Lucy stared at her. “Just like last time.”
Geary interjected. “Not exactly. Last time it was foam. And since then, the owner has had tamper detection installed. The software program set off an alarm as soon as the first lens went black. But the security response was too late. All they found was the body.”
“Then you’ve narrowed the time window,” Olivetti suggested.
“Right, but that just tells us when he was dumped. The M.E. says he was killed somewhere else.”
The cops left just as Tracy was returning with Kevin from his swimming lesson, red-eyed from the pool chlorine and bubbling with excitement over his official graduation from Flounder to Tarpon.
21
Brandon Kimball’s second visit to Lucy’s home changed everything.
“We’ve been looking at this the wrong way.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, from what I’ve dug up, it looks like Parrish was running his own investigation, just as your husband did later. He was only pretending to be Mob connected, playing on the fears of the low-level players to get information. None of the street thieves would want to get caught on the losing side in a power struggle between their current bosses and a Mob crew that was trying to muscle in. Word of what he was doing probably found its way up the line to the management level and somebody decided to take him out. And that means whoever killed him probably knew he wasn’t connected. Otherwise, I doubt they’d have risked a direct confrontation with an organization as powerful as the Mafia.”
“How did you figure all this out?”
“I’m coming to that, because it also proves your husband was innocent.”
“Tell me!”
“I have a few contacts at the FBI. I asked one of them to run an offline search. That’s a term the NCIC uses for a specialized database search that can bring up lots of information that an online search won’t. One of the things it can do is query NCIC transaction logs and provide a printout of every online inquiry that was ever made respecting a particular person, or a particular item of property.”
“Such as a vehicle?”
“Exactly. An offline search can even get into purged databases, which means it can go a long way back in time. I asked them to search every vehicle on Jack’s spreadsheet.” Kimball pulled a fat three-ring binder out of his briefcase. He opened it at random, revealing a scramble of print-out data that filled an entire page. “They were all stolen vehicles, so naturally each one had been entered on the system as soon as their theft was reported. And of course, some of them had been the subject of traffic stops and parking violations before they went missing. But the key thing for us is this: Between October eighteenth and November twenty-first, Jack ran a query on every one of them. The key point is: He knew his searches could be traced.”
Lucy stared at Kimball, realization dawning. “But he wouldn’t have done that—!”
Kimball nodded. “That’s right. He wouldn’t have done that if he was doing something wrong.”
“And Cal Parrish. Did he do the same?”
“Yes. A little over a year earlier, he ran a similar set of searches. What I can’t understand is why nobody bothered to investigate his activities in just the same way as I did, with an offline search. And that raises another question…”
“What?”
“Why didn’t Trousdale and Scarlatti run an offline search to see if Jack was working on something like this? They could have done that by simply searching his name. For every online search, the first field that has to be filled in on the form, right next to the date, is ‘Name of Requester.’ And one of the first things that comes up in an offline search result is that law enforcement officer’s name.” Kimball tapped an index finger on a spot near the top of the page that lay open in front of them.
Lucy bent closer to look.
Jack G. Hendricks (Det.)
Just seeing his name was a blade in her heart.
“You mean, they put me through all that hell for nothing? Because they were incompetent?”
“It looks like it. But that leads me to another question: Mr. Olivetti is supposed to be helping you. Why didn’t he suggest an offline search?”
“He and I agreed to keep the police out of it until we had something concrete.”
“His office could do that search themselves. He has full access.”
“Maybe … well, he’s a prosecutor, not a cop. Maybe he didn’t think of it.”
“Maybe. But I think you’d better see this.” He slipped a thin folder out of his briefcase and passed it to her.
Inside the folder were four five-by-seven photographs. They weren’t original prints—they were photographs of prints. Each original had been laid on a flat surface and photographed, in the way someone might do with a smartphone. The backdrop in each of the four originals was instantly recognizable as the New York City skyline. From the angle, the photos had been shot along the Waterfront Walkway on the New Jersey side of the Hudson, somewhere near the Newport-Midtown ferry landing.
Each photo had been taken with a long lens. They looked like surveillance shots. Each one was date-stamped.
07/18/2005 17:08
07/18/2005 17:10
07/18/2005 17:13
07/18/2005 17:17
The subjects of the photographer’s interest were a man and a woman. They looked to be in their early thirties. The man was wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt. The woman was in jeans and a long-sleeved chiffon top. They had their arms around each other in that unmistakable way that said: “What we’ve got going here is more than just sex.”
In the final shot, they were entwined on a bench, kissing passionately.
Struggling to keep her voice calm, Lucy asked, “Where did you get these?”
“From a divorce file in the Family Division at the Hudson County courthouse. They were part of an evidence packet.”
“Why do you have them? Why did you do this?”
“Just something I heard. Then I saw you at the Adega Grill in Newark. You were so wrapped up in your conversation with the guy, you didn’t notice me sitting at the bar. But I remembered what you’d told me—about the woman cop.”
Lucy’s throat tightened as she studied the photographs again.
The man was Robert Olivetti.
The woman was Carla Scarlatti.
* * *
“You knew the whole story!” Lucy’s knuckles were white as she gripped her phone. “For Christ’s sake, you knew she was one of the investigators, you knew how much I dislike her, and you didn’t say a thing!”
“Just a minute … you had me investigated?”
Lucy ignored the question and plowed on. “You walked into my house and found her standing over me, accusing me of killing Neil Clooney, and both of you pretended you barely knew each other!”
“She wasn’t accusing you. She was—”
“Beside the point! Why didn’t you tell me from the start?”
“I wanted to tell you but, hell, it ended years ago! Long before Jack’s murder. My relationship with her has been purely professional ever since.”
“You should have told me! I let you into my life, and I let you into my bed! You know how I am, how all this has affected me! I thought I could trust you! You were the one person around here I thought I could trust!”
“I still am!”
“Are you kidding me? After this?”
“I just thought … why complicate things? Why complicate … us? I was going to tell you eventually, when we’d cleared everything up. When I’d be able to look you in the eyes and say, this happened, back in my past, but I never let it influence me. I never let it interfere in our search for the truth.”
“Noble words, but you know how they sound? Like—what do you lawyers call it?—ex post facto justification?”
“I guess it does sound like that, but it’s not.” He sounded utterly chastened. Defeated.
“Was she the reason your marriage fell apart?”
“Yes. But it takes
two. We worked a big case together. It was pretty intense. We’d go for a drink once in a while. She made it pretty clear she was … available. I didn’t have to go there, but I did. It started as a one-nighter. She owns a little house in The Heights, at the top end of Collard, across from the reservoir. It was private. It was supposed to be no strings, but like all these things, it got out of control. Sandra found out. She didn’t cause any big scene. She just moved into the spare room and stopped talking. Maybe she’d been waiting for the excuse. I don’t know. All I know is I came home one day and she’d moved out.”
“Where is she now?”
“Out West. I don’t even know where. I haven’t heard from her in years and her family won’t talk to me.” When Lucy didn’t respond immediately, he jumped into the silence. “Listen, can we get past this? I mean, can you? Can we start again?”
“I don’t know. Really, I don’t. I need to think.”
“Lucy…!”
More than once during the conversation, Lucy had been tempted to just hang up and cut him off in mid-sentence. Instead, she left him with a quiet “Bye, Robert,” and ended the call.
22
Sitting dead center on the sideboard in Lucy’s dining room was a majolica cachepot from Caltagirone. The baroque objet d’art was brilliantly executed in sage green and yellow—the colors of Sicily itself, as Lucy’s mother had never failed to explain to interested guests. Lucy had always loved it. After her mother’s death, the ceramic was the first thing from his wife’s prized possessions that Joseph Cappelli gave to Lucy.
Lucy carefully tipped the heavy ceramic to one side and retrieved a Nokia cell phone from under its broad base. She tried the power button. The tiny screen lit up.
Good thing, she thought, since Lanza had neglected to leave her a battery charger.
She scrolled through the menu to Drafts. As the Don had promised, there was a single stored entry. A phone number. The area code was 605. She looked it up.
South Dakota.
Interesting.
He had said there would be some call forwarding involved.
Until now, she had doubted she would ever make this call. But two things had happened:
She’d discovered that Robert Olivetti was not the one-hundred-and-ten-percent trustworthy ally—okay, ally and lover—that she’d believed him to be.
And, this morning’s Jersey Journal had carried a front-page article that had left her feeling deeply hurt. The headline read:
MURDERED COP’S WIDOW INTERVIEWED IN RUTGERS PROF KILLING
She dialed the number.
A long humming sound … a relay click … another click … silence … then …
A distant ring.
“Lucinda. How are you?”
“I think you can guess.”
“Because you’re calling me.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll send a car for you.”
“Not here. I’ll meet your driver somewhere. But first I need to make arrangements for my son.”
“I understand.”
Lucy checked the time. 4:10 P.M.
“Would later this evening work for you?”
“I’ll make it work. Call me again when you’re ready.” There was a click, and he was gone.
She remembered what he had told her: “Certain federal agencies would love to monitor my calls.”
Their conversation had lasted no more than fifteen seconds. But in that short span of time, Lucy had crossed a very definite line, and she knew it.
Complete loss of trust can make you do that.
She called Tracy. The girl said she was sitting for another neighbor, but just until six. She’d made plans to spend time with her friends that evening. Lucy offered her double pay, and told her she’d spring for pizza. Tracy relented.
* * *
“Twenty-nine East Thirtieth. Take the driveway. The brick building in the back used to be a commercial laundry. Now it’s a private parking garage. I own it. Your car will be out of sight.”
When she pulled into the garage just after seven that evening, Lanza’s driver was waiting, standing next to a black Lexus sedan. Even though she had just entered a one-story building, not a multi-story carpark like the one where Jack had been killed, Lucy felt a fleeting sensation of danger.
But for some reason, the feeling didn’t frighten her. It just quickened her blood.
She squeezed her car between two others on the rear wall, locked it, and walked toward the man. He had already strolled forward to meet her. He was middle-aged, with a pallid complexion, fatigued eyes, and pursed lips. Apart from the knitted cap on his head, he looked more like a loan manager than a Mafia soldier.
“Mrs. Hendricks?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Cowan. Mr. Lanza sent me.” He didn’t offer to shake hands.
“Let’s go then.” Lucy moved toward the front passenger door of the Lexus.
“Sorry. Could you sit in the back please?”
“Fair enough. Is there a reason?”
“I’ll explain in the car. But first, open your purse.”
“What?”
He stood there, waiting. She opened her purse. He peered inside, plunged a hand, felt around, and then withdrew. “Thank you.” He opened the rear door for her.
“What were you looking for? A gun?”
“Something like that.”
Once they were out of the garage and rolling north on Avenue E, he said, “Please look at the windows in this car. You will notice that the rear window, and the side windows in the back, have a dark tint. We’re allowed to do that in New Jersey, but the windshield and the front windows have to be clear.”
Cowan definitely had a banker’s precise way of speaking.
Maybe loan-sharking has become more genteel.
“What you’re saying is that your boss doesn’t want anyone to see me in this car.”
“What I’m saying is … we’re heading for Mr. Lanza’s place in Florham Park, where he never conducts business. And I’m saying that, when we get to the Short Hills Mall, I will be asking you to lie down on the seat.”
Lucy didn’t know whether to be comforted or disturbed by such a precaution.
To distract herself from what she was doing—or, as she phrased it more bluntly in her raging thoughts, to keep her mind off what in the fucking hell she was actually doing—she changed the subject.
“Cowan doesn’t sound Italian.”
“Now, now. Do you really believe the stereotype thing?”
“Just saying…”
“This is the twenty-first century, Mrs. Hendricks.”
“I heard that somewhere.”
“Mr. Lanza tries to respect modern values.”
“What about ‘Family’ values?”
“They still govern. But there can be exceptions.”
“And in your case…”
“In my case, my mother was Italian.”
“So, Family values.”
“To that extent, I suppose.”
“And you’re not just his driver, are you?”
“No.”
“You’re not his driver at all. You’re his accountant.”
Cowan’s head swiveled. He shot her a raised eyebrow, then turned back to the road.
“You’re a shrewd lady.”
“I’m learning to be.”
They rode in silence for the rest of the way.
* * *
Contrary to Lucy’s preconceptions, Dominic Lanza’s house was a large but unprepossessing Cape Cod–style home sitting on a modest half-acre lot at the end of a cul-de-sac.
She didn’t actually see much of this when she arrived. She’d been stretched out on the rear seat for the final ten minutes of the ride, and Cowan had insisted she stay there until he’d pulled the Lexus into the garage and the massive door had descended behind them.
“Mr. Lanza is waiting in the den,” Cowan told her, as he escorted her through a laundry room into a featureless hallway. They entered a smal
l sitting room at the rear of the house. It had a large bay window, but every curtain was tightly drawn and the only light was provided by a few scattered lamps.
Lanza rose from a soft lounge chair to greet her. “I’m sorry for the security measures, Lucinda. They’re for our protection. For us to be seen together would be self-defeating.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
The Don fluttered a hand in the direction of the shut curtains. “This property backs onto the Brooklake Country Club. A section of woodland separates my rear garden from one of the fairways. From time to time Carlo has come across golfers in those trees who seemed much more interested in this house than the lost balls they were pretending to search for.”
“Federal agents?”
“Very likely.” He addressed Cowan. “Thank you for driving today, Bert. How are you holding up?”
“Feeling a bit light-headed, boss.”
“Get some rest. Carlo will take Mrs. Hendricks back to her car.”
“Should I ask Stella to bring some coffee?”
Lanza turned to Lucy. “You’re looking a bit stressed, my dear. Maybe you’d prefer a glass of wine?”
“That would be nice.”
Cowan started for the door. “I’ll tell Stella.”
“Thank you, Bert.”
“In case you were wondering,” Lanza said, after the man had left, “he’s on chemo.”
Lucy suddenly understood the woolen cap. And the shadows around Cowan’s eyes.
“I’ve given him a room downstairs. A nurse comes once a day to administer the poison.” He paused. “I’ll miss him.”
“It’s that bad?”
Lanza nodded. “He doesn’t know yet.”
An elderly woman entered the room. She didn’t look a day under eighty years old. She wore a food-stained frock and a black hair net over a lopsided bun of white hair. She was carrying an opened wine bottle in one hand and a pair of stemmed glasses in the other. Without a word, she set the bottle and glasses on a side table, shot Lucy a curious look, turned, and left.
Lanza noticed Lucy’s bemused expression. “Ex-wife’s mother,” he offered. “She needed the work.”
He poured their wine. Lucy received her glass with a thankful smile. She was feeling completely off balance. So far nothing, and no one, had come close to the fraught images of today’s meeting that she’d constructed in her head.
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