The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

  I hesitate for a minute while the morning sun warms my face. Soon, all of Albany will be covered in gray clouds, snow, and cold for six months. It’s always been my plan to enjoy the sun for as long as I can, then spend the winters in Florida. But it never seems to work out that way.

  “You starting to have your doubts about our number one, left-handed murder suspect, Miller?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Now that we know Brit—or what the hell’s her real name, Tracy or is it Katy? Now we know she’s a serial extortionist and con woman, it sort of rubs me the wrong way that she would suddenly turn into a murderer. And a brutal murderer, at that. It would make more sense if she hired someone out to do the dirty work. But that’s just it. The murder was dirty, bloody, and completely unprofessional.”

  “A crime of passion on Brit’s part, maybe?” I say.

  “You tell me, Jobz,” he says. “You know her better than I do. She seem like a woman who can suddenly fly off into a rage so bad she’s willing to drive across town, break into a school, steal a carving knife, and go all Hitchcock Psycho on a young woman like Anita Simon?”

  I think about the way she’s been taking care of my mother. How she calmly sits by Mom’s side. How she made love to me inside her apartment. But then, I see her taking a picture of the very women who have likely been extorting tens of thousands from not only the Loudonville Elementary School cafeteria but possibly Ann Lee Home and who knows where else. I see a con woman who is capable of acting like the most loveable, cuddly, human being around. I also picture the cut on her dominant left hand.

  “Who knows what people are capable of, Miller,” I say, “when sufficiently provoked.”

  “You headed to the wake later?” the old detective asks.

  “Gonna make a stop first,” I inform him. “Ann Lee Home. Have a little talk with the director. See if the books have been balancing as of late or if they’re deep in the red.”

  “Good idea,” he says. “And Jobz.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If it turns out Brit isn’t Anita Simon’s murderer,” he says, “we’ve got a big problem on our hands.”

  “Means the Hitchcock Psycho is still out there,” I add.

  “Have a nice day, Norman Bates,” he says.

  “Have a better one,” I reply.

  Driving to Anne Lee Home, which happens to be located directly across from the Albany International Airport, I’m struck by how I’ve always dreaded this drive. Not that I dreaded visiting my mom, but I hated seeing her as a resident of a facility that reminded me of a nut house. That’s not to say Ann Lee isn’t a nice place for seniors who can’t exactly take complete care of themselves, it’s just that its clinical atmosphere is anything but homey, and my mother always loved her home.

  I pull into the drive knowing full well Mom isn’t here, and that it’s quite possible Brit has done something to her to make her act depressed and even delusional—something I plan on getting to the bottom of in just a few more hours. In the meantime, if I can gather enough evidence to suggest Brit is ripping off Ann Lee Home the same way she and her four cohorts were ripping off Loudonville Elementary School, we just might be able to bust her even before we start on the reheated lamb stew.

  I park the Mustang and head into the century-old stone and brick facility. I approach the nice, middle-aged woman who always greets me when I come for Monday Night meatloaf.

  “Why, Mr. Jobz,” she says, “how wonderful to see you. But you must realize that your mom isn’t here. She’s still at the Albany Medical Center.”

  “No, I get that, Maryanne,” I say. “But I was wondering if I might have a word with Director McCabe. Does he happen to be in?”

  “Oh dear,” the salt and pepper-haired woman says, “is something wrong? Other than your mom’s condition of course.”

  “No, nothing like that,” I say. “I need to discuss some personal business with him. Only take a few minutes.”

  She picks up the telephone handset, brings it to her ear.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she says. Then, “Yes, Mr. McCabe. I have Mr. Jobz here. He’d like a quick word with you.”

  McCabe says something to her. Just what he says, I have no clue. Probably something like, “Can’t you get rid of him for me? I’m busy.”

  Her eyes go from me to her desktop, to me again. I get the feeling he’s giving her a tough time, and she’s not appreciating it.

  “Okay then,” she says, finally. “I’ll send him up.”

  She hangs up. Looking up at me, she paints a fake smile on her face.

  “Mr. McCabe would be just delighted to speak with you, Mr. Jobz,” she says.

  She grabs hold of one of the visitor’s passes, hands it to me from across her desk.

  “Terrific,” I express, taking the pass and heading for the staircase beside the elevator.

  Instead of clipping it to my jacket, I shove it in my pocket, and rather than wait for an elevator, I take the stairs.

  George McCabe’s office is large and rectangular. The anti-room located just outside it houses a secretary who told me to just head on in. He’s on the phone as I enter, and he gestures for me to sit down in a tall, leather-backed chair set before his large glass desk.

  He’s nodding a lot to whatever the person on the connection is telling him. Every now and again, he adds a “Yup,” or an “I see,” or “I’ll look into it.” But in general, I get the feeling he’s pacifying someone he can’t stand.

  Eyeballing me while addressing whoever is on the line, he says, “Listen, Alicia, I’m gonna have to cut you short. I have a meeting I’m already late for.”

  He hangs up, inhales and exhales a deep breath while carving a smile on his long, goatee and mustache covered face. The kind of thick salt and pepper goatee and mustache late middle-aged men grow after they’ve gone bald, just to distract from their baldness.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Jobz,” he says, “just one of our board members looking for answers I can’t quite give her at present.”

  “I’m sorry,” I convey, not knowing what else to say since my ass has never been important enough to sit on a corporate board.

  “And if I have an answer, it’s usually not one they like to hear since it almost always involves my begging for more money.”

  “You have a tough job,” I state. “I imagine there’s a lot to juggle on limited resources.”

  It’s actually a good segue into what I wish to talk with the director about.

  “And doing so on limited resources is not always easy,” he says. “We’re a not-for-profit, after all. We rely on government subsidies, Medicaid and Medicare Programs, state and federal grants, plus generous donations just to turn the lights on every day.” He smiles like he knows he’s rambling. Rambling and complaining in front of a client. “But forgive me. How can I help you, Mr. Jobz? How is your mother fairing at Albany Med? I’ve been trying to get out to see her, but as you can see—”

  He waves his arm over the mountains of paperwork heaped on his desk. I’m guessing he has no real intention of ever going to see my mom, not that I can blame him. He probably doesn’t walk to the nearest bar when he’s done for the day. He most likely sprints.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “She’s being well cared for. And by the way, thanks for allowing your nurse, Brit Boido, to spend all that private time with her. I don’t know what I would do without Brit taking care of things. Really above and beyond.”

  His smile dissolves. He threads his fingers together, brings both hands around his head and uses it as a backrest, while sitting all the way back in his swivel chair.

  “As much as I would like to tell you I’ve loaned Brit out to the Albany Medical Center on your mother’s behalf, I can’t. She gave her two week notice a few days ago, probably around the time your mother left. Since she’s an independent contractor, I just decided to let her go that day. She more or less stormed out.”

  A noticeable increase in my blood pressure began.
r />   “Did she give a reason for wanting to leave?”

  McCabe purses his lips, brings his hands back around front, and sits up straight.

  “Something about having it up to here with nursing,” he says, bringing one hand to his neck as if to demonstrate. “It surprised me, because she seemed like such a nice young woman. A dedicated professional.”

  I nod, chew on my bottom lip for a beat.

  “Can I ask you a personal question, Mr. McCabe?” I say.

  “How personal?”

  “Personal in the business sense . . . as a client of the facility.”

  “I see.” His rapidly blinking eyes say different.

  “Now you’re really probably wondering what this is all about,” I admit.

  “If you’re suggesting this isn’t necessarily a private counsel about your mother,” he says, “you’re absolutely right, Mr. Jobz.”

  I pull out my wallet, show him my ID, then return it to my pocket.

  “As you know, I work for the New York State Department of Unemployment Insurance Fraud,” I say. “But I also sometimes work in collaboration with the Albany Police Department. As of late, I’ve been assigned to investigate a North Albany elementary school cafeteria worker who extorted an estimated five-hundred-thousand dollars from the school’s coffers. In a very incongruous way, that investigation has led not only to the unmasking of several partners in the extortion operation, but we now have a murder on our hands. A brutal murder.”

  His face goes a little pale.

  “That young grammar school principal in Loudonville,” he says.

  “Exactly,” I confirm.

  “So, how is it you’re here asking me about Brit?”

  I tell him about her ex, Dave Barter, and what he revealed about her real name and her criminal past.

  “Well, I’ll be dipped,” he says, wide-eyed. “Who’d have thought it from such a nice young woman?”

  “Well, have you happened to notice if your weekly bottom line has been more in the red than normal, Mr. McCabe?” I ask.

  I watch the Adam’s apple inside his neck bob up and down.

  “You don’t think—” he says.

  “I think,” I say.

  “Son of a bitch,” he says, biting down on his bottom lip.

  “Just plain bitch will more than sum it up,” I say.

  “We’ve been running in the red for almost two years straight, and no one can seem to account for it.”

  “How long has Brit been working here?”

  His Adam’s apple now bobbing more frantically.

  “Just under two fucking years,” he says, sitting back so hard in his chair I’m surprised the chair back doesn’t snap in two. “Excuse my language.”

  I stand, knowing full well it takes a lot for the Ann Lee Home director to drop an F-bomb.

  “It’s been great talking with you, Mr. McCabe,” I say. “I was you . . . I’d call in the accountants for an audit. I’ll make sure the department sends over a couple uniforms to ask a few questions.”

  “Thanks,” he says. But it’s one of those thanks he wishes he doesn’t have to convey. “Say hello to your lovely mother. We hope to see her again soon.”

  “I’ll tell her,” I say. “Not that she understands a word I’m saying.”

  Turning, I head for the door, and let myself out.

  I drive back in the direction of Loudonville. The wake is being held at a funeral home located maybe a half mile away from Loudonville Elementary School. Driving past it, I see yellow school buses pulled up for an early dismissal on account of Anita Simon’s wake. Something catches my attention. A scuffle going on in the middle of the school’s turnaround. Two boys mixing it up while a bunch of students surround them, shouting and egging them on. I could just continue to the funeral home, but the ex-cop in me urges me to pull over and diffuse the situation before somebody pokes an eye out or breaks a bone. After all, I have a sort of emotional connection to the Loudonville school now.

  I pull over onto the shoulder, kill the engine, get out. Making my way around the perimeter chain-link fence, I jog to the scene.

  “Let me through, kids,” I insist, shoving a few onlookers aside.

  One of the kid’s in the fight is small and thin. His nose and lip are bloodied. The other kid is tall and big for his age. He hasn’t a scratch on him. He’s landing round house after round house on the little guy. Reaching out, I grab Big Kid by his t-shirt collar, pull him away.

  “What the hell?” he spits.

  The anger in his face and body is palpable. The type of kid who’s angry not with any one in particular, but the entire world. Maybe even the universe.

  Little kid is now on his knees. He’s crying.

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” he says through his tears. “Billy just hates me.”

  Billy . . .

  Billy, I think. I take a good look at Big Kid. It’s the same kid who was sent to Principal Simon’s office a couple days back. The one who loved being there. The one who smiled and winked at me like he made sure he was going to be sent down to her office because he thought she was hot.

  “What’s happening here, kids?” I ask.

  “That little bastard is right,” Billy says, not without a grin. “I just don’t like him.”

  Then, something short and stocky comes barreling through the crowd. Frumpy Dorothy.

  “You do have a habit of showing up at the most difficult times, Mr. Jobz,” she announces, her face as tight as a tick. Then, her eyes on Billy. “You, Mr. Anthos, are about to face a very long suspension.”

  “How do you know I even started it?” Billy snorts.

  She bends over Little Kid, helps him up.

  “Are you okay, Anthony?” she asks. “You need to see the nurse.”

  Cute Brunette Chris shows up. She affords me the slightest of glances but otherwise ignores me.

  “Come with me, Anthony,” she says. “We’ll call your parents.”

  “And I’ll be only be too happy to call yours, Billy,” Cute Brunette Chris says.

  “Whatever,” he says, smirking. “Be cool to be suspended. Get to play video games all day.”

  I’ve almost forgotten that I’m still holding onto him. I release him.

  “Take my advice, Billy,” I say, “Life is a hell of a lot easier when ya go along to get along. Capice?”

  “Capice?” he says. “What’s that, French?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Take it easy on those video games. They’ll rot your brain.”

  “Hey,” he says, “you get to kill people, and no one cares.”

  I make my way back through the crowd of pre-teens, wondering what the future holds for this new, twenty-first century lost generation.

  Back in the Mustang, I pull back out onto the road and resume my drive to the funeral home. When I arrive, there’s a small gathering of thirty-somethings waiting outside the doors of the two-story wood and brick structure. As I climb the short flight of steps, I offer a quick nod. A couple nod back. The doors opens for me before I have a chance to put my hand on the doorknob. The blue-suited doorman greets me with a kind smile.

  “Good afternoon,” he says. “Ms. Simon is to the right.”

  The long, narrow vestibule accesses a viewing room on the right and a second one on the left. Presently, there are two wakes going on. Business is apparently good.

  I head into Anita Simon’s room. Only a scattering of people are in attendance. I go to the casket, kneel on the kneeler, make the sign of the cross, and pretend to say a prayer like I’m truly connecting with the Almighty and with her still very much alive soul. But in reality, her embalmed body has all the life of a mannequin, and if her soul is still alive, it’s not residing in this funeral home. It’s most definitely pulled an Elvis and left the building.

  Her face looks peaceful enough. It’s got that chalk, powder-covered, dead as a doornail look to it. Her eyes and lips have been sewn closed and whoever dressed her has cleverly covered up the neck wounds with a
white turtleneck. Her hands look like they’ve been carved from two separate bars of Ivory Soap. They are folded on her flat belly and a rosary has been wrapped around the fingers.

  Standing, I take a seat all the way in the back of the room. It’s where I plan to remain for most of the afternoon, taking note of who comes and goes. If only I had a bag of sandwiches and a thermos of coffee to keep me company. The group of thirty-somethings who were gathered around the front porch are the first to enter and pay their respects. The women cry and their partners do their best to console them. It dawns on me that they might be teachers at Loudonville Elementary School. Though, they seem young enough to still be in high school. Or maybe that’s just an indication of how long in the tooth I’m getting.

  Times goes by slowly, but things pick up when a woman who looks an awful lot like Anita Simon enters the viewing room. She’s assisting an older, frail woman who’s moving along with the use of a walker. The old woman is crying and trying to hang on to an overused Kleenex. I can’t say for sure, but if I had to venture a guess, I would say that they are Anita Simon’s mother and sister. The mother must have had children a little later in life, because she could almost pass for the grandmother. But when the sister says, “It’s okay, Mom. Anita is in heaven now,” I know for sure it’s Anita’s mother.

  I wonder if the old lady actually believes that. She’s so distraught, I half expect her to jump inside the casket along with her daughter. It’s not a funny thought. The woman is so wrecked I feel my eyes well up on her behalf. No adult should have to go through the pain of losing a child. That’s not the way nature intended it. The old woman reaches out to her daughter and gently touches her face.

  “I remember the day you were born, and they laid you on my chest, Anita,” she says through a pool of tears. She turns to Anita’s sister. “Who could have done this to my little girl?”

  That’s what I’m trying to figure out, I want to say. But of course, I keep my mouth clamped shut. The oxygen inside the room has become so heavy it’s like breathing invisible mud. The daughter takes hold of her mother’s arm and leads her to an empty chair on the front row. The old woman sits down painfully, and at the same time, lets loose with a wail that just about splits my chest open.