Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “I can understand you not wanting to continue that arrangement. Be patient. Lewis will show you out.”

  Ten minutes after leaving Damone’s building, Carvelli pulled into the lot of a Best Buy store. Before he went inside, he literally tore his burner phone apart to deposit in the trash receptacle by the door. Ten minutes later he came out with a fully charged, prepaid phone with five hundred minutes on it. He was about to get in his car when he decided to make the three calls he needed to make.

  “Hello, Johnson,” he heard the first call being answered.

  “Agent Johnson, Carvelli calling. I got a new number.”

  “Which I now have,” Johnson said. “Did you meet with him?”

  “I did. I think I’m in.”

  Carvelli quickly gave the FBI agent a short briefing on the meeting.

  “So, it’s not done, though.”

  “Not for sure, but I saw his greedy little eyes light up when we discussed volume. He’ll go.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Um,” Carvelli said, then paused.

  “What?” Johnson asked.

  “Nothing yet, but something, maybe,”

  “What the hell does that mean, Carvelli?”

  “I’ll stay in touch. I gotta make another call.”

  “Damn it, Carvelli!” Johnson yelled into an empty phone.

  The second call was to Franklin to give him the new number, let him know the meeting was fine and that he was cut loose for the day.

  “Hey, Dan. It’s Tony. I got a new number. The old one might be bugged. Did you stay with him?”

  “Yeah. He’s sitting in a parking lot of a Perkins behind the restaurant. There’s an alley in front of him and some houses across from that.”

  Sorenson gave him his location and Carvelli said he was on the way. It was a thirty-minute drive from the Best Buy to where Sorenson was watching the van. When Carvelli got there, he parked next to Sorenson and removed the putty from around his nose and face.

  Carvelli finished cleaning off the disguise from his face and then joined Sorenson.

  “Is he still in there?”

  “Yeah. Every few minutes I can see the van move as if someone is moving around inside. What do you want to do?”

  “I should have called Maddy for this. She’s gonna be mad at me for not doing that. But I didn’t have time.”

  “Maddy? Who’s in there? Marc with some woman he’s bouncing around with?”

  Carvelli laughed and said, “No, nothing like that. Let’s go.”

  The two men crossed the street and into the restaurant’s lot. There were no other cars around the van. The van itself had no windows except the ones for the front seat. Because of that, Carvelli and Sorenson were able to easily sneak up on it.

  Carvelli very slowly, very quietly pushed down on the handle of the sliding side door. It was unlocked and when it clicked open, he quickly tossed the door back and jumped in.

  The van’s owner was sitting in the driver’s seat with a pair of expensive headphones on. He felt more than heard the door being opened. By the time he turned around Carvelli was on his knees behind the driver’s captain’s chair, his face less than six inches from the driver. Seeing a man staring right at him, the driver let out a sharp scream and would have fallen but for the steering wheel.

  “Hi, Conrad. How’ve you been?” Carvelli asked as Conrad Hilton clutched at his chest.

  Forty-Four

  “Jesus H. Christ, Carvelli! One of these days you’re gonna do that and I’m gonna fall over dead!” Conrad said.

  By now, Dan Sorenson had climbed into the van and closed the door. He was laughing so hard he missed the portable chair and landed on the floor of the van.

  “It’s not funny, Sorenson,” an annoyed Conrad said.

  “Gimme these,” Carvelli said as he reached for Conrad’s headphones.

  “No, no,” Conrad said as he tried to push Carvelli’s hand away.

  “What do you have going here?” Carvelli asked as he wrestled with Conrad for the headphones.

  “This is attorney-client privileged information,” Conrad said holding onto the headphones.

  “Well, in that case, we should all listen in,” Carvelli said as he pulled the plug on the headphones connected to Conrad’s equipment. Given the volume Conrad had the recorder set to, the interior of the van was immediately filled with very loud noises. The noises could only charitably be described as very passionate.

  “So, where’s the camera?” Carvelli asked.

  “No camera,” Conrad sullenly replied.

  “Conrad! Where’s the camera?”

  “No camera. Sound only.”

  “Who you are working for, the husband or the wife?” Sorenson asked.

  “None of your business. That’s privileged,” Conrad said.

  By now, Carvelli had found the volume knob on Conrad’s equipment. He turned it down while saying, “We’re gonna draw a crowd if we keep that up.” Carvelli looked at Conrad and asked, “Husband or wife?”

  “I’m working for the husband,” he reluctantly answered.

  “So that’s the wife?” Sorenson asked. “Passionate little devil.”

  “Don’t you wish Marge could stay awake long enough to…” Carvelli started to ask.

  “No kidding. What’s this guy’s name. I need to talk to him. Find out his secret.”

  “She’s a hottie, too,” Conrad said. “But I don’t think he knows the secret. I think she’s um, well, ah, working. And acting.”

  “She’s hooking! Are you serious?” Carvelli asked.

  “Pretty sure,” Conrad said. “She’s doing two or three different guys a day. Believe me, none of ‘em are male models. That house across the alley right in front of us. They drive in through the alley and park in the neighbor’s driveway.”

  “Sounds like they’re done,” Sorenson said.

  “So, she’s hooking in their house…”

  “His house. Had it before they got married,” Conrad said.

  “His house, during the day while he’s at work,” Carvelli finished. “She deserves to get popped. What does he do?”

  “Sales for some small tech firm. He travels a bit.”

  “You plan on being out here for another month or so?” Carvelli asked.

  “Nope,” Conrad said. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  He left them sitting in the van while he walked down the alley to the house next to his target. Conrad used his phone to take several shots of the customer’s car, including the license plate.

  “I got enough,” he said when he climbed back in the van. “Believe it or not, it gets boring sitting here listening to this.”

  An older man and a much younger woman appeared at the back door. Conrad picked up a DSLR from the passenger seat with a 300mm lens. He took several photos of them while they kissed.

  “He must have money, too,” Conrad said. “That’s a shiny new Benz he has parked next door.”

  “We need to talk, Conrad,” Carvelli said.

  “Okay, so talk,” Conrad said while he scrolled through the photos he had taken. “See, she is a hottie,” Conrad said as he held up the camera for Sorenson to take a look.

  “Oh, my,” Sorenson said. “Yes, indeed.”

  He was looking at a photo of her with her robe open wearing nothing underneath.

  “Put that away,” Carvelli said.

  “We’re going to Jake’s. You follow me, Dan will follow you. Hey! Put it away,” he yelled at the two men who were still scrolling through the photos.

  “And if I say no,” Conrad said.

  Carvelli leaned in close across the front seat, looked directly at Conrad and said, “There’s money in it for you. We’re working on Vivian’s dime.”

  “Hey! Where’s my girl? Where’s Maddy?”

  “Your girl?” Carvelli asked.

  “I can have fantasies, too,” Conrad said.

  “You better hope I don’t tell her that,” Carvelli said.r />
  “Good point.”

  The short, three-car caravan pulled up in front of Jake’s Limo Service. Carvelli had called ahead, so Jake was expecting them.

  “Have a seat, Conrad,” Carvelli said.

  While Conrad nervously said hello to Jake and sat down in the chair Carvelli indicated, Carvelli’s personal phone rang. He took a quick peek at the ID.

  “Hang on a second, I have to take this,” he told the others.

  “What did you come up with?”

  “Well, it’s kind of interesting,” Paul Baker, Carvelli’s hacker, replied. “I have six different looks, all similar to a certain degree. I ran them all through various facial recognition programs, including the one used by a certain company near Washington that I won’t talk about over the phone. Don’t try guessing. Just get over here as soon as possible.”

  “It’s that good?”

  “Yeah,” Baker replied.

  “I’m in a meeting and I’m not sure how long it will last. I’ll be there when I can,” Carvelli assured him.

  Carvelli had his back turned to Conrad. He replaced his phone as he turned to look at him.

  “Why am I here?” Conrad asked.

  Waschke was seated at his desk, Sorenson next to Conrad on his right. Carvelli pulled up a metal folding chair with a padded seat and sat down in front of Conrad. He brushed an imaginary piece of lint off Conrad’s knee while Conrad nervously looked about.

  “Am I being kidnapped?” Conrad asked.

  “Shut up,” Carvelli said. “We’re just looking for a little information.”

  “Why did we have to come here…”

  “A little information about you and Damone Watson,” Carvelli said.

  “Who?” Conrad asked, sounding like an owl.

  Carvelli narrowed his eyes, frowned and nodded at Sorenson who gave Conrad a light slap on the back of his head.

  Waschke, enjoying the show, laughed and said, “I do, occasionally, miss the fun of dealing with some idiot who thinks he knows more than we do.”

  “Should we try it again?” Carvelli asked.

  “Okay,” Conrad said rubbing the back of his head.

  “That didn’t hurt, you weenie,” Sorenson said.

  “You and Damone Watson, pals are you?” Carvelli asked.

  “No, I, ah, just sweep his office every couple of weeks,” Conrad said.

  When he said it, his eyes gave him away. For a brief instant, they shifted between Carvelli, Waschke and Sorenson. Barely noticeable to the untrained eye, to three experienced detectives, it was the equivalent of an obvious tell to a professional poker player. So much so that Conrad may as well have held up a sign that read: “I’m lying.”

  The room went silent for a moment and then Carvelli nodded at Sorenson again. The slap was a touch harder this time.

  “Oww! Dammit!” Conrad howled, then began rubbing the back of his head. “I just do a little…”

  Carvelli held up an index finger in front of Conrad’s eyes which shut him up.

  “Conrad,” Carvelli softly began, “have we ever mistreated you…”

  “Yes! Several times.”

  “Okay. Let me rephrase that. Have we ever mistreated you when you were straight with us?”

  “Probably. I just don’t remember right now.” As he said this, Sorenson raised his left hand as if to slap him again. Conrad winced, put his hands up for protection and ducked.

  When he realized Sorenson was not going to slap him again, a thought occurred to him.

  “Hey, how do you know I’ve done work for Damone?”

  “What difference does that make? We know,” Carvelli said. “I saw you come out of his building earlier. One of his guys was escorting you to your van.

  “Conrad,” he continued. “I had a meeting with him right after you left. I don’t know how I know, but I do know I was being filmed. I was meeting in his conference room on the second floor. He almost insisted I sit in the first chair to his right. That’s the best one for monitoring his guests, isn’t it?”

  By now Carvelli had leaned forward so much that he was barely an inch from Conrad’s, nose.

  “Yeah, it is,” Conrad whispered.

  “Video, audio, both?”

  “Both,” Conrad said. “The entire second floor, including his private office.”

  “Does he know his private office is wired for sound and video?” Jake asked.

  “Yeah, well, mostly,” Conrad said.

  “What does that mean: mostly?” Carvelli asked.

  Before Conrad could answer, Jake stood up, sat on the edge of his desk, looked down at him and said, “I think I know. You have him wired so when he shuts it off, he only shuts off the part he gets. You have the place set up so that he is always wired, but only you know that.”

  “And you still get both video and audio when Damone thinks it’s shut off,” Carvelli said. “You sneaky little devil. How long have you been doing this to customers and how much money have you made blackmailing them?”

  “Not a dime, I swear,” Conrad said. “And I don’t do it to everyone. Only those I feel the need to cover my ass.”

  By now the bead of sweat that Conrad had around his receding hairline had burst like a dam.

  “If he finds out…” a badly shaken Conrad started to say.

  “If he finds out this guy will barbeque you. Alive,” Waschke replied.

  “Where are you keeping this?” Carvelli asked.

  “On a private, off-site server. I have it well protected,” Conrad said. “No way can I let you guys have access to it.”

  “How long would it take your guy to hack it?” Sorenson asked Carvelli.

  “Couple days.”

  “Paul’s good, but not that good,” Conrad said. He had worked with Paul before and knew the man was very capable.

  “Okay, three days. But he’s not going to because Conrad’s going to get us the juiciest stuff.”

  “Hey, why were you meeting with him?” Conrad finally asked Carvelli.

  “Your guy’s going down,” Carvelli replied. “And you should be thankful we caught up with you before you go down with him.”

  Forty-Five

  “Hey, dude, where’s the Camaro?” Paul Baker asked Carvelli.

  Paul had been anxiously waiting for him, even going so far as to look out front every few minutes. He saw the Lincoln park in front and was disappointed to see Carvelli was still driving it.

  Carvelli came through the front door Paul was holding for him and said, “It’s in storage and what have I told you about calling me ‘dude’?”

  “Sorry, dude,” Paul replied.

  They went into the first-floor living room where the hacker was set up on a large, wide-screen TV to show Carvelli what he had found. Before taking a seat on the couch, Carvelli looked around with a sour expression on his face.

  “You gotta stop living like this,” Carvelli said. “I consider you a friend and I’m telling you, this is not healthy.”

  “You gonna bust my balls over the way I live?”

  “Yes! Since I’ve known you, you’ve gained, what, eighty pounds?”

  “Nah, come on man. I don’t know. Maybe thirty, no more than forty,” Paul seriously said. “A little, but ya’ know.”

  “Bullshit. At least fifty. And bathe every day. Open some windows. Get a haircut, buy a razor. For God’s sake, go outside once in a while!”

  “Hey, are you done stepping on my nuts, Mr. Health Freak?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean… I guess…you don’t look good and it’s not healthy.”

  “Sit down before you say something that will hurt my feelings.”

  Carvelli sat down on the couch and Paul took an armchair in front of the coffee table. He picked up a small stack of prints and handed them to Carvelli, who started to look through them.

  “This him? This is the homeless guy who was behind Ferguson in the street?”

  “Maybe,” Paul said. “I think it’s pretty close, but I can’t be positive
.”

  “Well, the guys went through all of the homeless spots here and over in St. Paul. No one recognized him with the makeup and facial hair,” Carvelli said. He had carefully looked through all six prints and was about to put them back in the envelope when Paul stopped him.

  “Wait a minute. Take out number six. Number five, too.”

  Carvelli held them up in the light side-by-side. “They look pretty similar.”

  “Yeah, watch this.”

  Paul turned the television on. There was a photo already on it of a much younger man. Carvelli looked at the two photos again and then held them to compare each to the man on the screen.

  “He’s quite a bit younger,” Carvelli said referring to the man on the TV screen.

  “He’d be about twenty, twenty-two,” Paul said about the younger man on TV.

  “Yeah, okay,” Carvelli said.

  “Now look at this,” Paul said. He picked up a print lying face down on the table and handed it to him.

  “Jesus, that’s him,” Carvelli said meaning the younger man on TV was the same person as the print Paul handed him. “Or his twin. How…”

  “I took prints five and six and ran them through aging software. I took twenty years off of them and voila, there he was.”

  Paul pointed at the print Carvelli was still holding, number seven, the younger man, and said, “Print seven is number six with twenty years removed.”

  “Okay, who is he? Who’s the guy on TV?”

  “I printed this off for you,” Paul said as he handed Carvelli a stapled, multi-page document.

  Carvelli scanned the top of the first page and asked, “Is this his military record?”

  “Yeah,” Paul said.

  “So, you got into the Pentagon,” Carvelli replied. A statement, not a question.

  “Well, um, yeah, I did, but that’s not where I found this,” Paul said.

  Carvelli looked at him with a curious expression.

  “I got this, his picture and records from the CIA. In fact, the Pentagon didn’t have his records anymore. Take some time to read them and you’ll see why,” Paul said. “You want a beer?”