by Stuart Woods
“Then it’s a fresh start and your house is paid for, and your wife is more beautiful than ever,” Stone pointed out. “That’s not too bad, is it?”
“No,” Art replied, “but it’s depressing.”
• • •
ROCCO MAGGIO SAT in the back room of an Italian restaurant in New Jersey and looked across the table at the three men who constituted the loan committee, sort of.
“So, Rocco,” the taller of the three, who did most of the talking, said, “you’ve got your dick caught in a wringer, and we’re out five mil, plus vigorish.” This was how a bank’s loan committee talked in Rocco’s neighborhood.
“Listen, guys, this is temporary. I’ve got sixty men combing Manhattan for Fineman as we speak, and if that’s not enough, we’ll work our way up the Hudson.”
“And you expect us to wait until you’ve found him and persuaded him to give up the five mil—call it six mil by then—to get our money back?”
“Guys, you know I’m good for it.”
“That’s what we believed when we loaned you the money you loaned the art guy, but even after asking politely, we’re not seeing our money. Is the art guy good for it?”
“Well,” Rocco said, “he’s not exactly on the hook for it.”
“And how did he get off the hook?”
“He never had the money. I took it to his gallery in a suitcase, Fineman showed us the picture, I gave him the money, then I put the picture in my trunk and left.”
“Did the art guy ever touch the painting? That would be good enough.”
“No, he didn’t. He didn’t say a word, he just smiled, and I gave Fineman the money for Sam Spain. Sam would be on the hook for it, but he’s very dead, and we don’t exactly have collateral.”
“Rocco, every word you say, you’re digging yourself in deeper,” the chairman of the committee said.
“Look, I’ve got maybe two mil in ready cash spread around. I’ll need a few days to collect it.”
“That’ll take care of the vig and some of the principal,” the chairman said, “but what about the rest?”
“I’ve got other assets—the shipping company, the warehouse, and three liquor stores.”
“It takes time to liquidate,” the chairman said, “and all the while, the vig keeps going up.”
“Worse comes to worst, I’ll sign over a couple deeds,” Rocco said.
“Worse comes to worst, you’ll sign over everything, Rocco. Now get out of here and use your time well. Find Sol Fineman.”
53
CHEECH, THE CAPO who ran Rocco Maggio’s crew, sat in comfort on the living room sofa in Sol Fineman’s apartment while his boys reduced the place to rubble. He was nearly through with the Daily News crossword when one of them came to him.
“Okay, boss, we’ve been through the place, and we haven’t found anything. You want to take a look?”
Cheech wearily put his crossword aside and followed the man into the single bedroom. The pillows, mattress, and box spring had been gutted, and bits of feathers floated in the air. He walked into the kitchen, opened a couple of cabinets, and looked around. “What’s that?” he said, pointing at a black plastic garbage can.
“It’s a garbage can,” his guy replied.
“What’s that stuck to the bottom?” He pointed at a piece of paper stuck to an inside corner.
The man picked up the garbage can, peeled a portion of a sheet of paper from the inside, and handed it to Cheech.
Cheech regarded the scrap with interest.
“What is it, Cheech?”
“It looks like part of a property tax bill from Dutchess County, upstate. The guy’s paying twenty-four grand a year—must be a nice house.”
“Is it Fineman’s house?”
Cheech shook his head. “Belongs to some guy named Blankenship. The first name’s missing.”
“How about an address?”
“One hundred Riverview Road, Cold . . . The rest is missing.”
“There’s a town up that way on the Hudson called Cold Spring, or something like that.”
Cheech produced an iPhone, tapped the map app, and typed in the address and Cold Spring New York. “Cold Spring,” he said. “Across the river from West Point. Okay, let’s go take a look at Mr. Blankenship’s house.”
• • •
MR. AND MRS. BLANKENSHIP got up early and had breakfast at an IHOP across the road from their motel.
“So what’s your plan for the day?”
“I thought we might buy a new car,” he said.
“The Toyota is less than a year old.”
“Something nicer, something that isn’t connected to New York State.”
“Ah.”
They drove the Toyota into the town, down a broad street filled with car dealerships. “How about this one?” he said, swinging into Callahan Mercedes.
“Why not?”
The two of them prowled the lot, and she stopped in front of a large white SUV. “I like SUVs,” she said. “You can get a lot of stuff in them.”
He took a good look at the plush interior, then at the window sticker; the vehicle was loaded. A man in a suit approached them, his hand out. “My name’s Callahan,” he said. “This is my dealership. Something I can show you?”
“I’m interested in the G550,” he said. “It looks pretty loaded. Is there any option that isn’t on the car?”
Callahan looked at it. “This one’s got everything. We order a few loaded-up vehicles every year.”
“What can you offer me as a discount?”
“We deal in list prices only. You got something to trade?”
“The Camry there, it’s got only six thousand miles on it.”
Callahan made a cell call, and a service technician came running out.
“The keys are in it,” Blankenship said.
“Looks clean to me,” Callahan said, “but I’ve got to run it by my service manager. Why don’t we go inside and have a cup of coffee?”
• • •
THEY WERE FINISHING THEIR COFFEE in Callahan’s office when the service man came in with a sheet of paper. Callahan looked at it. “Nice Camry you’ve got there.”
“Easy to sell, too,” Blankenship said.
“Tell you what,” Callan said, “eighty-one thousand dollars and your car.”
“You’re going to make a profit on both cars,” he said. “You can do better.”
Callahan sucked his teeth and shook his head.
“Mr. Callahan, how do you feel about cash?”
“I’m fond of it. You mean you don’t need a loan?”
“I mean I don’t need a loan or a checkbook.”
“Oh, you’re talking about currency?”
“I am.”
“You understand, there are banking laws I have to comply with. I have to fill out a federal form if I deposit more than ten thousand dollars.” He scratched his head. “Besides, what would I do with eighty-one thousand in cash?”
“Seventy-five thousand,” he said. “You’ll think of something.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Remodel the house? Buy the wife a fur coat or two? Take a really nice vacation?”
Callahan’s face broadened into a smile. “Oh, what the hell? Where’s the money?”
“A stone’s throw,” Blankenship said. “I’ll go get it. You do the paperwork.”
“What’s your address?” Callahan asked.
“Oh, we’ve just moved out and haven’t found a place yet. This seems like a nice town. Give us a nice address here.” He could hardly register it at his Cold Spring address. “I’ll be right back.”
He went out to the Camry, opened the trunk, and then entered the combination of the two locks on a large aluminum suitcase. He found a shopping bag in the trunk and put seve
n bundles of $10,000 each into it, then counted out $5,000 from another bundle and stuck the rest in his pocket, then he walked back into the dealership and set the shopping bag on the desk. “The bundles are ten thousand each. There’s seven and a half bundles.”
Callahan took out a bundle at random and riffled through it. “Looks good to me,” he said. “Sign right here.”
Blankenship picked up the pen and signed.
“You’re now a resident of one of our nicest neighborhoods,” Callahan said. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll send somebody down to the DMV and get you a tag, a registration, and a title. Another cup of coffee?”
They both had another cup and a doughnut. Half an hour later, the Blankenships were driving east on the interstate. At the first exit they got off, drove under the bridge, and got on again headed west.
“Our next stop is a little town called Anderson, Indiana, which has a very nice airport. We can leave the car there for a couple of days.” Then he explained his plan to her.
“I like it,” she said.
He ran a hand up the inside of her thigh and made contact. “I always know what you’ll like,” he said.
54
CHEECH ENTERED THE address into Maps on his iPhone, and he and his crew drove up the Hudson. “Nice view,” Cheech said to his driver.
“I never been up here,” the man responded.
“It’s what, fifty miles from home, and you’ve never driven up the Hudson?” Cheech asked.
“I like it fine in Jersey.”
The house was very pretty—gray shingles and what looked like a slate roof. Fairly big, too. The name “Blankenship” appeared on the mailbox.
“Looks like there’s nobody home,” the driver said.
“I expect,” Cheech replied. “If it belongs to Sol Fineman, he wouldn’t be home, either.” He motioned for the men in the other car to stay put.
“Where would Sol be?” the driver asked.
“Disappearing.”
“Huh?”
“He wouldn’t be waiting at home for us to find him.” They walked around the house peeking in windows. “Nicely furnished,” Cheech said.
“Whatever.”
They came to a rear door. “You any good with locks?” Cheech asked.
“Yeah,” the man said; he kicked the door open.
“That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Cheech said. He heard a series of beeps. “Uh-oh, alarm system. We’ve got less than two minutes.” He ran into the house and looked for a desk or a home office, found it and went hurriedly through the drawers. Phone bill, gas bill, electrical, all in the name of Blankenship. The beeps were getting closer together. “Let’s get out of here fast,” he said, sprinting for the car.
The two carloads of crew drove away to the sound of a whooping alarm coming from the house.
“Slow down,” Cheech said to his driver, “we don’t want to get arrested for speeding.”
“I just throw the tickets away,” the driver said.
Cheech sighed, got out his cell phone, and called Rocco Maggio.
“Yeah?”
“We’re in Cold Spring, up the Hudson,” Cheech said.
“What the fuck for?”
“We found a piece of a property tax bill stuck to a garbage can at Sol’s old apartment, name of Blankenship. We checked out the house. Somebody lives there, but there’s no car in the garage, and no suitcases.”
“So you think Blankenship is Sol?”
“I gotta think that,” Cheech replied, “because there’s nothing else to think. The guy knows how to cover his tracks—except for that one thing, the tax bill.”
• • •
AS THE BLANKENSHIPS drove their new Mercedes west, Cindy got a cell phone from her purse and started to dial a number. He took it from her. “That’s a no-no.”
“I just want to call the maid and tell her not to come tomorrow.”
“People can track cell phones,” he said. He took a throwaway from his pocket and handed it to her. “Use this,” he said. “On the other hand, don’t use it. It’s not important for the maid to know anything.”
“Whatever you say, sweets.”
They were coming up on a bridge. He rolled down the window and threw the phone as far as he could, into a river.
• • •
“OKAY,” ROCCO SAID, “the first thing you gotta do is find out if Blankenship has a cell phone.”
“He does, I saw the bill in his desk drawer.”
“Did you happen to get the number?”
“Sorry, we were working fast, against a ticking alarm system.”
“Hang on a second.” Maggio turned to his computer and did a cell phone search for Blankenship, Cold Spring. “Here’s the number,” he said. “See if you can track it.”
“How do I do that?”
“Hang on, I’ll do it.”
Maggio started tracking; this had always been a good app for finding recalcitrant borrowers. It worked this time, too. He picked up the phone. “He’s at 100 Riverview Road, Cold Spring.”
“That’s where we just came from, and we can’t go back because the cops are likely to be there,” Cheech said.
“Oh, never mind, this guy’s smart enough not to leave the phone there if it could do us any good.” Maggio thought for a minute. “Let me check the DMV. You hang on.” He pressed the speaker button and went to work on the computer again. “Got it! He drives a two-year-old Toyota Camry, silver.” He gave Cheech the tag number.
“What do I do with this? Set up a roadblock?”
“I’ll check it every day. He’ll probably sell it, and there’ll be a record of the change of title. You guys come home. Good job, at least we got a lead.” Maggio hung up. He could be patient when he had to.
55
STONE CAME DOWNSTAIRS to find a large FedEx package on his desk, sent from Angelo Farina. He got a box cutter and freed the contents from their vault.
Stone was stunned. He’d forgotten his order for a van Gogh from Angelo, and here it was: a glorious view of farmlands with trees in the foreground, beautifully framed.
There was an envelope in the box, and he opened it to find a bill for $6,000 and a handwritten note. Your van Gogh, as requested.
Joan came in and gazed at the painting. “Gorgeous,” she said.
“He really is a very talented painter, even when copying another one.” He handed her the bill. “Please pay this, pronto.” He took the painting up to the dining room and spent an hour shuffling things around to make a place for it.
When he came back to his desk, there was a message from Pio Farina, and he returned the call to a cell phone number.
“Pio.”
“Pio, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“Stone, I wanted you to know that Dad has had a heart attack, and he’s in the hospital.”
“How bad?”
“Not good.”
“Is he in East Hampton?”
“No, in the city, at the Carlsson Clinic. He has a pied-à-terre in the city, and he collapsed in the lobby of his building. The doormen got him an ambulance.”
“Can I visit him?”
“They say he can see us this afternoon, and we’re driving in now. I know he’d like to see you.”
“I just got the painting I asked for. It’s wonderful!”
“Yes, I saw him working on it in his studio.”
“Call me and let me know when I can see him.”
“Okay. There’s something else I want to talk to you about, too.” He hung up without an explanation.
• • •
LATER IN THE AFTERNOON, Stone got a call from Pio.
“They won’t let anybody see him today—maybe tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you mind if Ann and I come to see you? There’s somethi
ng we’d like to tell you about.”
“Fine, now is good.”
• • •
THE TWO OF THEM came in and sat on the sofa, while Stone took a chair. He waited for them to get settled with the coffee that Joan brought. “Tell me,” he said.
“It’s a fairly long story,” Pio said.
“I’ve got the time,” Stone replied.
“We told you about the day Mark died.”
“Yes, you did.”
“But not everything.”
“All right, tell me everything.”
“It was as we said, up to a point. Mark invited us for a drink and told us to come up in the service elevator.”
“Because the main elevator was being serviced.”
“That’s what he said. We had our drink and started to leave. He asked us to drop off the package at FedEx.”
“I remember.”
“But as we were leaving through the kitchen, we heard Morgan arrive home from her shopping trip. She called out to him, ‘Honey, I’m home,’ something like that.”
Ann spoke up. “No, she said, ‘Mark, stay where you are, I want to talk to you.’ Then, I assume, she walked out onto the deck where he had been sitting when we left. We closed the kitchen door behind us and took the elevator downstairs. We had parked on East Seventy-eighth, near the service entrance. As we were getting into the car we heard a sound, a loud thud, sort of. It sounded like a big balloon filled with water, hitting the ground, followed by a kind of sigh. It came from the alley behind the building.”
