by Mel Odom
Valentine seated himself at the mainframe computer logging the bets, bettors, and betting line, and attached his portable computer. A pocket-sized satlink hooked his computer to their secure dump on the ’Net. He began downloading and transmitting at once.
January found the office safe that was built into the floor in the corner farthest from the main entrance. There were money-drop slots under the false flooring so the safe wouldn’t have to be opened much, but there was no time lock on it. That would have required the bagmen to show up at a certain time every day and would have turned them into certain prey for free-lance hijackers aware of what actually went on in the building.
“Who’s in charge here?” Wilson demanded.
Nearly a dozen hesitant fingers pointed out a man in a gray shirt and white slacks.
“What’s your name?” Wilson asked.
“Lewis. Art Lewis.”
“Get over, Lewis.”
“Yes, sir.” The man gingerly crawled out of the pile of handcuffed bodies, then rolled over and tried to get to his feet.
Reaching down, Wilson grabbed the man by the back of his collar and hoisted him to his feet.
“I’m not really in charge,” Lewis said nervously. “I just run the operation. I work for Mr. DiVarco.”
“I knew that,” Wilson said. “What I want to know next is whether you can open this safe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
January escorted the man to the safe and watched him conduct the procedure. Some safes were programmed with self-destruct devices that would destroy their contents; Wilson had decided against having January blow it unless no other recourse remained.
“Slade.”
Wilson glanced over at Scuderi. “Yeah.”
“Fischer’s here with the backup.” She’d been monitoring the Boston FBI’s progress on a separate channel.
Changing channels, Wilson contacted Fischer himself. “Get your teams deployed, first at street level, then bring them into the building. Every one of these people is a potential witness against DiVarco. I don’t want to lose any of them. Put counter snipers in the surrounding buildings. I’ll be sending a man over to take command of those people.” He nodded to Rawley.
Rawley touched the brim of his hat and faded out of the room.
“Make sure the transport trucks are well-protected too,” Wilson continued. “Split some of the prisoners up among your mobile units. That way if we lose a truck, the survivors might be more inclined to talk.”
“Do we want to use the local police on this?”
“Have they been in contact with you?”
“Yes, sir. Only a couple minutes after we started rolling on it.”
From across the room, Scuderi said sarcastically, “Their response time is improving.”
“They were monitoring your frequencies,” Wilson said.
“I suppose so.”
Wilson hadn’t mentioned that they were cutting the local PD out of the operation. Fischer would be used to that, though. The Coast Guard, DA, and Boston Police Department were usually at loggerheads regarding who was entitled to drug cases and who actually broke them.
“Keep them out of it for now,” Wilson ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
Across the room, January was reaching down into the mouth of the floor safe.
“One other thing, Fischer,” Wilsons said.
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re familiar with the local media”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find me the three best reporters out of the crowd that’ll start showing up at any minute. I want two television people, and one press reporter who has time to get the story in before the morning edition.”
“You mean you’re going to be giving exclusive interviews?”
“Yeah.” Wilson broke the connection.
Scuderi raised her eyebrows in surprise.
With his prisoner’s help, January began taking stacks of banded money from the safe and dropping them in a clear trash bag. Wilson figured the cash would make an impressive visual aid in the news stories.
He glanced at Valentine and found the young agent apparently engrossed by what he was turning up in his computer search.
“Slade.”
Wilson turned his attention back to January.
The big man was holding up a kilo bag of white powder.
“Cocaine?”
“Maybe. We’ll have to analyze it to be sure.”
Switching to Lewis, who was still on his knees beside the safe he was supposed to be protecting, Wilson asked, “Is it?”
“Yes.”
Mac smiled, maintaining his vigil over the bookies lying on the floor. “Sounds like we might even have enough to build a conspiracy to distribute charge against most of these people. That being the case, I think we’ll be able to seize all monies running through the bookmaking end of this operation as probable drug profits.”
Wilson nodded. The bust was shaping up better than he’d figured and was going to give them leverage in areas they hadn’t counted on. With the drugs involved, and a foundation like the one Mac had mentioned, they would be able to take more out of DiVarco’s coffers than the office change fund.
“Hey, Wilson,” Valentine called. His animosity hadn’t gone away yet.
Wilson crossed the room to the computer mainframe. “Yeah.”
“Got something here.”
Gazing at the jumble of letters and numbers running across the screen, Wilson asked, “What?”
“Everything’s in code pretty much the way we figured it would be,” Valentine said. “But a quick scan of today’s sports section for games that were scheduled today and a list of the horse races is going to allow me to break the code with just a little time investment on my part.”
“Okay.”
“The interesting thing,” Valentine tapped a line on the monitor screen, “is that one of the accounts being used here is one that turned up in Hobart’s personal files.”
“Hobart was laundering money for the bookmaking operation?”
“No.” Valentine consulted a pocket-sized notebook, verified his findings, and put it away. “Hobart was tapped into this account.”
“He was monitoring it?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s the account?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Where does this account fit into the bookmaking operation?”
“Across the board,” Valentine said, “they were dumping eight percent of the accumulated monies the house was raking in off bets into this account.”
“That would be a large chunk of liquid capital.”
“Yeah. Given the figures Triumbari quoted you.”
“Where were the rest of the profits going?”
“I’ve got three different accounts here. All of them were in Boston. Probably laundered through different businesses.”
“Was Hobart interested in any of those?”
Valentine shook his head.
“Let me know when you find something out.”
“Sure.”
Wilson turned to go as the local FBI agents wearing black jackets started pouring into the room with drawn guns. Wilson knew he was going to have to ride herd on the proceedings to keep anyone from getting accidently hurt.
“Hey, boss.”
“Yeah, Valentine.”
“So, am I living up to your expectations? I mean, I’m busting right through these computer programs in the time it would take a lot of other hackers to just get started good.”
Wilson glanced at the young agent and hardened himself. Despite his feelings for Valentine, he couldn’t cut the guy any slack until they managed to squelch his cocky attitude. Scuderi had briefed him about Valentine’s behavior on the firing ranges. He liked the kid, but Omega Blue was a tough racket. “Yeah, you’re living up to my expectation
s. Just make sure you don’t live down to them, too.” He turned away before Valentine could react.
The T-jack buzzed in his ear, letting him know he had a communication waiting on the Boston FBI channel. He clicked over.
“Agent Wilson,” Fischer said.
“Go.”
“Police Commissioner Isaacs is here.”
“I guess he didn’t go home tonight.”
“No, sir. It doesn’t look like it.”
“What does he want?”
“To come up.”
Wilson glanced at Mac, January, and Scuderi, who were monitoring the frequency as well. “You told him this was a crime area restricted by the FBI?”
“Yeah. He told me he doesn’t care.”
“He’s going to come up anyway?”
“I get the feeling that Isaacs would have to be physically restrained at this point, and his people outnumber us.”
“Have you got those reporters lined up for me yet?”
“The other television reporter I wanted hasn’t made it here yet.”
“Move on to your next best choice. Send Isaacs on up, and make sure the reporters are hot on his heels.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
“Yes sir.”
Although he wanted the scene secured, Wilson was hoping the presence of the reporters would negate the presence of the police commissioner. Whatever Isaacs was doing there, it couldn’t be good. “Valentine.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you get me a list of smaller books running their numbers back into this mainframe?”
“The street guys?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. No prob.”
“Then get it done. I need it yesterday.” It would buy some time. Wilson hoped it would buy enough.
16
A knock sounded on the door. Coming awake instantly, Sebastian DiVarco rolled over in bed, knocking Alyssa off his arm as he reached for the Detonics .45 stashed under his pillow. The other side of the bed felt cool, as did the metal of the pistol. He flicked the safety off at once.
“What is-”Alyssa started to say.
DiVarco clamped a hand over her mouth. The only thing he could see in the darkness filling the whole room were the LED numbers of the clock on the television against the opposite wall.
Alyssa struggled against him, not really awake yet. He cuffed her lightly when she tried to bite his hand. He realized he was at Alyssa’s apartment, and memory of the room’s configurations dropped into his head.
The knock was repeated.
Dropping the sights of the .45 onto the door limned in light from the hallway outside, DiVarco said, “What is it, Vinnie?”
“Take a look at the TV. The FBI just busted Fat Gerry’s book. I thought I’d better wake you.”
Cursing, DiVarco sat up in bed and fumbled for the remote control on the nightstand. He found it, pushed himself into a sitting position against the headboard, and thumbed the television on. “What channel?”
“Any of the locals, man. Story’s everywhere.”
DiVarco cursed with feeling.
Alyssa put her arm on his. “What’s wrong?”
“Business. Leave me alone and go back to sleep.”
She rolled away from him, gathered the twisted sheets with one hand, and pulled them over herself to clothe her nudity.
DiVarco knew she was trying to stare holes in the side of his head but he ignored it. ‘What happened, Vinnie?”
“Nobody knows.”
The picture cleared, then revealed an exterior shot of the building where Fat Gerry had made book. A sea of flashing lights lapped at the shores of the office building. The display windows of the furniture stores along the bottom floor were hung with huge red-on-white SALE posters. Yellow tape held back the curious neighborhood as prisoners were escorted out by FBI agents.
“Nobody’s been able to get through to Fat Gerry,” Vinnie went on.
“Get somebody down there,” DiVarco ordered. “Somebody who won’t be connected with Fat Gerry.”
“Right.” Vinnie’s shadow left the transom of the doorway.
DiVarco recognized a few of the people being taken to the waiting armored vans in handcuffs. He cursed again. He’d only taken the bookmaking operation over seven months ago, but he’d arranged for a lot of the small bookies in the neighborhood to go out of business during that time. As a result, last month they had nearly doubled the beginning figures. It would take a long time to rebuild something like Fat Gerry’s book. Another thought struck him and he reached for the phone, dialing a number from memory.
The man who answered at the other end sounded sleepy.
“Martin, this is Sebastian DiVarco. Fat Gerry just got busted. I need to know how protected I am.”
“Depends.” Abraham Martin was DiVarco’s personal accountant. “Who busted Fat Gerry?”
“The FBI.”
“The local guys?”
“No. Omega Blue.”
Martin’s voice instantly became more alert. “Let your lawyer know tonight, Sebastian. Those guys are good. If they got Fat Gerry’s computers before anyone could erase them, you’re screwed.”
“How screwed?”
“If they break those files, everybody’s going to want a piece of you. And the IRS is going to be the least of your worries. Get your legal people working on this now. Maybe they can get the evidence overturned before it ever gets to court. We have some time here to work with.”
“Get on it,” DiVarco ordered. “Get me some options on moving that money away from Fat Gerry’s.”
“I don’t think that-”
“Martin, I don’t pay you to think negative thoughts. Get on it.” DiVarco broke the connection, then called his lawyer and interrupted a romantic interlude. He didn’t care; he got the man back on track immediately.
The television continued to show footage of the FBI bust, and the reporter was promising a one-on-one interview with Special Agent in Charge Slade Wilson, celebrated head of the unique Omega Blue unit, regarding the arrests.
DiVarco’s next call was to Alexander Silverton’s private residence. A manservant took the call. DiVarco timed his wait. It was seven minutes before Silverton picked up the extension.
“How did you get this number?” Silverton demanded.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” DiVarco said. Unable to stay in the bed anymore, he made his way out of the plush bed and paced. “You’ve got bigger problems than me having your private number.”
“What?”
The air conditioner kicked on and raised goose bumps over DiVarco’s nude body. The news station was doing a brief background review on Slade Wilson’s career and the success of Omega Blue. “Wilson and his wrecking crew just crashed Fat Gerry’s.”
“The bookie?”
“Yeah.”
“I fail to see what that has to do with me.”
“Have you forgotten about those little accounts you and Min insisted on?”
Silverton didn’t reply.
“My accountant just told me that if Wilson is able to crack the computer codes on Fat Gerry’s book, we’re all in the soup.”
“If that’s true, it’s your fault for not being more discreet.”
“Screw discreet! We’re talking about illegal money here. You can’t be very discreet about that. You know that yourself.”
Silverton remained silent.
More stock footage rolled on other Omega Blue cases.
“I thought you and Min were going to get this guy off me.”
“Things have gotten complicated.”
“You think? You’re the one with the representative in your pocket. A representative, I might add, who got a promotion thanks to my campaign management. Where has he been during all of this?”
“He’ll be here in the morning to put a leash on Wilson.”
“It may be too late by morning.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“And I t
hink you’ve got your head up your ass. Does it look dark from where you’re standing?”
Silverton’s voice got an edge of steel in it. “Don’t presume to tell me how to conduct my affairs! If you hadn’t let greed grab you by the nose, no one would ever have even known we existed until it was too late.”
“If you can’t take care of this guy, I can.”
“Stay out of it. You’ll only make things worse. Min is handling things if Cashion can’t.”
“I’m not going to wait and be standing in the ruins of what I built while you and Min cover yourselves.”
“Everything is under control.”
“Then I better see it,” DiVarco said. “Quick.” Breathing hard with emotion, he broke the connection before Silverton could reply.
On television, the station cut away to go live to the interview with Slade Wilson.
DiVarco remained standing to watch.
*
Slade Wilson stood in an empty office next to the suite used by the bookmaker, going over the notes he’d made on a yellow legal pad Scuderi had scrounged for him when Cyril Isaacs shoved his way into the room.
The police commissioner didn’t look happy. He’d moved the door with enough force to break the translucent glass filling half of it, embedding the knob in the wall. He was in a different double-breasted suit than this morning, but blue appeared to be his color of choice.
“What do you think you’re doing here, mister?” Isaacs demanded.
“My job,” Wilson replied. “You ought to try it sometime.”
Without warning, Isaacs rocketed a huge right hand in a vicious hook that caught Wilson in the cheek and corner of his mouth.
Wilson turned back to face the Boston police commissioner. He hadn’t tried to dodge. Smiling crookedly, tasting blood, he tested his jaw. A couple of teeth had been loosened. For a desk jockey, Isaacs still threw a strong punch. “Fat Gerry’s book has been in operation for a long time, bringing in criminal profit every day. It’s going to be apparent to a lot of people that your department should have taken them down a long time ago.”
“I couldn’t ever get anything on them.”
“Maybe you weren’t looking in the right places.”
“You mean Triumbari?”
