Leader of the Pack (Andy Carpenter)

by David Rosenfelt

  “Cindy, we need to have another meeting.”

  “What for?”

  “I know what’s being done, and I know who’s doing it.”

  “Is this about trying to get something for your client?” she asks.

  “Of course. But it goes way beyond that.”

  “OK,” she says. “Who do you need there? Givens certainly, but I doubt Beall will come in from Washington. Maybe video him in? And I’ll video in as well.”

  “Beall is a must; this most concerns him.” I think for a moment about whether I want Givens there, who annoyed me the last time with his mocking description of my session with Nicky Fats. Then with another jolt I realize what bugged me so much about it, and I say, “Givens needs to be there also. He’s going to make the trade I just thought of.”

  “What trade?”

  “You’ll know soon enough,” I say. “Noon?”

  “Noon it is.”

  With the fake mechanical problem miraculously fixed, the two planes took off from Guaranda.

  They were completely loaded down with cargo, almost eleven hundred metric tons’ worth, which meant they were carrying far more weight than they brought in on their “relief” mission.

  Tommy Iurato was on an American Airlines flight to St. Louis. He had the option of taking a private jet, but preferred the safety of a commercial aircraft.

  Iurato was no fool; he understood that betrayal and murder represented business as usual in this operation. He knew it especially well since he had frequently been the instrument of that betrayal and murder.

  Iurato was not exactly sure how he was going to play it, but he would not be the next victim, of that much he was certain. He would likely take the promised payoff and disappear forever, but if he didn’t get what was due him, he would make sure that others were the ones who disappeared forever.

  “It’s about drugs coming into the country. That’s what Ryerson was doing,” I say. There’s something surreal about the meeting. I’m talking to three people, but Agent Givens is the only person in the room with me. There is a large-screen TV taking up almost an entire wall, and it is divided into two panels. Cindy Spodek is in one, from her Boston office, and Agent Beall is in the other, from Washington.

  “Ryerson is dead,” Beall says.

  “Doesn’t matter. He wasn’t the key guy.”

  “And you know who the key guy is?” He sounds rather skeptical, probably thinking that I’m trying to maneuver to serve my own self-interest. He’s right, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have news that he needs.

  “I know who he is, I know where the drugs are coming from, I know how they’re getting here, and I know where they’re going.”

  “So you called the meeting,” Beall says. “Tell us.”

  “First I want to hear what you know. Or more accurately, what Agent Givens knows.”

  “What are you talking about?” Givens asks.

  “The last time I was here, you were acting like an asshole, which I suppose in and of itself is not that unusual an occurrence. You said something that bugged me, but I didn’t know until this morning why it did.”

  “I’m waiting,” he says.

  “You asked me if Nicky Fats told me that Carmine’s death was his fault, or just Joey getting convicted for hitting Solarno.”

  “So?”

  “So I thought Cindy probably told you about my conversation with Nicky Fats, but she couldn’t have. Because I never told her that Nicky told me Joey’s conviction was his fault. I’ve never told anyone that.”

  “Or maybe you did,” Given says.

  I shake my head. “No, I didn’t remember it myself until this morning. It wasn’t the important part of what he said to me. What I focused on was that Solarno was a crook, and that Nicky knew it.”

  “So?”

  “So how did you know what he said about Joey?”

  He thinks for a moment. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Well, you’d better get at liberty in a hurry, or I’ve got nothing to say about anything else. But you know what, I’ll get you started. Jerry McCaskill told me that one of the main reasons you guys have been able to get inside and break up the crime families is intensified surveillance.” I don’t have to tell him that McCaskill had his job six years ago; he would certainly know that.

  “You coming to the point?” Givens asks.

  “Yeah. I think you knew what Nicky said to me because you heard every word of it. I think you had his room bugged.”

  “What if we did?”

  “Then I want the tapes from six years ago, as well as the notes agents took from those tapes. I want to know if there’s something on there that clears Joey Desimone.”

  Even as I say it, I am experiencing a terrible realization, one which makes me want to get out of that office as soon as possible.

  “I don’t know if they exist,” says Beall, taking over. “But if they do, they’re yours. Now tell me about the drugs.”

  “I have your word?”

  “You have my word,” Beall says. “I’ll get people started on it immediately.”

  “Cindy?”

  She nods from the screen. “His word is good, as is mine. And you have them both.”

  I nod. “There’s an air cargo company called Coastal Cargo. They flew at least two planes into Peru with relief supplies; I saw them on television.”

  “So?”

  “So they’re flying back loaded with drugs. It can’t be arms; there couldn’t be enough to make all of this worth it. I googled it, and each of those planes can carry six hundred metric tons. I don’t know what the hell a metric ton is, but it’s got to be heavy. Twelve hundred metric tons of drugs would be worth an absolute fortune, even if the drug was aspirin.

  “Carolyn Greenwell told me that drug trafficking has been way down for a year; she thought it was due to government efforts. But it’s because they were waiting for this, so it could all be done at once.”

  If Beall is skeptical about this, he’s hiding it well. “Who’s behind it, and where is it going?”

  “It’s going to St. Louis, as is Tommy Iurato.”

  “Who is behind it?” Beall asks.

  “That I’m not yet ready to tell you.” The truth is that I’m not positive that I’m even right, but I’d bet on it. Actually, I am betting a lot on it.

  He gets angry; I can’t say I blame him. “This is bullshit.”

  I nod. “Call it what you want, but we’re doing this my way.”

  There’s a lot to learn, and little time to learn it.

  I call Jerry McCaskill and ask if he’ll be free to meet me in two hours. He says that he won’t be in his office by then, but can meet me for a cup of coffee if I’d like. We agree to meet at a diner on Route 4, about ten minutes from the George Washington Bridge, and another fifteen from Alpine, which is where I’m going first.

  Edward Young has also agreed to meet with me right away. He’s at his house, and certainly didn’t sound thrilled to hear from me. It’s a reluctance he’s had ever since his car got shot up and his driver killed.

  His house is certainly impressive, a sprawling ranch style, with large, endless manicured lawns on rolling hills, as well as a tennis court and swimming pool.

  Edward lets me in himself, though I see two bodyguards watching him do so. I have no idea if he’s added the bodyguards since the shooting, or if his wealth caused him to have them before, and right now it really doesn’t matter.

  We head toward a den in the back of the house, though the bodyguards stay in the living room, near the front.

  Once we get there, he says, “I thought we had an agreement.” He’s referring to his giving me the documents showing Solarno was involved in criminal activities, with him getting in return my promise not to call him to testify.

  “We did, and I stuck to it,” I say. “The trial’s over, and I didn’t call you.”

  He nods. “True enough. Have you gotten a verdict yet?”

  “No, anytime now.”


  “So what can I do for you?”

  “Another trade,” I say.

  He seems puzzled. “I’ve got nothing to offer you, and I can’t think of anything you have that I want.”

  “I definitely have something you don’t want.”

  “What might that be?”

  “I have the knowledge that you are in the process of executing the largest drug deal in history.” I have no idea if that’s true, but it’s got to be close. “And amazing as it seems, that’s just the beginning.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you probably causing the dam in Peru to collapse, making you a mass murderer. I’m talking about you taking twelve hundred metric tons of drugs out of that country, whatever a metric ton is, and flying them to St. Louis. I’m talking about you having Carmine Desimone, Simon Ryerson, and a bunch of other people, including your driver, killed. I’m talking about you giving new meaning to the word ‘shithead.’”

  If he’s worried, he’s hiding it well. He’s just learned that the most important secret of his life, one he has literally killed thousands to protect, is not a secret anymore. But he is a man used to getting what he wants, and I can tell that he thinks this will be more of the same.

  It turns out that he gives new meaning to the word “unflappable.” “That’s quite a speech,” he says. “And what do you want from me?”

  “Information on who killed Richard and Karen Solarno.”

  “I have no idea who killed them.”

  “I think you do,” I say, though I really don’t think that at all. Basically, this is a shot in the dark, and it’s not going well.

  “You’re wrong,” he says. “But maybe I can trade something else.”

  “You mean money?”

  “I mean more money than you’ve ever dreamed of. I mean one hundred million dollars.”

  “I dream in euros,” I say. “Sometimes shekels.”

  “You’re mocking me?” he asks, showing a flash of anger.

  “I’m telling you I want information that clears my client.”

  “How do I know you haven’t spoken to the authorities about this?”

  “You don’t, but I haven’t,” I lie. “All I want is information, and then we can go on with our respective lives.”

  He reaches under his desk, and seems to press a button. Then he walks toward the closed door, and says, “I’m afraid your respective life is about to be shortened.”

  He opens the door. His back is to me when he does, so I can’t see his face, but I wish I could.

  Because standing there is Marcus Clark.

  I’m wearing a wire, so I tell the agents it’s okay to approach the house. They had not been happy with the arrangement, but they would have come in with such force that they’d have been seen, and I never would have had the chance to question Edward about the Solarno murders.

  Marcus had assured me that if he hid in the backseat, and we parked close enough to the house, he could ensure my safety. As insurers go, Marcus makes Allstate look like a mom-and-pop operation.

  The fact that Edward had no information, or at least none he shared with me, did not come as a surprise. It was worth a shot.

  Once the bodyguards are revived, they and Edward are taken off in one of what seems like twenty thousand FBI cars that have shown up, carrying twenty thousand agents. If the government is serious about dealing with the national debt, they can carve out a big chunk by making FBI agents carpool.

  “We’re going to need a statement,” Givens says, after the bad guys have left.

  “OK. Here’s one: I’m out of here.”

  Actually I wish I could stay and chat, because I’m not at all looking forward to my next stop, which is at the diner to meet Jerry McCaskill. The former agent is waiting for me at a table when I arrive.

  “So this is a matter of life and death?” he asks, slightly amused. I had told him that to get him to see me right away. “A little lawyer hyperbole perhaps?”

  “I should have said ‘life in prison.’”

  That surprises him, and removes the amusement from his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

  “When we talked last time, you told me about the surveillance you guys were doing over the years, to break up the Mafia families.”

  “I remember.”

  “You also said that you didn’t follow Joey Desimone’s trial, because you were out of town on an assignment.”

  “So?”

  “And you also said that the evidence showed that Joey was guilty.”

  I can see in his eyes that he’s figured out where this is going.

  “Tell me why you’re here, Andy.”

  “I think you also had the surveillance back then, and I think you were completely familiar with it. That’s why you knew the evidence without following the trial.”

  He nods. “That’s correct.”

  I dread asking this question, because I really dread the answer. But I have to ask it. “Will you tell me what I need to know?”

  He thinks about it for a few seconds, which feel like a few years. Finally, he nods slowly.

  “Joey Desimone killed Richard and Karen Solarno.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, knowing full well that he is.

  “Beyond any doubt, reasonable or otherwise. The tapes prove it.”

  “Why didn’t you give them to the prosecution?”

  “Because it would have blown the surveillance. Now the bad guys have learned not to talk when we can hear them. But back then they felt like nothing could touch them. We were making too much progress to give up the secret.”

  “So you would have let Joey walk?” I ask.

  He nods. “But fortunately he didn’t.”

  “There’s always a next time.”

  “Uh, oh. What’s wrong? Is there a verdict?” are the first words out of Joey’s mouth when he sees me.

  “What makes you think something’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Well, for one thing, you’re never here this early in the morning unless court’s in session. But mostly it’s the look on your face. You don’t depend on someone for your life and not know their moods.”

  “You did it,” I say.

  “Did what?”

  “You murdered Richard and Karen Solarno.”

  He doesn’t seem shocked by what I’ve said, and pauses for a few moments, as if carefully weighing his response. “How did you figure it out?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Actually, to be precise, I murdered Richard Solarno. Karen was self-defense. She was trying to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “Probably some misguided revenge because I had just killed her husband.”

  “I meant why did you go there that day? Why did you do it?”

  Another pause. “OK, I owe you this much … I owe you a lot more. Richard Solarno was a lying scumbag who thought he was bulletproof. He thought he could cheat people like my father. Whether I did it or not, he was going to be killed. The phrase is ‘dead man walking.’”

  “So why you?”

  “I was making my bones, Andy. I was entering the business. I was joining my father,” he says, before pausing. “And I was earning his approval.”

  “Spare me the psychobabble. Who am I, Dr. Phil?”

  “I was also getting the girl.”

  “How did that work out?” I ask, trying not to sneer.

  If he’s insulted, he hides it well. “Not the way I hoped. She saw me shoot Richard from the top of the stairs, and she ran to her room. I went after her, but she was waiting with her gun. I didn’t want to hurt her, but she was going to kill me. We wrestled for the gun, and I shot her.”

  “It just went off?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I shot her. If not, she would have killed me, or at the very least told the police what I had done. But it was still self-defense. There was no other way; I wish there was. I loved her.”

  I’m not often speechless, but I have absolu
tely nothing to say.

  “I served six years for shooting someone who deserved to be killed, and who was going to die either way. If I get out now, it’s not that unfair, Andy.”

  Just then the door opens, and in an act of exquisitely bad timing, Hike sticks his head in and says, “Hatchet is calling everyone to the courtroom. There’s a verdict.”

  Joey takes a deep breath; he seems to have been hit by a wave of tension. And I’m sure he has; just because he’s confessed to me doesn’t make this outcome any less important to him. The news of his actual guilt, while a revelation to me, is something he’s known and lived with for a long time. Without any apparent effect on his conscience.

  He manages a slight smile. “Well, this is awkward.”

  I stand up. “Let’s go.”

  “How are you rooting, Andy?”

  I don’t even have to think about it. “Guilty.”

  We head into the courtroom, where the gallery is starting to fill up. Dylan and his team have arrived, and he comes over and shakes my hand, a nice gesture. He doesn’t wish me luck, because he obviously believes we want very different outcomes.

  We don’t.

  Hatchet comes in five minutes later, and the session is called to order. Joey hasn’t said a word to me, and sits silently as the jury is brought in. Hike is silent as well; I haven’t told him what I’ve learned, so he’s hoping for an acquittal.

  Once the jury is seated, Hatchet asks the foreman if they’ve reached a verdict.

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  “Please hand the form to the clerk.”

  He does so, and the clerk brings it to Hatchet, who looks at it and hands it back. “Will the defendant please rise.” It’s a command in the form of a question.

  Hike and I rise along with Joey, though my first choice would be to just leave. I have a superstition that I always put my hand on a client’s shoulder as the verdict is read. Since that superstition is supposed to yield a “not guilty” result, I keep my hands folded in front of me.

  The bailiff starts to read, “As it relates to count one, we, the jury, in the case of the State of New Jersey versus Joseph Desimone, find the defendant, Joseph Desimone, not guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.”