by Gerald Elias
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Maybe that you’re partly responsible for the demon Francis Falcone turned into. When’s the last time you went to confession?’
‘Do you accuse me of transgression, sir?’ Gallivan asked.
‘Should I?’
Jacobus heard Monsignor Gallivan rise so abruptly from his folding chair that it skittered across the room. The old priest then strode out of the common room even more hurriedly than when he had entered.
Just as quickly, new, lighter footsteps approached, which Jacobus recalled as Sister Agnes’s.
‘I’m sure the monsignor didn’t mean everything he said,’ she said, clearly anxious.
‘How do you know what he said?’
She mumbled something he couldn’t decipher.
‘Don’t worry about what I think,’ he said. ‘The good monsignor has a higher power to answer to.’ Too bad there really isn’t one, he thought. ‘You can escort me out now.’
When he arrived back at the Millers, Nathaniel told him Lieutenant Brooks had called.
‘He said, “for what it’s worth, tell Mr Jacobus there was no food in the refrigerator.” Do you know what he means?’ Nathaniel asked.
‘Means the Falcones might be away for a long time,’ Jacobus said. It also meant something else, but the half-truth was as far as he was willing to go.
Jacobus typically let others make phone calls for him, but there was one he didn’t want anyone else to know about. After Yumi drove him back to the Millers, he asked Yumi to take Trotsky for his evening walk. In the makeshift office Nathaniel had assembled, he made sure everyone else was out of earshot, and closed the door before dialing 411 for directory assistance.
‘Harbor master, Boston,’ he barked into the recorded message that requested the name and city of the party in question. Whatever happened to human telephone operators?
‘There is no current listing for anyone by that name in your city,’ was the response. After his fourth attempt to bridge the gap between man and machine, Jacobus was about to hang up when a human voice finally interceded.
‘Name and address,’ it said.
‘I want the number of the Boston harbor master.’
‘Is that a first or a last name?’
‘It’s neither. It’s the title of a position. I believe it’s in the Boston police department.’
‘Do you want the number of the Boston police department?’
‘No, I want the number of the harbor master. Maybe you can search the Boston police department directory and tell me what it says?’
‘Please don’t tell me how to do my job, sir.’
‘Actually, yes I will. Search the Boston police department directory and tell me what it says.’
Jacobus dialed the number the operator gave him and hoped he hadn’t been given one to the city morgue. As he told Nathaniel, no food in the condominium might have meant the Falcone family was taking a long vacation. But it could have meant something else entirely.
‘Can I help you?’ a woman asked.
‘Harbor master, please.’
After dinner, Miller turned on the television. Though Lieutenant Brooks had tried to keep it off the airwaves, reporters had gotten wind of the Falcone manhunt and were drooling to be the first to break the story. Andrea Montcrief on Channel 4 News 4U was the one who took the leap. She only had bits and pieces of the story, but she filled the gaping hole with innuendo. She didn’t even mention Jacobus’s name. But if Falcone had not known he was being pursued before – unlikely as that was – he knew it now. The report played up the fact that Falcone, a dangerous fugitive, was on the loose and the authorities hadn’t the slightest idea of his whereabouts.
‘Do you think we’re in danger?’ Yumi asked when the report ended.
‘If I were Falcone, this is the last place I’d be,’ Miller said. Though it was logical, no one seconded the thought. Miller made a dispirited attempt to channel surf. Finding nothing but football and the weather report, they all went to sleep early.
TWENTY-NINE
Monday, January 9
Nathaniel and Yumi dragged Jacobus to K&J’s for breakfast, hoping that an outing to his favorite dive would raise his spirits and stabilize his drastic mood swings. He ordered unbuttered whole wheat toast and tea, a clear indication to them that though Jacobus might be recovering he still had a long way to go.
‘Marcello called me,’ Yumi said. ‘We’ve got some news about the shipping company, but it’s not very good. And he said the crate had no labels on it, except for the Vassaris’ address.’
‘That’s odd,’ Jacobus said. He wasn’t all that interested. He wasn’t too interested in the whole wheat toast, either.
‘No labels on a shipping crate is as kosher as ham on Hanukah,’ Yumi said, doing her best Jacobus imitation to cheer him up. ‘Marcello even called Fiumicino and tried to find out what company shipped it. No luck.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘What do we do now? We stumped?’ Nathaniel asked.
Jacobus thought for a minute.
‘If you must, have your Casanova contact the Carabinieri. They might be able to coax Ansaldo Vassari to identify the airport agent he bribed to get the bass case. Maybe part of a plea deal for a lighter sentence, like a week without espresso. If they can track the agent down, maybe they can strong arm him into telling them what label-challenged company delivered Uncle Amadeo to the old country.’
‘Mr Jacobus.’ Jacobus recognized Benson’s voice. ‘Might I join you?’
‘It’s a free country.’
‘Roy told me I’d find you here. I’ve got some news about Minerva Forsythe.’
‘Let me guess. “But it’s not very good.”’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘I play the odds.’
‘Well, it seems she’s disappeared. She parked her rental car at the Metro North station in Wassaic and got on the train to New York. My deputy who was following her called in and asked what he should do, so I put him on the train. Plain clothes. Discreet. It was at an off-peak hour so they had to change trains at Southeast. She got off. So he did. Then she got on the connecting train and he followed her in, but just as the doors closed she got out. She must have known we were tailing her.’
‘Correction. She must have known that someone was tailing her,’ Jacobus said.
‘Had she checked out of the motel?’ Nathaniel asked.
‘No. Her belongings – which weren’t much – were still there. And she had paid up in advance, so it looks like she was ready to hightail it on a moment’s notice. The car’s still at the train station.’
‘When did she take off?’ Jacobus asked, even though he knew the answer.
‘Last evening.’
‘A little after seven?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Because that’s when the news about Falcone was on the TV.’
THIRTY
Jacobus never thought he would miss having a telephone. He had given Forsythe his number, which was now defunct, but he didn’t have hers. Now she was at large and, if she had been hoping to contact him, there was no way for her to do it. For a change, he wanted to contact her. She knew something about Falcone that was enough to keep her on the run, but which also prevented her from going to the police. For some reason she had picked him, and him alone, to be her conduit, but now the lifeline had become frayed. He was tired of the game, but feared that if he stopped playing, there would be nothing left to his existence.
‘Can you pick a lock?’ Jacobus asked Benson.
‘What kind?’
‘Car door.’
‘Yes, I can do that.’
‘Drive me to Wassaic. I’ll need sandwiches and coffee. A lot of coffee. Maybe in that fancy Thermos of yours. And one other thing. You said that Borlotti’s bank account was all in order?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Because if he was involved in what I think he was involved in, there’s a lot more of it sta
shed away somewhere.’
‘Maybe it’s cash in another safe, like the two-hundred-thirty-thousand we found.’
‘No, not cash. Hefty checks from insurance companies.’
‘OK. We’ll keep digging.’
Yumi and Nathaniel were pleased to see Jacobus begin to rally, but much to their dismay he insisted on being left alone in the back seat of Minerva Forsythe’s car in the Wassaic train station parking lot. Many of the cars that were in long-term parking had snow drifting up their sides, their windshields covered over. Forsythe’s, at least, had been parked there less than a day and hadn’t yet been transformed into a walk-in freezer. Yes, it was cold, but Jacobus was well-bundled and had what he needed to stay warm enough. The cold reminded him he was still alive, for what that was worth. He discovered a pipe, tobacco, and matches in Forsythe’s glove compartment, and after considering the pros and the cons of indulging himself, gave in to the pros. He had time on his hands to think. Particularly to think about Minerva Forsythe, a subject that for the past few days he had shoved to the back of his mind.
Though he didn’t expect her to return until evening rush hour, when it would be dark and crowded, he also hadn’t wanted to risk the possibility of missing her. He had memorized the train schedule that Benson recited to him, so whenever a train pulled into the station, which wasn’t very often during the afternoon, he knew what time it was. And whenever he heard commuters’ footsteps come close to the car he slunk down in the backseat, though he imagined that after an hour or two his breath would have condensed and frozen on the windows, making it difficult to see inside anyway.
Shortly after the four twenty-four train left the station, the wind picked up and snow and ice began pelting the windshield. Then the wind seemed to die down, but the sound of each arriving train engine became progressively more muffled, the toot of its horn more forlorn. Jacobus realized the car was being blanketed with snow. By the time the seven thirteen arrived from Grand Central Station, it was two hours past sunset and the cold was getting severe. The feeling in his fingers and toes began to escape him, and his thought processes started to slow. Passengers spewed out of the train, their hurried, snow-cushioned footsteps barely audible. Car doors quickly opened and shut. Engines wheezed into life. Cars drove off.
All was quiet again. Maybe she wouldn’t show up at all and he would freeze to death. He would hardly feel anything. He had enjoyed the pipe. But then, finally, he heard footsteps approach the car – the footsteps for which he had been waiting for hours but now almost begrudged. Piles of arm-shoveled snow thudded on to the ground. Ice was scraped from the windshield. The lock clicked and the frozen door yanked ajar on the third attempt.
‘Only a few minutes late,’ Jacobus said.
‘Jesus Christ!’
She slammed the door closed and began to run off. Jacobus waited. He knew she would come back, and she did.
‘You startled me,’ she said.
‘Tit for tat, but it was the only way to find you I could think of. You did a good job eluding the cops. Getting off at Southeast and then taking a train back up here.’
Jacobus wheezed out a laugh.
‘The police? I didn’t know it was them. I was afraid it was someone else. I tried calling you, but your phone’s been out of order.’
‘Long story.’
‘Why did you wait here instead of at the motel?’ she asked.
‘Two reasons. First, you’d already paid up at the motel so you didn’t need to go back. But since you hadn’t paid for the car yet, at some point you’d need to return it so that they won’t report you to your credit card company and start tracing your purchases. I didn’t think you’d care for that.’
‘And second?’
‘If I was wrong, you’d still need to come here to pick up the car to get to the motel.’
‘You’re very astute, Mr Jacobus. That’s why I need you. Maybe you can tell me why the police were following me.’
‘We’ve learned a lot more about Borlotti,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d like to know.’
Whether it was the talking or just having another warm body in the car, Jacobus felt himself beginning to function again.
‘After having given my associate, Mr Williams, the cold shoulder, various insurance agencies, including Concordia, your employer, were much more forthcoming when approached by law enforcement authorities at Mr Williams’s behest. So were Borlotti’s customers, who became very accommodating when asked to turn over all the documents – certificates, appraisals, bills, invoices, insurance claims – that were submitted by Borlotti and his customers over the past decade. And believe me there were lots of them. In consultation with one of the world’s most foremost violin experts Mr Williams came up with a very interesting scenario. It’s no surprise you were caught up in Borlotti’s nefarious net.’
‘I’m fascinated. And what have you learned?’
‘Amadeo Borlotti started out small, with inflated repair bills. I knew that, myself, because his buddy, Jimmy Ubriaco, told us so, and various insurance claims and customers corroborated that. But when Borlotti saw how he could manipulate the system, he thought, “Hey, this isn’t a bad idea!” and started to inflate bills even more. But not all bills. Only the ones that were submitted to insurance companies. The others, he continued to charge very little because it seems he had a gentle and generous soul.’
‘It’s not really a crime to overcharge a little when billing insurance,’ Forsythe said. ‘It’s done all the time. We even account for that in our projections. Hardly anything to blackmail someone over.’
‘Did I say anything about blackmail? I don’t recall saying anything about blackmail. But you’re right. It’s not a big deal in and of itself. But it gave gentle, generous Amadeo – who it turns out was also crafty Amadeo – some bigger ideas. He started to file claims for repairs he never even made, giving a small part of the insurance reimbursement as a credit to customers, which kept them very happy. And very quiet.
‘That’s what started Borlotti on a more precipitous path. Why overcharge just on repairs, he wondered? Why not on the violins themselves? For example: When someone walked into Ye Olde Violin Shoppe wanting to place a violin on consignment, Borlotti would give it a very low appraisal. He would spin his handy Rolodex and sell it to a customer for just a little bit more than the low appraisal, which would be just enough to satisfy the ignorant schnook who put it on consignment. Then Borlotti and Mr Rolodex would sell it at its real market value and share the handsome profit. That is not unheard of in the violin business.
‘And, you see, the reverse worked for Borlotti also! He would buy a cheap instrument for a little bit more than it was worth, making the seller happy. Then he would write up an extremely bloated appraisal for it, sell it at slightly less than that to another unsuspecting schnook who walked away thinking he’d gotten the deal of the century, while Borlotti pocketed a handsome piece of change.
‘But, you know, it’s not such an easy thing to sell a violin. One doesn’t always have the patience. In cahoots with one customer, Borlotti sold him an inexpensive, no-name, old Italian instrument, but drastically overvalued it in his appraisal. A year later, wouldn’t you know, the owner then “accidentally drove over it” and filed an insurance claim! They split the reimbursement for the repair, and they also collected on the depreciated value of the bogus violin, the total of which was far greater than the schlock they began with.’
‘Why, this is terrible!’ Forsythe said. ‘I could give you a seminar on diminished value clauses in insurance policies, but it would be too boring for anyone outside the industry. To think this was going on under my nose! I had no idea.’
‘Go figure. Borlotti was very careful, always just under the radar.’
‘I’m stunned!’ Forsythe said.
‘I thought you’d be,’ Jacobus said, ‘But, as they say on the late-night infomercials, there’s more! Out here in the boondocks, good violins don’t come into a shop everyday or even every week. Months
might go by before a decent violin passed through the hallowed doors of Ye Olde Violin Shoppe. This is where Borlotti started to get really ingenious. Amadeo would buy cheap fiddles from the kind of people who read the Shopper’s Guide, the kind who find a violin in the attic that once belonged to Grampy Jones and think that a hundred dollars for a beat-up violin is a goldmine, or from antique dealers who couldn’t be bothered with the vagaries of the violin business. Borlotti would then doll up the violins using parts from more valuable violins, or maybe even replicate those parts himself. And then, claiming they were good, old fiddles, he would sell them for a lot more than they were worth.
‘With success upon success, Borlotti’s creativity expanded exponentially. Why even troll for the random fiddle to float by? Borlotti started making “old” violins entirely from scratch! He began to have vintage wood smuggled to him by his loving family in Italy, and from that made remarkably authentic-looking violins. He wrote up just as convincing fake documents, supposedly signed by eminent violin dealers, all of whom are conveniently deceased.
‘And, don’t turn your dial yet, there’s even more! This guy’s ingenuity knew no bounds. Knowing that if some enterprising owner might trace the documents all the way back to the original dealer – an unlikely but unsettling possibility – Borlotti found actual old documents for actual old violins. He then forged copies of the documents, with their detailed description of the instruments and all the precise measurements, and custom-made violins to fit the descriptions! Generous, gentle, crafty Amadeo became super Amadeo!’
‘If he was so amazing,’ Forsythe asked, ‘why didn’t he just sell his violins as his own?’
‘You know the business, Ms Forsythe. You can guess. What could an elderly, unknown shlump of a tradesman get for one of his own instruments? Twenty, twenty-five thousand? But for a Scarampella? A Vuillaume? A hundred-thousand, easy.’
‘Still. Why would he do something, so, so … dishonest?’
‘That’s the sad part, Minerva. He did it for love.’
‘Love?’
‘Yes, something that might be hard for people like you and me to fathom. Amadeo Borlotti fell head-over-heels for a skanky little lass in Saratoga, much younger than him. And she loved him back, too, in her own way. I think partly she loved him because she couldn’t imagine anyone ever loving her. I think he felt the same way about himself. Amorous Amadeo wrote her love letters every day. The problem was, she has a problem. A big problem. Drug addiction. Borlotti couldn’t stand seeing her suffer, so rather than confront it, he fed it. She took his money and his gifts and spent it all on drugs, and he kept rewarding her. It’s easy for us to say this was not a healthy relationship, but it is what it is.’
