by Trace Conger
Back in my hotel room, I spent the rest of the afternoon figuring out my next move. I didn't know if or when I'd ever hear from Zoe's contact, and if I couldn't get in to see Sontag in person, I'd have to start looking elsewhere. The next logical step was to question Sontag's other managers. I'd ruled out Porter and Nicky, but any of the other three could have been on the other end of that phone call to Alfie O'Bannon.
I knew two of them fairly well. Victor Tan was a hothead. He was ambitious but damn loyal. Years ago, Sontag had a run-in with a New York Post reporter. The reporter wrote an article with the headline THE MODERN MOB. They even ran a photo of Sontag standing in front of his Brooklyn HQ. Kelly something-or-other snapped it. His name was right there under the photograph in small cursive letters. Sontag didn't like the idea of being in the paper. He didn't want the spotlight or the attention it brought to his operation. He wanted to send a message, but the reporter was off-limits.
Just like law enforcement, reporters are too high profile. You can go after them, sure, but then you're starting a war. The Post would have thrown every resource they had at Sontag, researching him up and down, writing about everything he did, and eventually, they'd break a story and the NYPD would take notice. It could be the beginning of the end, and Sontag was smart enough to know it. But the photographer, Kelly something, he was just a stringer and not tied directly to the paper. He was far enough removed that anything that happened to him, given enough time, wouldn't draw as much suspicion as going after the man with the byline.
The story goes that Sontag had Victor follow the photographer. It turned out he rode his bike through the city all day, like a bike messenger, except he didn't deliver packages, he took pictures. Six weeks later, after the heat had cooled, on Sontag's orders, Victor parked his SUV at the intersection of East 95th Street and 2nd Avenue one Wednesday morning. He waited for the photographer to leave his apartment in Spanish Harlem like he did every morning. Just as he peddled across the intersection, Victor slammed the accelerator and crushed him and the bicycle under his front axle. He was picking bits of that photographer's body out of his grill for two weeks.
I was never positive if the newspaper ever made the connection, but shortly after their photographer called in dead, whenever they slipped Sontag's photo into the paper, they never identified the photographer, just labeled it "staff photo."
Victor was high on my suspect list, but he was rarely alone and I'd have to find the right time to talk to him. A wrong move with Victor and this would be a short investigation.
Frank Astassi was next on my list. He was a holdover from the old days of NYC organized crime. He'd been a foot soldier for one of the Italian families, and when the FBI sent them packing, Astassi slipped through everyone's fingers. At that time, he wasn't important enough to draw the FBI's attention, and the Italians must not have cared to bring him with them when they aborted the city to lick their wounds and reorganize in Italy.
While he didn't ascend through the ranks with the Italians, Astassi made a name for himself in Sontag's organization. He knew how to run things and was a strong numbers man. He was the closest thing Sontag had to an accountant, and I know he personally persuaded Sontag to make certain high-risk financial moves that could have gotten him killed if they didn't payoff. But they always paid off. If he had told Sontag to buy $10 million worth of water balloons in the middle of winter, Sontag would have done it. And he would have turned a profit too.
The problem with Astassi was that he wasn't ambitious. He was almost as old as Sontag and was in the sunset of his career. I couldn't imagine him making a run for a leadership position; he seemed content where he was.
That left Collin Roth. He was more of a mystery because he joined Sontag's organization only months before I retired. I'd only been in the same room as him twice, and while I was confident I could identify him in a lineup, I didn't know much about him. He was a gigantic red question mark.
I had a lot to noodle, but it would have to wait. I'd been running on pure adrenaline since Saturday night, and my tank was empty. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep about an hour after room service delivered my Cajun chicken sandwich for dinner.
My cell phone woke me at seven in the morning. It was Zoe.
"Be out front of your hotel at nine. Look for a red minivan. My man'll get you into MCC, but you're going to have to do exactly what he says. No questions asked."
"Okay."
"Nine o'clock sharp."
"I'll be ready."
"Good. Try to look like an attorney."
I stared at the ceiling for the next thirty minutes, collecting by thoughts. I climbed out of bed at seven thirty, ninety minutes until I had to be in the lobby. I grabbed a shower, got dressed, and went to the tenth floor for breakfast. I didn't eat much. My nerves were phoning it in, and the two cups of coffee I had at breakfast didn't help. The waitress brought the check at eight forty. I was in the lobby five minutes later.
I've been in this business for a long time, and aside from having a reliable sidearm, one secret to staying alive is showing up early. Fifteen minutes was just the right time to settle in and check your surroundings. Any earlier than that and you look suspicious, but fifteen minutes, that was Goldilocks.
The lobby was alive, just like the city beyond the glass front doors. Guests crisscrossed the white marble floor, some in a hurry and others not. A man in a black suit and yellow tie behind the front desk checked guests in and out.
Zoe said to "look like an attorney," and that was a problem. I only packed jeans, a few button-down flannel shirts, and two sweaters, nothing that was going to let me pass for a lawyer. Had she called me last night, I would have had time to pick up something in Midtown. Now, I only had time to shop in the lobby of the Hotel Beacon. Nothing else was open yet.
I couldn't be picky, only patient. After a few minutes, the solution walked through the hotel's front door. A well-dressed man about my size wearing sunglasses with wooden frames walked into the lobby and approached the line for the front desk. He looked annoyed, like he wasn't the type of person who usually waited in lines. The doorman opened the front doors for a bellhop, who pushed a four-wheeled luggage cart into the lobby. The cart carried two suitcases, four suits, and four neatly pressed white shirts. The bellhop parked the luggage cart along the wall adjacent to the check-in line, but out of the way of the foot traffic. He motioned to the man in the wooden frames that he'd be right back and walked to the concierge station, where he chatted up a striking redhead.
That was my chance.
I casually walked to the luggage cart and snatched a charcoal gray suit and white dress shirt off the thick brass bar. The guests in the lobby were too focused on their mobile phones or deep enough in conversation with each other to notice me. A moment later, I was in the lobby restroom wearing my new suit and dress shirt and stuffing my original clothes inside the Koala Kare diaper changing station in the handicapped stall.
It wasn't a perfect fit, but I looked more like an attorney than I did five minutes ago. Now, it was only my brown leather boots that could give me away. They'd have to do because wooden frames must have packed his dress shoes in his suitcase.
When I left the restroom, my suit's previous owner was handing his credit card to the man behind the check-in counter. Looking as natural as I could in another man's clothes, I walked through the front door onto Broadway and waited to see if the Whisper Network was as dependable as I remembered.
I didn't have to wait long. The red minivan pulled in front of the hotel at nine sharp. I motioned to the driver. The side door slid open and a thin man with three-day-old scruff stuck his head out of the vehicle.
"Name?"
"Connor."
"Get in."
He slammed the door shut behind me.
The inside of the minivan looked like a place where electronics went to die. Laptops, mobile phones, tablets, cables, and other digital gear littered the floor. There were two monitors mounted to the side of the vehicle
above a makeshift desk supporting a keyboard and a dozen memory sticks. The vehicle's rear windows were blacked out, and someone had ripped out the back seats. It looked like a cross between a budget-strapped surveillance van and a pawn shop on wheels. A thin man with dark circles under his eyes sat on a folding chair. I sat on the floor.
We pulled away from the hotel.
The thin man looked me up and down. "I'm Cricket," he said. He pointed his thumb at the driver. "And this is Bob. So you want to get into MCC, huh?"
"That's right. Zoe says you can make that happen."
"I can make that happen, but not with those shoes." He pounded his fist on the back of the driver's seat. "Bob, hit the Cole Haan store. World Trade Center."
Bob took the next right.
Cricket leaned over and searched through a pale-blue plastic bin on the floor next to him. He pulled out an orange tie and tossed it into my lap. "Put this on."
I obliged.
"Sit up straight," he said, grabbing a DSLR camera. He took my photo, ejected the memory card from the camera and inserted it into the laptop at his feet. He moved fast, like he'd done this a thousand times.
Cricket snapped his fingers. "Tie, please."
I removed it and handed it back.
Something whirred nearby. Cricket brushed aside a pile of cables on the floor and picked up a printer small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. It was slowly spitting something out. As he waited for the printer, he spun around in his seat, placed his laptop back on his knees and typed away.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Registering you with the New York Bar Association. Unless you're already a member. That would save us a lot of trouble."
I remembered Messner asking me the same thing. "No. Afraid not."
"Didn't think so." Cricket went back to work. His hands moved across the keyboard like a pianist on speed.
"Cole Haan," said Bob as the minivan stopped.
"Get yourself a pair of black shoes, socks, and a belt," said Cricket, opening the door. "Move quick. You've got seven minutes."
"Is this really necessary?"
"Details matter, Connor. And in this case, they could mean the difference between visiting MCC and getting booked there."
"Fine."
I ran into the store, found the first pair of black dress shoes I could, grabbed a pair of socks and a size thirty-six belt and returned to the minivan to find Cricket fidgeting with a plastic ID card. He examined the card and then dipped it into a cup of water.
"What's with the water?" I said.
"Gotta cool it."
He dried the ID card off on his pants and then ran it up and down a leather shaving strop to wear the edges.
"Here you go, Roger Mathers," said Cricket. "But your law firm buddies call you Rodge, because you're a douche."
I slipped it in front of my wallet.
"No, put it behind your credit cards," he said. "No one carries their bar association ID in the front of their wallet."
I placed it behind my auto insurance card and returned the wallet to my back pocket. As I slipped on my new black socks and wingtips, Cricket fumbled with something near his feet. He opened a trapdoor in the minivan's floorboard, lifted out a briefcase, and set it on his lap. He opened it and slipped a few file folders inside.
"Two minutes," said Bob, not turning around.
"Listen carefully, Roger Mathers. We'll drop you off across the street from MCC. You'll take this briefcase and walk through the front door. Approach the window and tell them you're there to see Sontag. Give them your ID. They'll check an approved attorney list, which you won't be on. When they ask why you're not on it, you tell them you just joined Sontag's legal team and the paperwork is probably in process. They usually have a schedule of all the visiting attorneys, but you won't be on that either. That's not a big deal because attorneys drop in all the time to see clients, and sometimes they don't call ahead. Look like you're supposed to be there and you'll be just fine. Once they buzz you through the first door, you'll go through a metal detector. They'll also inspect your briefcase. Now, here's the important part. Don't let anyone but Gerry touch this briefcase. He started his shift at nine, so he should be the only one there.
"Why does it have to be Gerry?"
"Because anyone else is going to arrest you for smuggling heroin into a federal facility. Gerry's our man. Give it to him, and you're gravy."
I guess this is what Zoe meant when she said getting into MCC would be risky and to do exactly what Cricket said. I wasn't a drug smuggler, and of all the work I did for Sontag, I never touched the stuff, but at the moment, this was the only way to get inside.
The minivan slowed and Bob pulled over to the curb. Cricket tossed a comb in my lap and crossed his arms. I took the hint and styled my hair as best I could without a mirror. I handed the comb back to Cricket, who wore a smirk like a dissatisfied mother on her son's school picture day.
"It'll do." He slid open the side door. I started to get out and Cricket blocked me with his leg.
"Forgetting something?" He glanced down at my white Cole Haan bag.
The belt. I grabbed it and threaded it through my belt loops as quickly as I could, certain I'd missed at least one.
"What's your name, Connor?"
"Roger Mathers."
Cricket smiled. "Gravy." He paused. "Remember, only Gerry inspects the case."
"Right."
He dropped his leg and I climbed out.
"Nice suit by the way," said Cricket, stroking his chin. "Might be a bit short though."
"I didn't have a lot of options."
"Good luck. Hope you get what you need." Cricket slammed the door closed and the red minivan pulled away.
Bob had dropped me off two blocks from MCC. My hands were sweating so much I thought the case would slip out of my grip. I walked to the end of the street and crossed Park Row. I took a deep breath, wiped my hands down my slacks, pushed open the door and stepped inside the Metropolitan Correctional Center.
12
Prisoner #1053
The Metropolitan Correctional Center housed inmates awaiting trial, and a few who were serving brief sentences. The building stood seven stories high. The lobby was about the size of a dentist office waiting room. Small and compact. Easy to monitor. And monitor they did; stationary cameras mounted to the wall covered the lobby from every conceivable angle.
There were two sets of windows and interior doors in the lobby. One was for attorneys, law enforcement, and MCC staff. The other set was for everyone else. I stepped to the appropriate window and smiled at the woman behind the three-inch bulletproof glass. Time to find out if Roger Mathers passes muster.
Look like you belong. "Roger Mathers. Messner and Associates. Here to see Joseph Sontag."
She retrieved a folder from a nearby file rack, opened it, and scanned something inside.
"Mathers?"
"That's right."
The woman pulled her keyboard toward her and slapped the keys while glancing up at a monitor. "M-A-T-H-E-R-S," she said as she typed. She adjusted her glasses and squinted at the screen.
This is taking longer than expected.
"You're not on the list," she said.
"Which list?"
"Any of them." She typed again. "I got nothing. You're not even on the approved counsel list."
"I just joined Sontag's legal team two days ago. Been locked in a conference room up to my eyeballs in case files." I remembered the shotgun-wielding receptionist from Messner's office. "Tabitha should have set it up."
The woman didn't say anything.
I waited her out.
"Is Mr. Messner with you?" she said.
"He'll be here later. He's at a deposition this morning. Told me to get started without him."
She stared at me through the glass. All I could do was smile back.
She'd let me in. I might not be on the official list, but the story is solid. Attorneys join and exit cases all the time. Criminals li
ke Sontag have the right to speak to their attorneys, and the feds aren't going to risk a mistrial because they didn't let an attorney in to see his or her client. Any attorney worth their law books would jump on that. The woman behind the glass knew that too, which is why she'd let me in eventually. She was asking the right questions, and I was tossing back the correct answers.
A metal drawer I hadn't noticed before slid out of the wall in front of me. I set my briefcase on the ground, removed the clipboard and pen from the drawer and wrote down Mathers's name, Messner's law firm, the time I arrived, and who I was there to see. Then I opened my wallet and fished out my Cricket-issued credentials. I tossed it on top of the clipboard like it was something I'd done a thousand times before. I dropped the smile and replaced it with an annoyed expression. Something that said I know this is routine, but I'm too important to wait this long. That's how "Rodge" would feel.
The woman pulled the drawer back into the wall and reviewed the information. A loud buzz and a click followed. The door unlocked and I picked up the briefcase and walked from the lobby into a small hallway with a metal detector, a table, a blue garbage can, and another guard in a light blue shirt. Unless he pinned the wrong Federal Bureau of Prisons ID to his shirt, his name wasn't Gerry.
The woman behind the glass returned my ID through a small slit in another window. I slipped it back into my wallet and looked up to see Not-Gerry waving me toward the metal detector. The door to the lobby I'd just walked through clicked, locking behind me.
"Sir," said the guard, motioning me forward.
Did Cricket give me the wrong guard's name? Was Gerry his inside man at another facility? No way. From what I'd seen in that minivan, Cricket was a pro.
I walked through the metal detector with my briefcase. No beep.
