“He must have loved you very much.”
“He did, in his way.”
“Are your parents still alive?”
“No, Dad was gunned down by two thugs in a warehouse on the Hudson River waterfront some years ago. The only things I have to remember him by are the two silver dollars he carried in his pocket.” He took out the ‘Morgans’ and showed them to Whitman. “My mother died a few years later. They both deserved better.
“Anyway, Steph and I were married just before I went to Iraq.”
“Is that where you lost your leg?”
Wow, thought Martelli, Whitman isn’t afraid to jump right in there. “Yeah. I was a crewman on a Black Hawk during the April 2003 invasion of Baghdad. We were one of six choppers flying toward the city when our aircraft experienced engine failure—something having to do with the oil filtration system. Anyway, our pilot put down in a field, and a maintenance team flew in and fixed the problem. But by the time they made things right, it was dark. We tried to catch up with our tactical group, but ten miles south of Baghdad we took a hit and went down. The pilot and co-pilot never made it out. I tried to save them but couldn’t get to the cockpit. In any event, I got blown out the cargo door when the fuel tanks exploded. The blast shattered my left leg.
“Some months later, an officer told me friendly fire brought us down, and he said he’d deny ever talking with me if I repeated the story.”
Whitman shook her head. “Must have been rough, Lou.”
“It was pretty bad. I don’t think I would have made it if Steph hadn’t been there for me. She was my ‘rock’. If it hadn’t been for her, I probably wouldn’t be here today. There’s a good possibility I wouldn’t even be alive.”
The car fell silent. It was a minute before Whitman finally spoke. “Well, fortunately, things turned out for the best.”
“Oh, here we are. Looks like he’s already at the curb.” Whitman pulled up and popped the trunk.
O’Keeffe placed his suitcase into the trunk, shut the lid, and climbed into the back seat behind Martelli. “Well, good morning, you two. I must say, I never dreamed this is the way I’d be spending my Saturday, much less the next several weeks, when I woke up last weekend. Life never fails to spring surprises on you.”
“Ain’t that the truth, Sean?” responded Whitman. “Here, this envelope contains the things you’ll need for our little caper.” She reached to the floor in front of her, grabbed a manila envelope, and with it firmly in hand, handed it over her shoulder to O’Keeffe. “You’ll be using the name Shane O’Brien.”
“Whew, that’s easy to remember,” said O’Keeffe. “Thanks. The one thing—the one thing—that had me worried was I’d screw up using my cover name. Now I can breathe a bit easier.”
Whitman laughed. “You get used to it, believe me. I’ve been doing this stuff for eleven years. It’s like playing those ‘pretend’ games we used to enjoy as kids. Except the stakes are a wee bit higher, wouldn’t you say?”
The men nodded and laughed. “I’ll say,” added Martelli.
Whitman set the GPS for Agent Easton’s home in the Bronx.
“So, Sean, are you married?”
“Not yet, but soon. We still haven’t set a date. It’s not easy for my fiancée—she has a growing medical practice in Lake George, New York—to just pick up and leave. And even maintaining a long-distance relationship is trying at times. But Susan and I—that her name, Dr. Susan Allerton—want to be sure that when we do tie the knot, we do it under circumstances that are best for all of us, including her daughter, Heather.
“What about you, Amanda? Are you married?”
“I was, Sean, but things didn’t quite work out the way we planned. Rich was a good husband. We both were recruited into the Bureau straight out of college, met, and fell in love. Within two years we had a child, a beautiful boy. He’s 12 now, and smart as a whip. Anyway, what with the stress of the job plus all the travel and separation, it seemed like we were living two parallel but separate lives. And in fact we were. If his parents hadn’t been in the area to watch over our son when we both were on assignment, I don’t know what we would have done.
“In any event, we divorced six years ago. I still love him, and we have a very good relationship. He has custody of our son, Connor, but the boy always comes over to my apartment when I’m in town. My former husband and I even go out to dinner and a movie at times, and I’m very much engaged in our Connor’s education, as is my ‘ex’. And we share the cost of Connor’s upbringing equally between us. I know, it’s strange, but it works. Still, I sometimes wish things had turned out differently. I was brought up in the Midwest, on a farm outside the little town of Bigfork, Minnesota. You’re probably never heard of it. It’s just to the northeast of the Chippewa National Forest. Family was, and still is, everything.”
“Amen to that,” said Martelli.
“I had three older brothers,” she continued. “We all pitched in with the plowing, planting, and harvesting, slopping the pigs, milking the cows, birthing calves . . . you name it, we did it.”
“Sounds idyllic,” said Martelli, half joking.
“Oh, yeah. My favorite was helping Dad treat cows when they came down with milk fever,” she said facetiously. But seriously, I loved driving the tractor, and being a girl, that’s the job they usually gave me while the men took on the more difficult chores. My calf Bessie won a blue ribbon on year at the Itasca County Granger Fair when I was nine. And talk about being self-sufficient? Man, if something broke, we had to fix it. There was no calling someone in to repair the tractor, even if we could afford it. I remember when I was 16 helping my Dad rebuild the engine on our old John Deere 2840 utility tractor. Now that was a dirty job!”
“Does your family still own the farm?” asked O’Keeffe.
“Oh, yes, though we lost Daddy when I was 17 in a tractor accident.”
Martelli looked over and saw a tear form in her right eye. She quickly brushed it aside with her right sleeve.
“He was clearing snow from our driveway out by the country road. The tractor flipped over on him. But we carried on. Everyone insisted I go to college, and I was the first in my family to get a degree—I majored in political science with a minor in justice administration. I felt guilty moving to New York City, but my family wouldn’t let me pass up the opportunity to work for the FBI.”
The three drove on in the morning’s first light towards Easton’s apartment. Traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge, FDR Drive, and Triboro Bridge was picking up now, though being Saturday, it was nowhere near what they would have encountered on a weekday. Easton, an older man, lived with his wife of 20 years in one of many new high rise buildings springing up from the landscape in the Bronx. They lived alone, having lost a daughter at the age of ten to a degenerative lung condition. Now, they both spent what money and time they could spare supporting the Make-a-Wish Foundation. A twenty-five year veteran of the Bureau, Easton specialized in accounting, sometimes working as a forensic accountant. But he was a fully qualified FBI agent and had been on many a difficult assignment that required him to use his firearm on occasion.
It was not long before they pulled into the apartment complex where Agent Stan Easton made his home. He and his wife, Jean, were waiting at the entrance to their apartment building. Whitman brought her car around the circular drive to where they were standing and popped the trunk. Easton gave Jean a hug, walked to the trunk, where he could be heard rearranging the three suitcases already there before depositing his. Then he slammed the lid, waved to his wife, and opening the back, driver-side door, took his seat behind Whitman.
“Good morning, everybody.”
“Hey, Stan,” the three said, almost in unison.
“Were you waiting long, Stan?” Whitman asked.
“As a matter of fact, we had just gotten down five minutes ago. Perfect timing.”
Amanda laughed. “If you want something done right, give it to a woman!”
“Oh my God,” said Martel
li. “I’m in trouble. Steph at home, Amanda in Lancaster. There’s no escape.”
“At least Sean still has his freedom,” Whitman quipped.
“Yes, and he can’t say I haven’t warned him,” said Martelli. “In fact, when he told me he wanted to marry Susan, I recommended he see a priest to receive his last rites.”
Sean nodded. “And I always listen to my partner . . . well, sometimes.”
Whitman and Easton laughed as she set the GPS for Lancaster. “I’ve made this trip so many times in the last two years I could do it in my sleep. But, just in case we run into road construction or an accident, I want to be able to recover quickly and move on without too much of a delay. We’ll use the Interstates into Pennsylvania and then work our way south on state roads into Lancaster. That’s the best route. Should take us just over three hours, assuming I do the speed limit,” she said with a wink. “And don’t be shy if you wanna take a nap or need to make a pit stop!
“Everyone got your seatbelts on? Okay, let’s move out!”
Forty-one
The foursome pulled into the parking lot in front of the US Trash and Recycling Company’s office building to the west of Lancaster at 10:15 AM, pretty much on schedule given the one stop they had made for a second breakfast near Easton, PA.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding about the paint job on the trucks,” marveled Martelli. It was not difficult to miss the two red, white, and blue Mack MR600s with 17-yard Leach rear loaders parked on the large asphalt lot behind the one-story cinderblock building. Beside them was a Chevy sedan, the car Martelli and O’Keeffe were to use. The rectangular lot was enclosed on four sides by two rows of chain-link fencing, including entrance gates, each topped with concertina razor wire and separated by ten feet.
“The fenced parking lot looks like a prison,” O’Keeffe joked.
“Yeah, well we had a few problems about four months ago when our competition got into our only truck and damaged the cab,” replied Whitman. “So, the Bureau decided to make it a little more difficult for them in the future. Take a close look at the bases of the steel poles supporting the inner chain-link fence.”
Martelli and O’Keeffe squinted in the morning light. “Looks like they’re mounted on some kind of white bulbs,” said Martelli.
“You’re close,” said Whitman. “Those are polyethylene insulators. The inner fence is insulated from the ground. When electrified—and that’s anytime we’re not here—it’s pulsed irregularly at very short intervals with 4000 volts. That’s enough to stun anybody who cuts their way through the outer fence and attempts to work their way through the inner one. If you don’t believe me, take a look at that dead squirrel near the base—”
“Where?” asked O’Keeffe.
“Over there, on the right,” said Whitman, pointing, “near the corner. See him? See how he has his front paws on the fence and rear paws on the ground? He tried to climb the inner fence when it was electrified. That, my friends, is one crispy critter. We leave him there as a warning. I’d just love for some of Lupinacci’s boys to touch that wire.”
Forty-two
Martelli and O’Keeffe deposited their NYPD and FBI credentials in the company safe, picked up the keys to their rental car, and bidding good-bye to Whitman and Easton, eased their Chevy out of the two chain-link enclosures after Whitman had disabled the inner fence’s security system. “See you at 8 AM, Monday,” she called as they drove off toward their motel.
After the detectives checked in, Martelli called home to let Stephanie know he had arrived safely. O’Keeffe reached his fiancée at her clinic in Lake George and reassured her he would be fine. Then the men spent the rest of the weekend familiarizing themselves with the local area. They also visited the Strasburg Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania south of Lancaster, PA, and even made a quick trip to Gettysburg, about an hour away, to see the well-known battlefield. “I have to come back with Stephanie and the kids,” said Martelli. “These sites are just too good for them to miss.”
Monday saw them up early, eating breakfast at the diner adjacent to their motel, which was located in Mountville, west of Lancaster on Highway 462. They arrived at the office at 7:45, parking in front. Whitman and Easton were already at work.
Whitman looked up from her desk. “Well, good morning, gents. Welcome to US Trash and Recycling.”
“Hi, guys!” called Easton from the rear, where he was making coffee. “Come on back. I put a new pot on a few minutes ago. It should be ready about now.”
“Al Knots and Burt Linden should be arriving any minute,” said Amanda. “They’re my other two agents. Once they get here, we’ll pow-wow and figure out the day’s activities.”
Martelli and O’Keeffe headed to the back of the office, where they each picked up a mug. Martelli laughed at the sign over the sink. Your Mother Doesn’t Work Here—Please Clean Up After Yourself. “Guess we’ll have to do the dishes as well as take down the bad guys, Sean.” He poured O’Keeffe, Easton, and himself steaming cups of coffee. “Do you want anything, Amanda?” he asked.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
The men strolled back into the front of the office. “I should warn you, Lou and Sean, don’t even think about walking around the grassy area beyond the fences enclosing the lot where the trash trucks are kept.”
“Any particular reason, Amanda?”
She smiled. “Oh, yeah. It could be bad for your health.” She winked.
Martelli looked at O’Keeffe, who shrugged and gave him that ‘beats the shit outta me’ look.
At that point, the front door opened and they were joined by Knots and Linden, both special agents on temporary assignment out of the New York Field Office working under Whitman.
“What the hell happened to you, Al?” asked Whitman, expressing shock at Knots’s appearance. The man, some six foot in height and weighing 210 pounds, was sporting a black left eye and a bandage covering about eight stitches on his left cheek.”
“We had a little run-in with Tiny last Friday afternoon,” Linden responded on behalf of his partner.
“Let me guess,” interrupted Martelli. “This Tiny fellow is over six feet tall, weighs 300 pounds, and looks like a gorilla.”
“You know him?” said Knots, smiling weakly.
“I’m sorry, guys. These are the men from the NYPD who are here to help us. Lou Martelli, Sean O’Keeffe, meet Al Knots and Burt Linden from our New York City office. By the way, guys, down here, when we’re out of the office, Lou will be known as Anthony Mateo while Sean will be called Shane O’Brien.”
The men shook hands.
“It’s great to have you with us, guys. We can use the extra hands,” said Linden.
“Go on with what you were saying, Al,” said Whitman.
“Anyway, we finished our trash collection rounds early, so after clearing our load at the dump, Al and I took our rental car and start following one of Lupinacci’s trucks as the driver made his rounds. You know, he’d collect a customer’s trash, pull away, and we’d stop where he’s just been, go in, and leave our brochure. If the proprietor was there and had a minute, we told him how we’d give him the same service as he was getting now but for 50 percent less than he was paying his current trash hauler, with the price guaranteed for the first year.
“Well, this went on for about twenty minutes when who should show up but Tiny—you know, Matt Farmer—and his sidekick, that little prick Larry Halstead. They boxed us in with their cars, with Farmer in front and Halstead in back. Then, Tiny gets out, comes back to our car, and tells me to get out. I don’t move. So, he grabs the left rear view mirror and rips it off the car. This pisses me off, so ever so slowly, I release the latch, and when he’s least expecting it, I pushed the door open with both hands, smashing it into his left knee. He goes down for the count as I step outside, but as he’s getting on his feet, he sucker punches me in the face with his right fist.”
“Wow,” said O’Keeffe, “that looks like it hurt.”
“I’ve had better
days, Sean. Anyway, by that time you could hear a siren—somebody must have called the cops—so Tiny and Halstead beat it out of there. The patrolman asks if there’s a problem, and I tell him, ‘No, just a little disagreement.’ He knows who we are—that is, by our fake names—and who we work for, so he has a pretty good idea who was behind my injuries.”
Here, Linden picked up the story. “But he didn’t see what had happened, and since we didn’t appear to want to do anything, he just told us to be careful and drove off. At that point, I took Al to the ER and got him stitched up. Told the attending physician he had run into a door. Thank God US Trash has good health insurance.”
They all laughed. “Well, look on the bright side, guys,” said Whitman. “I’m sure word was passed to Lupinacci that we were on the prowl again to take customers away from him. Remember, that’s what got the Belmonts killed. But it’s got to piss off Tommie Lupinacci because it interferes with his plans to expand into Pennsylvania.”
She turned to Martelli and O’Keeffe. “Well, I was going to talk about this type of marketing today, but I’m afraid the little discussion you just heard pretty well lays everything out in graphic detail. What I’d like you two to do, Lou and Sean, is follow one of Lupinacci’s trash trucks this morning as the crew works its way through north Lancaster. Here’s the route they’ll follow.” She handed Martelli a map.
“They’ll start around 10 AM. The customers are mostly ‘mom and pop’ shops. Stay a good block or so behind them. Watch where they pick up the trash. Then, go in, drop off a brochure, and if possible, talk to the owner about switching to us. Offer a 50 percent discount with a one-year price guarantee. Don’t be surprised if you don’t get any takers. There’s a lot of fear in the business community. Frankly, I don’t care if we get the business or not. What I want is to be a thorn in Lupinacci’s side. I want to goad him into doing something stupid, something we can use to take down his entire operation. And if you run into Tiny and his sidekick, back off. I don’t need another agent in the ER.”
Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6) Page 12
