Fifty
Agent Stan Easton had not intended to stay at the office this late. His work on US Trash and Recycling’s ledgers had been finished long ago. Even after he had straightened up his work place, there should have been sufficient time to return to his motel in daylight. But it had been ten days since he spoke with his wife Jean in the Bronx, and tonight, the news he received about her father was not good. So, they spoke at great length.
“I had to call hospice for him today, Stan,” said his wife, her voice trembling. “He was complaining of terrible pain to the nursing home staff, and nothing they did helped. His doctor finally arrived and gave him some relief. But I don’t think he has much longer to live. Do you think you can come home? I need you. We need you.”
“I’ll check with my boss, honey. I’m sure we can work something out. I’m so sorry it’s come to this for your dad. He’s always been so strong and energetic. I still can’t believe what’s happened to him.”
“I know. If only they had been able to administer that new treatment for prostate cancer back in 2007 that he was counting on, the one the FDA initially turned down. Remember?”
“I remember, the one developed by that little company in Seattle.”
“Yes. And I’m still angry at the Federal government for not opening an investigation into the corruption surrounding the whole matter. Lots of people at the FDA and on Wall Street have blood on their hands, that’s for sure.”8 The bitterness in her voice was palpable.
“And then, in 2010, when the treatment finally was approved, remember how Dad no longer qualified for it and how we had to use radiation and those other horrible drugs that totally destroyed his quality of life?” She broke down and sobbed.
Easton talked with his wife for the better part of an hour, attempting to reassure her that she had done the right thing by bringing hospice in, that her father was in good hands, that hospice would ensure he was not in pain, that her father and she already had put his affairs in order . . . and that, in short, anything and everything that could have been done for him had been done.
But still, the facts were she was alone and needed him to be with her. Of that he was all too aware. Unfortunately, he could not simply pick up and leave without first talking to Whitman, who in turn would have to talk with Bishop. But this was not something he could discuss with his wife. She had no idea where he was, much less what he was doing.
“Look, honey, my boss gets in early, usually around 6 AM. I’ll talk with her first thing tomorrow. If all goes well, I could be home by noon. The work I’m doing is important, but I think I know someone who could jump in and take over immediately.”
His wife sounded reassured. They said their good-byes on a positive note.
Fifty-one
Eaton ended the call with his wife, put his cell phone into his pocket, turned off the office lights, armed the security system, stepped outside, and locked the building door. He appeared deep in thought as he plodded towards his car, no doubt preoccupied by the disturbing call he had just had with his wife.
It was well past the time Easton normally ate dinner. Still, a man had to eat, and there were several diners from which to choose. One in particular, north of Ironville, served a great meal at a special price on Wednesdays.
Concentrating on his driving, and with his mind apparently distracted by thoughts of his wife, Easton was unaware of a car that had been following him since he turned right off westbound Route 462 heading north on Prospect Road toward the diner. As time went by, the car came closer and closer to him, though it never appeared threatening.
Easton finally became aware of the other vehicle as he approached the site of an FM radio broadcast tower. There, the other vehicle’s headlights momentarily produced a blinding glare in his left rear-view mirror as Easton negotiated a sharp left curve. Easton took notice, but appeared to dismiss the annoyance. It’s still relatively early, and heavier-than-usual traffic is to be expected, he thought.
Seconds after Easton passed the radio station’s tower, the car trailing him sped up, closing the distance between the two vehicles to less than ten feet.
The agent looked into his rear-view mirror, surprised at the aggressiveness of the other driver. But before he could comprehend what might be happening, the second car rammed the rear bumper of Easton’s rental car before immediately backing off.
Easton frantically fought to retain control of his vehicle. Then the pursuing car rammed him again, this time maintaining contact as the other driver gunned his engine, pushing Easton’s car off the road and into the trees on the last turn before the road straightened for the run into Ironville.
The last thing FBI Agent Stan Easton of the Bronx, New York City, ever would see was the trunk of a 150-year-old white oak coming toward him at a speed of 62 miles per hour.
Fifty-two
Whitman, though distraught at the loss of a friend and fellow agent, remained professional to a fault. She provided the police and reporters from the Lancaster Courier-Sentinel and other papers with information on Stan Easton using only his cover name and the background story the Bureau had created for him.
Meanwhile, Agent Ron Bishop and his boss, Agent Bill Landau, upon being notified of Easton’s death by Whitman, immediately drove to Easton’s apartment to offer his wife their condolences and any assistance the Bureau might be able to provide in her time of need. Fortunately, Mrs. Easton’s younger brother was expected to fly in from the West Coast that night on the ‘red-eye,’ relieving her, at least temporarily, from having to deal with their father’s condition while she attended to the details of her husband’s funeral.
The Bureau had already prepared Stan Easton’s official obituary, which contained no picture and only the most basic information regarding his life and employment. No details were provided regarding where or under what circumstances he died.
Upon being advised of Easton’s death, the FBI’s Philadelphia Field Office dispatched two agents to the Lancaster Police Department’s impound lot, where Easton’s damaged rental car now resided. There, posing as insurance agents representing US Trash and Recycling’s interests, they performed a thorough examination of the vehicle, took interior and exterior photographs, and collected evidence that could be used in court, should that be necessary.
Whitman reviewed all she had done with Martelli, O’Keeffe, Knots, and Linden when they arrived for work. “This is fine and good,” said O’Keeffe, “but how are you going to get Stan’s body out of the morgue without tipping your hand?”
She smiled. “It’s already in the works. An agent posing as his brother, with suitable fake credentials, of course, will arrive later this morning. Once the autopsy has been completed, he will secure the release of the body and accompany it back to New York for burial. As for the autopsy, I’m sure the coroner won’t find anything unusual. We know what happened. The same thing happened to Ryan Belmont in 2012. And I’d bet the same people were involved in both cases.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Amanda, but right now, neither we nor the police have a ‘smoking gun,’” said Martelli.
“Don’t you think I know that?” she snapped, then softened and apologized. “I’m sorry, Lou. It’s been a long night. I’ve been with various police personnel, the coroner, and reporters since I got the call from the Pennsylvania State Police last night. I’ve barely had time to sit down, much less grab some shuteye.”
She moved to her desk and sat. Others grabbed chairs and formed a semi-circle around her, some straddling their chairs, which were turned around. “We can’t continue playing this game of cat and mouse. The stakes are too high. We have to change the rules, do something so outrageous—and right now, I haven’t a clue what that might be—that it turns everything on its head and brings this operation to a close within the next week or two. If we can’t do that—” She stopped, put her hand over her mouth, and bowed her head. It appeared as if she were going to break down and cry. But then she looked up, and continued speaking in a strong voice
. “If we can’t do that, we’re going to end up in a war of attrition, and that can only mean more bodies in the morgue.”
“Amanda, I have an idea,” said Martelli. “However, Bishop is the one who’s going to have to make this happen because the person we’ll need to pull it off is in New York right now.”
Whitman had a quizzical look on her face.
“With your permission—and with you sitting in on the conversation—I’d like to talk with Ron. But before we make that call, I’ll need your permission to make another call. I want to grease the skids, as it were, with the one person on whom this would all depend. I will not reveal where we are or what we’re doing, only what we need and why it’s important. If we can secure this person’s help, I honestly believe we can have Lupinacci in Lancaster by next Monday at the latest. And by the way, I would trust this person with my life.”
Whitman turned her head to one side. She appeared to be considering Martelli’s proposal. Finally, she turned to face him. “All right, Lou, make your call. Then we’ll call Bishop. And I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing, because I’m staking my job on it.”
“Okay. Just give me a minute,” said Martelli, and he headed for his car, from where he intended to make his first call.
Fifty-three
‘Lou, it’s good to hear your voice. I’ve been worried sick about you.” Missy Dugan set her coffee mug on her work bench and clasped her telephone headset with both hands. “Steph called me the day before yesterday to say you were okay, but that was all she would say. How are you—really? How is Sean? I’ve been very worried about you both.”
“I know, darlin’. We’re fine. Really. Sean says ‘Hey!’ I can’t say anything about where we are or what we’re doing, but we need your help.”
“My help? What kind of help? You know I’d do anything for you.”
Martelli spelled out what he had in mind, given what he could tell her without compromising the sting operation being conducted in Lancaster. When he had finished speaking, there was total silence on the line. Then Dugan spoke.
“Well, you’ve finally done it, Martelli. You’re out of your freakin’ mind if you think I’m going to do that!”
“Come on, Missy. Think about it. How many times would you get to do something like this with the blessings of the Federal Bureau of Investigation? And besides, it would be a blast.”
“You’ve got a point there, Lou.”
“So it’s a definite ‘yes’?”
“It’s a definite ‘maybe.’”
“Great! Expect a call from Ron Bishop. He’ll make it happen. And Missy—”
“Yes, Lou?”
“I owe you bigtime!”
Fifty-four
Martelli ended the call and headed back into the office, waving to Agents Knots and Linden as they pulled out onto the highway for their first trash pickups of the day. They may have lost one of their own the previous night, but the operation had to proceed on course, lest even the slightest deviation compromise its integrity. Inside, Whitman was on the phone with Bishop, working out the details attendant to the arrival of Easton’s replacement. “Oh, Ron, here he is now. I’ll let you speak with him.” She handed her cell phone to Martelli and sat back to listen to their conversation.
“Hi, Ron. My condolences on Stan’s death.”
“Thanks, Lou. He was quite a guy. Many in the office here had known and worked with him for a long time. Bill Landau and I have already been to see his wife. We sent the chaplain and one of our grief counselors to be with her today. I understand her brother will be flying in this morning, so that should help, especially given their father’s condition. What a terrible turn of events.
“So, Amanda tells me you have a plan to flush out Tommie Lupinacci and, we hope, bring this operation to an early conclusion. Care to share it with me?”
Martelli apprised Bishop of what he had in mind, being careful to provide only the minimal essential information.
“And you really believe this will work, Lou?”
“We both know what a psycho Lupinacci is, Ron. I think Dugan has the ability to drive him over the edge. If this works, and I truly believe it will, by next week the operation will all be over, and you’ll have the evidence you need to shut down Lupinacci and his cartage association completely.”
There were several seconds of silence. Then Bishop spoke. “Okay, I’m in. I’ll clear it with my boss, who I think will go for it. Then I’ll get in touch with Dugan and make it happen. Meanwhile, we’re going to ease off the gas down there on aggressively marketing Lupinacci’s customers. Let them think they’ve won for now.”
“Got it,” said Martelli.
“And Lou—”
“Yes, Ron?”
“Thanks.”
Fifty-five
The week went by rapidly. Martelli and O’Keeffe stayed close to the office, arriving early and staying late. This was done as much to safeguard the facility as to provide protection for both Whitman and the agent sent to replace Easton. For now, both Whitman and Easton’s replacement had their hands full going over the accounting procedures used in the office, so Martelli and O’Keeffe handled many of the day-to-day activities normally performed by Whitman, such as manning the phones.
Agents Knots and Linden, for their part, continued to make their rounds collecting trash and hauling it to the city dump. As far as their customers were concerned, US Trash and Recycling was conducting business as usual.
The two special agents from the FBI’s Philadelphia Field Office who had posed as insurance agents representing US Trash and Recycling’s interests completed their examination of Easton’s rental vehicle in the Lancaster Police Department’s impound lot. The first thing they did was photograph Easton’s heavily damaged sedan followed by gathering paint scrapings from the car’s rear bumper. These were thought to be from the vehicle that caused the accident. Lending credence to this belief was the fact no such damage was marked on the rental company’s documents found in the glove compartment of the sedan, documents that the agents photographed as well. The paint scrapings were sent to the FBI’s forensic laboratory in Quantico, VA, for the purpose of identifying the make, year, and color of the vehicle that made contact with Easton’s sedan.
Lancaster’s coroner completed his autopsy of Easton’s body in short order. Death was attributed to blunt force trauma as a result of what the police determined to be a hit-and-run accident. The body was released to Easton’s ‘brother,’ who, together with a mortician from New York City, returned the body to the Bronx on Friday morning for a memorial service and subsequent burial on Long Island.
It was a little after 7 PM on Friday night when Whitman armed the security systems at US Trash and Recycling’s office and locked the front door. “I never want to go through a week like this again, guys,” she said to Martelli and O’Keeffe, who had preceded her out the door. “Please be careful this weekend. Who knows what Lupinacci might pull?”
“Got it,” said Martelli.
“What about Knots and Linden?” asked O’Keeffe.
“I told them to take the new guy to Gettysburg for the weekend and not to return until early Monday morning. You may want to do the same.”
We aren’t leaving town if you’re not, thought Martelli. “We’ll think about it, Amanda,” he said.
“Well, whatever you do, be careful. My gut tells me our world’s going to change dramatically over the next couple of days.”
Fifty-six
‘What was that all about?” asked O’Keeffe as they drove back to their motel to wash up before going out for dinner.
“If all goes according to plan—and you heard what I proposed to Bishop—Lupinacci is going to go berserk sometime late Saturday night. My guess is he’ll be down here by early Sunday morning, and by Sunday night he’s going to start settling scores.”
“With whom, specifically?”
“I think he’s going to try to kill all of us. It’ll be a replay of that scene in one of the Godf
ather movies where Michael Corleone’s men execute a series of hits while he’s at a baptism. Except in this case, Lupinacci’s going to participate in the carnage.”
“Well, doesn’t that sound just peachy?” deadpanned O’Keeffe. “But why not leave the dirty work to his men? Why is he going to get down and dirty?”
“Because Tommie, being the psychopath he is, can’t control himself. He’s like that hothead Sonny Corleone, Michael’s brother, who was lured to his death at a toll booth in a trap set by Barzini and Sonny’s brother-in-law.”
“So how do you want to play this, Lou?”
“With Knots, Linden, and the new guy out of town, that leaves only Amanda, you, and me to worry about. You and me? We’re just a couple of jerks who came along late to the game, so I figure Lupinacci’ll send two of his men, perhaps Tiny and one other—God knows, Halstead probably can’t walk after getting burned like he did—to take us out.
“Amanda’s his real target. She’s the one who’s caused the most damage to his operation down here. He’ll save her for himself.”
O’Keeffe nodded but said nothing. He appeared to be considering the alternatives. “My take, Lou, is that we dummy up our beds late Sunday night and then stake out Amanda’s motel room. We’ll take turns sleeping in our car. It should be easy to keep an eye on her. We already know she doesn’t mingle much with the locals, so she’ll probably turn in early. The important thing is to keep her safe. Who knows, we might even take down Lupinacci and one or more of his people before the sun comes up Monday.”
“And to think Dugan said you were just another pretty face, Sean.”
Fifty-seven
Itwas precisely 5 AM Saturday morning when a black Crown Vic with heavily tinted windows pulled up to Missy Dugan’s apartment building on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Dugan had already taken her dog Chauncey to a neighbor’s and was downstairs waiting with her suitcase, carry-on luggage, and a small purse. A professionally dressed woman in a pants suit stepped from the passenger side of the sedan and displaying her FBI credentials, greeted her. “Good morning, Missy. I’m Special Agent Grace Thornton of the New York City Field Office.”
Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6) Page 15
