Leader of the Pack (Andy Carpenter) (7 page)

“Then continue to do so.”

“Of course; I’m not the problem. Carpenter is.”

“Keep it that way,” Iurato said. “Call again if he contacts you.”

It was clear that Iurato was ending the call, but Alex wasn’t feeling secure about things yet. “So are you guys going to handle this?”

“We’ll handle it.”

“So I don’t have anything to worry about?”

“That will be up to you.”

Click.

Alex got off the phone thinking that if it really was up to him, then he had plenty to worry about.

Robby Divine has more money than I do, and I have a lot.

I have a total of about twenty-six million dollars at this point. It started as a little less, but Edna’s cousin Freddie, who handles my investments, is on a hot streak.

But twenty-six million is nothing compared to what Robby Divine has. Some people with Robby’s kind of money wouldn’t bend over to pick up twenty-six million if they saw it laying in the street. But Robby would, because he doesn’t just want a great deal of money, he wants all of it.

Robby is an investor, but I don’t think he uses Cousin Freddie. He’s not a lawyer who’s an investor, or a corporate executive who’s an investor; he’s just an investor.

He’s got a sweet deal going. I’m told that when Robby makes an investment, it’s a large one and it attracts attention. He’s considered so smart that people follow him in, buying stock in the same companies. This then causes the stock he had just bought to go up. As my grandmother used to say, “Money goes to money.”

I met Robby at a charity dinner in Manhattan to benefit a large animal rescue foundation. We sat next to each other, mainly because he and I were the only two people being honored. We talked a lot, and found out that one of the things we have in common is a hatred for charity dinners.

Robby stood out that night, because he was the only one wearing sneakers and jeans. I learned later that he considered himself overdressed compared to his usual garb, and in fact it’s the only time I haven’t seen him wearing his Chicago Cubs cap. If he ever blows his money, it won’t be on clothes.

We get together for dinner once every six months or so. We used to alternate picking the place, but then I took him to Charlie’s once, and he was hooked. Tonight is our dinner, which is timely, since otherwise I would have called him anyway.

Robby isn’t into sports, has no interest in it whatsoever, but is definitely into burgers and beer. Charlie’s burgers are the best, and Robby has three of them. He’s maybe a hundred fifty pounds, runs in the Boston and New York marathons, and downs burgers by the bucketful. If I ate three burgers, they’d have to wheel my fat ass out to the parking lot.

Vince and Pete are not allowed to join us at our dinners; it’s always just the two of us. That of course drives them insane, so they sit at our normal table and stare daggers at us. I make faces back at them.

We’re all very mature.

“So what do you know about Edward Young?” I ask.

“He’s a Cardinals fan, which makes him a prick,” Robby says, and since he’s again wearing his Cubs cap, that needs no further explanation. “I keep telling him it doesn’t matter where he grew up; he needs to recognize that the Cardinals are pure evil.”

“That’s not particularly helpful. What else do you know about him?”

“He’s rich.”

“Richer than you?”

“Watch your mouth.”

I laugh. “Tell me what else you know about him.”

“Well, he cheats at golf.”

“So you know him personally?”

“Sure. Who do you think I hang around with, poor people? You’re the only one.”

“Can you get me in to see him? I’ve called twice, but can’t get through.”

“Depends. What’s it about?”

“I’m investigating a murder of one of his employees. He bought the victim’s company a few months before it happened.”

“If the guy worked for Edward, chances are he committed suicide.”

“Tough guy?”

“Controlling guy. He and I do things differently. When I come into a company, I’m placing a bet on the company and it’s management. I can be annoying to them, but if they succeed, so do I. And I only buy into large companies.”

“And Young?”

“He’s much more hands-on. He’ll buy a controlling interest in smaller companies: retailers, techs, airlines, whatever. He wants to make money, same as me, except he’s positive the only way that can happen is if they do what he says. So he takes over, either up close or from a distance. He’ll deny it, but it’s true.”

“Is he smart?”

“One of the smartest guys I ever met. What do you want from him?”

“Nothing specifically. I’ll ask a bunch of questions, and see if he has any useful information for me. Chances are he won’t, but you never know.”

“Call his office tomorrow morning after ten. He’ll see you. He owes me one.”

The waiter brings over the check and hands it to me. “My turn,” Robby says. He takes the check out of my hand and looks at it. “Nine beers? We had two each.”

I point to Vince and Pete at their table; Vince is waving to me. “That’s because it’s not our check; it’s theirs. Unlike you, they think I’m rich.”

“Good,” Robby says. “I didn’t want our check yet. I think I’ll have another burger.”

I’ve got a feeling that I’m on to something. I don’t get these feelings a lot, mainly because I spend very little time trying to be on to anything. But when I get one, I pay attention to it, because it’s usually right.

Except for the times when it’s wrong.

I’ve come to realize that these feelings are based on three factors. One is experience; I’ve been doing this long enough to understand what’s happening, and to be able to accurately assess the evidence, even if some of that assessment is instinctual.

A second factor is more aspirational. If I’m chasing something down, then I want it to be real and substantial, or I wouldn’t be chasing it. So I have to fight off a natural desire to think that what I want to be real actually is real.

The third factor is arrogance. While I am investigating something because I think it’s important, my ego tells me that it must be important, or I wouldn’t be spending so much time on it. I’m looking for validation of my project, but psychologically giving it validation
simply because
it’s my project.

Substantially complicating matters in the Joey Desimone case is that old maxim that it doesn’t matter what the lawyer believes, only what he can prove. And right now, not only is there nothing I can prove, but there’s nothing I can credibly allege.

Based on what Nicky Fats said about Solarno, and Luther Karlsson’s having seen a boatload of guns, I believe that Richard Solarno was into some illegal activities, most notably arms trafficking. Unfortunately, not only do I not have enough evidence to present to a court, even having that evidence wouldn’t make me successful.

It’s one thing to demonstrate that Solarno was a bad guy, doing bad things. But even if I were able to do that, and right now I’m not close to doing so, it’s a huge legal jump to then show that he was the target of the killer.

The list of things I don’t know goes on forever, starting with who Solarno was dealing with, how he got the arms, who were the customers, why they might have turned against him, and why they would have gone on to kill Karen, with about a hundred etceteras thrown in.

So I need to keep digging, and to try and avoid frustration. I impose my own time frame on these things, and I feel an urgency that might not be real. Joey has been in prison for six years, and is scheduled to spend the rest of his life there. If this takes me six months, or a year, as bad as that might be for Joey, it’s more than worth doing.

One of the problems is that what I’m looking into happened a long time ago, and there is little reason for the real bad guys to feel threatened. I have to change that; if I can get them to react to pressure, there’s a much greater chance they’ll make a mistake.

To that end, I stop in to see Vince Sanders. While Vince is the single most disagreeable and obnoxious human being on the planet, he’s as good a friend as one can have. He’s come through for me a number of times in the past, as I have for him. And that is how we define friendship.

Vince is editor of the
Bergen News,
one of New Jersey’s larger newspapers. He has held that job for approximately four hundred years, and is a legend in both his field and his mind. But even in an age where newspapers have taken a huge step back in terms of media power, Vince is a force that pretty much no one wants to reckon with.

Much as I know Vince can be counted on, I cement the deal by bringing a bag of doughnuts with me. He comes out when the receptionist calls to tell him that I’m there, takes one look at the bag, and says, “Jelly?”

“Half jelly, half cream-filled.”

He nods as if I gave the right answer, which I did. “You may enter,” he says.

I walk through the door toward the back, where his office is, and he grabs the bag from my hand as I do so. He holds it up, as if weighing it, without opening it. “Dozen,” he says. “You did good.”

We go back to his office, which makes mine look neat. He sits at his desk and says, “What’s up?” though it’s a little hard to understand him, since his mouth is filled with a cream-filled doughnut.

“I’ve got a story for you,” I say, and proceed to lay out the situation I’m in on Joey’s case, starting with Nicky’s hopefully lucid revelation. I had referred to it the other night at Charlie’s, so Vince is not totally surprised.

When I finish, Vince doesn’t say anything. Just sits there.

“Well?” I ask.

“That’s it? You’re finished?”

“I’m just starting, but that’s where I am now.”

“So what’s the story?”

“Come on, Vince, a shrewd newspaper guy like yourself has to see the potential here. A dying mob boss inadvertently drops a bombshell that has reopened a huge, notorious murder case,” I say. “And a courageous, dedicated lawyer is exposing a deadly conspiracy and finding the real killers.”

“Here’s what I see, as a shrewd newspaper guy,” he says. “I see a desperate hack, feeling guilty that his client is stuck in prison, floundering around trying to use something a dying, senile fat guy said to get his client off the hook.”

I nod. “That’s an interesting angle.”

He continues. “And I see that hack trying to take advantage of an innocent yet brilliant newspaperman, who has done nothing but be a good friend. He’s trying to get that legendary newspaperman to run a bullshit story, probably on the front page, so that things in the case can get shaken up, possibly resulting in that lawyer being able to finally take his legal thumb out of his ass.”

I nod again. “That sums it up pretty well, except you forgot about the doughnuts, and the beer that you haven’t paid for in two years.”

“Nicely played,” he says. “Let me think about this, run it by a couple of our reporters.”

“I’m telling you, Vince, the story is going to be solid.”

“We’ve got a fairly high bar on what we need to go with a story. Trust me, Kobe Bryant couldn’t jump and hit that bar from where you are.”

“If you don’t go with it, I’m going to take it elsewhere.” It’s an empty threat, if ever there was one.

He laughs. “I would suggest
Sixty Minutes
.” Then he takes another doughnut out of the bag and bites into it. “You know how you keep from getting jelly all over you when you eat a jelly doughnut?”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“You bite into where the hole is.”

“Thanks for sharing that, Vince. Let me know what you decide.”

“You’ll be the first call I make.”

“Wait until you hear about Larry Callahan.” Sam is standing at my front door, just having arrived as I was about to take Tara for a walk. He must think it’s important, because for Sam almost all communication is electronic, in one form or another. For him to have driven here this early in the morning from his house in Englewood means he thinks whatever he’s learned about Larry Callahan is a big deal.

“You found out how he died?” I ask.

“I did.”

“Tell me about it on the way.”

“On the way where?”

“Eastside Park. It’s time for Tara’s walk.” Tara is wagging her tail and generally acting excited, most likely annoyed at the unusual delay here at the door.

“Can that wait?” He holds up his briefcase. “I’ve got some things to show you. And it’s thirty degrees out.”

“You want Tara to wait for her walk once she has the leash on? Are you nuts?”

I tell Sam to leave the briefcase at the house, that he can show me whatever documents he has when we get back. We start on our walk, pausing only as Tara does to take in the aromas.

“What’s she sniffing?” Sam asks.

“The world. Tell me how Larry Callahan died.”

“Hit-and-run accident. About a block from his house,” he says, then adds pointedly. “He was walking his dog.”

“Was the dog killed as well?”

Sam frowns in frustration. “Who cares?”

“I do, and I’m sure the dog did.”

“According to the newspaper article, the dog was fine.”

The news is interesting but not earth-shaking. A hit-and-run death is obviously potentially sinister, though not necessarily intentional. “Night or day?” I ask, only because if it was night it would seem more likely that someone had not seen him, and that it was an accident. Sherlock Holmes, eat your heart out.

“Night.”

“Did you see the police report?”

He looks at me as if insulted. “Of course. No witnesses, no leads, nothing.”

I’m a little surprised that Sam felt it necessary to give me this news in person, but I guess he felt he was thereby putting his “boots on the ground.” “OK, thanks,” I say.

“There’s more.”

“Good.”

“I also got a list of all the people who worked for Solarno in the six months before he died. There were a hundred and fourteen of them.”

“Is that what the papers are in your briefcase?”

“Yes.”

“Good … thanks.”

“There’s more,” he says.

“Are you going to dribble it out, or come out with it?”

“Callahan was the captain, they called it the lead officer, of one of the shrimping boats. He had a crew of five with him, which was standard. I included all their names, but not their information … addresses, contacts, etcetera. I’ve given you that stuff for all the other employees, but not those five.”