As the public fear died down, so did Stroman’s. He still remained concerned and careful, but he was slowly starting to get on with his life. He was himself newly married, and the situation had understandably caused a strain on his wife as well. He resolved finally to put it behind them.
That resolution came to an end, as did his life, when Drew Stroman got off a bus near his house in Wyckoff and a sniper’s bullet crashed into his chest.
Joseph Russo lives in the Riverside section of Paterson.
It’s a modest house in what is likely the most crime-free neighborhood in the United States. Guys like Russo must be in it for the power; it’s not like they use their money to buy fancy stuff. And Russo, like Dominic Petrone before him, doesn’t travel or take vacations. If you go to Aruba, or St. Martin, you can swim at the beach without fear of banging into Joseph Russo.
Russo would actually look a bit out of place on the beach. He’s about five foot ten and well over three hundred pounds; I wouldn’t want to be the lifeguard called upon to pull him out of the water. A tugboat would be more appropriate. But I don’t think I’ll mention that when I see him.
There are two large bodyguards sitting on the front porch when we arrive. That doesn’t deter Willie, who bounds up the steps like he’s Sylvester Stallone in Philadelphia. I take it a little slower, but I don’t want to fall too far behind Willie. He is my protective umbrella.
The guards don’t move a muscle; they just let us enter through the front door. They have obviously been alerted to our arrival. Once we get inside, there is another scary-looking guy waiting for us. He simply points to a door off the foyer and says, “In there.”
Willie doesn’t miss a beat; he just walks to the door and opens it, with me in tow. It turns out to be a small dining room off the kitchen, and Russo is at the table eating breakfast. He’s almost done, and there are three plates of mostly eaten food. Russo does not deny himself nourishment.
Russo stands up, a big smile on his face. “My man,” he says. Even though there are two of us here, I notice his use of the singular “man.” It’s fair to say that I don’t have Willie’s status with him.
“How’s it going, Joey?” Willie says, as they embrace. Willie almost disappears into the enormous mass that is Russo.
Russo turns to me and says, “He’s the only one who can call me Joey.”
“He’s a lucky guy,” I say.
“And I call you wiseass.”
I nod. “The name seems to fit.”
The other times that Russo, Willie, and I have gotten together, Russo has told me some version of the time Willie saved his life in prison. He usually implies that he could have handled the three guys on his own, and I don’t mention that I find it highly unlikely, especially since the attackers had makeshift knives. But he always credits Willie with a courageous intervention, worthy of his gratitude.
This time he skips the story, since he probably remembers that I’ve heard it a bunch of times, or maybe he just doesn’t want to spend a lot of time with me. Instead he says, “What’s your problem this time?”
I don’t mention that “my problem” last time resulted in his boss going to prison and his moving up to head of the family. That seemed to work out pretty well for him, but I avoid pointing it out.
“No problem; I just need some information.”
Russo turns to Willie. “He thinks I’m here to give him information?”
“Andy’s a good guy,” Willie says.
“Willie likes you.”
I nod. “And I like Willie.”
“So what do you want to know?” Russo asks.
“Whatever you can tell me about Ernie Vinson.”
“He’s dead.”
“I already knew that. I’m hoping for a little more detail. Favorite color, hobbies, who killed him, that kind of thing.”
“How the hell would I know?”
“He worked for you.”
Russo shakes his head. “Used to work for me. He quit to go on to bigger and better things, thought he’d make more money and be more important.” He laughs. “How’d that work out for him?”
In the moment it dawns on me that Russo might have had him killed for walking out on him. In that case it’s unlikely that Russo will break down and tearfully confess.
I decide to switch topics. “Have you read about the homeless guy, Don Carrigan, who was arrested for a murder in Short Hills last year?”
“Was I mentioned in the story?”
“No.”
“Then why would I read it?” he asks.
I’m tempted to ask him how he knows if he’s mentioned in a story without reading it, but I stifle my curiosity. Maybe he has intelligence briefers who come in every morning with a report on current events, like the president.
“Well, a few weeks ago Carrigan was lying on the street in the middle of the night, and a guy came along and threatened him with a gun. He wanted Carrigan to come with him in an SUV that someone else was driving.”
“So?”
“So the guy with the gun was Ernie Vinson.”
He does almost a full double take in response, which in Russo’s case means that he turns his head so quickly that only three of his four chins have a chance to follow. “How do you know that?”
“DNA,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Goddamn DNA; they never should have invented that shit.”
“Except for Facebook, it’s the worst invention of all time,” I say. “But it was definitely Ernie Vinson.”
“Going after a homeless guy?”
“Yes.”
He pauses for a few moments, as if for the first time in the conversation he cares about what he is going to say. “Okay, here’s the story. Vinson came to me a while back, maybe a year, maybe a few months more. He says he wants out, that something has come up where he can make big money.
“I don’t ask what it is,” Russo continues. “Because I don’t give a shit what it is. He’s a stand-up guy, not a brain in his head, but a stand-up guy. When he worked for me, if I told him to walk in front of a train, he’d walk in front of a train.
“So he came to me like a stand-up guy and said he wanted to leave. So I said, ‘Don’t go near my territory,’ and he said it had nothing to do with my territory. So I said ‘Go ahead, make your money.’”
“Do you know what he was doing?”
“No. That’s the last I heard of him until I heard he was dead.”
My tendency is to believe Russo, at least to the extent that I no longer think he was the one that had Vinson killed.
I haven’t learned much, and the little I did learn makes it even more confusing. If Vinson suddenly had gotten a job that was making him a lot of money, what could he have possibly wanted with Don Carrigan?
Maybe it was the same talents that Carrigan used to fend off Vinson that made him appealing in the first place. Maybe somehow Vinson was going to attempt to utilize Carrigan’s unique military training to help him commit some kind of violent act.
But I have no idea how Vinson would have known about Carrigan’s abilities, where Carrigan was, or how he would have expected to get Carrigan to cooperate.
Which brings me to Jaime Tomasino.
I had sent Hike to ask Carrigan about the people that might have a grudge against him.
He’s done that, and in the process Carrigan gave him a couple of additional names to consider. But I deliberately didn’t want Hike to mention Jaime Tomasino to Carrigan; I want to do that myself. I want to see and measure his reaction.
Tomasino is the individual that the prosecution has put forward as a witness; he will apparently testify that Carrigan confessed the McMaster murder to him.
“Do you know someone called Jaime Tomasino?” I ask Carrigan, once we’re settled in.
He thinks for a few moments, as if trying to place the name. Or maybe’s he’s pretending to be trying to place the name; I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Who
is he? Where would I know him from?”
“The soup kitchen you ate some meals at.”
“Oh, then it’s possible I know him. Most people that go there don’t give their names. I mean, you have to give your name when you sign in, but you wouldn’t use it in conversation. I talked to a few people there, but I don’t think I knew any of their names.”
“He says that you admitted to him that you killed McMaster.”
He reacts in surprise and then shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t kill him, so why would I say that? And if I had killed him, why would I say that?”
“Any idea why he would claim that you did?”
“No, but that’s more your area than mine. I assume he had something to gain by lying, maybe some financial inducement. Money is in rather short supply among soup kitchen patrons.”
“Was there anyone there you would describe yourself as friendly with?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not a large room, and it’s usually crowded. Not someplace I’d want to hang out in, for obvious reasons.”
I take out the driver’s license photo that Sam gave me, and I place it in front of Carrigan. “This jog your memory at all? This is Tomasino.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t say I’ve never seen him, but I’m good with faces. If I talked with him at any length, I’d remember. So if I spoke to him at all, the conversations would have been brief and inconsequential. But I don’t think I did.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m going to try and talk to him.”
I start to stand but stop when he starts talking again. “You know, I didn’t believe it, but you may be right.”
I never tire of hearing that I’m right, so I sit back down. “What do you mean?”
“Your hypothesis that I’ve been framed. I didn’t think so; my view was either that the DNA testing was wrong, or that somehow my stolen hat happened to wind up in the possession of the actual killer. Having said that, I never did come up with an explanation for the ring in the locker.”
I know where he’s going, but I let him finish.
“But if someone is putting this Tomasino guy up to lying about me, then it has to be more than that. There really has to be someone behind it, someone probably with money to spend.”
“Did you ever think about becoming a defense attorney?” I ask.
He smiles a sad smile. “Yeah, it’s at the top of my bucket list. Would I be allowed to practice outdoors?”
I leave the jail and head for the soup kitchen, which is called “Welcome Home.” It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, so I’m hoping to get there when it’s not yet in the middle of the dinner rush. I doubt they have early bird specials.
It’s a combination shelter–soup kitchen and it’s located just off Market Street, not far from Eastside High School. I graduated from Eastside, yet as I pass by I notice that strangely there is still no statue of me commemorating that fact.
When I enter I’m struck by how clean the place is. It looks very much like a school cafeteria; there is a long counter where people push their trays along as they are served by other people behind the glass partitions, which are there to cover the food.
There are long tables set up end to end horizontally across the room; without counting I’d say they can seat at least eighty people. Of course, right now there are no people and no food; this is not meal time, so there is no reason for anyone to be here.
Probably there are people in the shelter section of the operation, so I set out to find out, but I’m stopped by the sound of a door opening. I turn and see that about twenty people are exiting a room. They barely glance at me and just head for the door to the outside.
The last person out, a tall guy probably in his early fifties, sees me and asks, “Can I help you? We don’t start serving until five o’clock.”
“I’m here for conversation, not food,” I say.
He smiles. “For that we’re open all day. I’m Sean Aimonetti; I’m the director here. And you are…?”
He offers his hand and I shake it. “Andy Carpenter. Just curious, is that a class you were teaching?”
“It was an alcohol counseling session. Dealing with alcoholism is a specialty of mine, so I do double duty here. Now, how can I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to you about a case I’m working on; my client has been here.”
He nods. “Right, Andy Carpenter. I thought I recognized you; I’ve seen you on television.”
“I’m even better looking in person,” I say. I’ve had a lot of cases that have gotten significant media coverage, so he probably has seen me in reference to an earlier case. I haven’t been on television on this case yet, emphasis on the “yet.”
Another smile. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Is this about Don Carrigan? Are you representing him?”
“I am.”
“The police have been here; I’ve answered their questions. And they brought a search warrant to empty out his locker.”
“Did you get to know Don at all?”
He shakes his head. “No, not really. We have a lot of people coming through here.”
“Do they come through mostly anonymously, or do they provide information about themselves?”
He shrugs. “We ask for information; sometimes they provide it, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes it is accurate; sometimes it isn’t. Providing information is not a requirement to receive food and shelter.”
“Another person’s name has come up in connection with the case. He’s a patron here as well and he claims to have been a confidant of Mr. Carrigan. One Jaime Tomasino.”
“I don’t know him,” he says. “But James might.”
“James?”
He nods. “James Lasky. He’s much more involved with the clients here. We don’t invade their privacy, but we do need to make sure there are no disruptive issues. Unfortunately mental illness can be one of the causes of homelessness, and those suffering from it often don’t get the treatment they need and deserve. But we need to make sure no clients endanger any of the others or our staff.”
“And James Lasky oversees that effort?” I ask.
“He does.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“I think he’s next door in the shelter. Let’s go.”
Before we do I ask where Don Carrigan’s locker is. “Is it over at the shelter?”
“No, as I understand it, he came here only for food; he did not spend his nights here. So it would be in that room over there; let me show you.”
He leads me to the room, and there must be a hundred lockers. I walk along them, checking them out. “Can I take some photos of this room, so I can refer to it?”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
I do so and then say, “Time for Mr. Lasky.”
The shelter side of Welcome Home is not unlike the kitchen side.
It’s a series of cots, almost like an army barracks, but with at least ten feet of space separating each one. There are lockers along the back wall, and bathrooms along the side wall. The place is very clean and well kept, with a general feel of dignity for the “clients.” I’m impressed by the work these people are doing in caring for those who are far down on the luck totem pole.
There are five or six patrons sitting on the bunks; I assume it doesn’t fill up until nighttime, or maybe after the dinner next door. My further assumption is that the shelter clients are also food clients, but I don’t know that for sure.
Sean Aimonetti leads me into a back office where a man in his midthirties is talking on the phone. Based on his side of the conversation, it seems to be a matter concerning laundry, maybe the cleaning of the sheets and bedding.
About thirty seconds later he gets off the phone, and Aimonetti introduces me to James Lasky. “This is Andy Carpenter, James. He’s a lawyer with some questions that you could probably answer better than me.”
“Let’s hear them; I’ve got a lot to do.”
Aimonetti says he’s going to leave the two of us
alone, which is exactly what he does.
“It’s about two of your clients, Don Carrigan and Jaime Tomasino.”
He nods. “I heard about Carrigan … too bad. I know both of them. Carrigan never stayed overnight; Tomasino used to.”
“But not anymore?”
“Not for a while,” he says. “What do you want to know?” Everything about him—his body language, his tone of voice, his facial expression—all seems designed to tell me how busy he is and how little time he has to give me.
“Did they have a relationship?”
“What does that mean?”
“Did they talk to each other a lot?”
“I think so. I mean I don’t know if they were buddies, but it strikes me that they did. I wouldn’t swear to it. Carrigan usually wasn’t much of a talker, but Tomasino was.”
“You keep track of these things?” I ask, surprised at his answer.
“I don’t keep records about it, but I keep my eyes open. I have to anticipate trouble, which is why we don’t have much of it.”
“What can you tell me about Tomasino?”
“What do you mean?”
“If he doesn’t come here anymore, do you know where he’s living?” I already have that information from Sam, but I want to see if Lasky is going to be forthcoming.
“No,” Lasky says.
“Do you know what his occupation was, or is?”
“No.”
“Would you call me if he comes in again?”
“No. These people deserve privacy like everyone else.”
I thank Lasky, though he basically gave me nothing, and I leave.
On the way home, I try to sift through all of this. Basically it comes down to who I believe and who I don’t believe.
Carrigan falls into the “I believe” category. Part of the reason for that is he is my client, so I have to start with a trust in what he is telling me. If he’s lying, we’re going to go down in flames. But I also have come to trust him.
Deck the Hounds: An Andy Carpenter Mystery Page 9
