Leader of the Pack

by David Rosenfelt

  I finish her thought. “But it’s still tough to make the case that Richard was the target.”

  She nods. “Right. It’s possible, but it’s a stretch. The murder scene doesn’t work in our favor.”

  “Didn’t do much for the Solarnos either.”

  “And we still have the two-gun issue,” she says.

  She’s referring to the fact that the two people were shot with different guns. The one that killed Richard was never found, but the one that killed Karen was left on the scene. Devastatingly, a partial fingerprint of Joey’s was on it.

  We leave the house and walk to the car. I turn and look back, and I realize something that’s strange about it. “We need to find out why this place is in this condition.”

  “I would assume it’s because there was no one living in it, no one to fix it up, and no one willing to buy it.”

  “But why would anyone have to buy it, at least at first? Wouldn’t Richard have left it to someone? Someone would have owned it, right?”

  She nods. “I would think so. We know he had a brother named Alex. They were partners, and sold to Edward Young’s company a year before the murders.”

  I nod. “Richard stayed on to run it, but Alex left.”

  “Did they have a falling out?” she asks.

  “Time to find out.”

  Every case is an uphill struggle, but this one more than most.

  Defense attorneys always start with their legal back to the wall. A client would not have been charged with a crime had not the law enforcement system gathered enough evidence that the prosecutor is confident guilt can be proven beyond a reasonable doubt.

  Prosecutors hate to lose; it makes them look bad. If they don’t bring charges, they can’t lose, so they only bring them when winning seems close to a foregone conclusion. Juries instinctively believe that it’s far more likely than not that the prosecutor is right, which is why I feel our system carries a presumption of guilt.

  But a situation like this one with Joey is far more difficult, because a jury has already spoken. He’s been found guilty by his peers, and the system quite properly has a healthy respect for their decision.

  In order to get Joey a new trial, we would have to ask a court to invalidate that verdict, something they are inherently loathe to do. In fact, the legal standard set is a very high bar. Not only do we have to come up with new evidence, but the justices have to believe that there is more likelihood than not that we would prevail in a new trial.

  Those are the general rules. Complicating our situation somewhat is that we don’t have any new evidence. At this point we really don’t even have a theory. All we have are the ramblings of a senile, now-dead, fat guy. It might be hard to find a judge who would be impressed by that.

  So it’s clear I need to be aggressive about this. It’s the only way I’m going to resolve the matter one way or the other. I have to shake the tree, though that is also complicated, as at this point I need a GPS to even find the forest.

  I catch a break, because Laurie is heading into Manhattan today to have lunch with Cindy Spodek. Cindy is an FBI agent, ranked number two in the Boston office. We met on a case a number of years ago.

  We’ve since become friends, or we at least have a relationship that fits neatly into my definition of friendship. It’s one in which I can call on her for favors whenever I’m in need, and in which she can respond by granting those favors.

  The truth is that I like her a lot, despite her position in law enforcement, and the fact that she likes to arrest the very people I’m sworn to defend. But she and Laurie have really hit it off, and whenever Cindy has occasion to come to New York, they have lunch.

  They’re eating at the Redeye Grill, on the Westside in Midtown. It’s one of Laurie’s favorites, because she loves their oysters. If death by starvation were imminent, I would not eat an oyster. I would prefer fried dirt.

  Laurie tells me that their lunch is at noon, so I time my own trip into the city to let me arrive at the restaurant at one-fifteen. I tell the woman at the desk that I’m meeting someone already there, and I set out in search of Laurie and Cindy. It’s a large restaurant so it takes a few minutes, but I finally find them, at a secluded table back near the bar area.

  “Oh, my God,” I say, feigning shock with all of my considerable feigning ability. “What are you two doing here? What are the odds against that?”

  “You mean what are the odds of us having lunch at the restaurant I told you we were eating at?” Laurie asks.

  “Did you say Redeye Grill? I thought you said the Thai Mill.” Then, to Cindy, “It’s a small Asian place in the village; if you go there try the shrimp rolls.”

  “What do you need, Andy?” Cindy asks.

  I pull up a chair and sit down at their table. “Did I mention you’re looking wonderful?”

  “You always mention I’m looking wonderful when you need something,” Cindy says. “Even when we’re talking on the phone.”

  “No, then I say you’re sounding wonderful.”

  Between the two of them, they seem to be conducting an eye-rolling contest. “Are you hungry, Andy?” Laurie asks.

  “No thanks. I’ll just chat for a minute and then get out of here before the check comes.”

  “I already told Cindy about the Joey Desimone situation.”

  This time I feign horror. “You did? Why? I had hoped this would be a social lunch.”

  “Land the plane, Andy,” Cindy says. “What do you want?”

  Time to stop feigning. “I want to know if the Bureau had any information that Richard Solarno was dirty.”

  “Dirty how?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure, but I think it might be arms smuggling. One of his employees saw a boatload of guns where shrimp were supposed to be. And I also want to know, if he was doing it, where those arms likely would have gone.”

  Cindy doesn’t respond, but instead looks at Laurie. After a few moments, she signals to the waiter and says, “The gentleman will take the check, please.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight; I’m not going to say anything bad about my brother.”

  It’s a strange way for Alex Solarno to start our conversation. All I had told him was that I wanted to talk to him about Richard; I certainly gave him no reason to think I was looking to hear bad things.

  I had called Alex to ask him to see me, but he initially refused. He finally relented after I turned on the Carpenter charm, including endearing witticisms like “No problem; I’ll just have you served with a subpoena and question you under oath for eight hours.”

  He had agreed to talk to me at his house in Closter. Taking into account the decline that housing prices in New Jersey have experienced along with the rest of the country, I’d estimate that his house is worth three million dollars. Throw in another couple of million for furnishing and art, and it’s fair to say that Alex Solarno is not hurting financially.

  “I didn’t ask you to say anything bad about your brother.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want what I’m sure you want: to find out who murdered him.”

  “A jury settled that awhile ago,” he says.

  “That doesn’t make them right.”

  “You got evidence that they were wrong?” he asks.

  Why does everybody have to bring up that “evidence” thing? It’s really annoying.

  “Here’s what I have,” I say. “I have reason to believe that Richard was the target, that he was involved in arms smuggling, and he pissed off the wrong people. I’m hoping you can tell me who those people are.” I’m taking a leap on this, especially the arms smuggling part, but it seems worth the risk.

  “His bitch wife was the target.”

  “That’s not quite the information I’m looking for.”

  “Then you came to the wrong guy.”

  I decide to try a different tack. “Why did you leave the company when you did?” Alex had stopped working there when the private equity sale was made, wh
ile Richard stayed on.

  “I didn’t want to work anymore.” He motions with his hands, inviting me to take in the room and the house. “And I didn’t have to.”

  “So that was it? You just suddenly decided to retire because you had money?” I can sympathize with that sentiment, since I pretty much made the same decision. But I refrain from mentioning that.

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t have a falling out or anything with your brother?”

  “No way.”

  “You were close?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t he leave anything to you in his will? The house went back to the bank.”

  “If he was here, we could ask him.”

  “So you have no knowledge of any enemies he might have had, anyone who might have had a reason to kill him?”

  “No.”

  “No connection to the Desimone crime family?”

  “No,” he says, though he does not seem surprised by the question. Most people, when asked about a connection to an organized crime family, would have a stronger response.

  It’s been clear since I entered the house that I was not going to get anything out of him, and I haven’t really been trying to for a while. Which, of course, does not make this a waste of time.

  “Here’s how this is going to work, Alex. I’m going to develop this information I have; my coming here today was simply to give you a chance to climb aboard the train. Based on your attitude, I’ve got a feeling that you’re going to tie yourself to the tracks. It’s a good way to get run over.”

  “Get out of my house,” he says, a logical response to my threat. All I had really wanted to do was piss him off. Mission accomplished.

  I leave, get into my car, and drive away. Once I’m out of sight of the house, I stop and call Sam Willis.

  When Sam hears that it’s me, he says, “I’ve got your information.”

  “Good, but right now I need you to do something.” I give him Alex’s name and phone number, and say, “I just left his house. I want to know if he makes any calls starting around five minutes ago, for the next couple of hours.” Sam has demonstrated that he can break into every computer in existence; accessing phone records is a piece of cake.

  “You got his cell number?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get it and check that also. You want me to come down and stake out his house?”

  “No, Sam, no need for a stakeout at this point. Don’t buy any doughnuts yet.”

  “There’s no substitute for boots on the ground, Andy.”

  Boots on the ground? Sam can make New Jersey sound like Afghanistan. “Sam, when you don’t buy doughnuts, don’t buy boots either.”

  Alex Solarno made the call as soon as Carpenter left.

  He was unnerved; this was supposed to have been behind him years ago. But now it was back, and the danger to Alex was suddenly as real as it had ever been.

  Alex hadn’t called the number in years, but had kept it in his desk drawer for situations just like this. He hoped the number was still good, and didn’t want to think about his next move if it wasn’t. It was unlikely there was a listing in the yellow pages for “Mob Bosses.”

  A voice he didn’t recognize answered the phone with a simple, “Yeah?”

  “I need to speak to Carmine Desimone,” Alex said.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Alex Solarno. He gave me this number.”

  “Hold on.”

  Alex waited nervously for what seemed like half an hour but was really less than five minutes. Finally there was a click, and another voice came on the line.

  “Hello.”

  Solarno didn’t recognize the voice, though that didn’t mean it wasn’t Carmine, since he had only spoken to him once, a long time ago.

  “Is this Carmine Desimone?”

  “No.”

  “Who am I speaking with?”

  “Tommy Iurato.”

  “I need to speak to Carmine.”

  “You talk to me, you’re talking to Carmine.”

  Iurato’s voice had an authority to it that intimidated Alex. “OK … yeah, sure. You know who I am?”

  “I know who you are. And I know who just came to visit you.”

  This was stunning to Alex, and left him with two conflicting reactions. On the one hand, it literally sent a cold chill through him that he was obviously being watched by these people; there was no other way they could have known Carpenter was there.

  On the other hand, it was strangely comforting for him to know that they were actively on top of the situation. They had every reason to keep a lid on things, and they had the means to do so. No lawyer poking around was going to bring them down, and if they were safe, then so was Alex.

  “He knows what’s going on. Not everything, but enough. And he’ll find out the rest. He’s smart.”

  “What did he say?” Iurato asked.

  “That Richard was the target, and that he was dealing arms.”

  Iurato was surprised and a little concerned that Carpenter had already learned that the “illegal activities” Nicky Fats had told him about involved arms smuggling. “What else?”

  “Nothing,” Alex said. “He was asking me to fill in the blanks.”

  “And did you?”

  “Of course not,” Alex said, quickly and defensively. “Are you kidding? Come on, Carmine knows me. He’ll tell you I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “Then continue to do so.”

  “Of course; I’m not the problem. Carpenter is.”

  “Keep it that way,” Iurato said. “Call again if he contacts you.”

  It was clear that Iurato was ending the call, but Alex wasn’t feeling secure about things yet. “So are you guys going to handle this?”

  “We’ll handle it.”

  “So I don’t have anything to worry about?”

  “That will be up to you.”

  Click.

  Alex got off the phone thinking that if it really was up to him, then he had plenty to worry about.

  Robby Divine has more money than I do, and I have a lot.

  I have a total of about twenty-six million dollars at this point. It started as a little less, but Edna’s cousin Freddie, who handles my investments, is on a hot streak.

  But twenty-six million is nothing compared to what Robby Divine has. Some people with Robby’s kind of money wouldn’t bend over to pick up twenty-six million if they saw it laying in the street. But Robby would, because he doesn’t just want a great deal of money, he wants all of it.

  Robby is an investor, but I don’t think he uses Cousin Freddie. He’s not a lawyer who’s an investor, or a corporate executive who’s an investor; he’s just an investor.

  He’s got a sweet deal going. I’m told that when Robby makes an investment, it’s a large one and it attracts attention. He’s considered so smart that people follow him in, buying stock in the same companies. This then causes the stock he had just bought to go up. As my grandmother used to say, “Money goes to money.”

  I met Robby at a charity dinner in Manhattan to benefit a large animal rescue foundation. We sat next to each other, mainly because he and I were the only two people being honored. We talked a lot, and found out that one of the things we have in common is a hatred for charity dinners.

  Robby stood out that night, because he was the only one wearing sneakers and jeans. I learned later that he considered himself overdressed compared to his usual garb, and in fact it’s the only time I haven’t seen him wearing his Chicago Cubs cap. If he ever blows his money, it won’t be on clothes.

  We get together for dinner once every six months or so. We used to alternate picking the place, but then I took him to Charlie’s once, and he was hooked. Tonight is our dinner, which is timely, since otherwise I would have called him anyway.

  Robby isn’t into sports, has no interest in it whatsoever, but is definitely into burgers and beer. Charlie’s burgers are the best, and Robby has three of them. He’s maybe
a hundred fifty pounds, runs in the Boston and New York marathons, and downs burgers by the bucketful. If I ate three burgers, they’d have to wheel my fat ass out to the parking lot.

  Vince and Pete are not allowed to join us at our dinners; it’s always just the two of us. That of course drives them insane, so they sit at our normal table and stare daggers at us. I make faces back at them.

  We’re all very mature.

  “So what do you know about Edward Young?” I ask.

  “He’s a Cardinals fan, which makes him a prick,” Robby says, and since he’s again wearing his Cubs cap, that needs no further explanation. “I keep telling him it doesn’t matter where he grew up; he needs to recognize that the Cardinals are pure evil.”

  “That’s not particularly helpful. What else do you know about him?”

  “He’s rich.”

  “Richer than you?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  I laugh. “Tell me what else you know about him.”

  “Well, he cheats at golf.”

  “So you know him personally?”

  “Sure. Who do you think I hang around with, poor people? You’re the only one.”

  “Can you get me in to see him? I’ve called twice, but can’t get through.”

  “Depends. What’s it about?”

  “I’m investigating a murder of one of his employees. He bought the victim’s company a few months before it happened.”

  “If the guy worked for Edward, chances are he committed suicide.”

  “Tough guy?”

  “Controlling guy. He and I do things differently. When I come into a company, I’m placing a bet on the company and it’s management. I can be annoying to them, but if they succeed, so do I. And I only buy into large companies.”

  “And Young?”

  “He’s much more hands-on. He’ll buy a controlling interest in smaller companies: retailers, techs, airlines, whatever. He wants to make money, same as me, except he’s positive the only way that can happen is if they do what he says. So he takes over, either up close or from a distance. He’ll deny it, but it’s true.”

  “Is he smart?”

  “One of the smartest guys I ever met. What do you want from him?”