“I was homicide, and the O.C. boys kept most of the tabs on the families, but once in a while our interests overlapped when someone got whacked.”
“That’s how you know Anastasia.”
“Yeah. My team had one of the highest solve rates in the history of Seattle Homicide. Would have been almost perfect except for the occasional random murder nobody solves and, of course, mob hits. We didn’t have many of those. The Bruttis ran a tight ship and the other gangs, the Viets, the Ukes, etc., took their lead from them. Bad for business, you know. That’s why Maria Brutti’s murder shook things up so much. It just wasn’t done.”
Scarne nodded his head. Noah Sealth had been the lead investigator on the killing of the innocent Maria Brutti. The macabre murder was designed to pit her family against the rival Ukrainian Boyko gang in a failed plot to distract both sets of mobsters from discovering that they were victims of a massive Wall Street financial fraud. Scarne was independently investigating another murder tied to that fraud. He and Sealth, at first adversaries, had been forced to work together, and eventually became friends.
“I take it that Anastasia was a suspect in some of those unsolved hits.”
“Vinnie was, still is, I guess, the Luca Brasi of the Dallassios, the right-hand man and chief enforcer for old Joe Dallassio, Maura’s father, when he was alive. A couple of the hits occurred when Anastasia just happened to be in town. We think the Bruttis borrowed him from old Joe from time to time when they wanted to make sure their hands were really clean, or when using an in-house hitter might cause family problems. The Bruttis are kind of in-bred. Cousin-on-cousin whacks are bad for morale.”
“Spilled blood is thicker than spilled water,” Scarne said.
“Exactly. We never could prove anything, of course, but I sometimes went down to Frisco to talk to Anastasia, just to let him know we noticed.”
“I bet he was very forthcoming.”
Sealth laughed.
“First time I saw him, he said he wanted to know what took us so long to get to him. Said he was the second shooter on the grassy knoll in the JFK assassination. Interview went downhill from there. Vinnie is smart and completely loyal to the Dallassios. Never married. Doted on Joe’s kids, one of whom, Tony, got killed racing Formula One in Europe. Old Joe never got over that and started getting sloppy. That’s when Maura started moving into a position of authority, even before the old man croaked. It couldn’t have been easy, with both her brother and father dead within a couple of years of each other.”
A pigeon landed on a windowsill and started walking back and forth, head bobbing, seemingly with a purpose.
“Do you think that pigeon knows what he’s doing?” Sealth asked.
“I doubt it. He’s just being a pigeon.”
“I didn’t know they flew up this high.”
Both men said “global warming” simultaneously and laughed. The bird flew off.
“How did Maura manage it alone?”
“You said it, Jake. She’s a tough cookie. And Anastasia taught her the ropes. Not that she needed much help. Everyone says Maura Dallas was born to the role, maybe even better than her dead brother. She has a head for business and many of the Dallassio family operations are legit now. And the ones that aren’t try to avoid violence whenever possible. Maura would rather buy a politician than assassinate a rival.”
“Must be expensive. So many of them are for sale.”
“Point is, I don’t think Anastasia does much killing anymore. That’s not to say he wouldn’t if she asked. And it’s not like he’s forgotten how to.”
“He’s getting on in years. How old is he?”
“He looks 50, but must be pushing 70. But don’t let that fool you. He’s still a stone killer at heart.”
“But you kind of like him.”
Sealth smiled.
“What’s not to like? He did most of his killing outside Seattle and the guys he probably whacked were no loss to society. He’s no sadist like some of these dirt bags are, and everyone says his word is good.”
“Maybe we should throw him a testimonial dinner.”
Sealth shrugged.
“You know better than most how it is, Jake. Without guys like Anastasia to cull the mob herds occasionally, things would really be fucked up. And we both know the real killers in this country use pens, not guns.”
“Why, Noah, what a Left Coast thing to say. You sure you were a hard-ass Seattle homicide dick?”
“Hey, I’m not the guy who threw a crooked councilman off a balcony at City Hall here.”
“I didn’t throw him off. Just held him by the ankles.”
“I like my version better. It’s what I say when I’m drumming up business with certain potential clients who like a dash of street cred.”
“What do you tell those who are looking for, ah, more professional representation.”
“I don’t mention you. Now, what’s our next move?”
“How is Juliette feeling?”
Juliette Loudin, the French agent Sealth fell in love with years earlier when on an exchange program with the Sûreté Nationale, France’s national police, was three months pregnant. Scarne had been best man at their wedding the previous year.
“I’ve learned some new Frog cuss words, but she’s finally getting over morning sickness. The first papoose is always the toughest.”
“Papoose? The baby will be half French.”
“Maybe more. I'm pretty sure one of my Indian ancestors was raped by a French fur trader.”
“I thought you told me they were married.”
“Rape came first. True love later. It may have been a tomahawk wedding.”
“Well, if you don’t mind leaving Juliette for a few days, I think you should go out West and see what you can turn up.”
“She’ll be OK. She has a lot of friends in the city now and her medical plan at the U.N. is great. They keep close tabs on her.”
Sealth’s wife had left the Sûreté and was now a senior security officer at the United Nations.
“When is she going to take her maternity leave?”
“You know Jules. She wants to work right up to her water breaking. But that’s not going to happen. Her bosses wouldn’t stand for it, and neither will I. How do you want me to handle the trip?”
“Start with your old pals in Seattle P.D. See if the organized crime guys have sniffed anything. You still have contacts with the F.B.I. and some of the mobs, right?”
“They will all be delighted to see me.”
“No doubt. Then, do the same in San Francisco. Try to be discreet, although it’s not like this isn’t going to get out.”
“Hell, you mean I can’t hold anyone by their ankles?”
“Only as a last resort.”
“You really think some mob rival is behind this?”
Scarne put his own feet up on his desk, leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
“My gut tells me no. The mobs aren’t what they used to be. The Dallassio outfit being the exception. From what you say, Maura was compelled to take over the family business. Most of the mob kids who had any brains went to Wall Street to make their billions. The second-raters run a lot of the families. But there must still be some sort of code. Kidnapping or killing someone’s daughter breaks a lot of rules. Not only does it invite retaliation, but there are easier ways of making a point. Still, there’s the possibility that some loose cannon with a grudge is behind it.”
“Could it be a Ballantrae thing? Someone trying to start a war?”
“I hope the hell not. Twice in my lifetime is twice too often. But whatever it is, we better touch all the bases.”
“What will you be doing?”
“The same thing as you, on the East Coast.”
“I didn’t realize you knew that many mobsters.”
“A few, but I think I’ll let Dudley do the heavy lifting for me.”
“Yeah. He probably knows them all around here. Hell, he even knows some in California a
nd came in handy when they wanted your scalp. But that still leaves a lot of the country.”
“Well, if some guy in Kansas City is behind this, we’re screwed. But I think Maura Dallas is right. The girl was snatched around here, and is probably stashed close to New York. So, while you hobnob with the mob, I’m going to see what I can find out at Barnard.”
Sealth laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“The thought of you running amok among academics. Me, I’d rather talk to mobsters.”
CHAPTER
8 – SECOND THOUGHTS
The morning after Scarne took the Alana Dallas case, a nervous Luke Willet sat in the outer office of Columbia University’s Department of English and Comparative Literature in Philosophy Hall on Amsterdam Avenue. He was there to see Joshua Swartzberg, the dean of the department.
Willet, who was sweating profusely despite the fact that the weather outside was abnormally chilly for the time of year and the office was not much warmer, tried not to show his irritation at the treatment he’d received from Swartzberg’s secretary, a middle-aged tyrant named Mary Mulgready. Although it was only 10 AM, Swartzberg’s waiting room was already full of students who had appointments. Willet, an adjunct, did not, and was rudely put in his place by the officious secretary when he asked to buck the line.
“Dr. Swartzberg is a very busy man,” she said, barely looking up at Willet. “He only sees students by appointment.”
Mulgready was a big women. Her massive bosom strained against a formless black dress. Her steel-gray hair was tied in a tight bun behind a square face that radiated contempt.
“Do I look like a student? I teach one of the courses in his curriculum.”
“I know all the professors in the department,” she said, taking off her horn-rim eyeglasses. “Are you new?”
The glasses were on a chain. The chain disappeared into the folds on her neck. The glasses did not need a chain to keep them from falling to the desk. Her breasts would have stopped them. Willet could feel the eyes of the students nearest the desk on him. He thought he heard a snicker.
“I’m not a full professor. I’m an adjunct.”
“Oh, that explains it,” she huffed. “Is it important, Mr. Billet?”
“It’s Willet. It concerns one of my students.”
The grotesque woman stared at Willet for some time. I should have said I was a maintenance man here to fix a light bulb in Swartzberg’s office, he fumed. But it would not do to make too much of a scene.
“As soon as Dr. Swartzberg is finished with his current appointment,” Mulgready finally said, “I’ll try to fit you in. Although, as I noted, he is very busy. Take a seat.”
Willet, who knew just how easy the life of a top-tier academic was, especially a Dean, swallowed a sarcastic response. If he antagonized the Irish bitch, he’d probably be stuck there until graduation. He sat, trying not to make eye contact with the students, who by now were all amused.
Twenty minutes later the door to the Dean’s office opened and a young man came out. Mary Mulgready looked at Willet and sighed, and then heaved her considerable weight out of her chair and went into her boss’s office. A moment later she emerged and crooked a finger at the adjunct.
“Dr. Swartzberg can spare five minutes.”
He got up and quickly walked past her, shutting the door behind him. Swartzberg was sitting behind his huge captain’s desk, writing something on a yellow legal pad. He looked up and smiled.
“Luke, how nice to see you. You shaved off your beard and mustache. I hardly recognized you.”
Willet was surprised that Swartzberg remembered his first name.
“I thought it would be too hot for the summer,” he said.
And, he thought to himself, if anyone remembered a bearded man picking up a girl on Riverside Drive, that man no longer existed. Nor did the maroon Camry, which he had repainted black the day after the kidnapping. Willet knew his students would be astounded at how good he was with spray painters and other power tools, the result of years of bouncing around at odd jobs before he resumed teaching. Alana Dallas discovered how fine his work was when she made her obligatory attempts to break out of her prison. She was barely able to scratch the edges around the door and bolted window in her room. She gave up after a few tries and Willet did not even punish her for the initiative. He would have expected no less from her. His magnanimity in that regard was an even more powerful deterrent than abuse, since it convinced the girl of the hopelessness of her situation.
“Probably a good idea. Well, Luke, what did you want to see me about? Mary said something about a student.”
Again, the first name, Willet thought. As if I was an equal and not someone who had to wait outside his office like a goddamn freshman.
“Well, Joshua,” he said, thinking that two could play the name game, “I am concerned about one of them.”
“Please, call me Josh. Everyone else does. We’re colleagues, after all.”
But not good enough to be invited to a faculty party, Willet fumed. He pulled a slip of paper from his jacket pocket and glanced at it, to make it appear as if he wasn’t sure of the name. “Her name is Dallas, first initial A.” (That was a nice touch, he thought.) “She’s matriculating at Barnard but taking some courses here at Columbia. She is in my English Lit class but has not shown up in weeks. One of the other students said he thought she was seriously ill. Finals are coming up. I wouldn’t flunk a sick kid. And I wonder if even an ‘Incomplete’ is justified. Her work has been first-rate.”
“Oh, yes, Alana Dallas. Know all about it. Sorry the word hasn’t gotten down to you. Should have. Fell between the cracks, I guess. You know how it is in a busy university.”
Willet wanted to point out that nothing could fall “between the cracks”; they could only fall into the cracks. But he merely nodded. Swartzberg was a typical Jew; knows everything. Jews and wops, Willet thought, the bane of my existence. Well, soon I’ll have enough money to laugh at all of them.
“Heard from Dean Russell over at Barnard,” Swartzberg continued. “Apparently, the girl caught a bug on her Spring Break. Mono, they said. The kissing disease, right? Well, if you’re going to get a disease on Spring Break, I suppose there are worse ones. STD’s come to mind.” He gave Willet a man-to-man look. “Or something for which a dose of penicillin is necessary.”
Willet smiled back. Just two guys. Until his five minutes were up, of course.
“I hope she will be OK.”
“I’m sure she will be. You say she’s a good student. And Regina, I mean Dean Russell, said they are very high on her over there. Do you have any problem letting her mid-term marks stand up if she doesn’t finish her classes here this semester?”
Willet suddenly had an inspiration.
“None at all. But I’d feel better if she, perhaps, wrote an essay for me. I could use that as her final, if she is up to it, of course.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Luke. Why don’t you suggest it to her? If she can do it, fine. If not, let’s cut her a break.”
“I’ll need her home address and phone number.”
Swartzberg pressed a button on his phone.
“Mary, please come in here.”
Mulgready waddled in.
“There are several students waiting to see you, Doctor,” she said, looking directly at Willet.
“Yes, I know. Luke was just leaving. But will you please give him all the contact information we can get for a student named Alana Dallas. Dean Russell over at Barnard will have it.” He looked at Willet. “Well, I guess that should do it.”
“Yes, thank you,” Willet said, getting up. Then he added, because he knew it would anger Mulgready, “Great to see you again, Josh.”
Mary Mulgready was not happy, but she was efficient. When Willet left, he had a phone number different from the one he’d found on Alana’s cell, and a home address. With more avenues to contact the family, he could muddy the waters. He probably could have pried the numbers
out of the girl herself, but he might have had to rough her up. He could if he had to, but it was unpleasant work.
And he was becoming quite fond of her. Or, at least, her wonderfully taut young body. He had refrained from doing anything sexually overt, other than bathing her. That, he insisted on. There was something wildly erotic about stroking her when she was naked, her hands in cuffs. At first she resisted, but now just endured the humiliation. He even washed her hair and provided her with the deodorant and Kate Spade perfume he found in her bag. He shaved her legs and under her arms. Her pudendum was almost bare of pubic hair and he asked her if she wanted him to continue trimming it. Apparently that was the fashion among girls her age. At first, she looked horrified and shook her head. But now she allowed it. The only time she was out of restraints was when she needed to use the toilet. That much privacy he allowed. But he had made sure there was nothing in the bathroom she could use as a weapon, either to harm him or herself. But he was beginning to think that he could allow her more freedom, at least while he was awake. She had become more docile.
Willet was very satisfied with himself. The visit to the Dean’s office was the last hurdle. It established that he was a concerned teacher. It would have been suspicious if he had not commented on Alana’s absence. And it confirmed that the Dallassio family had followed his instructions and not gone to the police. Because if they had, Swartzberg would have known the truth by now.
But Willet knew he was not home free. The ransom drop would be tricky. That was when kidnappers were usually the most vulnerable. He was not even sure how much to ask for, or what form the ransom should take. He simply did not have enough time to think everything through.
And then there was the girl. She could identify him. He had thought that one through. But now he was having second thoughts.
CHAPTER
FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) Page 6
