The Window Washer

by Eric Rill

  “I hope so,” Craven said, “or I’m finished.”

  Craven had told his friend Salvatore Massimo that he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer by his doctor, Max Slade, and had but a few months to live. He was weak, but he wanted to get up to Cleveland to make sure that Massimo and his uncle had all the intricate details of his end of the operation before he passed. He knew Massimo had a soft spot for him, and he was right. Massimo told him he would come down to Columbus and later relay the information to his uncle. The meeting was set up for Friday afternoon at Craven’s home in Beckley.

  “Doesn’t give us much time to get everything organized,” Burns said. “Maggie, I’m putting you in charge of getting the techies over to his house tomorrow. I want a complete sweep before we put our own stuff in place.” He looked over at Craven. “I’m assuming you have no listening devices of your own up there.”

  Craven hesitated for a few seconds. “I do. In the living room and den,” he said.

  “Let’s make life easy for all of us, Mr. Craven. Show my boys where they are. They’ll dismantle yours, do their sweep, and put ours in place. And don’t forget…it’s ‘Queen for a Day’ time. One fuckup and you’ll be in maximum in Colorado with the Unabomber and his friends, locked up in solitary.” Burns knew that wasn’t going to happen, but from the look on Craven’s face, he figured Craven believed it to be gospel.

  Two vans with no windows and with decals saying Getty’s Electric and a fake Better Business Bureau insignia pulled up to the gate of the suburban subdivision in Beckley. “Three-forty-two Highland Lane,” the young man with thick black glasses said. “Us and the van behind.”

  “Are you expected?” the guard asked.

  “My boss told Mr. Craven we would be here before noon.”

  “One moment,” the guard said as he reached for the phone hanging beside the door to the gatehouse. “Mr. Craven… Yes, it’s the electric company,” he said, staring at the large decal on the side of the white van. “Okay. You can go through. It’s the third house on the left,” he said, placing the phone back on the hook.

  The driver nodded, pulled ahead slowly as the gate started to open, and checked in his rearview mirror to make sure the van behind was following.

  Moments later, the two vans pulled around the circular driveway. Craven opened the front door. It took less than an hour to pull out the listening devices and to do a sweep of the five-thousand-square-foot house, and another three hours to put in the many sophisticated cameras and listening devices throughout the residence, as they had no idea where the conversation would take place.

  Maggie had told them to wire every possible area, because if Massimo was like all the other mobsters she knew, he wouldn’t sit in the first room that Craven chose. That’s just how they were—suspicious of everyone, even their own, even if they were dying. She decided, although maybe overkill, to have the techies put devices on the terrace, despite the fact that the weatherman was calling for a freak storm.

  *

  A Chrysler 300 pulled up to the gate. “Mr. Craven,” Salvatore Massimo said, staring straight ahead. “Paul Johnston,” he said before the guard could ask who he was.

  A few moments later, he pulled up to the third house on the left.

  Jonathan Craven opened the door, leaning on a silver cane. “I’m so sorry,” Massimo said. “I don’t know what to say,” he added, as he kissed Craven on both cheeks.

  “It happened just like that,” Craven said. “I went in to see the doctor. I had been really tired and weak and my appetite wasn’t like it was. He did all kinds of tests,” Craven said, remembering the briefing a few days before. “He sent me for a CT scan, an MRI, a laparoscopy, and a couple of others. Then he called me the next day and asked me to come back to his office. He told me I had pancreatic cancer, a type called adenocarcinoma. Said it was the most aggressive kind. I asked him how long I had.” Craven hesitated for a moment. “He said it had spread everywhere, so probably no more than three months.”

  That jived with Dr. Slade’s patient records, which Massimo had read before driving down from Cleveland. He’d sent his goons into Slade’s office to steal the files. To make it look good, they’d also taken a couple of sculptures and a small painting. Massimo felt guilty about doing that, but as much as he trusted his friend, he had to be sure. He had his uncle to answer to.

  What he didn’t know was that Max Slade was beholden to the Columbus police—more than beholden. A year before, police had come to his house after a 911 call by a prostitute he had slammed against the living room wall after she asked for more money.

  When the police arrived, the girl was shivering on the sidewalk, half naked, her stilettos dangling from her right hand. Slade was sitting on a rattan chair on the porch, his eyes staring down at the gray wooden slats. He admitted to being a john, but denied he had slapped her and pushed her into the wall. He was taken down to the station for processing. A quick call from his lawyer to Hank Morton, a longtime friend, resulted in a deal that there would be no record of what had happened, as long as he agreed to help the police from time to time, if needed. This was one of those times.

  “Can I get you a coffee or a drink?” Craven asked.

  “Just tell me where the scotch is and I’ll get it,” Massimo said, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “In the cabinet by the large mirror,” Craven said as he lowered himself onto the sofa, knowing he wouldn’t be there long.

  “Let’s go into the den,” Massimo said, pointing to the open doorway.

  The meeting lasted about three hours. Some small talk, but mostly Craven telling Massimo about the intricacies of his operation, while extracting more than enough evidence to put the whole Pascale bunch away forever—that is, if some of them weren’t sentenced to death, as Ohio still had capital punishment on the books and in practice.

  36

  Cleveland was one of fifty-six FBI field offices across the country that had special weapons and tactics teams. Though usually used for hostage situations, they occasionally were utilized for high-profile or dangerous arrests. The SWAT teams could range from ten to forty-two members. This one was comprised of twenty-six, if you included the snipers on the rooftop opposite the building.

  Leo Rigby watched from a third-floor window across the street, along with his counterpart in Cleveland, Mark Heiland. Heiland wasn’t wild about having Rigby looking over his shoulder, but word had come down from Washington that it was Rigby’s team who had gotten them this far and he was going to be there whether Heiland liked it or not.

  Jonathan Craven was already being processed for the witness protection program and for some unknown reason, had chosen to move to North Dakota. Craven had not only lived up to his end of the bargain by recording his conversation with his college roommate, extracting valuable information about the laundering scheme, but he had been able to cajole Massimo into telling him about a high-level meet that was about to go down.

  That was the break that the Bureau had been hoping for, a chance to round up the high-value wiseguys they had been pursuing for years. The meet was to take place Wednesday noon at the social club on Spruce Street.

  Craven also told his interrogators about the man who called himself Keith. He knew if he didn’t, it would be outside the purview of his immunity and he could rot in jail for a long, long time. Of course, that complicated things for Maggie Parks, who had wired Lawrence Grant and sent him to his death. Rigby pleaded Maggie’s case to his boss, Bob Albertson, in Cincinnati. Knowing that Maggie was aware of his prior knowledge of the murder attempt of Lawrence Grant by his partner, Bernie Levin, Albertson quickly agreed to sweep the whole episode under the rug in an effort to save his own skin.

  *

  A Buick Enclave, followed by a black minivan, pulled up to the door of the social club just before noon. Four strapping men dressed in almost identical charcoal suits jumped out from the minivan and surrounded the Buick. Salvatore Massimo emerged and turned back to help Bruno Pascale
out of the car and into the building.

  Minutes later, two gray vans pulled up from opposite directions, blocking the street on either side of the nondescript building at 427 Spruce. A lone SUV positioned itself at the entrance to the back alley. Then a tank-like truck rolled up to the front door.

  The operation went more smoothly than Rigby or Heiland could have hoped. The SWAT team flew in from the front and back doors, tossing concussion grenades as a distraction. The loud blasts and smoke paralyzed everyone inside. The scene was secured in less than five minutes. The underlings were carted out to the truck. Six capos, including Tony Rosa and Salvatore Massimo, were led into one of the vans, all of them in plastic cuffs. Bruno Pascale was wheeled into an ambulance that had been parked on the next street, a sheet pulled up over his head.

  37

  The raid up in Cleveland proved to be a treasure trove. The mob, known for its stoic silence, did not adhere to the code of omertà in this case. There was nothing from Bruno Pascale, whose heart had given out during the raid, but those who survived were crawling over one another to give up anything that could either save their lives or minimize their jail time.

  The brightest bulb on the tree was Sal Massimo. He extracted a pledge from the prosecutors that they would recommend leniency if he cooperated. He took them through the fine points of the money-laundering ring, as well as their loan-sharking operations. By the time he finished three days of interrogation, the FBI didn’t need any of the others to turn. Leo Rigby, together with Hank Morton, worked Massimo on the Tommy Castellano case. They didn’t have to wait long for Massimo to point the finger.

  *

  Jimmy Rosa had watched from behind a maintenance shack beside the ravine. He couldn’t believe his eyes. That asshole Castellano was thumping on the Ferraro chick. There had to be a difference of two hundred pounds. And she’s a lady for Christsakes, he thought.

  Rosa had never had much time for Tommy Castellano. He had told his brother Tony more than once that he was sure Castellano was skimming. But that didn’t seem to make much difference for the few bucks that strayed. At least not till a couple of Tuesdays back, when Rosa had been up in Cleveland for a drop and Tony told him Pascale had decided to set him free. No more drops. Nothing. He just had to whack Castellano.

  He had never whacked anybody. In fact, he had never even fired his gun in the line of duty. But the idea of getting himself out of this hell made his decision easy. He purchased a Sig with no markings on it from a scumbag who owed him big-time for not putting him behind bars when he had frisked him and found a few bags of heroin. Not that he wouldn’t have arrested him, but when the guy flashed two grand, Rosa figured no harm, no foul.

  For a moment, Rosa toyed with the idea of going over to rescue Angela, but he knew he had no chance against that bloated Castellano pig unless he shot him. He only had his police-issue weapon with him. A bullet from his gun would be a problem whether it stuck in Tommy’s head or came out the other side, because Rosa knew he had to account for all his ammunition. The last thing he needed was an internal investigation that could land him on death row. And as nice as Angela’s legs were, they weren’t worth dying for.

  As fast as the whole thing started, it ended. Angela had somehow grabbed Tommy’s foot and pushed him toward the ravine, and then took off. Rosa watched as she vanished into one of the towers. Castellano disappeared behind a clump of tall scrub. Rosa moved slowly toward the ravine, his hand on his holster. Self-defense would be a good alibi if Castellano was carrying.

  As he got closer to the edge, he saw Castellano’s massive hands clinging to a towering tree root, his raspy breaths slicing through the air. His flabby body was hanging straight down over the ravine at its highest point. It was a sheer drop of more than two hundred feet, with nothing in between.

  Castellano looked up at Rosa, his body rattling, his eyes wide with terror. Rosa motioned for Castellano to grab hold of him. As Castellano released his right hand from the root of the tree, Rosa pulled back and kicked his other hand with all the force he could muster from his gangly frame. For a second, Castellano appeared to be suspended in midair, nothing above him, nothing below him. Then he let out a bloodcurdling scream as he plummeted to his death.

  38

  “THE ELECTION ISN’T far off,” Millie Landry said, tapping the boardroom table with her beet-red manicured nails. “The latest poll numbers are good, but…”

  “Relax, Millie. This one’s a slam dunk, given what Rigby’s boys did up in Cleveland,” Clancy Howell said. “Frankly, I didn’t know they had it in them. Those FBI jerkoffs always seem to screw things up.”

  “Well, it appears, not this time,” Millie said, expelling a deep breath of air.

  “When you go in on armored trucks with a whole fucking militia, chances are good you can beat up on an eighty-something old man and his hoodlums,” Howell said with a laugh. “The last thing they probably ever expected was a bust by the feds. I mean they’ve been operating openly out of that storefront for years.”

  “Shows you one can never be too careful,” Millie said. “And neither can we.”

  “I think we’ve covered all the bases,” Howell said.

  “Have we? What about the girl and Grant’s son?”

  “I don’t think they will be a problem.”

  “Don’t think? What do you mean ‘don’t think’? My whole career is on the line here,” Millie snapped.

  “Sorry, Millie, wrong choice of words. I mean they’re in no position to hurt us. She must be scared shitless that she could be sent up for Castellano’s murder. And I’ve already told Grant he’s being investigated as an accessory.”

  “And that’s it? That’s your answer? You think they’ll just roll over like obedient puppies?” Millie said. “And we’re just going to wait and see how things go? Are you crazy?”

  “What else can we do? I mean, I could get some goon to threaten them,” Howell said.

  “Oh great! Now you want us to get sent away for assault. This whole thing is going to explode in our faces,” Millie said, standing up. “There has to be a way to make this go away.”

  “Like what?” Howell said.

  Millie was less than a foot from the window, watching the rain pelt the glass. She turned around slowly. “We’re going to pay them off. There has to be a number they’ll take. Everyone has a number, no matter how self-righteous they are.”

  “Are you insane, Millie?” As fast as the words poured from his mouth, Howell would have given a month’s pay to get them back. He knew Millie Landry didn’t have to endorse him in the next election. Everything he had worked for could go up in smoke.

  “Not insane. Just practical,” Millie said, ignoring his outburst. “There must be some way to have one of our big contributors, shall we say, make another donation.”

  “I didn’t think about that angle,” Howell said with a grin. “You are one smart lady.”

  “Well, do you know anyone?” Millie asked. “What about Paul Rubin?”

  “No. He’s loaded, but straight as an arrow.”

  “Radcliff and his wife?”

  “They’re social climbers. That’s all they are. They talk a good game, but no real money there.”

  “Christ, how much are we talking?” Millie asked.

  “I’d say enough that she can quit the force and they can move somewhere warm.”

  “And?” Millie asked.

  “Half a million, minimum. Maybe more.”

  “That’s a lot of money. You think you’d have to go that high?”

  “This is one time I wouldn’t want to negotiate. Besides, it won’t be our dough.”

  “So?” Millie demanded, now hovering over Howell.

  Howell paused for several seconds, then said, “Rudy Pagliano is always looking for an edge. He contributed a bunch already. So I’m guessing a little more to ingratiate himself should be no problem. Especially if we can orchestrate a highway contract later on with your friend at Transport.”

  “That
shouldn’t be a problem. But are you sure this is going to work?” Millie asked.

  “Like you said, Millie, everyone has a number.”

  “I, of course, know nothing about this, Clancy. Do you understand?”

  “One hundred percent,” Howell said. “And will I be in your good books four years from now?”

  “Absolutely. One hundred percent,” Millie replied.

  There was a quiet knock at the boardroom door. “There is a Leo Rigby on line one for you,” Mille Landry’s secretary said. “He asked me to tell you it was important.”

  “Tell him I’ll call him when I’m finished here,” Millie said. “No, on second thought, put it through.”

  A moment later the phone rang and Millie reached for the receiver. She listened for almost thirty seconds and finally said, “Thank you for letting me know.”

  “What did Rigby want?” Howell asked.

  “Clancy, the price of doing business with Grant and the Ferraro girl has just gone down considerably.”

  “What are you talking about?” Howell asked, leaning into the table.

  “They just found Castellano’s killer.”

  “You’re shitting me. Who?”

  “The cop on the case. Detective Rosa.”

  “The cop? That’s crazy,” Howell said. “Wow, that does bring the price down.”

  “But we still have to make sure Grant and the girl don’t mention what’s gone down,” Millie said. “I don’t want to get nailed for obstruction, and I’m sure you don’t either.”

  39

  “What’s this all about?” Angela asked, closing the door behind her.

  “Thanks for coming over so quickly,” Clancy Howell said. “Where’s Nick?”

  “He said he’d meet me here,” Angela said. “He had some stuff to do at the hotel.”

  “Nice, going from a window washer to a hotel owner,” Howell said, sinking back in his faded desk chair. “Kind of changes your lifestyle.”

  “I doubt it,” Angela said. “He’s not the type to be interested in material things.”