no doubt deals with killers, but their weapons of choice would be their checkbooks, or their lawyers.

Tara is fine with our cutting our walk short, in return for some biscuits. I tell Hike I’ll meet him at the office, so we can plan a strategy for dealing with this new turn of events.

It would seem to make the most sense that the attempt to silence Edward was to prevent him from speaking to me. There are, however, two problems with that.

First of all, he had already spoken to me, twice. How would the killers know that he had not yet told me the information they were afraid he would reveal?

Second, he has given me no indication that he knows anything that could be of value to my case. Why would the killers think otherwise? Is it possible that he has key information, but is somehow unaware of its significance?

I put in a call to Edward, but get no further than one of his assistants. Reaching him is now going to be tough; he’s a smart guy, and if he has a well-developed self-preservation instinct, then he must know I am the kiss of death.

In addition to the tragedy of the chauffeur getting killed, the attempt on Edward’s life highlights and continues a frustrating pattern for our case. Events are happening, large and small, which convince me that we are on the right track, but which will not be admissible in court.

Large things like the efforts to kill both Edward and me, and less significant things like Alex Solarno calling Tommy Iurato after I left his house, all represent conclusive evidence to me that someone is trying to stop our investigation. Someone is afraid of what we will find, which makes me all the more anxious to find it.

But all of those things are legally unrelated to Joey’s case. The attack today represents the clearest example of that; there is simply no way we can demonstrate relevance to Hatchet’s satisfaction, which means the jury will not hear it.

But either Edward has information which can bridge that gap and make it relevant and admissible, or someone thinks he does. He went on the witness list, and they tried to kill him. I simply must find out what he knows, or what the killers think he knows.

My only real link to any of this is Tommy Iurato, so I call Sam to find out if he’s traced the phone records. He answers on the first ring, as happens every single time I call him.

“I was just going to call you,” Sam says, opening the conversation.

“You have Iurato’s phone records?”

“I sure do, and you’re going to find them very interesting.”

“Can you bring them over right away?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you made me promise I wouldn’t leave my office.”

I laugh. “You are released from your promise on a temporary basis.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“He made four calls in the last three months, and received six. Two of the received calls were from Alex Solarno, one just after you left, and the other the next day.”

“That’s it? How could he only make four calls? I make more than that in a month ordering Chinese food.”

“That’s it, Andy. I rechecked it twice.”

“He’s either the least sociable mob hit man I’ve ever met, or he’s got another phone. You know who the calls were with?”

He nods. “Except for the Alex Solarno calls, every one that was made or received was from or to the same number. And it’s not even listed in a fake name.”

“Who was it?

“Simon Ryerson.”

“The name sounds familiar,” I say.

“Maybe you represented him. He spent two and a half years in jail. Got out about four years ago.”

“What was he in for?”

“Fraud. But high-class stuff; this guy didn’t go around passing bum checks in bodegas.”

Sam goes on to tell me that Ryerson was a Harvard Business School graduate who had gotten something of a reputation turning around troubled companies. They were mostly small, relatively new companies that were in danger of going under. Ryerson came in with sound but aggressive business techniques and stabilized them. He was well paid for his efforts.

Sam gives me a list of the companies Ryerson worked for, and then says, “But then he got greedy, and turned one of the companies into his own private ATM. Hasn’t really been heard from since, though now he heads up SR Finance. ‘SR’ is Simon Ryerson; pretty clever name, huh?”

“Where is his office?”

“Englewood. He lives in Englewood Cliffs.”

Englewood Cliffs is a very upscale town near the George Washington Bridge. If Ryerson is living there, it’s likely he has managed to tuck some real money away.

“Thanks, Sam. You did great on this.”

“So what’s my next assignment, boss?”

“Dig into Ryerson’s life. Credit card receipts, traveling, whatever. I want to know as much about him as I can, with a particular focus on the past year.”

“You want me to keep an eye on him?”

My knee-jerk reaction is to say no, but I’ve got to do something to move the case along. “It’s not a bad idea … if you can do it from a distance, with no contact whatsoever. And I’d prefer you didn’t shoot him either.”

“Great. Willie and I can do it together … trade off when we need to. Willie told me he wants to help.”

This is feeling like a huge mistake. “Will you tell Willie the ground rules?”

He nods. “Yup. No contact, keep a distance, no shooting.”

“OK. And any problems you call me. Any danger, call Marcus first, then me.”

“Will do.”

When Sam leaves, I call Laurie and tell her about Ryerson, tasking her to find out whatever she can about him as well.

It’s hard to figure what connection Ryerson might have to the Desimone crime family. When it comes to illegalities, what Ryerson has done in the past and what the Desimones do on a daily basis represent apples and oranges.

Perhaps Ryerson is using his business and financial acumen to launder money for them. He could be getting a percentage of the action for doing so.

I hope that’s not the case, because if it is then it has nothing to do with the Solarno murders, and is therefore of no value to me. Just because Alex Solarno was in contact with Iurato, and Iurato has been in occasional contact with Ryerson, there is no link yet established to connect Ryerson with Solarno.

I need to find out if that link exists, and I need to do so quickly, as the trial is bearing down on us.

I make a quick trip to the prison to see if Joey has heard of Ryerson, but I’m not surprised that he hasn’t. Joey has been cut off for more than six years, and Ryerson hasn’t been out of prison very long. There is little likelihood that their paths crossed, and Joey confirms that they hadn’t.

Joey has a thousand questions for me about the upcoming trial and the state of our defense. I don’t sugarcoat it; we are simply not making enough progress at this point, and don’t have much time to turn things around.

“We’ll get there,” Joey says. “Look how far we’ve gotten already.”

“There’s a winner and a loser in this game, Joey. They don’t give partial credit. Unless we get all the way there, then we’ve gotten nowhere.”

When Gino Bruni came into the room, Carmine Desimone closed the door. He had already determined that Tommy Iurato was out of the compound. Carmine had no doubt that the interior of the place was bugged for audio, though Carmine was sure he had disabled the only video camera. In any event, he didn’t want to take a chance on being overheard.

So he turned up the music to a very high volume, so high that it was annoying to his ears, which represented the first time in his life that he didn’t enjoy listening to Frankie Valli. But it was necessary, and Gino understood that.

So they talked into each other’s ears, and even from a few inches away it was hard to hear. It was also humiliating to Carmine; he was not used to having to behave in this manner.

But that would soon be changing.

Everything would soon be changing.

“It’s all set,” said Bruni. “I spoke to Tommy.”

“You told him exactly what we talked about?”

Bruni nodded. “Yes. He’s to bring Ryerson to the meeting. Just the two of them, and just you and I. I said that you had a proposition for them, which would be good for all concerned.”

“What did the prick say?”

“That they’re always happy to talk.”

“And you’ve got the people we need?”

“Three guys from Detroit. They’re as good as they come. They’ll be there that morning to set it up.”

“Tommy is smart,” Carmine said. “He’ll bring extra muscle, just in case.”

“We’ll be ready for them.”