The Big Scam (31 page)

She could see the suspicion in his eyes. He was trying to hold on to any thread of hope, telling himself that nothing could be proven. “Alex, why do you hate your mother?”

He glared at her. “I love my mother.”

“Is that why you put Suzie Castillo's body in that disgusting pose so close to your mother's home? ‘Disgusting'—is that what she called the things you did growing up? Tell me, Alex, did it work? Did she actually see the body? I guess it doesn't really matter. You raped and killed Suzie, that's really how you got even with all of us women, isn't it?”

His eyes slowly traced the details of her face. His cold, salacious grin caused her hand to slip to her weapon involuntarily. “Ironic, isn't it?” he said. “Driven by jealousy, I would assume.”

“What is?”

“That someone as unattractive as you would solve the killings of such beautiful creatures.”

Sheila felt her heart pump three hard strokes. He had said “killing
s.”
Did that mean Adelina Lopez was already dead? “Open it.”

He forced a final arrogant snort through his nose and then said, “The release is on the wall outside. I'll have to show you.”

“You wouldn't be thinking about running?”

“I'm doing this to prolong my life, not to end it.”

“Good read on your part.”

“It's spring-loaded. Someone will have to stand in the corner where the dog was to take the tension off the release.”

Sheila started to ask him how he had done it when he was alone, but then realized he must have used the weight of his victim. She directed one of the uniformed officers to stand next to the wall.

At the back of the garage, Tolenka pulled up the lowest strip of siding, which was connected by two hidden hinges. A long metal rod was held between two eyebolts. He slid it clear.

A small section of the floor lifted. One of the officers grabbed the edge and pulled it up, shining his light into the chamber below. Sheila looked down into the squinting eyes of Adelina Lopez. She was still in her school uniform and her mouth, arms, and legs were heavily taped. Sheila jumped down the five feet. Stan Lasky followed. The two of them lifted her up so she could be pulled out. Lasky shined his light around the underground room. There was a single folding chair and a large cardboard box. Reluctantly Sheila looked inside and recognized the two items sealed in clear plastic bags—Catholic school uniforms, one from Miraculous Medal, Suzie Castillo's school, and the other, the same as Adelina Lopez's, from Saint Michael's where some of the other missing girls had been students. Another girl was dead. Sheila collapsed onto the chair. She would be the one who would have to figure out who it was—and then tell the parents.

IDA AND TATORRIO ARRIVED AT THE CLUB TO
report that they had located a cemetery that would suit their needs. It was an hour north of the city on the way to Phoenicia and fairly isolated. But as soon as they walked in, someone flung open the door and more than a dozen cops streamed in behind them, guns out, telling everyone to freeze. They were from the state police organized crime unit. Their lieutenant announced that a search warrant for the premises had been issued, and they had arrest warrants for everyone present.

“On what charges?” Parisi demanded.

“Violation of state gambling and loansharking statutes.” The detective then started droning their Miranda rights, as a pair of cops frisked each man and put flex-cuffs on him.

“Can we post bail?”

“Not tonight, it's too late.”

“I don't suppose you waited until now just so we'd spend the night in jail.”

The cop smiled. “I'd like to think I'm that clever, but actually we've been waiting for the last two of your little ensemble to show up. We wanted everyone at once.”

“But I've got something I have to do tonight.”

The detective laughed. “Oh, in that case you can all go.”

 

DeMiglia had fallen asleep on the couch in his office, and his cell phone rang three times before he answered it. “Yeah.”

It was Garrett Egan. “We've got a problem.”

It took him a moment to recognize Egan's voice. “Why're you calling me?”

“Parisi and his entire crew have been arrested. And they're not being arraigned until tomorrow.”

“Where are you calling me from?”

“Don't worry about the phone, I'm in my supervisor's office.”

“What are you doing there now?”

“I had a late meeting with my lawyer when I got the call on my cell. I decided to drive over here; I know these lines are secure.”

“What were they arrested for?” DeMiglia said.

“Gambling and loansharking. Parisi had some guy from the lockup call me. He didn't want any calls directly from him to you or me. He told this guy to tell me that he wouldn't be able to make that funeral arrangement, and I should call you. Gave me your number.”

“Motherfucker! I should have never relied on that amateur to do anything. That
motherfucker.”

“Stop and think about it,” Egan said. “Which is better—splitting whatever's in that box with Parisi and all of his crew or just between you and me? I think we're at a point now that you and I could find it without anybody's help. You supply the body, and I'll locate the box.”

“What do you mean by
split
?”

“I could be greedy at this point, but I have to respect your, ah, position in the community. I was thinking twenty-five percent.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“Exactly one-third of what you'd be getting. We're talking about millions of dollars. Does it really matter if I'm getting someone's share who's in jail?”

“What if someone decides to cut a deal and tell the Feds about the treasure?”

“First of all, none of them know for sure that it exists. Hell, we're not even sure. We saw a rectangle on a computer printout, nothing more. So if you and I don't ever say anything about finding it, how are they going to prove it? Parisi can't say anything because he'd have to tell them that he set up the whole Mafia graveyard scam. They're just going to have to sit and take it. Even if the Bureau find out that it exists, we'll have the assets hidden by then. There's nothing they can do. Believe me, I know, I've been on the other side.”

“What about Parisi, is he going to prison?”

“That sounds almost like you want him to.”

“Never mind what I want, is he going to prison?”

“I don't know anything about the case. Traditionally, gambling and loansharking cases are not prison makers. Gambling is usually a slap on the wrist, and loansharking—well, I don't have to tell you—the victim has severe memory loss just before the trial. So I'd have to say no. If for some reason you do want him out of the way, that's something you're going to have to take care of yourself. But I sure as hell don't need to know about it.”

DeMiglia looked over at the ashtray on the table. One of Parisi's filtered cigarette butts was standing up in it. “I'll meet you at four a.m. in Phoenicia in the train station parking lot.”

“Four a.m., in Phoenicia. Don't forget my briefcase and charts,” Egan said. “And I am assuming you're bringing that extra person?”

“Yeah, I guess I'll have to. You know what they say, if you want something done right, you have to do him yourself.”

Egan hung up Vanko's phone and listened for a few seconds. Had someone come in while he was on the phone? He peeked out into the bullpen. No one was there. He listened for a few more seconds and left.

Charles Lansing came out of the vault. When the Newark surveillance units put Egan, Parisi, and DeMiglia at the After Hours together, they had called him. He met up with them and waited for Egan outside his lawyer's office. When Egan came out, he was talking on his cell phone. He hung up and headed for the off-site.

Lansing called the surveillance units. “He's on his way out. Whatever you do, don't lose him. It's going down.”

He then called the chief inspector. “Cal, it's me. Looks like tonight is the night. He's meeting with the underboss up in Phoenicia. Surveillance is on both of them. He was talking about bringing another person. And he used the phrase ‘millions of dollars.'”

“Think it's the head of the family?”

“Well, it was cryptic enough that I think it's a good possibility.”

“When are they meeting?”

“Four a.m. Up in Phoenicia.”

“Pick me up at the hotel at midnight.”

 

Danny DeMiglia and Angelo sat in the silver Cadillac at the Phoenicia train station. It was four-fifteen. “Where is this guy?” DeMiglia said. “You got those cigarette butts, right?”

Angelo patted his jacket pocket. “This FBI Mok, you really giving him twenty-five percent?”

DeMiglia gave him a sideways glance. “Of course.” Both men laughed. “As soon as he shows us where the box is, he's going to become a
fugitive.
Couldn't take the idea of prison for that insider-trading rap. Maybe we'll bury him in the same hole that the Dutchman dug to hide his treasure. It gives the whole thing a nice, what do you call it, symmetricalness. Yeah, the Dutchman would have liked that, taking the treasure out and putting a Fed in.”

 

Lansing and Cal Winston were parked a hundred yards away. They watched the silver Cadillac, its exhaust rising through the red glow of the car's taillights. On the Bureau radio, they listened to the slow, rhythmic cant of the New Jersey agents following Egan. “It sounds like they're almost here,” Winston said. “When do you think we should move in?”

“You're the boss, Cal, but I'd say if we see any kind of exchange, that'd be the time. We certainly missed that chance at the New Jersey motel.”

“That ‘millions of dollars,' you don't think that's a payoff, do you?”

“I really don't know. We know they're trying to find something buried in the ground. Whether it's a payoff or some kind of hidden cache of money, it'll play well either way with the media.”

One of the surveillance units called in. “We're coming up on the railroad turnoff. How close do you want us?”

Lansing picked up the mike. “We've got an eye on the target, so you can lean back a little. We'll give you the word when we're going to take them down.”

Less than a minute later, a second set of headlights wheeled into the parking lot. Egan pulled up next to the Cadillac.

“Nice night for a burial,” Egan said.

“Where do you want him?” asked DeMiglia.

“I want to take one last look at those charts to make sure.”

Through the binoculars, Lansing watched DeMiglia pass the briefcase through the window. He immediately radioed, “All units move in.”

By the time the two inspectors got there, the Newark agents had the three men spread-eagled against their cars. Lansing retrieved the briefcase. “Well, well, well. I wonder what's in here.” He pulled open the case and was stunned to find nothing but charts in it.

Suddenly two powerful searchlights snapped on. At the same time, Beck Logan, the assistant director in charge of the New York division, walked out of the station with Nick Vanko. Logan glared at the inspectors. “What are you two doing here?”

A dozen New York agents stepped out from their hiding places, mostly in the heavy woods around the parking lot.

Lansing said, “We developed information that this agent was involved in supplying information to members of the Galante crime family. We had reason to believe he was about to meet with the head of the family and be paid a bribe.”

“Since this is my division, and my agent, did it occur to you that you should have come to me?” Logan said.

Winston said, “No disrespect, sir, but we were afraid of leaks.”

“No disrespect! This breaches every protocol within the Bureau. Who are these agents?”

“They're from the Newark office.”

Logan shook his head and turned around. “The agents from Newark, I'm Assistant Director Logan. There's been a misunderstanding here. Thank you for your efforts, but you can go home now. You will be contacted for statements by someone from this division in a few days.” The New York agents took custody of DeMiglia and his driver. Logan looked at Winston and Lansing. “Tomorrow morning in my office, nine a.m. You've embarrassed me not only within the division, but evidently Bureau-wide. Better make it ten o'clock. I need to make some calls about your futures before we speak. Let's get this over with, Nick.”

DeMiglia had been handcuffed. Vanko unbuttoned the underboss's shirt and stuck a folded document inside. “Daniel DeMiglia, this is a search warrant for your car.” He leaned in the window and took the keys out of the ignition.

“Hey, I want a lawyer. You've got no right to search my car.”

Vanko opened the trunk and was hit by the stench of a decomposing body. He looked at DeMiglia. “Judge William Ferris, I presume.” Egan walked over and looked at the body. DeMiglia suddenly realized that the agent wasn't under arrest, and a mixture of confusion and anger knotted his face. Vanko smiled. “It's really not that hard to figure out. When you started talking about getting a body any way you could, Garrett knew he was in over his head. So he had his lawyer call the assistant director. I had the state police arrest Parisi and his crew so you'd have to come up with a body. We kept our fingers crossed it would be the judge.”

“I want my lawyer.”

“As soon as we get back to the office, you can give him a call. You can also tell him that we installed a GPS unit on your car a week ago. Remember when you had to leave it at the shop because it wasn't running right? Nice thing about the device is it just receives, so when you had your car swept for a transmitter, it couldn't be detected. As soon as the techs pull the device off, it'll tell us where you dug up the body. I'm sure a thorough crime scene investigation will tie up all the loose ends nicely. The jury is going to love this—no thinking required.”

 

Lansing spent a restless night trying to deny the insistent image of his career plummeting to earth, leaving only a tiny, silent puff of dust to mark its impact. But somewhere in his subconscious his mind forged a maxim: Mistakes don't end careers, regret does. He awoke and went to the window, a porthole of light, of safety. Below was New York's great wheel of humanity—eternally resilient, proudly defiant, its discontent suddenly reassuring. He resolved never to allow himself the luxury of remorse. Even though Logan was about to throw an oversized monkey wrench into his career, Lansing could see past it. Logan was powerful but would retire soon. Lansing had to append himself to someone who would have rank in the future. Cal Winston was in position to be a perfect host.

First, the damage Lansing had inflicted upon himself had to be minimized. All the cases of misconduct he had investigated had taught him that however counterintuitive it was, the best thing was to take full responsibility for his actions. Besides, trying to blame the entire incident on Vanko's lack of leadership, or any other vaguely conspiratorial act, would not sell to a pragmatist like Logan. Instead, this tactic would not only deflate Logan's bloodlust, but, more important, seal Winston's gratitude. Then, in the not too distant future, after the assistant director's retirement, Winston would be made an SAC somewhere—because of this setback, probably some urban, third-world office. But that was good because the overwhelming majority of aspiring ASACs had a historical aversion to such dismal assignments, which would make it easier for Lansing to gain the promotion.