The Chessman

by Jeffrey B. Burton

  “No worries, Boss,” the Coordinator had responded. He and St. Nick were friends, even shared season tickets at Soldier Field, but if Fiorella pointed St. Nick his way, well, Nick would feel awfully sorry as he ripped out the Coordinator’s liver. “When have I ever let you down?”

  “Have some fun, see the sights, but no other business besides handling Hartzell. Stay off the radar, too. The last thing I want to do in life is to kiss Moretti’s ring. That fat Long Island fuck will demand half.”

  “I’ll be a light touch,” he told Fiorella. “New York will never know I was there.”

  So the Coordinator found himself in the Big Apple with copious free time on his hands. After his morning touch-base with Hartzell, he hit the tourist spots—the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, a forgettable sprint through the Museum of Modern Art, a tour of the NBC Studio—and then prowling the after-hour spots come nightfall. That’s how he’d bumped into Loni that first week in the city that never sleeps, at a nightclub on 11th called Webster Hall. Sappy as it sounds, and no way would he waste time trying to explain this feeling to St. Nick—lust at first sight, the big man would call it—but their eyes met from across the room as he leaned against the bar and she worked her way slowly toward him, neither one breaking the gaze. Fifteen minutes of loaded chitchat later, they could barely keep their hands off each other. An hour after that they were back in his Ritz-Carlton suite for a marathon humpathon, the first of many, on or against every possible surface the room provided. They’d even momentarily studied the chandeliers, but the Coordinator figured it would never support their weight.

  Loni had the JFK-Heathrow route and had taken to staying with him between flights. He’d flown Gina out one weekend while Loni was in the UK. Alas, the sex had been unsatisfying. He found himself closing his eyes and fantasizing about what he and Loni had done nights earlier. Not a good situation at all since Gina wore his engagement ring and was planning some grandiose pain-in-the-ass seashore nuptials for next summer. Gina was also the daughter of Duilio Fiorella’s cousin, which meant…fuck.

  But it was no use to think about any of that now. The Coordinator couldn’t wait until he and Loni got back to his suite, to see what the stewardess had in store for him this evening. And he longed for the following weekend, because he was booked, first class, on Loni’s flight to London and had been promised that, after the meal had been served and the passengers had settled in for the night, Loni would fetch him and soon after that he would become a proud new member of the mile high club. That rite of passage would help take the sting off of how the Hartzell matter was going to end…and end badly. The bean counters had grudgingly conceded what he already knew: that after all the give and take of the past weeks, Hartzell remained a vastly untapped oil well.

  Fiorella had given him a courtesy heads-up that Hartzell’s concerns regarding Gottlieb and that pesky Kellervick woman were indeed about to be addressed in full. The Coordinator pondered the wisdom of making such brazen moves; he played mental gymnastics, evaluating both pros and cons, but ultimately kept any trepidation to himself. It was ballsy. He did chuckle at the twisted brilliance of Fiorella’s plan and realized again why it was that his mentor ruled Chicago: two parts genius and one part iron fist. Fiorella had even instructed him to play dumb with Hartzell on Gottlieb and that Boston analyst bitch, but to provide a not-so-veiled threat if pressed.

  He had also been instructed to glean any news about the ongoing investigation from that maggot in the New York Attorney General’s Office, but mostly get the lowdown from their trump card at the FBI. In fact, his bureau source had tipped him as to how the real Chessman had been poking about the hornet’s nest, hadn’t been happy at all with their borrowing his greatest hits, had even fucked with that Elaine Kellervick woman’s boss, and had recently killed again, dismembered some poor anonymous schmuck who’d evidently been in the wrong place at the right time…real sicko shit. Serial killers—whattaya gonna do? At least having that motherfucker in play, Fiorella pointed out, would keep the Fibbies marching sideways.

  The Coordinator tossed a couple bills at the cabbie, pressed a fiver into the doorman’s palm after he opened the cab door and sprinted into the lobby, then walked over to the Star Lounge. He saw Loni immediately. Her back was to him; she sat alone at a high top table, sipping her Ketel One Citron and waiting on him. She’d yet to spot him, but he was able to watch her in the wall-length mirror spanning the far end of the hotel’s watering hole. He also caught sight of a few businessmen at a neighboring table sneaking peeks in her general direction. He was a lucky bastard. And what in hell had he been thinking? An eight and a half? On a scale of one to ten, Loni was a goddamned fifteen. Suddenly an errant thought struck the Coordinator. The thought being that he mighy just be head-over-heels for this woman, truly in love with her—he’d never felt this way before, about anyone. It was absolutely terrifying, and he wondered what the fuck he was going to do.

  Shit.

  The Coordinator suddenly back-stepped toward the coat check and pulled out his cell phone. Stouder had called him during the baseball game, right at the moment when the only home run of the game had occurred, with New York sending in two runs. The crowd roared in good cheer as he had brought the cell to his ear.

  “Fuck is it?”

  “What’s all that noise?” Stouder asked. “I can barely hear you.”

  “I’m at the game. Anything up?”

  “The usual daily chatter.” Stouder still spoke with that grating aura of self-righteousness. “You know, it might help if you could specify what it is that you’re after.”

  “Anything. Everything,” the Coordinator said dismissively. “I’ll call you after the game.”

  The Coordinator’s least favorite part of his assignment in the Big Apple was dealing with this Peter Lorre motherfucker. He’d lied to Hartzell that first night; his crew hadn’t just arrived in the city that day. No, that would have been rushed and stupid. He and St. Nick had already been in New York City close to a week getting their ducks in a row. Chief among the ducks was this sad sack of child-abusing shit named Stouder. Fiorella’s web guru—a pimple named Gordy Hoyt—had been cracking into the private e-mail and Internet trafficking of several key staff members in the New York Attorney General’s Office and hit pay dirt with this fucking scumbag. The perv made his skin crawl. The Coordinator wanted to shower after every time he spoke with Stouder. He’d have Loni scrub his back tonight.

  Duilio was going to owe him big time when this venture was over. He knew that the leveraged-against-Stouder boy would be returned safely and, after a short amount of time had passed, Stouder would be wrapped up by Fiorella’s stealthy exterminator as the final loose end of their New York adventure. But he would lobby hard that it should really be St. Nick paying Stouder that last late-night visit, and that it should be drawn out, highly painful, all culminating in one particular organ being torn asunder at the root. Just having to talk to this budding pedophile made the Coordinator queasy. He punched in the number for the cell phone he’d given Stouder.

  “Hello.”

  “So nothing major to report?”

  “Pretty much status quo,” Stouder replied.

  The Coordinator was tempted to hit the red button to end the call and then help Loni finish off her Shining Star, but thought better of it. Another thirty seconds to complete the daily debriefing with the scumslime wouldn’t kill him. “Walk me through it.”

  “The mayor stopped by. We’re all placing bets on who the president is going to name to head the SEC.”

  “Any frontrunners?”

  “Everyone’s got an inkling, but nobody knows for sure.”

  “Other news for me?”

  “The only other news I can think of is that a colleague of mine—Mark Kolar, the Chief of Staff—mentioned some big-shot investor called him to set up a meeting first thing Monday morning. Wouldn’t tell him what it’s about, though.”

  The Coordinator felt the hair on the back of his nec
k begin to prickle. “What’s the motherfucker’s name?”

  “Heavy hitter by the name of Drake Hartzell. You know of him?”

  “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that earlier?!” The Coordinator felt his chest constrict.

  A long pause hung over the conversation.

  “I called at the scheduled time, but you were at the game.”

  He hung up on Stouder, and then hit St. Nick’s phone number on speed dial. He dreaded the phone call he’d have to make after telling Nick to haul ass over to Hartzell’s penthouse condominium. But as much as Fiorella’s predator made him nervous, Fiorella would want him to be there as well. Tonight was going to get fuck ugly and his services would be called upon. Evidently, Hartzell thought it was all bullshit about their having eyes and ears in high places, and it was good that Hartzell had enjoyed the evening at the ballpark because his actions had just hastened his fate a full five days ahead of schedule.

  The Coordinator glanced again at Loni sitting alone in the lounge, then turned and ran toward the lobby exit, where the cabs lined up.

  Chapter 39

  “It’s gone Chernobyl, Agent Cady.”

  “Stop jerking me around, Westlow!” Cady barked back into the phone.

  It was half past eleven, but Cady was wide awake. He’d been sitting there feeling guilty about saying zip, zero, and zilch to either Jund or Preston about the cell phone Westlow had passed him at the John Lennon Memorial. His silence on that transaction cut against both the grain and spirit of any chain of custody protocol the bureau had put to paper since 1908, when Attorney General Charles Bonaparte had created the agency out of his Department of Justice. But so far, following the proper protocol had gotten them zip, zero, and zilch.

  So Cady had sat alone in his Midtown hotel room, in an upright chair, staring at Westlow’s cell on the table in front of him. He knew it was only a matter of time before the phone rang, and Cady had acclimated himself to sitting in the upright ordering cold room service until hell froze over or Westlow’s cell phone buzzed. If anything, Cady was surprised at how soon the Chessman’s call came in.

  “A young woman will die badly if you’re not outside your hotel in one minute.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “I’ll explain everything in the cab,” Westlow replied. “What hotel are you at?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “The clock is ticking.”

  “Holiday Inn Express, Fifth Avenue.”

  “See you in thirty or not at all. If you’re playing phone games with the posse, I’ll drive on past, Agent Cady, and you can play catchup by reading the New York Times headlines tomorrow.”

  Cady was out the door a second later, heading toward the elevator bank. He felt a jolt of apprehension as he jogged past Agent Preston’s room.

  Cady stood curbside, studying the night owl traffic in the city that never sleeps, making himself seen a half block up 45th Street—well away from the hotel’s main entrance. He’d already waved away two empty taxis and shook his head at a third. Cady glanced at his wristwatch, then back to 45th. It had rained lightly an hour earlier and the street shone in the warm moonlight. Cady’s crippled right hand was stuffed in his jacket pocket. The Glock 22 felt heavy in his grip.

  In Cady’s other hand, Westlow’s cell phone began to vibrate.

  “Who were you on the phone with?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. I need you to go right on Fifth and just keep walking.” Westlow clicked off.

  Though it was far too late for shopping, Cady headed toward Fifth Avenue. It had taken several minutes for Westlow to call him back instead of the threatened thirty seconds. Now Westlow had tried to rattle him about being on the phone, trying to ascertain whether Cady was calling in the cavalry. He got the sense that Westlow was improvising on the fly.

  Cady turned onto Fifth and hit the green button as soon as he felt the phone vibrate.

  “Cut left on 44th,” Westlow commanded. “A little hustle, Agent Cady.”

  Cady dodged cars as he jaywalked across Fifth. He crossed 44th and headed toward a single double-parked cab halfway down the street.

  Westlow’s final call was the essence of brevity.

  “Get in the cab.”

  Cady scrutinized the taxi for a second and made eye contact with the driver—a thirty-something man of Middle-Eastern descent stared curiously back at him. Cady opened the back door and slid across the back seat.

  “Is he with you?” the driver asked, looking at the still open door.

  “Yes.” Jake Westlow appeared curbside, right hand on the cab door as he peered inside at the special agent, and then he slipped quietly into the back seat beside Cady and gave the driver a Manhattan address.

  “That a real tattoo?”

  Westlow wore pointy-toed cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a white wifebeater. He sported a red crew cut, a silver barbell piercing in his left eyebrow, and a serpent tattoo slithering up his right forearm, across his bicep, and swerving around his neck.

  “No,” Westlow replied. “But thanks to you, Agent Cady, I look like a groupie for the Village People.”

  Cady held the Glock on his lap, aimed dead center at Westlow’s chest.

  “Let the record show I caught you.”

  “I saw that bulge a mile away. Almost said screw it and left.”

  The two men sat unbuckled in their seats, twisted toward each other, unblinking—boxers in their respective corners, awaiting the bell. Neither inclined to speak, the discomfort between them palpable, thick as putty and threatening to suck the oxygen from the cab. Cady felt like a stubborn child, but he’d burn in hell before he broke the silence.

  “So,” Westlow said finally, “how ya been?”

  “How’ve I been? It’s taking extraordinary willpower not to shoot out your kidneys. That’s how I’ve been.”

  “They’ve got anger management for that.”

  “Cut the shit, Westlow. Why are you and I playing patty-cake?”

  The amusement dropped from Westlow’s features.

  “Fair enough, I owe you an explanation. It’s a given that the best-laid plans tend to get tossed out the window upon implementation because of unknown factors that inevitably crop up. Three years ago I did you great bodily harm. The others deserved everything I meted out in spades, but—.”

  “You killed the Schaeffer kid for throwing a party.”

  “And the booze flowed. And the drugs passed hands. And the sociopaths were unleashed. One could make a case that Dane Schaeffer was the catalyst that set this all in motion. He didn’t die for throwing a party. He died for inviting Marly.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “I could live with a hundred Dane Schaeffers and not lose a wink. But then there’s you—the unknown factor that inevitably cropped up. I ruined your life, Agent Cady. As far as I’m concerned, you were my only victim.”

  “That’s what this is all about?” Cady laughed out loud. “I’m your bullshit charity case? Something to be pitied?”

  “Nothing I’ve done has been out of pity. When Gottlieb was killed and the press dropped hints about the Chessman returning, that kind of caught my eye. I started digging. I started thinking. And you know what I thought, Agent Cady?”

  “What?”

  “That you and I had been granted a mulligan.”

  “A mulligan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck you, Westlow.” Cady was at a loss for words, but that response seemed as good as any and better than most.

  He slid his handgun into his shoulder holster, glanced at the back of the driver’s head, wondering what the cabbie made of anything he may have heard through the partition. Cady then turned and stared out his side window.

  “Tell me about the girl who’s in danger.”

  Chapter 40

  The cab was speeding toward the high rise where the Hartzells lived. Westlow gave Cady a thumbnail sketch of what he knew.


  “So Drake Hartzell’s a scam artist being run out of Chicago—by Duilio Fiorella—and New York—meaning Fedele Moretti—has his people all over Hartzell’s Chicago keeper?”

  “Moretti’s man, Palma, told me they’ve got a security cracker with access to the train and airport databases. Moretti feeds this guy a list of names. If any of these people of interest arrive in New York City, Moretti’s to be notified immediately. That’s how he knew that Rudy Ciolino was in town. Ciolino is Fiorella’s right hand—his protégé. Palma was assigned to trail Ciolino—remember, that’s how I tripped over him. Moretti’s been trying to noodle out what Fiorella’s been up to in his city. The plan was, if they couldn’t piece it together beforehand, they were going to break Ciolino next week and find out what Chicago is up to. Of course, with Palma going dark, Moretti is likely to move that date up.”

  “They kill Gottlieb and throw it on…you…in order to buy Hartzell time to liquidate a billion in assets. But why kill Elaine Kellervick?”

  “Kellervick’s most recent work files included some kind of financial analysis of Hartzell’s firm. She had three separate analyses created in the week before her death, each analysis completed on a different day. This raises flags because Hartzell’s firm is neither a client nor partnered with Koye & Plagans. And Kellervick’s Outlook calendar indicated an upcoming meeting scheduled with Hartzell himself.”

  “They checked with Hartzell about that appointment,” Cady filled in, almost without thinking. “He downplayed it as a touch-base job interview, which, without context, appears benign.” Cady had spent time with Agent Preston reviewing the Kellervick investigation. “You get anything else from the Kellervick files?”

  “I doubt Albert Banning was terribly upfront with you regarding Kellervick’s recent work. Might be considered bad PR or bring about allegations of corporate espionage, maybe even a lawsuit. Anyway, what was odd about Kellervick’s spreadsheets is that they all appeared to track the same numbers; that is, the versions were pretty much identical as far as I could tell. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of the Excel numbers, and Kellervick had no summary page to lay out her findings. It was Swahili. Remember, Gottlieb was set to take the reins at the SEC when he was murdered. From everything I read, the man was going to hit the ground running, taking names and kicking ass. I suspect Gottlieb put the fear of God into Drake Hartzell. And I imagine it was poking around Hartzell’s investment strategies that got Kellervick in the crosshairs.”