by Gerald Elias
‘How tragic!’
‘Tragic, indeed. Tragic, indeed. But getting back to the subject at hand, according to Concordia’s records, you managed to acquire a pretty decent old fiddle on the cheap, yourself.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Forsythe said. ‘The violin I told you about. A nice violin whose maker was unknown. It had a Stradivarius label, just like thousands of others that were made by other makers trying to profit off the Stradivari name. It had been stolen from one of our clients. We promptly reimbursed him in full. When it was recovered after five years, which often doesn’t happen, we offered it back to the client for the same amount we had given him. It would have been a good deal for him because of course the violin had appreciated over those five years. But he turned it down. He had moved on in life and didn’t want to have anything more to do with violins. So the insurance company became the defacto owner. They put it on the market for a year with no takers. So I bought it. All on the up and up.’
‘And you took it to Borlotti for an appraisal.’
‘Yes. And to my amazement he said it was a Stradivarius. I’ve already told you the rest. Once I had the certificate, I found a buyer for the violin, a businessman who buys art and instruments solely for investment. Who cares nothing about aesthetics or culture but who trusted me. If I had only known what Borlotti was up to! It was despicable!’
Jacobus admired the way Forsythe spat out ‘despicable.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Jacobus said. ‘And maybe Borlotti got what he deserved. But still …’ Jacobus let the unfinished thought linger.
‘What?’ Forsythe asked.
‘All those years, Borlotti was very, very careful. Pushing the limits but never exceeding them. Then, to write a bogus certificate for a Strad? He might as well have shouted out, “Come get me!” I wonder what made him do that.’
‘Maybe his girlfriend’s expenses. Maybe she got into some big-time trouble. What did you say her name was?’
‘I didn’t. It’s Maggette. Dahlia Maggette. I suppose you’re right. That must have been it.’
Jacobus opened the car door to get out.
‘Don’t you need a ride?’ Forsythe asked. ‘Can I drive you home?’
‘Nah,’ Jacobus lied. ‘I’m taking the next train into the city.’
‘Just one question, then. How did you know my train was late?’
‘It’s Metro North. Some things are predictable.’
He closed the door behind him. Forsythe drove off into the night. Jacobus stood alone in the parking lot. Waiting. Suddenly colder again, he hugged himself and stamped his feet. Another car drove up and Jacobus got in. He disconnected the microphone from his coat and handed it to Lieutenant Brooks.
‘Good job, Mr Jacobus. You think she’s lying?’
‘Through the teeth.’
‘And why is that? She sounds pretty convincing to me.’
‘Because she’s still got two million and Borlotti’s still dead.’
‘Any ideas how we’re going to prove she was blackmailing him?’
‘Easy. Find who arranged Borlotti’s murder. He’ll be happy to tell us.’
THIRTY-ONE
Pizza and news awaited Jacobus when he rejoined Nathaniel at the makeshift office in Miller’s basement. The thought of the former almost made Jacobus sick to his stomach, but the latter, an update from Bertoldo in Italy, provided adequate compensation.
The dutiful lover had decided to bypass the Carabinieri as an unnecessary impediment to carrying out Yumi’s request. Instead, he approached Ansaldo Vassari directly, asking him to go back to Rome to obtain a copy of the paperwork for the string bass case from the cargo clerk at Fiumicino Airport. But Vassari replied that he would rather be crucified and hanged by the balls than have to go back to Rome, so Bertoldo hung the Chiuso sign on the front door of his shop and took a day off from violin making. He drove to Fiumicino alone and found the cargo clerk for whom Vassari had provided a location and description. A modest bribe with the extra cash he had brought along for the purpose led to an introduction to the head of the freight crew. That gentleman, who also responded to financial incentive, showed Bertoldo a copy of the carnet for the bass case.
‘What exactly is a carnet?’ Yumi asked Nathaniel.
‘It’s like a passport, except it’s for merchandise and not people, for the temporary importation of goods. It’s so the shipper doesn’t have to pay a lot of fees and taxes.’
‘But when Falcone shipped it, he intended it to be permanent,’ Jacobus argued. ‘At least as far as Borlotti was concerned.’
‘True, but if customs thought it was only going to be temporary, there would be fewer questions asked,’ Nathaniel said.
‘They told Marcello that Ubriaco’s case was shipped by a small company named Prime Transport,’ Yumi said.
‘I checked them out,’ Nathaniel added. ‘They mostly ship internationally.’
‘They and a hundred others, I’d wager,’ Jacobus replied. ‘I’m not impressed.’
‘But there is one detail I discovered that might impress you more. They also do domestic trucking here in the US.’
Jacobus’s ears perked up. The truck outside Borlotti’s house!
‘You think there might be a connection between Falcone and this Prime Transport?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Why don’t we ask the experts?’ Yumi suggested.
Jacobus called Lieutenant Brooks.
‘My God!’ Brooks said. ‘Do you have any idea who owns Prime Transport?’
‘Donald Trump?’
‘Vincenzo Primo!’
‘Is that worse than Donald Trump?’
‘Primo is an ape in an Armani suit with a five o’clock shadow by lunchtime. His organization in Boston makes the Mafia look like the Boy Scouts. Even Whitey Bulger skipped town when Primo thought Bulger was honing in on his territory.’
‘How did he get to be mister big shot?’ Jacobus asked. ‘It doesn’t sound like it was from studying the violin.’
‘Vince Primo started out as a trucker who tried making an extra buck as a middleweight, figuring his street fighting would serve him well in the ring. He didn’t win many fights, but either because his brain was so small or his skull was so thick, he never got knocked down, either, which is why his nose is flatter than Kansas.
‘His specialty outside the ring was intimidation, and pretty soon his handlers became his handlees. He cast his stooges in his own image, and pretty soon he was fixing fights and fixing his trucking competition … for good.
‘These days, any stone you turn over in Boston, first the worms crawl out, then Primo’s shadow. His gang has controlled the Wonderland dog track in Revere for ten years. Between you and me, Mr Jacobus, there are men in my own department from whom I keep my own counsel. And you know the Big Dig?’
‘Only by the gridlock that Benson and I got stuck in.’
‘That’s the one. The original estimate was under three billion dollars. Now it’s over twenty billion. Guess whose trucks are hauling the cement and the stone and the concrete and the tarmac? Vincenzo Primo’s. And you know why? Vince Primo’s got something on everyone in the State House. They’re scared to death of him.
‘We’ve put some of Primo’s stooges away over the years, and we’ve had a tap on his personal phone and on the Prime Transport phone for months.’
‘Is that legal?’ Jacobus asked, but that was not his primary interest.
‘We made it legal,’ Brooks said. ‘But he figured out a way to block it and we’ve been coming up with blanks. If he’s the one who hired Falcone to get rid of Borlotti … Mr Jacobus, I’d give my right arm to lock these guys up and throw away the key.’
‘Then I hope you’re a lefty,’ Jacobus said. ‘We could be going down a totally wrong road here, so don’t get too carried away. Maybe there’s a connection between this guy, Primo, and Falcone. Maybe not. But what would Primo have to do with Borlotti? It doesn’t make any sense. At least not yet. Any word on Frau Falcone, by the way?’
‘We’ve got the current location of her and her kids nailed down, but no sign of Frankie.’
‘Yeah? Where are they?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Why the hell else would I ask? Small talk isn’t my—’
‘Pirates of the Caribbean.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A ghost ship of singing cutthroats. Disneyland.’
‘Disneyland, huh? Maybe you’d have more luck finding him at A Small World.’
THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday, January 10
Jacobus had some unfinished, unpleasant business to attend to in Saratoga. Yumi drove and dropped him off in front of Sloppy Joe’s. Yumi wanted to go in with him but he refused.
Jacobus returned to the car after only a minute.
‘Doesn’t work here anymore,’ he said. ‘Got fired. They didn’t say why, but I can imagine.’
Next they tried Nasty Brews, but she didn’t work there, either.
‘They said to try Bangs For The Bucks.’
‘What’s that? A hunting supply store or a brothel?’ Yumi asked.
‘They said it’s a hair salon.’
When they entered Bangs For The Bucks, the receptionist curtly said to Yumi, ‘Sorry, we don’t take walk-ins.’
Jacobus said, ‘It’s not for her, it’s for me.’
‘What do you need?’
‘I want to have my back shaved.’
When he explained their true reason for their presence, the relieved receptionist was happy to tell them what they wanted to know. Dahlia Maggette had interviewed for a job there but they had chosen not to hire her because they heard she had stolen from the cash register at Sloppy Joe’s. With a frown in her voice, she told them they could try a massage parlor near the racetrack called Hot To Trot.
‘Yeah, Dahlia works here,’ the Hot To Trot attendant said, ‘but her shift’s not until tonight. You guys want a couple’s massage? Forty bucks for an hour, fifty for ninety minutes. Tips at your discretion.’
‘I’ll give you a tip,’ Jacobus said and was about to tell him where he could put his hot stones but was prevented by Yumi’s restraining hand.
‘We really do need to find her,’ she said to the attendant. ‘Do you know where we might be able to?’
‘There’s a homeless shelter on Walworth. Sometimes she hangs out there.’
A block from the shelter, Yumi spotted Dahlia from the car and pulled up alongside her. Jacobus rolled down his window and called to her.
‘I don’t have his money,’ Maggette said. ‘I can’t give it back.’
‘That’s not what we’re here for,’ he said. ‘Get in,’ said Jacobus.
They found a small park nearby. Like everything else, it was covered with snow. Maybe in the summer, with kids running around, it was a nice park. Jacobus told Yumi to wait in the car.
There were worse things in life than death and Jacobus didn’t have that hard a time telling Maggette that Borlotti was dead. He sensed that she suspected it, anyway, after his previous meeting with her. What her response was, he couldn’t tell, because she didn’t say a word.
What he had a harder time telling her was that Borlotti’s love letters, which she had entrusted to him, with their flowing poetry and elegant handwriting, had gone up in flames with the rest of his house. Those letters were meaningful to Jacobus because he had hoped to prove from them – by means of their ink, paper, and handwriting – that Borlotti had forged the violin labels and certificates. But he knew they were meaningful to Maggette in other ways, and he regretted their loss.
‘Can I go now?’ she said.
‘Yes, but before you do, I want to know something. Borlotti knew you were an addict, didn’t he?’
‘You sure are subtle, aren’t you?’
‘You want me to be subtle?’
‘No. Why bother? Yes, he knew. I told him I was.’
‘And he still gave you the money because he loved you.’ It was an observation, not a question.
‘He said he trusted me no matter what. What a fool. This fucking world.’
Jacobus wanted to say, Hey, sweetheart, I’m homeless just like you are. My family was gassed in World War II, a slimy Russian violinist tried to boff me when I was a kid, and I went blind the day I was supposed to embark on an illustrious career. So if you want to blame the world for being a victim, find someone else. But instead – he didn’t know why – he put his arm around her shoulder and said, ‘If you decide you want some help, let me know.’
Since he didn’t have a phone anymore, Jacobus searched his pockets and gave her one of Nathaniel’s business cards. He left Dahlia Maggette standing in the snow and got into Yumi’s car.
‘I saw you put your arm around Dahlia,’ Yumi said. ‘That was a nice thing for you to do.’
‘Eh?’ Jacobus said. ‘Commiserating loves company.’
THIRTY-THREE
Wednesday, January 11
Nathaniel handed his phone to Jacobus.
‘We’ve got a situation, sir,’ Frank Case, the on-duty officer, said to Jacobus, interrupting his breakfast. He had progressed to being able to tolerate a boiled egg. ‘She’s making a lot of noise. Says you’re a friend of hers. We can release her into your custody, but frankly, I wouldn’t do it if I were you.’
Two hours later, Jacobus and Yumi were back in Saratoga Springs, at the police department.
‘She popped another lady real good,’ Officer Case said. ‘Gave her a fat lip.’
‘What’s she charged with?’
‘Nada. The other lady declined to press charges, though if she had, your friend could have been in some serious trouble. I’ve seen girl fights before, but your friend has a right cross that Sugar Ray would envy.’
‘Leonard or Robinson?’
‘Either.’
‘How come the other lady didn’t press charges?’
‘She said it was just a misunderstanding and took off before I could even get her name. So I didn’t file a report, but I didn’t feel I could let your friend just walk away.’
Dahlia Maggette didn’t even look at them when she was let out of the holding room, nor did she say anything until they found a seat at Nasty Brews. Almost noon, there was already an undercurrent of conversation unfit for public consumption. A monotone, pulsating beat throbbed to a stream of rambling obscenities by a wannabe rap sensation on the bar’s speakers. They ordered three coffees.
‘Tell me about it,’ Jacobus said.
‘Why?’
‘You called me, honey. I didn’t come all this way just to take the salubrious waters.’
‘So someone got in my face. I don’t like it when someone gets in my face.’
‘What was her name?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Was she smoking a pipe?’
‘Not for long.’
Jacobus had made a mistake when he mentioned Dahlia’s name and whereabouts to Minerva Forsythe, and regretted it. It couldn’t have been easy for her to find Maggette, and he didn’t understand what Forsythe would want from her, except their common interest in Borlotti.
‘What did she want?’ he asked Maggette.
‘My letters from Borlotti. I told her, “Who the hell are you? My letters are none of your damn business,” but she kept bugging me. I told her even if I had them I’d never give them to her. She said, “what do you mean ‘if you had them’?” I said, “Don’t you understand English?” and turned my back on her and started walking away.’
‘So why did you hit her?’
‘She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She grabbed me from behind and opened her purse and said, “Oh, so you want money? Here’s money.” And threw it on the ground. “You want more?” She threw some more down. She thinks because she’s rich and soooo sophisticated she can treat people like trash.
‘I told her to take her money back. There was no way she was getting any letters. So she shoved me. Now, you can say whatever you want to me. I’ve heard it all. Bu
t no one touches me without my say so. No one. That’s when I hit her. Have to hand it to her, though. I thought I’d knocked her out cold, but she didn’t even go down.’
‘And that’s when the cops came?’
‘Yeah. I was hoping they’d lock me up for a few years.’
‘Why?’
‘Free room and board. But she just walked away. I shouted at her that the letters were burned and she got her fat lip for nothing.’
‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘Nothing. I’ll survive.’
Much to Jacobus’s surprise, an offer to take her in was on his lips, but then he realized that, like Dahlia, he too was homeless.
They left her at the bar. When they were back in the car, Yumi dialed Lieutenant Brooks’s number. Jacobus gave him a summary of the altercation between Dahlia Maggette and Minerva Forsythe.
‘You know where Forsythe is now?’ Jacobus asked.
‘No. We can’t keep someone on her twenty-four-seven.’
‘How about the other lady?’
‘Maggette?’
‘I damn well know where Maggette is,’ Jacobus said. ‘I’m talking about Falcone’s wife, who you seem to think is going to lead us to her beloved.’
‘For your information, Nadine Falcone has deposited her children with some relatives in Venice Beach and has checked into a rather posh country inn in Napa. And guess what? She booked a room with two queen-size beds.’
‘Damn. I was hoping for one king.’
‘Our plan was to move in once Falcone arrived.’
