by Gerald Elias
‘So you think Falcone insured Borlotti’s body in case it got damaged?’
‘No, but I thought that Prime Transport would need to have an insurance company on retainer.’
‘You think a front for a crime organization needs insurance?’
‘If only to give the appearance of legitimacy.’
‘And?’
‘They do. And guess who their insurance company is?’
‘Concordia?’
‘And guess who their agent is?’
THIRTY-FOUR
Thursday, January 12
‘I need to go to Great Barrington,’ Jacobus said to no one in particular.
‘At eight a.m.?’ Nathaniel asked, pouring the coffee.
‘What do you need?’ Yumi asked. ‘I’ll go there for you.’
‘You can’t. I want to be alone. Like Garbo. Too many people around here. I’m suffocating.’
Miller had to go there, anyway, to get some outdoor cleaning supplies at Mist For The Grill, so he offered to take Jacobus.
‘Where do you want me to drop you off?’ he asked when they got into the heart of town.
‘Where are we?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Corner of Main and Pleasant.’
‘Right here.’
‘Is there a particular store you’re going to?’
‘I’m getting off here.’
‘Suit yourself.’
They arranged to meet at the same place in a half hour. If it was snowing, which was in the forecast, they would meet at Cuppa Cabana.
After he was certain Miller drove away, Jacobus took his time walking two blocks south, gingerly crossing at the crosswalk and praying there were no New Yorkers who would ignore the Stop For Pedestrians sign. He walked two stores north and entered Fly By Night. He had hoped he’d be the only customer there, but he found two others already in line who were returning Christmas presents that were not to their liking. As he waited, he heard another customer enter and get in line behind him. Jacobus wanted to be alone when he spoke to Simon so he told that person to go ahead of him.
‘Are you sure?’ the woman asked. ‘I have to return all these things.’
‘Why don’t you just burn them?’ Jacobus asked.
The woman wasn’t sure whether Jacobus was joking, nor was Jacobus, but he gestured for her to move up and she didn’t argue.
It was finally his turn.
‘Morning, Mr Jacobus,’ Simon said. ‘Another cold one.’
‘You still do Western Union?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Well, yeah. Today. But maybe not tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re becoming dinosaurs real fast. With faxes and email and cellular phones, pretty soon telegrams will be extinct.’
‘No way,’ Jacobus said, but the news made him happy.
Miller returned Jacobus home and went off to work. Though it wasn’t even ten o’clock, Jacobus was tired and in need of solitude. The efforts of the past week, since his house burned down, had caught up with him. He told Nathaniel, Yumi, and Martha Miller he didn’t want to be disturbed and went to his room. There he sat in quiet contemplation, waiting.
‘What time is it?’ he asked when Yumi shook him.
‘About six.’
‘a.m. or p.m.?’
‘p.m. Why don’t you come down? I don’t want Roy and Nathaniel to eat all your dinner.’
Jacobus made his way to the kitchen with difficulty. His friends tried not to make a big deal out of his frailty and the conversation continued as if he had been there the whole time. Martha made lasagna, which Jacobus would have normally enjoyed, but he could hardly get a bite down. When Yumi said that he should eat more because he needed to keep up his strength, he snapped unfairly at her, but then mumbled something that might have sounded like an apology.
Martha asked Jacobus if he wanted some tea. Before he could think of a polite way of refusing, the phone rang. Martha answered it and quickly put it down.
‘It was Sigurd Benson. He said to turn on the Channel 4 news.’
‘… Yes, Bob. So, about an hour ago the police discovered Falcone’s body in the family’s yacht, Torch Song, which docked in the marina you can see right here behind me, only blocks from his home on Revere’s Wharf in Boston’s North End. He was found holding a handgun and had a single bullet to the head, fired at point blank range. Falcone had long been suspected of being part of a local arson for hire ring but had never been arrested.’
‘Do we know what kind of gun it was, Andrea?’
‘I’m told that it was a Wesson Model Ten revolver, Bob.’
‘Andrea, after Channel 4 News 4U broke the story of the nationwide manhunt for Falcone, which literally had been turning up blanks, how did the police know where to find him, literally in his own backyard?’
‘Yes, Bob. Absolutely. So, the police were called by a local resident, Iphigenia Martinuzzi—’
‘Try saying that name five times fast!’
‘You said it! Mrs. Mar-tin-uz-zi heard what she described as “a loud popping sound” and called the police, because – and listen to this, Bob – because she said “it was the right thing to do.”
‘Mrs. Martinuzzi, or however you pronounce it, is a true hero. Isn’t she?’
‘She certainly is, Bob.’
‘Andrea, have the police suggested any motive?’
‘Right, Bob. So, Lieutenant Russell Brooks, head of the Greater Boston Arson Taskforce, or G-BAT, told Channel 4 News 4U that no possibility is being ruled out but that everything points to suicide. Whatever the result of the investigation, Bob, it is a sudden and stunning ending to a manhunt that had stymied law enforcement agencies around the country.’
‘We understand Falcone left a wife and four children.’
‘Yes, Bob. That’s right. The family is on its way back from vacationing in California. So far they have declined to make a statement and have requested privacy. But according to friends, the Falcones are devout Catholics and may well be troubled by the fact that Francis Falcone died by his own hand. There’s a funeral service planned at Our Lady of Mercy in the North End on Sunday.
‘We’ll have more on this breaking story as it develops. Live from Revere’s Wharf, this is Andrea Montcrief for Channel 4 News 4U. Back to you, Bob.’
‘Speaking of boating, the weather this weekend—’
Miller turned the television off. They sat in silence. Falcone, dead!
‘Get me Brooks’s business card,’ Jacobus demanded. ‘Get me a phone. I’m calling that son of a bitch. Now.’
‘Brooks speaking.’
‘Suicide? You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought you were.’
‘Hello, Mr Jacobus. I never said it was suicide.’
‘Were you not on the TV news just now?’
‘Yes. And?’ Brooks replied calmly.
‘And what did the reporter say?’
‘That everything points to suicide.’ Brooks said. ‘That’s accurate. Everything does point to suicide. That’s what it was made to look like. But, like you, I don’t buy it a bit. I strongly believe it was a gangland execution to shut him up because Vince Primo knows we’re getting close. Would you have liked me to advertise that theory, Mr Jacobus?’
‘I guess you’re not as big an idiot as I thought.’
‘Thank you. For now, my main concern is that you, your friends, and everyone else surrounding this case are all in danger until we apprehend Falcone’s killer. Whoever had the ability to get to Falcone is truly a dangerous man.
When Jacobus hung up, he said to his friends, ‘Smart guy, that Brooks.’
THIRTY-FIVE
An hour later Brooks was back on the phone.
‘My men are reporting that Minerva Forsythe is heading east on the Mass Pike, going well above the speed limit. I suspect she might be thinking of getting to Logan and taking a flight somewhere far away.’
Jacobus could understand why she might be doing that. It wasn’t just the law she would be
trying to escape.
‘When do you plan to stop her for speeding?’ Jacobus asked.
‘There’s a rest stop a few miles from her current location. I can have the trooper steer her there and detain her.’
‘Arresting her?’
‘Benson thinks I should. The Boy Scout in him. And we probably could, but I nixed it, much to his dismay. Primo’s the grand prize, so I’d rather keep her on a loose rein and use her as bait.’
‘I’ll overlook your mixed metaphor, Brooks, but if I leave the house now, can you keep her entertained until I get to the rest stop?’
‘I think we can do that, but hasn’t it been an awfully long day for you?’
‘Actually, I feel like it’s just getting started.’
‘All right. We’ll wait.’
‘Thanks. And one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Order me a cheeseburger. I’m suddenly feeling better.’
Jacobus and Minerva Forsythe sat in a booth by themselves near the window of the fast food court. Brooks had excused the state trooper who had escorted Forsythe to the rest stop and was sitting with Roy Miller far away by the condiments. The only other person in the area was a janitor sweeping the floor.
Jacobus took a bite out of his cheeseburger and invited Forsythe to help herself to his fries. She declined.
‘Brooks says he thinks you might have been trying to ditch it out of Dodge.’
‘That’s preposterous.’
‘Does the name Vincenzo Primo ring a bell, Minerva?’
Jacobus heard the ends of the metal legs of her plastic chair scrape the floor, as if she was backing out. At first he thought she was going to make a dash for it, which would have been stupid. But Minerva Forsythe wasn’t a stupid woman. She was backing away from the name. The name Vincenzo Primo.
‘I think I might have heard that name, but I can’t quite place it.’
‘I can understand how you’d want to block it out, so let me refresh your memory,’ Jacobus said. ‘Mr Williams has discovered that your multifaceted expertise in the fascinating world of insurance extended beyond musical instruments, Minerva. You also oversaw corporate accounts, including shipping companies. I find that very interesting.’
‘There’s nothing all that interesting about it.’
‘Oh, I beg to differ! Not the least of which is that one of your corporate clients happened to be Prime Transport, the owner of which is the gentleman in question. Vincenzo Primo. Prime Transport coincidentally was the company through which Frances Falcone shipped dead Amadeo to Italy in a bass case. Do you perceive a common thread here? I do. And I think it’s time you stopped playing the naive innocent. It doesn’t really become you.’
Jacobus sucked on his chocolate shake, but the icy stuff got stuck in the straw. He pulled the straw out of the plastic cup, sucked on it from the other end, and replaced it back in the cup. For the first time since his house burned down he was enjoying life. He almost felt like a kid again.
‘Just what is it you want me to tell you, Mr Jacobus? That I sold a violin I knew to be a fake to Vince Primo?’
‘For starters.’
‘All right. I’ll admit it. I sold the violin to Primo. And I’m scared to death of him.’
‘You didn’t think Primo would eventually figure things out?’
‘Primo’s an ape. He knows nothing about instruments. He knows nothing about art. To him it’s just another commodity. Pork belly futures. Buy and sell. I don’t know what tipped him off. I thought he’d just put it in his vault and let it sit there and appreciate in value.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Primo liked me. Because I had made him a lot of money as his insurance agent and because he liked showing me off to his pals. We’d go to a cocktail party and he’d say, “I’d like you to meet my lady insurance agent.” He thought it was funny.’
‘You were sleeping with him?’
‘So what? I considered it part of my job. You may think that was immoral, mercenary or just basically disgusting, but I don’t care. I had seen everything Borlotti had been doing under the radar. Everything. He was making money hand over fist, and let me remind you it was illegal. And no one had spotted it except me. I figured it was my turn.’
‘Well, I hate to tell you, honey, that your risk assessment objectivity was clearly out of whack. You should’ve known you were playing with fire. You can talk all you want about Primo in love and Borlotti’s chicanery, but there was only one thing that caused all of this. Greed. Your greed.’
‘Call it what you will. Yes, I wanted to make money. But I swear that it was Borlotti who swindled us both. And you can’t prove otherwise.’
‘You don’t think? Well, I see it a little differently. You figured that once you knew Borlotti was dead you could make up any cockamamie “Borlotti cheated me” tale you wanted and who could say otherwise? Right? But there’s one other person who knows the truth, isn’t there?’
‘Who?’
‘Vince Primo, Mr Chump himself. Hell hath no fury like a mob boss scammed. When Primo’s lawyers finagle a plea deal in return for telling the DA who it was that swindled him in the first place, a swindle that led to two arsons and two murders, we’ll hear his side of the story. Don’t you suppose Primo might try to pin it on you? Don’t you suppose he might tell them you tried to convince him that it was all Borlotti’s fault only after he found out the violin was a fake. Don’t you suppose he’ll point out that you have two-and-a-half million dollars and he has nothing? We don’t really know what he’ll say, do we? But we do know he’ll want to kill two birds with one stone, don’t you think?’
‘What two birds?’
‘Reduce his own sentence and increase yours. Let me remind you, Vince Primo has never spent a day in prison. That’s pretty good for an ape. He must have very convincing lawyers. I don’t give you much of a chance against them.
‘If, on the other hand, you were magnanimous enough to turn state’s evidence in return for a lighter sentence, our good Lieutenant Brooks could put Primo in the slammer for as long as he’s been drooling to, and you’d feel much safer for a long time. Win-win, don’t you think?’
Forsythe hesitated.
‘Tell them that I’m trying to help solve Borlotti’s murder,’ she said. ‘Tell them I’ll help them nail Primo. Tell them I want to cooperate.’
‘And in return?’
‘I want immunity. And protection.’
‘Let me tell you a little story, honey,’ Jacobus said. ‘Once upon a time there was a construction worker. On Monday he opens his lunch box and in it is a peanut butter sandwich. He looks around at the rest of the crew and he sees roast beef, cold cuts, pastrami, you name it. Tuesday, same thing. Peanut butter sandwich and everyone else has something better. This goes on for a whole week. Finally on Friday he says, “Damnit! Why do I always have to have this crappy sandwich for lunch?” To which another worker says, “Quit bitching. If you don’t like it, tell your wife to make you something else.” To which our hero says, “My wife? I make my own lunch.” So Ms Forsythe, I say to you, you have made your own peanut butter sandwich, and if you think I’m going to protect you after you threw Borlotti under the bus, you don’t know the first thing about me.’
‘Let me think about it,’ she said.
‘Good. You do that. That risk-benefit stuff really works, doesn’t it? In the meantime there’s just have one small item to take care of.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Nab Vincenzo Primo. And you’re going to help us.’
Jacobus beckoned Brooks and Miller over to their table, and within a half hour they had reached an informal agreement to go easy on Forsythe in return for her cooperation to apprehend Primo.
‘So far, so good,’ Brooks said. ‘Now we go after Primo. That’s going to be the hard part.’
‘Actually,’ said Jacobus, who already had the scheme outlined in his head, ‘it may be easier done than said.’
THIRTY-SIX
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Friday, January 13
‘Yeah?’ Primo asked over the phone. His voice was dismissive.
‘My name is Hitomi Sato.’
‘A Jap?’
‘I represent a consortium of Tokyo businessmen.’
‘So what?’
‘The consortium is interested in diversifying its investments. One area of investment they seek to expand is in art and musical instruments. A small part of their overall portfolio, of course. No more than one-hundred-million American dollars at this point.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘It has come to our attention that you own a Stradivarius violin and might be interested in selling it.’
‘How would your consortium know that?’
‘We have been contacted by a woman named Minerva Forsythe. Is that name familiar to you?’
‘It might be. What did she say about it?’
‘She said that the violin was genuine and in excellent condition. That is our primary concern. Is her opinion trustworthy?’
There was a pause.
‘It could be.’
‘She said you might be willing to sell it for two million dollars.’
‘Three.’
‘I am authorized to spend two. I will need to report back to my supervisor for authorization to spend more.’
‘You do that.’
‘Of course, we will have to inspect the violin first.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Shall we set up an appointment, then?’
‘How do I know this isn’t a scam?’
‘Like you, the businessmen I represent prefer to remain out of the public eye. If we decide to buy the violin we will pay you on the spot, in cash. If that is not acceptable, we need not discuss anything further.’
‘I want names.’
‘I am sorry to have troubled you. Thank you for your time.’
Again, there was silence.
‘All right. Just be sure to bring the money. You better not be jerkin’ me around.’
