by Jack Huber
He stopped at the end of a short hallway and waited for the door to close and lock before proceeding around the corner to the right. Down the hall we reached an elevator. Ronin pressed the button and we all waited in silence. The doors eventually opened and we climbed aboard, Ronin leading and pressing the big “2” button once inside.
“Stairs would have been just as easy,” he said as we were lifted to the second floor.
The doors reopened, and we piled out and waited for Ronin, who headed to the right once out of the elevator. There were other personnel walking the hallways that we made room for as we passed. Some were in uniform and others were in business suits. He stopped at a double door with one door open and held his arm and hand up to direct us inside.
Inside was a meeting room with two large flat-screen monitors side-by-side on the wall behind a podium and a half-dozen rows of chairs all facing them in a semi-circle. Room for about 75 people, I estimated. In the front row were four plainclothes and a uniformed officer, who all turned around and stood up to greet us.
Ronin made introductions all around. The ones in plain clothes were organized crime unit detectives and the uniform was there to provide some insight. None were female. The detectives were James Doolittle, Ken Fremont, Lorenzo Romano and Vinnie Conti. All were Anglo and the latter two were obviously of Italian descent. The officer was Hispanic, Lou Hernandez.
Jimmy broke the tension. “Well, I guess we’re in for an old-fashioned briefing, then, aren’t we?” He laughed and added, “Got any of them-there PowerPoints?”
“I don’t understand,” I said to Ronin, ignoring Jimmy for a moment. “You never said anything about an organized crime division.”
“Relax, it’s not really a division … more of a task force. With this latest event, the police chief thought we had better throw some resources at it and get the FBI’s help.”
“Okay, so what’s next?”
“May I?” Henson asked in a cracked voice, pointing to the podium, and clearing his throat. Ronin nodded and the agent moved to stand behind it. “Gentlemen, we have had a serious change here. We need to decide our next steps.”
“What change?” Jimmy asked as we all sat down, somewhat scattered around the first two rows.
Henson cleared his throat again. “It appears that the Marchetti crime family in Trenton has decided that Nashville was ripe for the taking, and they took it. We’ve been watching the Flak Union for several months, as has the Nashville PD, and as you know their avoidance of murder has hampered our ability to get warrants, flip witnesses, and all sorts of other grief. But it also made them targets.”
“So,” I interrupted. “What made the Flaks successful also made them vulnerable?”
“Exactly,” Henson answered. “Doolittle, here, was the PD’s insider in the Flak Union’s organization and he was nearly caught up in the coup.”
“You mean,” I said, starting to erupt. “You had an inside guy in the Flaks and you never let us talk to the guy?”
“Sorry,” Doolittle replied. “We couldn’t let anyone know what we were doing. Actually, your investigation helped take some of the interest off me.”
“Glad we were so useful to you,” I deadpanned. “What were you investigating them for?”
“Drugs, mostly, until the recording agent was murdered. Then, we were trying to see if the Flak Union was involved and if so, why.”
“What did you find out?” Jimmy asked.
“Not much, I’m afraid. They were considering the recording industry as a potential market to exploit, but they weren’t sure how to do it.”
“We can help with that,” Henson said. “Grec?”
“Yeah,” Greco spoke up. “I was lookin’ into some activity in the music industry that the Marchettis were into in New Jersey, New York, other places. Then, some of the family left for Nashville and we never really found out what they were doing. Now, we’ve got a pretty good idea. They started in the music business by purchasing a small studio no one knew much about, Sunshine Records. Then they approached six or seven agents to put their acts through it.”
Henson interrupted, “We think that one of the agents refused. That was Louise Strasburg.”
“What about acts?” I asked. “Did they strong-arm talent to sign, too? Like Bobbie and June?”
“That might have happened but we were unaware.” Greco replied. “Nashville’s organized crime unit, or task force, if you will, tried to infiltrate the Marchetti operations here. Romano and Conti, here, were starting to make traction when all hell broke loose with the Flak Union.”
“We did see some of that,” Conti offered. “Mostly with more mainstream male country singer-songwriter types. One, for sure, was beaten up pretty good. The family’s henchmen seemed to know not to damage the talent too badly. At the end of the day, they still needed them to perform.”
“So, here we are,” Henson said, taking control of the conversation. “The drug business, which is still the largest source of money to the family and the main reason the Flaks were taken out, is thriving. Impressive, really. The Marchettis took control of the supply and distribution chains very quickly. We need to infiltrate and slow down the flow — if we can.”
“We also need to clean up the music industry problems before they get worse,” Ronin added. “The chief was told by the mayor that Nashville can’t afford to look risky to music acts, especially when we’ve been losing business to Memphis and Austin. Now there’s Seattle, the South Bronx, Detroit, Chicago, and New Orleans, all competing for industry recognition. We have to make sure we curb all of the negative activity here.”
“Let me say something,” Jimmy said, standing up. “Pat and I are not here as law enforcement or federal agents. We’re here because people we know were injured, possibly victims of a hit, and their agent killed.”
I also stood. “Jimmy’s right,” I added. “We don’t need to be here. This is your fight, your investigation, not ours. We’re retired and want to stay that way.” I nodded toward the door to Jimmy and we left with no argument from the room.
Chapter 14
It had been a long day and we were tired by the time we found a suitable camping spot. Boondocking, or dry camping, was, in some ways, my favorite type of camping. In other ways, it was my least favorite. If you can uncover a secluded tract in a forest, canyon or grasslands, there just isn’t anything that compares to the peace and serenity you can enjoy. Isolation isn’t for everyone, but after a career in the big city, I never seem to get enough of it.
On the other hand, you are limited in water and power, though I did have a generator. Propane tanks on motorhomes are generally built-in, meaning you have to drive to a refill station or go without heat or cooking. With two of us sharing the bathroom, fresh water will last only about a week, even if we are careful to take Navy showers every third day.
The particular site we chose from my boondocking locater app was on the edge of a forest that we drove to on a wide gravel road. The camping spot was wide, easily accessed from the road and had been used by others. There were deciduous trees behind us and grass and shrubs in front of us, giving us a view of a vast meadow and mountains in the distance, maybe 15 miles away. We hadn’t seen many other RV’s in the area, perhaps three or four in a five-mile stretch, and the city seemed far away. In actuality, commercial roads and business areas were less than 10 miles away.
Jimmy and I disconnected the car and set up the campsite — awning, mats, chairs, and even a barbecue grill. I let Guy out without any tethering but he stayed close to our spot. I grabbed a couple of beers and we lay back on the lounge chairs, enjoying the moment. There was something about knowing that Bobbie and June were safe, and Bonnie and Lee as well, that helped me relax for the first time in what seemed like a long time.
“In a couple of hours we should have a nice sunset,” Jimmy commented. “Right in front of us.”
“That’s about right.” I stretched out my arms in front of me toward the sun. “An old scout trick,”
I explained. I held my palms horizontally, facing back at me, and put one hand on top of the other. With the sun “sitting” on my index finger on my top hand, the pinky of my lower hand was sitting at about the top of the distant mountain peaks. “Yup, about two hours away.”
We sat quietly and watched the sun sink in the sky. Jimmy took a big drink and said, “We should do this. What privacy we could have.”
“How do you mean?”
“Just think about it. If you had enough cash with you for local purchases — gas, food and stuff — and you kept enough in an online bank account to auto-pay bills, you can be completely off the grid. No credit card tracking, no gas receipts …”
“Yeah, but you’d have to leave your phone off.”
“I’d just keep the battery out until I needed it.”
I chuckled at the thought. “You’d be okay without Internet?”
“Satellite Internet,” he quickly replied, as if he were waiting for me to ask. “It’s a bit spendy but that’d be worth it.”
“I don’t know if it works that way, but, hey, it’s a hell of an idea.” I held up my beer bottle to clink Jimmy’s and he obliged.
We sat back and enjoyed thinking about the possibilities. Eventually I broke the silence. “I guess it’s about time for you to get back to your family.”
“Yeah, I wanted to make sure I helped you all I could. If nothing else comes up, I’ll head back in a couple of days. I really like this.”
A few quiet minutes later I started to reminisce. “Do you remember Judas Humphrey? The second story man we put away and then he thanked us?”
“I do remember him,” Jimmy replied. “That guy was so pale he was almost albino. He said we saved his life by arresting him.”
“I guess he meant it. I heard that he got out a couple of years ago and bought a van and travel trailer and now he is touring the country, talking to grade school kids about his life of crime. I think about him now and then.”
“I hadn’t heard that. You think you’ll run across him on the road?”
“I suppose it’s possible.” I let the thought linger and said, “Let’s do steaks for dinner. I’ve got everything …”
My phone interrupted me. It was the FBI.
“Pat, this is Gretchen. Got a minute?”
“Hold on, let me put you on speaker. Jimmy’s here.” I pressed the correct icon and held out the phone. “Say ‘hi’ to Gretchen, Jimmy.”
“Hey, Gretchen! What’s up with thou?”
She laughed and replied, “Nothin’ much, thy singing minstrel.”
“We’re here watching the sunset, Gretch,” I said. “What can we do for ya?”
“I just got off the phone with your favorite local agents, Henson and Greco.”
“A barrel of laughs, those guys,” Jimmy quipped.
“Well, they have inside information that a hit is being planned and wanted to ask you to help. They got the distinct impression your answer would be ‘no’ if they asked, so they called me.”
“A hit?” I asked. “On who? Whom?”
“Another talent agent has decided to refuse the Marchettis and they are planning to make him an example. Evidently the first murder wasn’t public enough.”
“Gretch, you know why we aren’t in town helping out, right?”
“I know. Your country is already plenty indebted to you, to you both. But, this is very credible evidence and the PD there is over their head.”
“That’s the truth!” Jimmy practically spat out. “They’re useless!”
“They need help and I have no more agents available. We have a huge presence in Chicago right now, dealing with something bigger than Madoff and Refco. You know, if you were working for me, officially, you guys would be my best two agents.”
“Watch out when they start using flattery,” Jimmy chirped. To the phone he asked, “Which one of us would be number one?”
Without hesitation, Gretchen answered, “Good question, Jimmy. Let’s call it a tie.”
“Running for office, too. That’s quite a good response reflex you got there.”
“Office?” she asked incredulously. “Please, no! Not for me. I’d rather work for a living.”
“Okay,” I interrupted the banter. “If we do this, I want your A-number-one best promise that you’ll lose my number for the rest of the year. Jimmy was going to head home in a couple of days. I think he should get back to his family.”
“Not until we finish the job,” he said firmly. “I’ll stick it out if you don’t mind.”
“Great, then I can let my guys know you’ll be in touch. Make it soon, okay?”
“You got it,” I said without much enthusiasm.
“Next time you’re traveling through Virginia, dinner’s on me. Just name the place.”
“Thanks, Gretchen. Talk to you soon.”
We hung up and sat there for a moment. Finally, I said a single word. “Damn.”
Chapter 15
I called Ronin to let him know we were coming back, and asked him to have Laurel and Hardy there soon to meet with us. He agreed so Jimmy and I got our campsite ready to be vacated for a few days. I got out a few cables, chains and locks so we could lock things like the grill and portable fire pit to the rig rather than stowing them away. That way, when we finally got to enjoy a few days out here, we wouldn’t have to make camp all over again. However, we did fold up the lounge chairs and stored them beneath the motorhome, behind the steps, and rolled in the awning.
I decided to board Guy, since I really didn’t know how long we were going to be. While we drove back toward Nashville, Jimmy found a nice after-hours doggie day care that had boarding and we dropped him off.
Once we hit the PD office, we went through security and ended up in a standard conference room, a long and narrow room with a dark slender table down the middle and a dozen black leather chairs all around it. Instead of a video monitor there was a drop-down projector screen on one end of the room. About a dozen feet back a small, ceiling-mounted projector was aimed at it from its perch. It was lit but just displayed a laptop’s wallpaper and icons. In the back of the room was a small refrigerator with a case of water bottles sitting on the floor next to it.
Henson and Greco walked in, the latter balancing a flat cardboard box in one hand. He slid the box onto the table top and we could see it was filled with donuts. There was a label stuck on the box with a pink bakery logo.
“Mmmm, donuts,” Ronin said as he opened the box and pulled out a glazed twist and a chocolate iced cake donut. “I’m surprised they were open this late.”
Jimmy grabbed a plain glazed and both the FBI agents dug in.
I declined, saying, “Let’s not be here all night.”
“Suit yourself,” Greco replied. “More for us.”
“This isn’t bad, Patty. Sure you don’t want one?”
I shook my head and walked to the fridge. I found cold bottles of water inside and grabbed one. I opened it, took a sip and sat down at the opposite side of the table from the others. “What do you have for us?” I said, somewhat impatiently.
Everyone sat down and Henson started. “I’m really happy you’re back with us on this case. We’re shorthanded, as you know.”
“I appreciate that, Agent Henson, but just keep in mind that we’re not all that pleased about it.”
“Understood. Let’s get to business then.”
“Where are the task force guys?” I asked.
“They are working another case, on the docks,” Ronin answered dryly.
Henson looked around the room and began his assessment. “As you know, our working theory is that the Marchetti family is responsible for the death of talent agent Louise Strasburg, who declined to put her clients through Sunshine Records, and for the car accident that put two of her clients, the country duet Bobbie and June, in the hospital along with their cab driver. We have had some confirmation through phone records and a voicemail Miss Strasburg received that she was lured to a meeting in Riverfro
nt Park. We assume that she was strangled there and dumped into the Cumberland River. There was one video camera pointed at the park that showed Strasburg and a man each going into the park separately, but only the man left.”
“The video is too far away to get any sort of ID,” Greco said.
Henson continued, “The suspect’s phone was a burner and it’s no longer on, but this is the M.O. of the Marchettis.”
“We had to rule out hate crimes, since Strasburg was a transgender female and Bobbie and June are gay,” Greco added. “There have been no threats of that kind to be found. Only praise.”
“It’s the new world, right?” Jimmy responded. “Transgender people are commonplace anymore.”
“Right,” the big man replied. “Our experience is that they still get their share of death threats or street violence, but that has greatly diminished in the last five years.”
Henson continued, “An undercover agent we have embedded with the Marchettis in Newark has recently been promoted in the family business and has now confirmed the hit on Strasburg, though there’s no word yet on the others.”
“So, you buried the lead,” Jimmy said. “You already confirmed the hit but talked about phone records and video.”
“I just wanted to give you the full picture,” Henson replied. “And he only confirmed the Strasburg, not the others.”
“Gretchen … Agent Robinson, she mentioned a new plot?” I asked. “What do you know?”
“Our man came to find out that another hit is being planned. Apparently the first murder was supposed to get the other talent agents in line but another agent is rejecting the program.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Peter Rutledge, the owner of Rutledge Recordings, but the hit will be more than just on a single agent.”
“What do you mean? A massacre?”
“Something like that. They’re planning a poisoning at a restaurant that Rutledge and a few of the music business industry leaders frequent. That way they can get their target and get into the news at the same time.”
“That seems overkill to me, pardon the pun,” I said. “Have the Marchettis ever done anything like that before?”
