by Stuart Woods
“What notes? Why does he need notes?”
“The lawyer wants to know who told him the guy would be at the party.”
“Oh, shit.”
“That’s a problem.”
“Damn right it’s a problem. No one told him the guy would be there. He picked him up and he followed him there.”
“Why doesn’t he just say that?”
“He already said he was there because the guy was selling drugs at the party. The question is who told him that?”
“What’s the answer?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Okay, what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Has the lawyer left yet?”
“No. I came right out.”
“He’s the guy who asked the question, right? Not the other guy?”
“No. Herb Fisher.”
“Yeah. The pain in the ass. Keep tabs on him. The guy might have an accident.”
“Really?”
“Better him than me. If I can’t straighten this out, it’s going to get ugly.”
The phone bleeped. It was Detective Kelly. “We got troubles.”
“I heard.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Tell the truth.”
“Huh?”
“The guy wants to know who told you the defendant would be at the party?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell him no one did. You were acting on intel drugs were being sold there. You checked it out, and this is the guy who was selling ’em.”
“I like it.”
“I hate it. I want you off the stand. Don’t let him screw you with a follow-up.”
Taperelli walked out to the end of the pier. He looked out across the ocean and took a deep breath of the salt air.
Now for the call he didn’t want to make.
72
SOMEONE WAS GOING to get fired. That was all there was to it. A head was going to roll. Jules Kenworth was at the mayor’s luncheon, but he wasn’t at the mayor’s table. That was completely unacceptable. It was embarrassing. It was demeaning. It was the type of thing that should not happen, could not happen. And there was nothing he could do about it. He could get up and walk out, but that would only underline the situation. Or he could sit there and pray that damn photographer from the Daily News wouldn’t catch him in the background in a shot of the mayor’s table.
Yes, heads were going to roll. Either his own secretary, or the mayor’s damn booking agent, who put him there just to be mean. He could imagine her doing it, too, the vindictive bitch. Just because he’d once groped her in the elevator. The elevator was crowded, and his hand may have been on her leg, but where the hell was he supposed to put it?
His cell phone rang, a welcome interruption that would allow him to gracefully exit. He could take an important call, ignoring the lesser lights at his table. He could see the headline: JULES KENWORTH MOVES MILLIONS AT MAYOR’S LUNCHEON.
He took out the phone and looked at caller ID. Tommy Taperelli. Under normal circumstances, a call from a mob boss was something Jules Kenworth would flaunt. Today it had bad connotations.
He clicked on the phone. “Give me good news.”
“They adjourned for the day.”
Kenworth stood up so fast his chair tipped over. Everyone at his table looked at him. People at the mayor’s table looked at him. The mayor looked at him.
Kenworth made the most of the moment. He covered the phone, smiled to the room in general, and announced, “I’m sorry. I just lost a hundred million dollars. No big deal. Just an annoyance. I’ll take it outside.”
Kenworth pushed out the swinging door into the hallway. “What the hell is going on? Did you talk to the councilman?”
“I did.”
“And he defied you?”
“No, he didn’t.”
Taperelli told Kenworth what had transpired in court.
Kenworth wasn’t impressed. “How the hell did you let this get away from you? I thought you had clout. You can’t even keep your own men in line.”
“The detective panicked. He wasn’t expecting the question.”
“Do I care? I’m not asking you for excuses. I’m asking you for results. If you can’t deliver, I will get someone else. I thought you were the best.”
“I am the best.”
“Then I’d hate to see the worst.”
Kenworth realized he’d gone too far. Taperelli was not just any mob boss. He was special. At least, he thought he was. He’d only take so much abuse before throwing in the towel and walking away.
“Look. I created a scene at my table. Then I apologized, saying I’d just lost a hundred million dollars, and laughed it off as if it were nothing. Well, it isn’t nothing. And when I said it, I didn’t know it was true. If this doesn’t come off, a hundred million is going to look like chickenfeed. I am going to lose a hell of a lot more than that. So tell me, how are we going to fix this?”
“You’ve got the girl. The councilman’s going to vote the way you want. Why the hurry to convict the kid?”
“If the kid isn’t convicted, you gotta hold the girl until the vote. The longer you hold her, the bigger the risk. You hold on to the girl, you’re vulnerable. You put the kid in jail, he’s vulnerable. I want him vulnerable. Put him in jail, release the girl, no one can touch us.”
Kenworth clicked the phone off and went back to lunch, thinking of what bullshit story he should tell them. The bottom line was his cunning and brilliance had averted a hundred-million-dollar loss and turned it into a profit. The details didn’t matter. They wouldn’t understand them anyway. Kenworth was grinning as he pushed his way through the door.
73
HERBIE HAD TO get away. He was being pulled in too many directions. Stone wanted to help him win the case. The councilman wanted him to lose the case. His client wanted to know what was going on. His client’s sister had been kidnapped and he couldn’t tell anyone. And his girlfriend had been killed, apparently by a sneak thief who had nothing to do with any of all that. And James Glick, the guy who got him into it all, had disappeared off the face of the earth, and probably wasn’t coming back.
If he told Dino, even in confidence, Melanie Porter was as good as dead. At least that’s what her father thought, and Herbie wasn’t going to go against his wishes. Not the way his luck had been running. Ever since this case began it had been one disaster after another.
Herbie had to walk and clear his head, get away from the constant questions being thrown at him, so he’d have time to concentrate on his own. He headed for the East River. He’d walk uptown, along the bank, until something came to him. In all probability, he’d walk all the way home.
Herbie didn’t even notice the limo cruising along beside him, not until the doors flew open and Carlo descended on him. It was more than he could take. If he’d had a gun, he’d have pulled it. He was lucky he didn’t.
He was flung into the limo. Mario Payday sat in the backseat, puffing on a big cigar. It was stifling in the car with the windows up and the cloud of smoke, but no one was complaining.
Mario shook his head disapprovingly. “Mr. Fisher. I hardly thought that I’d be seeing you again.”
“What do you want?”
“So rude? That’s uncalled for, Mr. Fisher. I understand you’ve had a hard time, but that does not relieve you of your obligation to me. You owe me ninety thousand dollars, Mr. Fisher, and the last time I checked, you had not paid.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m sorry about your fiancée. A most unfortunate occurrence. Surely the police have come to their senses and realized that was not your fault. Any money you had tied up in bail would be returned. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. When you have a pressing obligation.”
“I can’t deal with this now.”
“Mr. Fisher, you have had several days. Much longer than any of my other clients. Indeed, were it to get around that I am allowing people several days,
it would hurt my reputation. I am Mario Payday. I am not Mario Pay-me-in-a-few-days-when-it’s-convenient.”
“I don’t have the money.”
“You have plenty of money. You won the jackpot in the Lotto. Even you, my reckless friend, have not managed to run through all of it. You have more than enough money left to settle your debts.”
“I can’t touch it.”
“What?”
“I can’t touch the money. I have a conservator. Any expenses must be justified.”
“I find that hard to believe, Mr. Fisher. Why in the world would you allow that?”
“I bought a penthouse apartment on Park Avenue and the condo board didn’t like the rate at which my money was decreasing.”
Mario shrugged. “Condo boards can be difficult.”
“This one is. And I have a problem with my conservator.”
“Why not simply explain the philosophy of Mario Payday?”
“He’s not familiar with it.”
“That’s a shame. It’s something everyone should learn. You’re a lawyer, are you not, Mr. Fisher?”
“I am.”
Mario grimaced, held up his hand. “That’s where your story doesn’t ring true. A lawyer can sell anything. That’s what he does. I can’t believe you can’t come up with a pressing need for ninety thousand dollars that your conservator would go for. Assuming that story is true, and not just the wild concoction of a desperate lawyer.”
Herbie smiled. “Would I lie to you?”
74
MOOKIE, WHO HAD trailed Herbie from the courthouse, watched as his target was hauled into a limo by two large goons. He called Taperelli from across the street. “The lawyer’s in a limo with Mario Payday.”
“Are you sure?”
“I didn’t see Mario, but Carlo and Ollie the Ox walked him in. They’re Mario’s boys, so it’s gotta be him.”
“The lawyer must owe him money.”
“I don’t know how. Guy’s a lawyer, for Christ’s sakes. Maybe it’s something else.”
“No,” Taperelli said, “with Mario Payday it’s always money. That’s interesting. Mario must have killed his girlfriend.”
“What?”
“Mario’s not subtle. Mr. Fisher owes him cash. He didn’t pay. Mario killed his girl and now he’s squeezing him. That’s the way he plays.”
“It’s gotta be a shitload of money.”
“Yes, it does.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Make sure he gets out of the limo and back home intact. Mario’s been known to cut his losses just to make a point.”
“Hard to imagine if the debt’s as big as you think. A guy could retire on just the interest.”
“Just make sure.”
“Hang on. It looks like he’s getting out now.”
The back door of the limo opened and Herbie stepped out, looking grim and determined.
Mookie wondered what he’d been told.
Herbie paid no attention to anyone, just trudged blindly down the street.
“He let him go,” Mookie said. “The guy looks defeated. I think he’s walking home.”
“Make sure.”
“If he goes home, can we leave it at that?”
“If he stays there.”
75
DONNIE WAS DRINKING the good stuff. He could afford it now. He’d never had so much money. And Yvette was dead, so he didn’t have to split it. Not that he’d wanted her dead, but he couldn’t deny the material benefits. He sat in the bar on Sixth Avenue drinking Johnnie Walker Black. He’d already had three, so the quality of the scotch didn’t matter to him. He could have been drinking standard rotgut and it would have tasted the same. But why should he? It was worth it just for the kick he got out of telling the bartender, “Johnnie Walker Black.”
Five thousand in cash. Too bad it was all in hundreds. He’d have to break a bill here, break a bill there. Never enough to raise suspicion, to call attention to himself.
The television over the bar was showing the news. Donnie couldn’t care less about the news. He was waiting for the sports. He finally had enough money to place a few bets, and not the rinky-dink, ten-bucks-to-win, dollar-box bets he usually put on the ponies. He could play a ten-dollar box, put a hundred bucks on the nose. He could throw in a few basketball games to boot. Donnie could imagine that bookie’s eyes bugging out of his head.
That sexy anchor Donnie liked was back with a news story. He wondered whose girlfriend she was to get that cushy job. Nice-looking, but not a great speaking voice. She clearly had other talents.
“The police have a new suspect in the murder of a Park Avenue socialite. What was originally thought to be a lovers’ quarrel is now being deemed a robbery/murder, and a manhunt is on for the suspect.”
A close-up of Donnie’s mug shot filled the screen.
“The fugitive, Donald Dressler, is suspected of killing the decedent, Yvette Walker, when she surprised him in the act of robbing the apartment in which she resided with her fiancé, Herb Fisher, a prominent attorney with Woodman & Weld. According to the police, Mr. Dressler escaped with some priceless jewelry and approximately five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. The police are warning viewers to be on the lookout for a young man of his description attempting to pass hundred-dollar bills.”
Donnie snatched the hundred-dollar bill he’d been planning to use for his drinks off the counter and replaced it with three twenties. He chugged his scotch, keeping his head down, and walked unobtrusively out of the bar.
On the sidewalk his heart was thumping. How had they gotten on to him so fast?
He had to get out of there, and fast. If it were winter, he could pull a ski cap down over his forehead, but it was summer, and he didn’t even have a baseball cap. A beard would be nice, but it would take a while to grow. He needed sunglasses. There was a Ray-Ban store up the street. He could buy a pair there, but he’d have to pay with a hundred-dollar bill.
He had to get out of town. That was just a local news report. No one outside New York City would have seen it. Anywhere else he’d be safe. He couldn’t fly, they’d ask him for ID, but he could buy a train ticket with cash.
Donnie cut over to Seventh Avenue and headed for Penn Station.
76
DETECTIVE BROGAN KNOCKED on the door of the commissioner’s office and walked in. Dino’s secretary had already announced him.
Dino waved him over to the desk. “You got something, Detective?”
“Yes, sir. You wanted everything you could get on Donnie Dressler.”
“You got something new?”
“I got something that isn’t on the rap sheet.”
“Oh?”
“His last two convictions he was suspected of working with an unnamed accomplice. The accomplice wasn’t charged because he didn’t give her up. He didn’t need to give her up because he’d already rolled on somebody else. In one instance, Fred Walsh, in the other, Paul Peretti. In both cases the, quote, co-conspirator, unquote, claimed to barely know Donald Dressler, though each was alleged to be helping to fence stolen goods and caught with some of the contraband. Both said he was reputed to have worked with an attractive young lady who hooked the victims before Dressler ripped them off.”
“I don’t suppose you got a name?”
“They didn’t have a name, and it probably wouldn’t be hers.”
“Description?”
“Young, baby-faced blonde.”
“You speak to these guys?”
“No, just the ADAs in charge.”
“Where are they now?”
“In jail. Which tells you something, huh? Principal walks and they’re in jail. Twice, for Christ’s sakes. For two separate crimes. You’d think they’d be pretty pissed.”
“Talk to them, will you? Get more on Dressler, and more on the girl. Show them a picture of Yvette Walker while you’re at it.”
“You think it’s her?”
“Be nice if something in this damn case
added up.”
77
DETECTIVE BROGAN CALLED Dino from the prison. “I spoke to both of them. They hate Dressler, naturally enough, and would love to see him go down. I had to listen to them saying they’d been framed, which they all say, but I kind of believe them. That Dressler is a nasty son of a bitch.”
“What about the girl?”
“Well, that’s the thing. Fred Walsh was sure Dressler worked with a female accomplice and identified a photo of Yvette Walker as being her.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think it means anything. The guy’s saying whatever he thinks we want to hear. You know, hoping we’ll put in a good word with the parole board.”
“He didn’t pick her out of a lineup?”
“No, that’s my fault. He wasn’t ID’ing a suspect, just the victim. It was only after he did it I began to doubt the identification.”
“What about the other guy?”
“Paul Peretti is another story. He didn’t know much, but he wasn’t trying to sell me anything. He picked the girl out of a row of five pictures, but he didn’t know that much about her. He’d seen him with her once, but that was it. He’d heard the guy worked with a female accomplice, but he didn’t know if that was her. It’s not that helpful, but for what it’s worth, I consider his opinion solid.”
“Thanks, Detective. For what it’s worth, I consider your opinion solid.”
Dino called Stone and told him what he’d just heard.
“So what do you think?” Stone said.
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s conclusive. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He’s delivering a pizza. He calls upstairs, the girl says sure, bring it up. Well, no one ate any pizza, no one ordered any pizza, the damn thing was a prop. Just an empty box with a few crusts. That only makes sense if they were working together. It also explains the knockout drops. She drugged Herbie so her boyfriend could rip the place off.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“We have to tell him.”
“I’d like to have more proof.”
“We’re not going to get it.”
“Probably not,” Stone said. “When do you want to do it?”
