Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6)

by Theodore Jerome Cohen

  “Thanks, Missy. You know you will always occupy a special place in my heart.”

  Martelli rolled his eyes. “When you two get done playing telephone kissy-face, how about Missy taking a crack at explaining why the will in Nicole Davis’s safe deposit box is for a woman named Katlyn Lundquist.”

  “That’s interesting. Is Davis named in the will, Lou?”

  “Nope, not a mention. And the document is an original, signed by Lundquist and notarized.”

  “So, we have this woman named Katlyn Lundquist who had her will signed and notarized in Columbia, Penn—”

  The men could hear Dugan pounding furiously on her computer keyboard.

  “Ah ha! This is very interesting. Please deposit 50 cents for another two minutes.”

  Martelli looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Aw come on, Missy, we’re investigating a fucking homicide here, not the case of some dickhead goosing a woman on the subway.”

  O’Keeffe buried his head in his hands, stifling a laugh.

  “Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a wad. Here’s an obituary from a Pennsylvania newspaper, the York Journal-Tribune, dated June 23, 2007. I quote, ‘Columbia—Nels and Didrika (nee Ekstrom) Lundquist, long-time residents of Columbia, died suddenly on June 22, 2007, in an automobile accident on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.’ Let’s see here . . . ah yes, ‘The Lundquists immigrated to the United States from Sweden’—I told you guys!—’in 1994 with their five-year-old daughter Katlyn, their sole survivor. Mr. Lundquist was the owner of Lundquist Service Corporation, Columbia, PA, a successful professional laundry and carpet cleaning firm serving the hotel, motel, and bed and breakfast industries in York, Lancaster, and the surrounding areas.”

  “Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why Nicole Davis had a copy of her will, Missy. I suspect Columbia is quite a small town. Who’s responsible for policing that jurisdiction?”

  “Hold on, let me take a look.”

  The men could hear the clatter of a keyboard on the speakerphone.

  “Here it is. The borough’s police station is on Locust Street. You’ll want to talk with Chief John Packard. I’m sending you his non-emergency telephone number by e-mail.”

  Twenty-three

  ‘Chief Packard, this is Detective Louis Martelli of the New York Police Department. I wonder if this is a good time to chat. If not, I’d be happy to call back when it’s more convenient.”

  “Hi, Detective, and please call me John. I’d be happy to talk now. Things generally don’t get too exciting around here except on the weekends, when we have some problems now and again with motorcycle gangs coming out of Lancaster and York.”

  “Great. And please call me Lou. We’re just trying to tie up some loose ends here involving a minor dispute between the proprietor of a tattoo parlor and a woman who gave her name as Nicole Davis.”

  Packard let out a hearty laugh. “You got to be kidding me, Lou! So, that’s where Lundquist went.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, Katlyn Lundquist, of course.”

  “Katlyn Lundquist? Waddaya talking about?”

  “Lou, there is no such person as Nicole Davis . . . best I can tell, it’s a name Lundquist has used since she was a freshman in high school. She had fake IDs made using that name so she could buy alcohol and cigarettes for herself and her friends. When she started driving she carried several driver’s licenses ostensibly issued by different states. She used those whenever she was carded. All of them were fabricated using her picture and the name Nicole Davis.

  “The girl was spoiled rotten by her parents—by the way, they died in a terrible automobile accident on the Pennsylvania Turnpike near Carlisle several years back—and they never disciplined her. Which pretty much explains why she was such a hellion. And the older she got, the worse it became.

  “How bad did it get, John,” asked Martelli.

  “Well, I first ran into her just after she entered high school. I won’t bore you with all the details, Lou, but in her junior year of high school alone I recall charging her with trespass and disorderly conduct, possession of a controlled substance, possession of drug paraphernalia, and public drunkenness.”

  “Wow, you really had your hands full with her,” Martelli commented.

  “You’re not just whistling Dixie, my friend. Now, her parents always took care of those problems, which is to say they made them go away.”

  “What you mean to say, John, is they paid the fines or bought off the parties harmed.”

  “Well, when they could. And when they couldn’t, our juvenile court stepped in. But you can’t access the records, Lou, because as you know, she being a minor and all, any court proceedings would have been sealed.

  “After her parents were killed, she seemed to straighten out, and we didn’t any more problems with her. But she continued to use fake IDs now and then, usually when she was carded at one of the local roadhouses. The bartenders all knew her, and it became something of a joke with them.

  “And before you ask, no, I haven’t the slightest idea why she chose that name or why she continued to use it. It must have had some special meaning to her.”

  “So, John, how do you suppose she came to end up in the New York City area?”

  “Well, and this is only a guess, mind you, a little over two years ago, we started having trouble with the mob moving into Lancaster and York. As best we could tell, some cartage association run by the Mafia was attempting to take over the garbage, trash, and recycling business in those towns. Basically, the mob did this by establishing their own trash companies and then, by talking to the customers of established independent operators serving these two communities and undercutting their prices. One operator who fought them was Ryan Belmont. He operated a trash and recycling business in Lancaster with his son, Sanford. They both were found shot to death in June 2012. The killer or killers were never found, but it was always assumed the mob was responsible.”

  “Okay, I understand. But how does Katlyn Lundquist play into this?”

  “Well, sir, I heard—and mind you, this is unsubstantiated—she was seen with Jimmie Lupinacci’s son, Tommie, a real psychopath if there ever was one, at a nightclub in Pittsburgh on two successive weekends in early September, 2012.”

  “You mean Jimmie Lupinacci, the mobster?”

  “One and the same.”

  “And if you’ve ever seen Lundquist—”

  “I have.”

  “Then you’ll never forget her. It didn’t take long for word of those sightings to get back to us.”

  “So, you think that not only was Tommie Lupinacci in the Columbia area at the time the Belmonts were murdered, but that it may have been the Lupinaccis who were working to push the independent trash haulers in Lancaster and York out of business?” questioned Martelli.

  “Absolutely. What other reason could there be for Tommie, a married man who lives in Rumson, New Jersey, to be dating a woman who made her home here? I mean, this is the sticks. We have a population of 10,000 people. Who comes here from New York?”

  “You have a point, John.”

  “Well, sir, at about the same time that all of this was happening, Lundquist suddenly puts her family’s home up for sale. She never had to worry about money, so when an offer came in, albeit lowballed according to her agent, she accepted. Then, she sold her car the next day, gave her real estate agent power of attorney, and disappeared. That was the last anyone saw or heard of her until you called.”

  Martelli said nothing.

  “Lou, you still there?”

  “Oh. Oh yeah, John. That’s quite a bit to take in. I was just making some notes while you were talking. That’s a helluva story. I assume there’re no outstanding warrants for her arrest, at least none from your department. Correct?”

  “No, we have no business with her, Lou. I know she still has bank and brokerage accounts out here that her trustees watch over, but no, we have nothing outstanding. She’s all yours. And Lou—”

  “Yes?�
��

  “Be careful. She’s a compulsive liar. The woman will look you in the face and tell you the most convincing lies without batting an eye.”

  Twenty-four

  Martelli hung up with the chief and briefed O’Keeffe on what he had learned about Davis from the copious notes he had taken.

  “She must have been a real piece of work, Lou. Probably the female equivalent of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. And a compulsive liar to boot.”

  “Can you imagine dating a woman like that?”

  O’Keeffe shook his head.

  “As I see it, Sean, our cunning Ms. Davis took up with Jimmie Lupinacci’s son Tommie while the mob was moving in to take over the trash business in Lancaster and York. She apparently beguiled him into taking her to the Big Apple and setting her up in an apartment, which is the one we found on Henry Street in Brooklyn. For her, perhaps, it was a chance to put Columbia in the rear-view mirror and have some fun in the Big Apple. Are you with me so far?”

  “Absolutely. And that’s when Bishop struck. He obviously had been watching Jimmie Lupinacci, his son, and the son’s cartage association for quite some time, and had to know what was going on between Tommie and Davis. Dollars to donuts, Bishop had at least one, probably two, FBI agents in that nightclub in Pittsburgh watching the pair in September 2012.”

  “That would be my guess, Sean. Once Tommie, who’s married, moved Davis to Brooklyn so they could shack up without Tommie’s wife finding out, Bishop saw an opportunity to gain intelligence on the Lupinacci ‘family’ and the cartage association by flipping Davis into becoming an FBI informant. This would have taken time, of course, but I’m certain he had her phone tapped on Day One.

  “Anyway, to persuade her to gather evidence for him on Lupinacci, he had to make contact with her, gain her confidence, and then reveal who he was and what he wanted, backed up with some kind of threat, real or imagined. My guess would be he thought up some cockamamie federal charges he threatened to use against her. Remember, he had to have known her real identity and criminal background by that time.”

  “I’ll go along with that, Lou. So, given the alternatives, she agreed to work for him . . . at least, she said she’d work for him. Who the hell knows? She may have been lying to both men, telling each what they wanted to hear, depending on the moment and the circumstances.”

  “But if you were Nicole Davis and a special agent of the FBI was threatening you, what would you do?”

  “I’d try to compromise him.”

  “Which is what I think she did, Sean. Bishop and Davis must have met from time to time. I think she used those occasions to begin a relationship with him, one that went beyond agent-informant, perhaps even to the point of being sexual. You’ve seen the pictures of her. She was a knockout. What man could resist her if she came on to them? . . . present company excepted, of course.”

  O’Keeffe laughed. “I’m glad you said that, because I was beginning to worry about what you might do under those circumstances.”

  “You are, as always, looking out for my best interests,” Martelli deadpanned. “But speaking about pictures, let’s go through the ones we found.”

  Twenty-five

  The safe deposit box had yielded five photographs, each with a handwritten note penciled on the back. “Let’s see,” said Martelli, taking the first photo off the top of the thin stack. “Looks like a family photo . . . middle-aged couple and teenage girl posing for the camera.” He turned the photo over to reveal a note reading ‘Nels, Didrika, and Katlyn, Lake Superior, 2005.’ Then he turned it over again, and studied it for a moment. “They obviously had someone else take the picture, but no indications as to who it was.”

  He handed the photo to O’Keeffe. “Nothing much of value here.”

  “I agree. The daughter certainly doesn’t look happy. Probably didn’t like being dragged on vacation with her parents. Unfortunate what happened to them.” He set the photo aside. “What’s next?”

  Martelli spread the remaining four photos across his desk in the manner a Vegas blackjack dealer might spread a deck of cards after opening a new pack. “Hmmm, the next three are all pretty much the same . . . Davis with what appear to be friends, socializing.” He handed one to O’Keeffe while taking another and flipping it over to read what was on the back.

  “Waddaya see, Lou?”

  “Just some first names and the year, 2011. What’s on yours?”

  “More of the same, though this one is dated 2010.”

  O’Keeffe picked up the third photograph of the set, which also showed Lundquist with friends. “Here’s another one with some first names. It’s also dated 2011. Unless we want to track these people down for some reason, I’d say they have no value to this case.” Then he stopped and held it closer. “Wait a minute . . . one of the names written here is ‘Sandy’.”

  O’Keeffe cocked his head. “Lou, hand me your magnifying glass.”

  Martelli opened the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk, pulled out a 2-inch magnifier, and handed it to his partner.

  “Thanks.” O’Keeffe took a closer look at the photo. “Lou, take a look at this and tell me if this isn’t the Belmont boy, the one killed two years ago.” He handed the photo and the magnifying glass to Martelli. While his partner looked at the photo, O’Keeffe retrieved the June 2012 article.

  “Here’s the article announcing his death, Lou. It shows the boy standing next to his father.” Martelli looked at both photos, alternating between the two for a few seconds. “You’re right, Sean. It’s him. Which means Lundquist at least knew the boy, and from the looks of it—see how he has his arm around her—had a relationship with him.”

  “Which means his death might have had an impact on her.”

  “Difficult to say, but who knows what went through the woman’s mind at the time.” Martelli set the photo, newspaper article, and magnifying glass on the desk and picked up the last photograph.

  “Which leaves us with this.” He held the photo so they both could see it. It was of Lundquist and an unsmiling man with sharp features, piercing eyes, and slicked-backed hair, staring into the camera. He was wearing a black, tailored Italian pinstripe suit, a bright blue shirt, and a white silk tie tied in a full Windsor knot. A red, fluffed handkerchief blossomed from his suit jacket’s left breast pocket. The setting was that of a high-end nightclub, and the photograph was of high professional quality. Beside the couple sat an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. “Want to guess what’s on the back?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure that’s Lundquist and Lupinacci the Younger. I’m hoping it’ll tell us where the picture was taken.”

  “Let’s see.” Martelli turned the photo over with the look of a poker player at the tables in Vegas! “Yes, and we have a winner. ‘Nicole and Tommie, Patalanos, Brooklyn, December 2013.’

  “That’s quite the mob hangout, Lou. We should visit it sometime.”

  “Oh yeah. My only concern is we’ll see Bishop and his friends at the next table.”

  “Speaking of Bishop, I wonder if Lupinacci ever found out he was being two-timed by Davis, with a helping hand from the FBI . . . assuming that’s what was happening.”

  Twenty-six

  Tommie Lupinacci was pissed blind. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re supposed to be the best. It’s been a fucking week and news about her death still hasn’t appeared in the goddamned newspapers or on the TV.” Lupinacci swiped the back of his right hand across the left cheek of the thug standing in front of him, the large ring on his fourth finger leaving a two-inch-long gash on the man’s face.

  Severino Gianotti grabbed his handkerchief and applied it to the bleeding wound on his cheek. “I’m telling you, Mr. Lupinacci, I put one slug in the back of the head and dumped her body in the park, just like you said. It doesn’t get any more in-your-face than that.”

  “Well, why hasn’t it been in the news then? Answer me that. Jesus, everything else is. The damned media broadcast more horseshit than I’ve even seen in all my
life. With all the high-priced assholes and their pretty faces we see on television every night, you’d think they might actually spend a few minutes talking about more important things than who’s dancing with who in fucking Hollywood.” He picked up his coffee mug and threw it at the opposite wall, shattering the framed picture of him standing next to the Mayor of New York City.

  The killer stood silent. He had no alternative but to let his boss rant.

  “Did you and Vanni toss her place?”

  “Yes, just like you told us. We tore it apart, even ripped the mattresses open. We didn’t find a thing.”

  “And bugs?”

  “None. Vanni scanned the place. Believe me, boss, if there had been anything in that apartment in the way of bugs or incriminating evidence, we woulda found it.”

  Lupinacci took a deep breath. “That lying little bitch!” he muttered through clenched teeth. “I shoulda known not to trust her. And to think she played me all this time. God only knows what she told the FBI. But I hafta believe if they’d had anything on me by now, they woulda moved on it.

  “Still, I really did want to have the satisfaction of shoving her dead body in the FBI’s face, especially that guy Bishop. For all I know, he probably was screwing her too. If we had time to find out where he lived, I woulda had you dump the bitch on his doorstep!”

  Lupinacci, sweating, collapsed into his chair, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his brow. He looked pale.

  “Boss, are you okay?”

  The truth was, Lupinacci was sick. In fact, he had been sick for some time. The problem began two months earlier, muted at first but growing worse by the day. Now he often was dizzy and nauseous, occasionally to the point where he would throw up. Afternoons saw him fatigued, and he was beginning to experience double vision. He had been to his cardiologist three times in the past month, each time to monitor his high blood pressure, which had progressively worsened. And yet, other than treating his nausea and increasing his blood pressure medication to the maximum daily dosage, his cardiologist, who also had prescribed for his dizziness, was at a loss to explain, much less address, his symptoms. Lupinacci’s internist was also baffled, and after consulting with the cardiologist, was in the process of making plans to have their patient admitted to a well-known medical facility in Manhattan for a battery of tests.