“How much did you pay D2D?”
“First of all, turns out I wasn’t dealing with D2D. Oh, they was here, but it was that swaggering little French fucker Freddy Paradis, who just got shot, who did the deal—with this huge piece of shit who came with him—I guess to impress me.”
“How much?”
“I gave him seventy-five hundred, with a promise to double it if the problem”—he waved his meaty hand in circles—“went away. And it did, so I coughed up the second seventy-five. That was it. End of story.”
“Till the news yesterday.”
“Yeah. I never bin the shiniest penny in the purse, but I didn’t know shit about those killings till yesterday. I had a problem, I paid to have it taken away, and it was end of story.”
“You heard what happened to Pat Mancini?”
“Sure. Look, I liked that kid. I rooted for him as a player, I surely fuckin’ did. But he didn’t know squat about this business, likely never would … Still, I don’t know why he was lit up top a the fuckin’ bridge. You don’t get much higher than that around Dundurn. We sent a huge bouquet to the family. I got nothing against ’em really—Eyeties, I mean. And earlier, wit’ you … shit, Eyetalians ‘n’ Irish got more in common than startin’ with an I. Am I right?”
“Can’t think of what that would be, Mr. McNamara, other than knowing what being occupied by foreign troops is like. Nope. The food, wine, women, art, history, contributions to the world—they all tip in Italy’s favour, I’m afraid.” Vertesi wasn’t smiling, and McNamara studied his face, waiting for some indication of intent. Vertesi didn’t give him one.
“Christ, you’re a cocky fucker. But when you climb down from yer golden chariot, Ben-fuckin’-Hur, maybe you’ll explain Sylvio Berlusconi to me.”
Vertesi smiled at last. “I take your point.”
“If you two have finished with your Old World one-upmanship, we’ve got an investigation to wrap up.” Ryu stood up and buttoned his suit.
“Last question,” Vertesi said. “The biker farm in Cayuga had a long concrete underground tunnel that ran out to the woods. Are we going to find the invoice for that on your books?”
“Wasn’t us. Look, you take the shit you need, boys—I’m not worried. If what you wanted to know about was D2D and the Jokers, I’ve already given it to ya.” McNamara stood up and shook Ryu’s hand. As they walked the beaten indoor-outdoor path to the door, he put his hand on Vertesi’s shoulder and said, “I like ya, kid, honest ta shit I do.” And, in his best Cagney voice, he added, “Good luck wit yer investigation, eh?” They shook hands, and Vertesi and Ryu headed for the front door.
“Elvis is leaving the building,” Ryu said to the receptionist. The SUVs were being loaded and the staff were outside again, watching the show. “Come on, we’re outta here.”
In the car Ryu asked, “So, did you get what you came for?”
“Yes, I did. And I was surprised when he turned around just like that”—Vertesi snapped his fingers—“I actually liked the second version of McNamara.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t get called on his shit every day. It was a bit tense there for a while.”
“Yeah, the old country comes to the new country carrying all that failed shit that made them leave the old country in the first place—and hands it down through the generations.”
“Tell me about it. What was all that Cagney stuff about?” Ryu asked as he drove out of the yard.
“You don’t know James Cagney?”
“No.”
“No, I guess most people these days don’t. Well, in the thirties and forties James Cagney, a cocky little Irish-American actor, played a cocky little Irish gangster. My pop loved to watch those old movies on weekends; it was a great break from always seeing Italians as the thugs and crooks.”
“So McNamara was doing Cagney?”
“Yes, but so can I, and so can my dad.”
Ryu pulled into the detachment parking space they’d left earlier and said, “We’ll keep this team together, do the forensics and hopefully have a report for you within a week.” Vertesi nodded his thanks and got out of the car.
Leaving Waterdown, Vertesi cut south on Plains Road so he could drive over the Sky-High Bridge—he wanted to see where Pat Mancini had died. Both sides were already open, though the damaged lane appeared to be closed for resurfacing.
The sad thing, he thought, was that no one would be able to lay wreaths or leave photographs or trading cards or tear-stained messages where he died. But Vertesi knew he’d never cross the bridge again without thinking about Pat Mancini lighting up the night sky.
45.
LOOKING THROUGH THE sidelight of the interview room, MacNeice saw Roberto Mancini pacing back and forth in his black suit and armband. Williams sat like someone watching a tennis match he wasn’t all that interested in.
“Montile’s silence must be unnerving for Mancini,” Aziz said.
“If we had the time, I’d let it go on for another half-hour—but we don’t. Ready?”
“As ever.”
“We’re not going to have him alone for long. Pat’s father probably has counsel on the way here.”
As MacNeice and Aziz came in, Williams stood up and Roberto stopped pacing. Aziz held the door for Williams. He left without speaking but winked as he passed her. Aziz winked back at him before stepping into the room.
“Have a seat, Mr. Mancini.” MacNeice pulled out a chair and sat down, as did Aziz.
“I’d rather stand.” He began pacing again.
“Mr. Mancini, that wasn’t a request. Sit down now.”
Mancini looked at them, attempting to gather his dignity, then did as he was told. He crossed his arms, but MacNeice noticed that his left leg was moving furiously up and down. He spoke without looking at either of them, his eyes fixed on the fake wood grain of the table. “This is an outrage. I will have legal representation here shortly, and until then I will not say another word.”
“As you wish, but I have a lot to say to you. With me is Detective Inspector Fiza Aziz, who is also a doctor of criminology.”
Mancini looked at her briefly, then returned to his fascination with the table.
“Roberto, I suspect you know why you were brought in today, but you likely don’t know that we’re here to help you.” The man’s foot stopped bouncing for a moment. “Your relationship with your nephew, as we understand it, was very close. You were, of course, of a similar age—what, five years apart?”
Mancini did not respond, just ran a finger along the table’s fake grain.
“I’m sure that Pat’s taking on the role of an executive at Mancini Concrete made his dad happy, but I’m curious to know how you felt about that.”
Roberto withdrew his hand and smiled weakly in MacNeice’s direction. Shifting in his chair, he faced the door as if expecting to see his lawyer appear.
“Aziz googled you earlier, Roberto—you have a beautiful wife and family. You have every reason to be proud of them.”
“I am.” He smiled at Aziz and looked back to the door.
“You see how easy that was, Roberto. I’ll be more specific: we are actually trying to protect you.”
“I am a respected member of the community,” Mancini said. “I don’t require your protection—but you may shortly require your own.”
“If you’d been watching the news as Pat was, you’d know that you and your family are in very real peril.” Mancini crossed his arms but didn’t turn away from the door.
MacNeice was prepared to wait until he responded. After thirty seconds of silence, Mancini shot a look his way—he was clearly waiting to hear what came next.
“Roberto, do you speak Ukrainian?”
The blood ran out of the young man’s face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“I want to assure you that our interest is not in the nights you spent at Pat’s with two Ukrainian dancers but in the price you paid for that pleasure. As a respected member of the community, what you do in the
privacy of someone else’s bedroom is not our concern.”
Mancini’s eyes flooded and tremors shook his body, but he made no sound.
“You see, Pat believed that he could enjoy the carnal delights of these women by simply trading—or inventing—information to serve the purposes of those who were supplying the women.”
Mancini stood up and looked through the sidelight for help, then started pacing again.
“Sit down, please. We won’t be long.”
Roberto loosened his black silk tie and sank into the chair.
“Are you sure you don’t want to say something?” MacNeice asked.
Mancini leaned forward and put both forearms on the table, but he didn’t speak.
“I’ll continue, then. When the Jokers MC entered the picture in Dundurn, the game changed for Damned Two Deuces—stop me if you know all this—”
Mancini stared down at the table again; his shoulders were vibrating because both his feet were bouncing.
“Pat was trading mostly bogus information for sex—he died for it. What were you trading? Your financials and your computer are being seized as we speak, Roberto, and while the specifics may not appear on the books, are you sure there isn’t some correspondence buried deep in the hard drive of your computer?”
Mancini slapped the table and shot a look to the door just as a face MacNeice didn’t recognize appeared. There was a knock and the door opened.
The lawyer was wearing a three-piece grey suit and carrying a thin alligator-skin briefcase, which he laid on the table in front of him. “I’m Jacob Goldman. I’ve been retained to represent Mr. Mancini, and I request that no further questions be asked without my presence and consent. I will instruct my client which questions he will answer—have I made myself clear?”
Aziz and MacNeice stood up and offered their hands. Goldman gave them both a brief handshake and moved to sit down beside his client. “Take your briefcase off the table,” MacNeice said, and remained standing. Goldman looked at him, confused, but seeing that MacNeice was serious, he shook his head and removed the case.
“Shall I review our conversation so far for Mr. Goldman’s benefit, Roberto?” He waited for a response but could see that Mancini’s face was frozen. Again he chose to wait him out.
Goldman looked at his client, then at MacNeice and Aziz. Uncertain what the issue could be, he said, “Yes, Detective Superintendent, please review everything you’ve discussed with my client.”
“No.” One word, spoken softly. When Roberto Mancini looked up at MacNeice, he was weeping, tears dropping onto his pristine white shirt. “Jacob, I don’t need you, not at the moment. I’m sorry for the inconvience—”
“Roberto, don’t be foolish! I don’t know what’s been going on here, but I can assure you, it will cease immediately.”
“No. Please go. I’ll call you.” Roberto didn’t look at his lawyer, letting the tears fall as he focused on MacNeice.
“Detectives, I need a few moments alone with my client, please,” Goldman insisted.
“No, Jacob, I’m telling you to leave.”
“If there has been any coercion in this,” Goldman said, picking up his briefcase, “I can promise you that I’ll sue both of you personally, and the Dundurn police force.” He opened the door, looked back and shook his head again for emphasis before walking away.
Roberto waited for the door to close, then said, “Go on …”
“Before I do, I must tell you that this conversation will be recorded and that I have to question the wisdom of your dismissing counsel.”
“Your question is duly noted,” Mancini said.
“As you wish. Our witness, a member of the Jokers, has given us an idea of what you paid in return for the dancers, but we’d like to hear it from you.”
“Is there any way, any way at all …” Mancini had started to cry in earnest. Aziz retrieved the box of tissues and placed it in front of him. He took several, wiped his face and blew his nose. “My family—do they have to know about this?”
MacNeice said, “We need to know the extent of your involvement, Roberto—all of it—before we can determine what, if anything, can be kept quiet.”
Aziz spoke for the first time. “Judging by the images we saw online, you have a family that would hopefully stand by you … if you were completely honest in your efforts to assist this investigation.”
“May I have some water?”
“Of course.” MacNeice left the room and walked down the hall to the servery, where he filled a large paper cup from the cooler. He was about to return when his phone rang. He lifted it to his ear.
“It’s me, boss. I’m just about to leave for Buffalo. Demetrius is just finishing the Vanucci boxes now. They’ve also downloaded what was on Luigi’s computer.”
“This is perfect, Montile. It means we don’t have to attempt a search and seizure of ABC’s American offices.”
“He told me not to come in a company car, so I went home and got my passport and the Grey Sickness.”
“The Grey Sickness … Oh, your BMW?”
“Yeah, she looks tired but runs like a teenager. How’s it going with Mr. Smoothie?”
“He’s dismissed his counsel; I think he wants to cooperate.”
“That’s the ticket. Good luck, boss—I feel like we’re closing in on something.”
Through the interview room sidelight, MacNeice could see that Roberto’s head was buried in his arms on the table and Aziz’s hand was on his forearm. She was saying something to him. MacNeice waited till she sat back again before opening the door.
“Here you are.”
Mancini took the cup, drank half of it, wiped his face again and dropped the tissues in the wastebasket Aziz had placed beside him. “Pat and I were like brothers, did you know that?” He wasn’t expecting a response and spoke before any could be offered. “We grew up together, we played hockey as kids … I went on to study business and accounting in university. Pat was so much better than I was in sports; it made sense for me to get a career.”
“When did you learn about the girls and the deal he’d made to get them?”
“He invited me over to the penthouse. I thought he wanted to watch a playoff game.”
“And they were already there?”
“Yeah, the first time. I had five nights with them that year. Then we slowed it down, mostly because the economy tanked and we couldn’t invent anything believable to trade with. But once the mayor’s project on the bay got going, we were back in business.”
“What did you tell your wife?” Aziz asked.
“I had—I mean, I have to travel on business. Not the concrete business, but financial clients I have in Winnipeg and Thunder Bay.”
“Did he tell you what the price was that first night?”
“No, he told me after they left. I was still in bed, so the guy who picked them up assumed Pat had had a two-on-one.”
“And when he told you?”
“Well, Pat … He told me the story of Frédéric, the pot and the girls and the Mafia stuff.”
“How did that sound to you?”
“Well, first I was scared shitless. I would have paid for the sex, but Pat was like all gung-ho. I said, ‘Pat, you’re living in a penthouse in Burlington and I’m a fucking accountant in Dundurn. We don’t know squat about the Mafia.’ And he goes, ‘Well, ye-ah, but these frogs don’t know that! They think, Italians and concrete—gotta be the Mafia.’ Then he smiled and said, ‘There’ll be two new girls here next Thursday.’ ”
“When did he introduce you to Frédéric?”
“That Thursday. He was waiting for me at Pat’s. I thought for sure he was going to spot me as a fake, but, I don’t know, maybe it was the language thing … Anyway, I just started telling him about some of the deals we’d done at Mancini Concrete, and he was, like, smiling and shit. Then he shakes my hand and says we have a contract and asks if I want anything to sweeten it, like dope or coke. I said no. A half-hour later the girls arrived with ano
ther biker.”
“How did you provide the information?” Aziz asked.
“Mostly by phone but sometimes by email. Frédéric wanted me to open a Facebook account and use Skype to stay in touch with him.”
“Did you?” Aziz asked.
“No, I told him that I’m not very computer savvy. It was all … too easy.”
“So we know Pat’s father told ABC about McNamara being angry about the exclusive contract they’d given Mancini Concrete.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.” He emptied the water cup and held it gently in both hands.
“Did you tell McNamara that ABC was bringing muscle to the meeting at the quarry?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, to me it was a game, though the reward was real. I told McNamara that ABC was bringing in a private security team from New York and Pat told ABC that McNamara was showing up with a motorcycle gang.”
“And you never considered the consequences?” Aziz asked, somewhat incredulously.
“We knew as much about motorcycle gangs as we did about the Mafia. I think we thought there might be a brawl or a standoff but it wouldn’t come back to us. To Frédéric it looked like a good paying gig, a chance to collect on some of what we owed him.”
“Did you know anything about what happened when Frédéric’s men arrived at ABC-Grimsby?” MacNeice asked.
“No, we just supplied the information and didn’t know what he did with it. Then, when the deputy chief did that press conference, Pat freaked. He called me and asked what the fuck we were going to do.’ ”
“You weren’t frightened or concerned?”
“When I heard that Frédéric and that huge fucker—sorry, Detective”—Aziz waved her hand dismissively—“when I heard that both of them were killed in Cayuga, I thought the worst of it was that we wouldn’t get the girls anymore. And that was okay too, because I wasn’t doing a great job covering it at home …”
“Did Pat tell you about Frédéric’s brother?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know whether he knew anything about Pat and me.”
The Ambitious City Page 30
