by Wendy Tyson
Frist sat back, sighed. He examined the precisely-trimmed nails on soft, smallish hands. Finally, he said, “The Russians aren’t like the Italians. They don’t have a family hierarchical structure, with a boss, underboss, soldiers, etc. It’s a much looser structure. This means each unit profits and has a degree of autonomy that the Italian middle men might not enjoy.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that the Gretchko family could be working autonomously. They don’t need to be acting on orders from a higher power.”
“Assuming they are still involved in the Mob business. They could have gone straight, right?”
Frist shook his head. “Hypothetically? It’s not that easy to walk away.”
Mia considered this. If the Gretchkos were still involved in Mob business, what did this have to do with Tammy Edwards? With the Benini family?
“Does the name Benini ring a bell?” Mia asked. “Benini Enterprises?”
Frist frowned. “No, should it?”
“A family-owned business out of New York State. Ithaca.”
He shook his head, glanced at his watch.
“How about the name Edwards? Anthony Edwards?”
“Not sure. Don’t think so.”
Mia tried to remember the name of Tammy Edwards’ boyfriend. It started with a K. Ken, Kris, Kyle...Kai. That was it. Kai Berger. “How about Berger? Scott or Kai Berger.”
“That name I know. Scott Berger was one of Tarasoff’s messengers. Started when he was just a kid. Took the fall for Andrei and Nicholas a few times, too, early on. Petty stuff. They set him up with a business. Feds were convinced that he was laundering. Probably is. But he’s been playing it clean for the last couple of years.”
“Laundering?”
“You must be familiar with the concept, Ms. Campbell.”
“With the concept, yes. With the practice, no.”
Frist spoke in a rote, mechanical fashion when he said, “It can take a lot of forms, but the end goal is always the same: converting dirty money into legitimate, clean assets. Organized crime is particularly adept at this. Sometimes mobsters use underground banking, crooked political regimes, or financial institutions. Often, though, they look for legitimate businesses. Or, if they can, they make cash transactions or real estate deals.” Frist shrugged. “This has all been made easier by the advent of the electronic age. Transfer of funds across borders happens much more quickly. And once the Feds discover one technique, the bad guys have moved on to another.”
“So Scott Berger’s bar is a laundering operation?”
“Could be.”
“Mr. Frist, a girl is missing. She’s eighteen, and the girlfriend of Scott Berger’s son, Kai.” Mia paused, allowing Frist to follow the change in direction. “What would they want with a young girl?”
For the first time, Frist looked taken off-guard. “Kai Berger’s girlfriend?”
Mia nodded. “She disappeared late last week. Friday. Her parents think she ran away, but that doesn’t make sense. The girl is a singer, recently scored a spot on America’s Next Pop Star. Why run away now?”
Frist stood up. He walked over to a bank of filing cabinets, reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He opened the bottom drawer of the farthest cabinet, and, squatting, sorted through folders and binders until he found what he was looking for. He pulled a red binder out of the drawer and stood.
Still standing, he read through the binder, stopped, and marked his place with his right pointer finger. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered. He looked at Mia. “Last year, Kai was arrested. He was caught dumping toxic chemicals into a local creek. Caught red-handed by a cop watching for speeders nearby.”
It was Mia’s turn to be surprised. “Where did he get the chemicals?”
“Good question. He claims someone paid him to dump them, some unknown guy he met on the street. Needed money so he agreed.”
“Not true?”
“I made a note of it, not because I give a special damn about the environment, but because it sounds like someone did pay him to do it. Maybe someone who can make some money disposing of illegal waste.”
“By dumping it in local streams?” The idea horrified Mia.
Frist shrugged. “Why not? Compliance with regulations can be expensive. If companies, especially small companies, can get rid of waste cheaper, some will do it. And where there’s a market—”
“There’s a buyer and a seller.”
Frist nodded. “Exactly. You asked what the Gretchkos might be up to. Who the hell knows? When I was with the Service, the Tarasoff family was big into laundering, plus drug trafficking. We ultimately got Tarasoff for tax fraud. That’s what landed him in prison.”
“But the family could have diversified.”
Frist smiled, the first smile Mia had seen since they began this discussion. “Good way to put it.” He flipped through the red binder. Without looking up, he said, “But that doesn’t explain your missing girl.”
“You said you weren’t sure if you recognized the Edwards’ name. Is there a possibility you have records on Tony Edwards?”
“Nah, don’t think so. I’d recall if that were the case.” He raised one finger. “But you said this girl is a singer? With Hollywood connections?”
“Yes,” Mia said. “America’s Next Pop Star.”
Frist looked up. He bit his lip, thinking. “Maybe she’s worth something on the black market.”
Alarmed at the awful implication, Mia said, “Trafficking?”
Frist shook his head, looking pensive. “Forget it. The Gretchkos are bad news, but selling the child of an employee—and that would be their most likely use for an eighteen-year-old girl, if she just disappeared like that—would seem low, even for them. And I never saw anything hinting at trafficking. Although it’s not outside the realm of possibilities.”
The thought made Mia nauseous. “Unless the Gretchkos were getting back at her father for something,” she said.
Frist nodded, put the binder down on his desk. He chewed on his lip again. “I suppose she could have seen something she shouldn’t have. Mobsters don’t like loose ends.” He shook his head. “If that’s the case, my condolences. Your girl is a goner.” He picked up the file in front of him, turned it over.
“Thanks,” Mia said, barely managing to hide her fear and disappointment. She was terrified for Tammy. “I appreciate your time.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Campbell. And I gave you an extra eight minutes because your questions were reasonable and you’re an acquaintance of Thomas Svengetti. Use the information wisely.”
Twenty-Seven
The Benini bottling facility was on the outskirts of town, along a creek that fed into Cayuga Lake. Set back from the main road, its grounds were a rolling vista of green fields and manicured shrubbery, but the building itself was a nondescript vanilla rectangle surrounded by a nearly empty large parking lot. Vaughn pulled in between a silver Saab and an older-model Subaru Impreza. Allison counted nine cars in the lot.
“I guess they’re not operating because of what happened to Maria,” Allison said. “But someone’s here.”
Vaughn nodded. “Maybe the plant manager and a few office and maintenance crew.”
Allison nodded. She’d been thinking along the same lines. She and Vaughn climbed out of the car and walked toward the front doors. Two empty picnic benches sat in front of the entrance, a metal garbage container with an ashtray lid between them. The ashtray overflowed with butts.
Allison eyed the mess. “Someone’s slacking on the job.”
“Or there are lots of raw nerves around here.”
“Guess there would be.” Allison pulled open one of two glass doors that led to the interior. Inside, a tiled reception area contained a half dozen wooden chairs.
A reception window with sliding glass doors faced the en
trance. A bottled blond with thick tortoiseshell eyeglasses hanging from a black beaded chain looked surprised to see them.
She said, “Delivery?”
Allison shook her head. She closed the space between the entrance and the receptionist’s cubby and held out a business card. “Allison Campbell. My colleague Vaughn and I were hoping to talk to the plant manager.”
The woman eyed them with wary indecision. “The plant’s closed.”
“Is it normally shut down on Wednesdays?”
“No.” The woman looked uncomfortable. “There’s been an accident. The shutdown was precautionary.”
Allison nodded in sympathy. “That’s actually why we’re here. I was hoping to talk to the plant manager, please, Ms.—”
“Stacy. I don’t know if he’s even in.”
“It’s important, Stacy. Please.”
The woman’s lips tightened into a rigid line. She picked up the phone, dialed five digits and waited. After a second, she said, “Lou, some people are here to see you.” After a few seconds of listening and a sideways glance at Vaughn and Allison, she said, “No, not cops.” She glanced down at Allison’s card, still in her hand. “An image consultant.” Looking confused, she said in answer to a question Allison couldn’t hear, “I have no idea, Lou. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
The woman hung up. “Well, he wasn’t expecting that. Give him five. He’ll see you.”
Five turned into twenty-five, but eventually a thin-faced man in a red Polo shirt bounded out to meet them. He had tiny, beady brown eyes that danced around as much as he did.
“Lou Strickland.” He held out a pale hand, knuckles covered in brown fur. “Plant manager.” He looked around quickly, eyes shifting from spot to spot. “Plant’s down today. Bad day yesterday. Real bad.”
Giving the staring receptionist a quick glance, Allison said, “Mr. Strickland, is there somewhere private we can talk?”
“Yeah, yeah. Stacy, we’ll be in the lunchroom.”
The receptionist nodded as they passed behind reception and into a broad cafeteria-style space. Two refrigerators sat against one wall next to a cabinet with a sink, water dispenser, and two older-model microwaves. Another cabinet on an intersecting wall held three coffee machines, Styrofoam cups and boxes of sugar, artificial sweetener, stirrers, and cylindrical containers of artificial creamer. Three vending machines occupied the other wall. Rows of tables took up the rest of the room. Lou sat down at the table on the end, closest to the door, and gestured for Vaughn and Allison to join him.
“Want something to drink?” he asked, looking ready to spring up at any second.
Vaughn waved a hand. “No, thanks. We just want to ask you a few questions about Maria Benini. About what happened here yesterday.”
Lou shook his head rapidly, a gesture of nervousness or habit, Allison wasn’t sure. “Yeah, yeah, a tragedy,” he said. “Never thought I’d see something like that.”
“Can you tell us what happened?” Allison asked.
“Yeah, I guess I can.” He shrugged again, the knobs of thin shoulders bobbing underneath his shirt. “I’ll tell you what I told the reporters.”
“You spoke to reporters already?” Vaughn said.
“Yeah, of course. Today. Small town. People want to know when an accident like this occurs. Bad for business, of course. But we’re the main bottler in this area. Even Maria’s death won’t change that.”
“So, the police are sure it was an accident?” Allison snuck a glance at Vaughn, who was looking intently at Strickland. “No sign of foul play?”
“If there was, no one has said.” Strickland shook his head, grimaced. “Truth? I question how it happened. Maria is—was—almost a savant when it came to mechanical stuff. She knew how things worked around here. And even though it wasn’t her job, she’d fix stuff if required. All kinds of stuff.”
Vaughn said, “Was she here every day?”
“Not every day. She came when the mood struck her.” He rubbed his eyes, looked away.
Vaughn raised his eyebrows. “Was she on the payroll?”
Strickland started to respond before clamping his jaw shut. He looked back and forth between Allison and Vaughn, grappling with a decision.
Finally, he huffed out a dramatic sigh. “Why are you here?”
With a darting glance at Vaughn, Allison said, “Maria was my client’s niece.”
“Francesca?” Strickland’s eyebrows knitted into a perplexed frown. “Francesca was working with you?”
Allison nodded. “Maria called me shortly before she died. She had something to tell me, but she never got the chance. Vaughn and I were surprised to hear about her death.”
“You and me both.” Somewhere in the plant, metal clanged on concrete and Strickland jumped. “I can’t understand how it happened.”
Vaughn shifted in his seat. “Was there an explosion, Mr. Strickland?”
“No, not exactly. Maria was in the boiler room, checking out a gas leak. While she was in there, the boiler blew.” He shuddered. “I’m afraid Maria didn’t have a chance.” Closing his eyes against the memory, he shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with regret. “She was basically steamed to death, Ms. Campbell. Which is why I have to believe it was an accident. Only a soulless being would do something like that.”
“Were you here that day, Mr. Strickland?” Allison asked.
Strickland nodded. “I was in an employee meeting when it happened.”
“Did you see anyone here who shouldn’t have been here?”
“The alarms sounded, it was chaos.” Beady eyes bounced between Allison and Vaughn. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you if anyone out of the ordinary was here that day. Too crazy.”
“How about the family? Dom or Alex?”
“They’re usually at the corporate offices.”
“So you didn’t see them here that day?”
“Not that I recall.”
Allison turned to Vaughn. “So no family, other than Maria.”
“And Simone.”
“Simone? Does she work here?”
Strickland gave a short, raspy snort. “Oh no, of course not!”
“Then why was she here?”
Strickland shrugged. He tried to look nonchalant, but red cheeks gave him away. “To see me, I guess. Sometimes she visits. Just to say hello.”
Hammond’s Coffee Shop was tucked between a used bookstore and a high-end clothing boutique. The interior was dominated by a large wooden bar with a cash register at one end. Tables sat too close together in the back, next to the bathroom. Allison ordered two coffees and she and Vaughn took a seat against the wall, waiting for Razinski. Next to them, four women chatted about kids, wine, men. Two dark-haired, one blonde and one curly-haired brunette, all forty-something, seemingly happy to be together. Allison tried not to listen to their conversation, but in the tight space, she couldn’t help overhearing. It was a lot of talk about nothing, and Allison felt a stab of envy.
She wanted to curl up with Jason and talk a lot about nothing. Not kidnapping, murder, shady business dealings, explosions, just...nothing. But until they could put this one behind them, that wasn’t to be. And now that Jason was angry with her, she was afraid it was never to be. So Allison sat, listened, and waited, trying desperately to shove aside her growing anxiety.
Razinski finally showed up fifteen minutes late looking like he’d just swallowed rancid milk. “What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” He pulled up a chair, turned it backwards, and without ceremony, plopped down on the empty side of the table. “Talking to the family, traipsing around on private property, asking questions of infirm old men?” Seeing Allison’s surprise, he said, “Yeah, that’s right, I know about all of it.”
Not all of it, Allison thought. She met Razinski’s gaze, at the same time placing a calming hand on V
aughn’s knee. “Francesca is my client. Last I checked, I wasn’t doing anything illegal by asking questions. And as for the Benini estate, we had permission to be there.”
“You’re interfering with a police investigation.”
Allison worked hard at not rolling her eyes. “Funny, when we last spoke, you weren’t actively investigating Francesca’s disappearance because there were no—and I quote—‘suspicious circumstances.’”
Razinski looked down at his hands. Allison saw fingernails chewed to the quick, peeling cuticles. Something had Razinski on edge, something other than a disappearance lacking any hint of suspicious circumstances.
Vaughn said, “Perhaps something’s changed, Detective?”
“Look, you two,” Razinski sighed, running a hand through razor-short hair, “I’m doing you a favor, believe me. Go home. Leave this to the professionals.”
“What about Maria?” Allison said.
“What about her?”
“She’s dead. You don’t think it’s odd that she died shortly after that call to me?”
“Local police think it was an accident.”
“Bullshit,” Vaughn said.
Razinski held up a hand. “Don’t start looking for conspiracies, Mr. Vaughn. The facts are pretty simple. Paolo Benini had a stroke, became incapable of running the family business. In the midst of the stress, the family loonies came out of the closet. Francesca, Maria. And now I’m dealing with that mother, Simone. Who the hell knows, or cares, what the family dynamics are? We checked out the cabin your Maria claimed—”
“She wasn’t our Maria,” Vaughn said.
Razinski ignored him. “The locals checked out that cabin on the property. Nothing. No sign of anyone held captive, now or in the past.”
Allison thought of the reference to “Gina” scribbled in that bathroom. She considered mentioning it, but one look at Razinski’s face, at his obvious determination to make this series of events into nothing more than a string of coincidences, and she decided to keep mum.
