The Big Scam (10 page)

Nick Vanko's phone rang; it was Abby at the reception desk. She spoke in the low, unenunciated monotone. “That one you said was coming is here.”

“Okay, bring him back.”

Garrett Egan had been arrested, in a very public manner, by the Securities and Exchange Commission a week earlier for insider trading at a small Wall Street brokerage house. What the world had yet to learn was that he was an FBI agent working undercover in an elaborate sting operation designed to draw organized crime members into illegal transactions.

Because of the government's increasing success in prosecuting traditional Mafia crimes, mobsters had to find new sources of revenue. With increasing frequency, they were involving themselves in stock market fraud. Their most common ploy was a white-collar twist on one of their longtime staples—loansharking. They made loans to stockbrokers, most commonly for personal debt or business expansion. Then they would buy from them, under coercion, low-priced shares in a company before its stock went public. Through transactions that the brokers were forced to make among themselves, or in some cases faked transactions, the shares were rapidly inflated. The brokers were also made to recommend the stocks to customers, further driving up their price. The mobsters then sold everything, causing the over-valued stocks to nose-dive.

Those in charge of the Bureau's New York office ordered the few who knew about Egan's arrest not to discuss it with anyone for fear it might be leaked to the press, but as usual, the “undisclosable” facts of the case swept through the office at the speed of light. Garrett Egan's insider trading, executed using his undercover name, Sam Shelby, was not part of the FBI project. The arrest affidavit for Shelby stated that he had used information obtained from sources, still undetermined, to conduct personal trades in the market. During the last quarter, these transactions had netted him $268,000.

Lansing watched from his desk as Abby led the new agent in the expensive suit into Vanko's office. The inspector thought he knew who Egan was because his name had come up two days earlier during a conversation with the ASAC. Lansing had gone to see him seeking the exception to Bureau procedure concerning the removal of personnel files from the main office. “Bernie, to do this right, I'm going to need the files at the off-site.”

“Not exactly kosher, but I think I can arrange it.”

“I'll be careful.”

“Your timing is good. That agent with the insider trading problem? He'll be out there in the next couple of days. You'll want his file, too. If nothing else, it'll show a pattern that Vanko's squad is a safe haven even for those who commit felonies.”

“I appreciate the heads-up.”

“Just remember, this conversation never took place.”

Lansing flipped open Garrett Egan's file to the photo attached to the inside cover. His face seemed older than the photo, which had been taken the day he was hired eight years earlier.

Lansing was about to get up and, with as much casualness as he could summon, make his way into the vault. But he noticed T.H. Crowe staring at him. According to the files, Crowe was the oldest agent on the squad and apparently had been through enough inspections that they no longer intimidated him. Or had he seen Lansing in the vault, removing the cover plate and listening? He looked away and within a few seconds looked back. Crowe maintained his emotionless stare. Egan's was a conversation he wasn't going to hear.

Vanko offered the newest arrival a seat. “Do you know anything about this squad?”

“No.” Although just a single syllable, the answer was charged with resentment.

“We work organized crime, the Galante family. Specifically, the Michael Parisi regime.”

“Great, cops and robbers. That's what I need to get my mind off my problems. This is going to cost me a hundred thousand dollars in lawyer's fees with no guarantee I won't go to prison, so excuse me if I can't get too excited about locking up some Italian who's extorting money from some other guy who's probably a bigger asshole than he is. Besides, I've spent a night in jail. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.”

This was not the first time Vanko had endured the diatribes of a reporting agent, and he knew that the source of Egan's anger was more than his onrushing legal problems. Arrival at the squad was final proof of exile, of being jettisoned from respectability just as an agent was frantically searching for self-respect. The Bureau was in the process of turning its back on him, stripping him of the safety of its community, attempting to leave him with the perception that his only remaining duty was to go off quietly to whatever fate he had brought upon himself.

Nine years earlier, after his accident, Vanko had been similarly excommunicated, exiled to the complaint desk, a cramped room that most agents couldn't find if they wanted to. Call-in complaints were maddening. A high percentage of them were from the psychologically unstable, and the “legitimate” ones were usually too convoluted to be investigated or were completely without merit. And, of course, the more unqualified the complaint, the more outraged the callers were about being denied their “right to justice.”

Vanko had understood the purpose of the reassignment and in a strange way agreed with it. When someone makes an error in judgment as large as his, he needs to be tested for resolve, to determine if he is in the midst of a disastrous pattern. In his case, a woman had died. The subsequent inquiry concluded that he was not at fault, but premature death, even when adjudicated, invariably left an aftertaste of suspicion.

His scarred face hadn't helped, either. It served as an indelible reminder of potential bad judgment. The complaint room was the perfect answer. Neither the public nor the other agents had to be exposed to his disfigurement or reminded of its origin. The bleak cubicle had been known to break the resolve of even the most unyielding probationers. But Vanko accepted the transfer, hoping that, if nothing else, its piercing loneliness would prove cathartic.

Almost a year passed, and he began to wonder whether he would ever be returned to the mainstream. Why should they let him? He was doing an awful task well, his hard work preventing the very thing it was meant to recapture: his freedom. Then one night, as he was about to leave, a female caller said she had information about a kidnapping being planned. When Vanko pressed for details, the woman became evasive, saying she feared the conversation was being recorded. The kidnappers would not hesitate to kill her if they found out she had called. It took almost an hour for Vanko to persuade her to meet him.

After being initially startled by his appearance, she soon became convinced by its dark honesty. Once assurances of anonymity took hold, she started supplying specifics. The target was identified as the daughter of a wealthy investment banker, and a long night of work by dozens of agents began. The SAC reported to the command post to oversee the investigation, and he found himself relying heavily on Vanko's previous kidnapping-squad experience. By first light, the crime had been prevented and four men were in custody. As an unexpected bonus, they all turned out to be members of organized crime. The case made national headlines, and the SAC provided flawless sound bites for television newscasts. A few days later, Vanko was called to the SAC's office and offered the chance to start a new clandestine surveillance squad, one that would primarily work organized crime cases. The SAC ordered ten supervisors to provide one man apiece, and each of them gladly gave up their most unmanageable agent. With its heritage established before the fact, Global Fish came limping into existence.

As he did with each new arrival, Vanko wanted to know if—beneath the almost obligatory indignation—Egan was actually looking for a new beginning.

“Just about everybody on this squad arrived with baggage.”

“Baggage! They're here because they got caught going to graduate school during working hours, or because they pissed on the ADIC's wife's shoes at the Christmas party. None of them were facing prison.”

“What I'm saying is that these things always seem monumental at first.”

“So you think I'm blowing this out of proportion? How do you think it was for my son when one of his friends at school said he saw me on TV being arrested? Thank God my kid didn't see it, and I could tell him it was a mistake. The papers ran the story with my UC name but no photo. And let's be honest, the only reason the Bureau hasn't given me up to the media is because they want that undercover project to continue. If they had to come out and say I was a UC, they'd have to shut it down, and it cost them over a million dollars to set up. So if it seems like I'm making a big deal out of this, it's only because I know it's going to get much bigger.”

“Maybe you should take some leave.”

“I've checked. Even if I get fired, which I'm sure I will be, I get paid for any unused leave on the books. I'm going to need every dime.”

“I was talking about unofficial leave; just take off for a while.”

“Let's get something straight: I'm not looking for friends. And quit pretending that this is some new beginning for me and the slate is wiped clean. You know as well as I do that this is not going to have a happy ending.”

A cold resignation came into Vanko's voice. “Go see Abby, she'll find you a desk. I'll have something for you to do by this afternoon.”

Egan got up to leave. “While I was waiting I thought I heard the secretary say there's an inspector here?”

“There is.”

“The goofy-looking guy who doesn't think he's losing his hair?”

“The one wearing a tie, yes.”

“Great, he looked at me like I was his lunch. It just keeps getting better.”

MANNY BALDOVINO SAT WITH HIS FACE OVER HIS
coffee, trying to cut an opening through the morning fog inside his head. He had slept fitfully again, but not because of any anxiety over bridges. Ever since Danny DeMiglia had visited the club, Mike Parisi had seemed preoccupied. Manny had tried to feel him out about how it went with Danny, but Parisi's only answer was a pensive, “Fine.” His captain had been threatened in some way, and Manny knew it was his fault. Maybe he should just have his lawyer get him a deal and go off to prison, screw the delaying tactics, be stand-up. And when he got out he could move to another state. He always wanted to see California. Get a regular job, if there was such a thing. Maybe sales, he was pretty good on the short con. He took a moment to picture himself with a wife and kids, going off to work each morning, coming home and…He shook his head. “Jesus Christ,” he said out loud, “I can't do that.” What he had now, the leisure, the freedom—he had never known anything else. Without really tasting it, he took a sip of coffee. Sitting around the club all day, playing cards, out all night eating and drinking with his pals—it was hard to imagine having to catch a train or bus. And answering to someone whom he didn't respect, that would never work. Sure, the life he had chosen came with the occasional inconvenience or worry, but those who take for a living were used to those small, emotional downdrafts. In fact, they provided the only stirring in an otherwise unchallenging existence. Routine required endurance, and men became criminals because they lacked that exact resource.

He reached across the counter and picked up the mail that had accumulated for over a week. Bills and advertising, nothing personal, nothing to say that Manny Baldovino was an individual worth corresponding with. He started to push the pile away when the hand printing on one of the envelopes caught his eye. It was addressed to the attention of “Joseph Baldovino or Emmanuel Baldovino.” God, he hated that name, from some uncle a thousand years ago. He couldn't imagine who would know it other than his parents.

The return address was the Seaside State Bank in Little Egg Harbor, New Jersey. The name of the town sent Manny drifting back to his preadolescent summers. He, with his mother and father, would go to the Jersey shore for a month. Other than being called in to explain his latest errant behavior, it was the only time he could remember spending alone with his dad. They would fish from the shore, and supper was always at a restaurant surrounded by tan, relaxed people, most of whom weren't Italian.

He held the envelope under his nose, hoping for a hint of the beach, for memories so distant their only images were tiny flashes of sepia-burned photos. His nose twitched at the smell of dusty paper.

Sensing that some window to the past was about to be opened, Manny carefully slit the flap with a kitchen knife and pulled out the enclosed notice. It stated that the rental agreement for the safe deposit box in the name of Joseph Baldovino had expired, and if not claimed or renewed within thirty days, it would be opened and its contents disposed of. The original date of rental was twenty years earlier, and the last five-year renewal had been paid shortly before his father's death. Also enclosed were photocopies of signature cards for the two people with access to the box. One was Joseph Baldovino, and the alternate designee was Emmanuel Baldovino. Manny didn't remember signing it, but that was definitely his childhood signature, its loops larger, more patient, the
i
's dotted with small circles. He looked at his father's writing with its Old World flourishes and could still picture the quick, conductor-like movements of his hands.

The significance of the notice dawned on him slowly—safe deposit boxes were for valuables, in the case of his father, the infamous
capo,
possibly secret valuables. Then he took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was Manny Baldovino. If there was an Italian version of Murphy's Law, it was Manny's Law. Things didn't fall into his lap; if anything, they fell through. But at the very least there had to be some family items: birth certificates, photos, other documents. Whatever it contained was at least twenty years old, and that in itself excited him.

He cautiously placed the documents back in the envelope and pushed it off to the side where nothing could be spilled on it. As he lifted the mug to his mouth and imagined the possibilities that awaited him in Little Egg Harbor, he realized the coffee was no longer hot. He poured it down the sink and hurried to the shower.

 

Manny pulled his fourteen-year-old Lincoln into the gas station across the street from the club. He told the old guy who worked there to fill it up, wash the windows, and check the oil. It was burning almost a quart a week, and he figured that was the equivalent of a drive to the Jersey shore.

He found Mike Parisi in the back room talking to Tommy Ida. “Mike, can I see you for a minute?” Ida wandered into the front. “Can I borrow three hundred?”

Parisi pulled out a modest fold of bills and counted out six fifties. He handed them to Manny. “Seems like you're in a hurry. You going somewhere?”

Discovering a safe deposit box in only his and his father's name suddenly seemed like a secret they had shared for twenty years. And after everything that had happened in the last year, to have his father's trust was worth more than if the box were full of diamonds. It needed to be kept secret, even from Parisi. “I've got to get out of town for a couple of days. Thought I'd go to Atlantic City. You know, maybe change my luck.”

Parisi grinned. “You're coming back, right? I mean aside from this, you owe me ten grand for the bondsman.”

“Come on, Mike. You know I'd never stiff you.”

“I'm just busting balls a little, Manny. If there's one guy in the world I would trust with everything I have, it's you.”

Baldovino looked down as he smiled, wondering why someone like Parisi would treat him with such friendship. “If I win anything I'll split it with you.”

“In that case maybe I should go with you to make sure your count is right.”

“Maybe you should.”

Parisi stripped off another two hundred and handed it to Baldovino. “Since you're going to win all this money, I'll need to make a little more of an investment.”

Parisi seemed different somehow. His clothes were different, a golf shirt and khaki pants, no jewelry. But more than that, there was an air about him, as though he were finally comfortable being in charge. Manny felt certain that the mess he had kicked up with DeMiglia was responsible for the change. His first impulse was to feel guilty about Parisi's problems, but it looked like maybe his mistakes had finally done some good. Maybe the curse of the Lag had gone full circle, now able to change bad into good. Maybe his childhood daydreams were finally coming true, maybe his lack of speed was now a good thing. The time had come. Tipping into Manny's favor, and everyone was looking to him for their cues. Manny “the Cue” Baldovino. And just maybe the final proof of his long withheld ascendancy was waiting for him in that New Jersey safe deposit box.

 

A small storage room, accessible only from the garage, had been cleared out at Lansing's request. Vanko had offered his office for the squad interviews, but Lansing didn't want someone wandering into the vault and realizing how easy it was to overhear conversations inside the supervisor's office.

Lansing finished arranging his papers while Howard Snow unbuckled his wristwatch and stood it up as if hoping to place a time limit on the interview. “Sorry about the cramped space. Howard, I've got to be honest with you, I've been through your personnel file and have read some of the preliminary complaints against you in this latest OPR inquiry. And that I have to use the word ‘latest' shows that you are indeed on the verge of serious consequences. Two OPR investigations in just four years of service—kind of a flag, wouldn't you say?”

“I suppose it is.”

“Of course I don't have all the information that OPR does, but I'd say there's little question that your job is in jeopardy.”

With a just-noticeable hint of defiance, Snow looked up in silence as though everything Lansing had said was as predictable as a script for an old B movie. When the inspector matched his stare, Snow said, “I suppose it is.”

“You know, it's okay to say something other than ‘I suppose it is.' ”

“Do you suppose it is?”

Lansing gave a short, appreciative laugh. “Let's try this from a different angle. About a week ago you were involved in a case, and during surveillance, or whatever you were doing out there, an expensive automobile was totaled. Do you remember that?”

“About a week ago?”

“A Mercedes was wrecked, do you remember
that
?”

“A Mercedes, I think I heard something about it.”

“You were out there, what do you mean you ‘heard something' about it? Do you people wreck that many cars?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you know the number-one charge lodged against agents after they're interviewed about misconduct? It's lack of candor. And frankly, Howard, there's not a lot of room left on the list of charges against you. So let's give it one final try. What was the name of the subject your squad was working the night you think you may have heard that a Mercedes was possibly wrecked?”

Snow picked up his watch and let his thumb slowly trace its different geometric shapes. “I think it was Dimino.”

Finally, corroboration of what Lansing had overheard: “the Dimino scam.” “And what happened?”

“You mean to the Mercedes?”

Lansing said, “At this point, I'll take anything—the car, Dimino, what color pants you were wearing, anything.”

Snow looked up. “Sorry I'm so vague, but I was alone in my car and never really did get close enough to take the eye. At the end, someone came up on the radio and said we could break it off and head home. You know agents, you don't have to say that twice.”

“So you don't know anything.”

“I know that Dimino rolled over and gave up his boss.”

“Rolled over to whom? Who had contact with him that night? And why did he roll?”

“You know who'd know? Nick.”

“I'm sure he would, but I'm asking you.”

“That's about all I know. We didn't even hold on to him that night. He was turned over to the squad working the Corsalinis.”

“Why were you working another squad's subject?”

“Nick told us to. You'd have to ask him.”

Lansing turned the file in front of him 180 degrees so Snow could see his name on it. “I've read your
entire
personnel file. I've got to hand it to you, you busted your ass to get this job. When you were turned down the first time, you went and got your master's, even took flying lessons. Why was that?”

Lansing was pleased with the results of his question. He had found that chink he had been looking for. Something had gone soft in Snow. “When I was turned down after my first interview, I looked at all the different programs the Bureau hired under and saw that they sometimes recruited pilots, so I took lessons.”

“Well, Howard, I've got to tell you, if I had to go through all that, I don't know if it would have been worth the trouble to me. It'd be a shame to lose someone like you. Did OPR give any indication what was going to happen to you?”

“With all respect, they told me not to discuss particulars with anyone.”

“That is standard procedure.” Lansing started paging through the file. “The preliminary statement says that although you are an extremely hard worker, you appear unable to interpret the most basic social clues.”

“That's probably true. My people skills are not what they could be. But I've been working on them, and they are getting better.”

“I'm glad to hear that, but I worked in OPR before I came to the inspection staff and I've got to tell you, your future isn't what you deserve.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you're probably going to lose your job over that search warrant disaster.”

“You can't be sure of that.”

“The OPR investigation, and if I tell them about your lack of candor regarding this Dimino case, I think I can predict exactly that.”

“I've told you I don't know anything that happened with Dimino.”

“Then why are you the only member on this squad with a letter of commendation for it? You're lying to me.”

Snow's eyes dropped, and his voice strained to override his hollow bravado. “Then I guess I'll lose my job.”

“Hardworking
and
loyal. This would be a shame.”

Snow's eyes locked on Lansing's. “Would be?”

“You need someone who's in a position to help you, and I think we both know that isn't Nick Vanko.”

Snow shook his head vigorously. “No!” He threw his watch at the tabletop. It bounced and fell to the floor.

His response was an overreaction, one of self-admonishment rather than protest. No matter how deeply Snow thought he believed in loyalty, he was considering the alternative and was suddenly angry with himself because of it. The importance of remaining an FBI agent threatened the rules he had set up for himself.