The Big Scam (16 page)

“The minute this comes back as bogus, you're doing that diamond job.”

In a tone DeMiglia couldn't fully read, Parisi said, “You're the boss.”

DeMiglia reached over and stabbed one of Parisi's egg rolls. “You're not going to eat these?”

Jack Straker was due for his interview with Lansing in five minutes. The inspector used the time to go through his personnel file again to make sure he had all the ammunition he needed to prove that Straker's performance in the FBI was in an advanced state of disrepair. The file revealed one problem after another, almost without a break. Why he had not been fired was inexplicable. Then he found the letter of commendation for the air piracy case and realized that it was Jack Straker who had fired the Shot. But that was a long time ago. In his second year, without any documented reason, he had been abruptly transferred from the range at Quantico to New York City as a street agent. That winter marked his first full-blown letter of censure and a forty-five-day suspension. Apparently tired of the snow, and without requesting leave, he drove a Bureau car to Florida, charging gas and lodging on an FBI credit card, an act egregious enough to get any other agent fired, but that wasn't the end of it. Once in Miami, he decided that the “clunky”—his word offered in defense—sedan was not suitable for such a well-deserved vacation. He traded it in for a convertible at a less-than-reputable used car dealership, using the Bureau credit card to make up the difference in the down payment.

There were also indications that he had cut a wide swath through the steno pool and other female support employees. No official complaints had been lodged, but the office services manager had filed a written protest that he was constantly distracting her girls. He was called in, and when told about the OSM's concerns, his response was, “Sounds like she needs a little servicing herself.”

Without a knock, the door opened and Jack Straker smiled down at Lansing. “Am I late?”

“Yes you are. Have a seat.”

Lansing noted that the stitches on Straker's forehead had been removed and the remaining scar seemed to add some ruggedness to his appealing face. He leaned back and pushed his hands into his pockets. “I've got to admit, that is one impressive personnel file you're working on there.”

“Thank you.”

“That's not meant as a compliment.”

“I guess it all depends on your perspective. For me, there's a whole lot of living in those pages. Some
gooood
times.”

“Good times? I think it's safe to say that any other agent would have been fired for any one of them. What I can't figure out is why you haven't been.”

“I don't know. I guess like anything else, breaking rules can be done with varying amounts of style. I try to make mine as outrageously endearing as possible. Take the time they had a drug wire on some Cubans up here. The Miami office sends up this knockout translator because she was familiar with the dialect. I tried approaching her, but she had been warned not to fraternize with any of the agents. What was I supposed to do, let her slip away? So I got the number that they had the wiretap on, and I called it. The guy answers in Spanish, or Cuban, whatever it was, and I just started talking in English. I tell this gal how sexy I think she is, and if she wanted to see the real New York while she's up here to call me, and then I left my number. Where was the harm? The dope dealer didn't speak English, so he thought it was some wrong number or whatever. But when she was translating the tape and heard it, she called me. A violation of Bureau policy? I'm sure if you looked through enough manuals, you could find a rule or two bent, but the bottom line was that while she was up here she had a much better time. And so did I. Unfortunately, the Department of Justice had to go hat in hand to the judge who authorized the wire and explain what I had done. But after he thought about it for a minute, he laughed. See, that's me. A little bit outrageous, but at the same time begrudgingly admired. Be honest now, wouldn't you like to have that story on your résumé?”

“I'm curious. While you're sitting around dreaming up these excursions into the outrageous, do you ever feel any compulsion to accomplish any part of the Bureau's mission?”

“I've done some pretty fair undercover work.”

“Oh yes, I saw the letter from the director's office mandating that you never be allowed to work undercover again. Seems when you were in Los Angeles staying in a four-star hotel, in a one-week period your hotel bill was thirty-eight thousand dollars.”

Straker chuckled. “Yeah, and that wasn't easy. I was taking the bad guys out on the town and getting the restaurants and clubs to charge it to the hotel. The bottom line: we recovered three and a half million in laundered cash.”

“Twelve of that thirty-eight thousand was for hookers.”

“Escorts. Have you ever seen the high-end prostitutes in L.A.? They're beautiful, smart, and they can dance. I mean, you go out on actual dates because you want to be seen in public with them. Hooking those guys up with escorts was what turned the deal.”

The interview wasn't going as Lansing had anticipated. “Since you're so willing to discuss your problems, let's talk about the misstep that landed you on this squad. The only thing I see in the file around that time is a very minor infraction of posting the wrong information on your locator card. That hardly seems worthy of a man of your appetites.”

Straker smiled. “Do you think I should petition to have it removed?” Lansing just stared back dourly. “Actually, that's all they could put down on paper.”

Lansing rolled forward in his chair. “Well, maybe it's time to set the record straight. Save your reputation.”

“I'll bet you, right now, that after I tell you this story, you won't want to write any of it down anywhere.”

Lansing considered Straker's ability to read the situations he became involved in and set his pen down. “Please proceed.”

“As you can see by the date on the memo, it was a few years ago. At the time, we had this assistant director who was a real pain in the ass. I mean he would do anything to stick it to an agent. Fortunately for us, he also had a few weaknesses, two of which were booze and women, something I know about. I was acquainted with this woman who, let's just say, would do just about anything for money. So one night the ADIC was speaking at this corporate dinner, which I managed to get a ticket to. Twelve hours later and with the loan of some FBIHQ night photography equipment, I was able to convince him that a man with such unusual urges needed to treat agents with a little more respect. Which he did until he retired a year later. But I guess he had the last laugh because the last Bureau document he signed was my transfer out here.”

Lansing slapped the personnel file shut. “You evidently take great pride in your candor. In fact, I'd say you enjoy shocking people with it. I hope you're going to be equally candid about the night you all were working on the Dimino case. I believe that was the night you were injured.”

“Well, I think I've proven during our little chat here that I can be as honest as anyone, but about that night…did you know that the cut on my head took fourteen stitches, but the real injury was actually a concussion. Damnedest thing, I can't remember a minute of what happened. I have a note from the doctor at the ER. Should I bring it in?”

Although his mouth was held in a straight, unemotional line, Straker's eyes were smiling. His “candor” during the interview could, if necessary, be later offered as evidence of his not hiding anything, no matter how damning or embarrassing. Lansing felt relatively certain that among an undoubtedly large cache of mitigating documents suitable for every occasion, Straker could produce some sort of medical record verifying a bout of temporary amnesia, or spinal meningitis, or multiple personality. Lansing had been checkmated. Without a word, he bowed his head in defeat and gave a gracious backhand wave toward the door.

VANKO'S PHONE RANG. IT WAS AN APOLOGETIC
Ralph Hansen. “Nick, I'm sorry I didn't get back to you right away. The chief inspector has been running me ragged. What's up?”

“Sheila Burkhart.”

“Who's that?”

“Female agent. Shipped out here. Without a heads-up.”

“Oh yeah, yeah. Sorry about that,” the SAC said. “Have you talked to her?”

“She said she was working a serial murder too hard.”

“Well, it's a little worse than that. According to the supervisor running the task force, she's pretty much lost it. I think his words were ‘absolutely obsessed.' He said there was just one homicide, and she was trying to make it into something more.”

“You sure he wasn't just trying to get rid of her? She seems pretty outspoken.”

“No, it wasn't anything like that. He said she was a phenomenal worker. That was the whole problem. She became obsessed with finding the killer. A couple of the New York detectives read her the same way.”

“You mean it's now become possible to work too hard in this outfit?”

“Nick, that's as much as I know about it. Here, I'll give you the number for the task force. Call the supervisor. He can fill you in. She hasn't been causing you any problems, has she?”

“No. In fact she admitted that she had gone a little overboard working the case. She seems a little intense, but, you know, in a good way. I just want to hear what a normal day from her is like.”

“Call the supervisor. Bill Henken. He can fill you in. But if you think she's about to start taking hostages, don't hesitate to let me know.”

“I'll give him a call.”

Vanko was transferred once before getting the supervisor on the line. “I'm calling about Sheila Burkhart. She's been transferred to my squad.”

“I'm sorry I had to move her out, Nick; she's a hell of a worker. One of those people with no life outside the job. Unfortunately, it got out of hand. Did she tell you about her
serial killer
case?”

“Just that only one of the victims had been found.”

“There
is
only one victim, a twelve-year-old from Spanish Harlem, a year ago. But every time a girl runs away or is missing up there for a few hours, Sheila started looking for a way to link it to the Suzie Castillo case. She runs around interviewing every known sex offender in the tristate area even if they're just flashers, trying to attribute everything to some serial murderer stalking East Harlem. I couldn't get her to go home. I mean I had to threaten her so she'd leave at night, then it got to the point where she'd sneak back after I left.”

“So far, she sounds like a supervisor's dream.”

“You saw her. She didn't look like that when she got here. I mean—God forgive me—she was no dazzling beauty when she reported in, but she looks considerably worse now. She's lost weight, and I think she forgets to comb her hair half the time.”

“She does look a little run-down.”

“Some of the guys were having their wives pack an extra lunch for her because either she didn't have an appetite or was too busy and would forget to eat, we don't know. But the final straw was when she moved.”

“Moved where?”

“Up to East Harlem.
El barrio.
Didn't give any notice to her landlord in Queens, nothing. Left all her personal stuff behind.”

“Do you think the Castillo girl was a serial killing?”

“It was a rape-murder, so it could have been, who knows. But these people get caught for other crimes and spend the rest of their lives in jail and never get matched up. The important thing is no one's killed any more girls since then. There's enough to do in this city without creating monsters, so we've moved on. She couldn't.”

“I appreciate the information, Bill.”

“Don't get me wrong, she's great. If I had a dozen like her I'd put myself out of business. It's just that she needed to get away from that case.”

After he hung up, Vanko buzzed Abby at her desk. “Did Sheila give you her address?”

“Ah, let me see. Yes, here it is.”

“Where is it?”

“Can this be right—East Harlem?”

 

Sheila Burkhart was hunched over her Bureau-issue laptop entering names, dates of birth, and Social Security numbers into it. At it for hours, she was unaware that the sun had set and the only light in her apartment was the optic gray glow from the computer screen. Her workstation was a battered Formica and chrome dinette table that had come with the one-room third-floor walk-up. She had pushed the table against the nearest wall, which she used as a bulletin board. Tacked to it was a detailed map of the neighborhood and five crime-scene photos from the Suzie Castillo case, her twisted body proof of the unmistakable violence that had caused her death, her face blue, swollen, decaying. Above them was a school photo of the pretty twelve-year-old. On the right side of the map, as if buffered from the violence, were photos of eight other young girls, supplied to the police by parents.

A soft knock at the door startled her. For a panicked moment she couldn't recall where her gun was. Then she reached under the table for her briefcase and retrieved her nine-millimeter. Getting up from the table, she suddenly realized it was dark out. Who could this be? She flattened herself against the wall next to the door. As loudly and violently as possible, she drew the slide back to chamber a round.
“¿Quién es?”
she demanded, then lowering her voice into a more menacing range,
“¿Que quiere?”

“I come in peace, Sheila.”

“Nick?”

“Yes ma'am.” She undid the locks and opened the door. Vanko stood in the hallway's pale yellow light, a pizza box in one hand and twelve-pack of beer in the other. Seeing the gun dangling from her hand, he suddenly questioned why he had come. He wasn't any more ready for this than she was. “I'm sorry, this isn't the right kind of beer?”

She stepped aside and invited him in. “You know what I love most about New York? Men keep bringing me food. Looks like somebody called my old supervisor.”

Switching on the light, she set down the gun and took the pizza box from him, the odor of cheese and sauce displacing the dank, mildewy air. “How crazy did he say I was?”

He looked around the room. “Pretty crazy.”

“Pretty crazy by their standards or by yours?”

“They said you moved here.”

“Sounds like you're about to agree with them.”

“I probably will, but give me a minute to make it look like I'm judging you fairly.” He cracked open two cans of beer and handed one to her. The apartment was dismal. The living room, if it could be classified as that, was no more than an extension of the kitchen. Against the far wall was an aged purple velvet couch, its arms threadbare, a folded blanket and pillow at one end. A low table sat in front of it crowded with stacks of folders. She moved them onto the floor and put down the pizza.

He took a sip of beer and walked over to the kitchen table, scanning the stacks of documents and the half-finished page on the laptop screen. Next to it was a small box with young girls' photographs. Each had a pinhole at the top suggesting that at one time they had been tacked to the wall. He looked at the map and photos on the wall. He noticed something curious about Suzie Castillo's school picture. He studied the photos of the eight other girls on the opposite side of the map. Three of them shared the same unusual characteristic, which he decided not to tell Sheila about. The last thing she needed was encouragement.

All four faces in question were distinctly Hispanic, each exceptionally pretty with striking chiaroscuro features. All the reports of Sheila's abnormal behavior made him wonder if she was driven by some sort of delusional fantasy about their beauty. Then, taking another swallow of beer, he decided that if anyone was overwrought, it was him.

He stared at her until she felt his gaze. She had a way of listening to him that made him feel that the only thing more important than what he was about to say was that it was him saying it. He wondered if she was that receptive to everyone, which made him realize that he didn't really know her. It was too soon to be doing this. For two people who were so straightforward, coming here was turning out to be unbelievably awkward.

“Don't get me wrong,” he said, “I'm a big fan of obsession. It's made my job a lot more interesting, but in a good year, there are more than a thousand homicides in the city. Why are you letting this one eat you up?”

“One? I guess we know whose side you landed on.”

“Do you think I came here because I'm on someone else's side? You were transferred from the task force so you wouldn't work this. You're the one who told me it had ahold of you. And it doesn't look like it's getting any better.”

Calmly, she said, “This guy has killed more than one girl.”

“Okay, then where are the victims?”

Sheila pointed at the eight photographs on the wall. “Right there.”

Vanko went over to the kitchen table and picked up the box of pinholed photos. “Then who are these? Weren't all of them on the wall at one time?” When she didn't answer, he said, “They found their way home, didn't they?”

She collapsed on the couch, trying to decide if this was the same man whose honesty she had found so rare when they met. She knew he was, and that made his judgment about her more reliable than her own. She studied his crooked face for a long time. He didn't seem to mind. This was someone she would always be able to trust. “This is
eating me up
because they are all so beautiful. At that age, they are as perfect as they will ever be, and even if he's only killed Suzie Castillo, that's reason enough.” Her tone gave a final surge of protest. “And just maybe I was put here to get a little crazy.”

“And who's making sure you don't become a casualty?”

Her eyes softened and she looked down. “I do keep having nightmares. The usual stuff: chasing this shadowy figure, shooting and missing, out of ammunition, being shot at with no place to hide. But they always end the same way: I stumble across another body.”

“I've had dreams, too. Mine mostly involve car crashes. Do you know what the worst part is for me? That I'm always alone.”

She stared at him for a few moments. “Yes.” Then the corners of her mouth curled mischievously. “Well, Nikko, to answer your question about who's making sure I don't become a casualty, I believe that unfortunate torch has been passed to you.” She flipped open the pizza box.

He spotted a package of paper napkins in the kitchen. Taking out two, he walked to the couch. With a flourish, he shook one out and covered her lap with it. Her thighs registered the paper's frail pressure, anticipating something more—the weight of his touch. But it never came. Long ago, after declaring loneliness a vice, she had ordered herself to disconnect from those feelings and had pulled a shield between herself and any future expectations. There were other, more “noble” ways to burn each day from the calendar. It hadn't been a perfect diversion, but it worked well enough—until now, when a single moment of anticipation had extinguished a fairly reliable system of denial. But he had given no indication of feeling the same way. She began to wonder if he had come because he was a man, or because he was a good boss.

He sat down across from her, spreading a napkin across his own lap. She watched as his hands settled onto it. Then she realized he was waiting for her to start.

 

Nick Vanko stepped into his apartment and flipped on the light. The sound had an unusual hollowness to it, as if the one-bedroom loft had been stripped of its furnishings during his absence. It always looked the same, no matter what he was doing. The furniture, most of which had been purchased as floor samples, was arranged like a set for some glossy magazine. He thought of Sheila's apartment and smiled.

The quiet began buzzing in the back of his head like an approaching army of cicadas. Maybe a movie would distract him. He had a collection of more than two hundred black-and-white videos. There was something about the old movies he loved—the lighting, the preposterous sets, the two-dimensionality. But most of all it was the stories' stark moral dilemmas. He pushed
David and Lisa
into the VCR. As the credits rolled, his thoughts raced to the final scene, which he had seen a dozen times. David, a young man in a mental facility who is unable to let anyone touch him, falls in love with another patient, Lisa, and just before the final credits, in another of Hollywood's miracles, lets her touch him. It should have been the perfect distraction, but happy endings sold tickets only because they were so elusive in real life. He turned off the VCR and opened a couple of windows to let in the street noise below his SoHo loft, but tonight it was disappointingly quiet.

He and Sheila had finished the pizza and half the beer. Despite the dreary surroundings, they fell into a relaxed conversation about growing up in places as diverse as Iowa and New Jersey. For someone so obsessed, her sense of humor was uninhibited, and the more they talked, the more incisive it became. Little, it seemed, escaped her notice.