“Yes. Okay.” The breathing was audible. “202-555-7447.” With no response from his caller, he quickly added, “and this is his cell phone—202-555-7138.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rollins. We’ll be in touch. Good day.” Niesha hung up, satisfaction in her eyes.
Niesha brewed up some French roast decaf, busying herself with a couple of brief chores while it dripped to perfection. Sitting down, she drafted what she would say to Rudy Conner. Before she did, she wanted to understand the connection between Jack and Rudy. It might come in handy. A quick search through her lineage software drew the necessary data: they were cousins. The blood relation between the Conners—though, for some reason, not including Beck—would historically stand the test of time, a test that the crooked relationship between Conner and Mazzini would invariably not. Honor among thieves was tenuous at best.
Sipping her coffee, she gathered the wisdom of her years to put her best foot forward with this thug. She only had one shot. She had to establish that her bite, and that of the organization she stood for, was indeed dangerous. Just enough to throw him off track, to slow him down. She wrote down a few key words and practiced a delivery. She knew that reading from a script sounded stilted, and too much rehearsing just got in the way of her poise on the fly. Understanding the importance of the call, she closed her eyes, found her breath, and practiced a mediation she knew from Jack Kornfield, one of her favorite Buddhist guides.
She called his home number, the private one. Her preference was to leave a message this time. She was in luck. “This is Rudy. You know what to do.” Beep.
“Rudy Conner. We know who you are and what you do. If you harm one more person, it will be your last. My organization and I promise you. Our track record is lengthy and unblemished. Find another line of work. Now.” She hung up.
Next, she called his cell phone. This time he answered, but she was prepared. “Rudy Benito Conner. There is an important message waiting for you on your private home number. Goodbye.” She had already uncovered his middle name from the lineage database, a name not appearing anywhere else that she saw. Using it here punctuated that she knew a great deal about him, giving him cause to take the threat seriously.
Not wishing to overlook any detail, Niesha put down her thoughts in her notebook. Call Lishan. Advise on findings / Move Lishan to safe location / Exhaust findings in Conner’s and Mazzini’s email / Determine best fit for contacting Mazzini, getting him to turn himself in / Send follow-up threat to Rudy Conner / Heighten security at home / Formulate plan to incarcerate Conner.
38
The afternoon was disappearing. Lishan felt better since her meeting with Niesha. Her auntie’s wisdom never failed Lishan. She’d hoped to hear from her by now, but Lishan knew Niesha wouldn’t waste time and words, so a call wouldn’t take place until she had substantive information and a plan in place.
Before calling her, Lishan decided to check in with Erik. She thought they would have touched base by now. She understood that life had become more complex for her auntie, for her friends.
“Erik, hi. I…” She stopped, hearing sirens in the background.
“Lishan, someone dropped off a cake at the apartment building.” His voice was shaking, barely intelligible. “It was poisoned, just like the cupcakes, I think, since it came in a boulangerie box. Six of the students ate the cake. Oh my God, Lishan.”
Lishan held off breaking down, though it’s what she wanted to do. She knew it wouldn’t help the situation.
“What can I do, Erik? Can I help?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe call the hospital and tell them this is likely what happened to the young girl in your office. Don’t come here just yet, okay? I gotta go. Will you be alright?”
“Yes, I’ll be alright.”
Within the next few minutes, Lishan called the hospital, telling them about the likely relationship with the poisoning—the ricin.
When her phone rang, displaying her auntie’s name, Lishan couldn’t hold it back.
“Auntie, auntie.” The distress in her voice told of a tragedy. “There’s been another poisoning. A cake left at the apartment building…down in the lobby…for the students.” Lishan was sobbing by this time.
Niesha did her best to console her niece but pressed forward. “I called to bring you up to date on my findings. We have to talk. We can’t delay getting Conner arrested. I was just about to go into Friar’s. Meet me here, now. It’s close to you. Take a taxi. Not a Yellow.” Niesha was firm, demanding, in control.
As Lishan approached the restaurant, she saw Niesha pacing out front. They decided it would be best to walk.
“I know you want to go to the hospital,” Niesha said, “but leave the students to the ER. They’ll do everything they need to. They’re good at what they do. Right now, you need to stay out of sight. We need to speed up our plans.”
They walked for perhaps half an hour until Lishan finally felt she could go inside. Niesha was clear that keeping their strength up was vital.
The maître d’ took them to an out-of-the-way table, at Niesha’s request. As they sat down, they both carefully scanned the clientele.
Niesha didn’t ask her niece about the menu options. She just ordered a substantial fondue—the restaurant’s signature item—and two salads.
Niesha was pointed in her pressing to discuss how to get Conner. “Look at this email from Conner to, uh, Conner. Rudy and Jack are cousins. Conner wants Rudy to eliminate Mazzini, and you.” She continued: “Here’s what I’ve done this afternoon after I found this email.” She told Lishan about her calls to Rudy.
“My hope is that Rudy Conner will have second thoughts about going after you, buying us additional time to pull this puzzle together. And, where Mazzini is concerned, if he believes that Jack Conner wants to deep six him, he just might play ball with us. Of course, if he thinks he’ll go to prison, he might clam. But we’ll work on that angle.”
“Where do we go from here?” Lishan was doing all she could to pull it together.
“My next step is to call Mazzini. I saw his phone number on one of Conner’s emails. We need him on our side. It’s like a flowchart. He is either a ‘yes’ and proceeds to help us, or an ‘up yours,’ in which case we get heavy-handed. As far as Rudy is concerned, he may not be too worried about threats—no doubt lived with them all his life. But it could slow him.”
Feeling the pressures of time, they didn’t linger in Friar’s as they normally did.
Niesha suggested they go to a family restaurant she liked well enough. It was large, with enough seating to accommodate sitting in the back, out of the way. Niesha had her notes and the email printouts with her in her bag.
With coffees ordered, Niesha got out her phone.
39
Mazzini was a descendant of Ellis Island Italian immigrants. He grew up in the Bronx—a street kid. Rough and tumble was his means of survival, and he had little compassion for anyone beyond his mother and sister. His father’s cruelties defined Mazzini. At 140 pounds, five foot eleven, in his freshman year at South East High, the skinny kid took a beating from most of the other boys.
But in his senior year, he began to buff out. He was tired of being the underling. It was steak and potatoes, when the family could afford it, and extra hours at the dilapidated school gym. He weighed in at 210 in the middle of his senior year. The day after he graduated, he took his last slap from his father. With one solid uppercut, Mazzini laid the old man out on the floor. An hour later, Mazzini moved out, unsure of his next step. But he knew he wouldn’t be with the father he hated. Where he went didn’t matter.
His line of work bothered him at times. Mazzini was an underground bully, wearing a suit and tie much of the time. It added respectability to how he saw himself. It was a falsehood, but if he didn’t think about it, he could live the lie without his conscience coming to the surface.
Many years ago, his mother gave up trying to set him along a straight path. It wasn’t that Mazzini didn�
��t love or listen to his mother. Anger and a raised fist were all he knew, all he carried with him. His mother’s lessons fell just enough out of reach that murder entered Mazzini’s list of notches. He procured a gun, took out his father, and served the next ten years in the penitentiary near Albany. There he met Jack Conner’s cousin—Johnson. They had an immediate dislike for each other, but a high respect accompanied the dislike. When Mazzini got out, the vice warden recommended him to Jack. That was fifteen years ago.
Jack Conner needed someone to do his back-alley work. Mazzini fit the bill. Mazzini knew, as did Conner, that as an ex-con, Mazzini would be beholden and loyal to Conner. This fit with Conner’s needs, since they included some heavy handling of the ever-increasing list of troublemakers.
In the early stages, Conner’s list included mostly other crooks, and an occasional potential whistle-blower. These Mazzini could readily balance in his skewed values. But ever since the Factory #17 affair, his conscience was taking increased hits. Bullying disadvantaged men and women left an increasingly bitter taste on his palate. If he tried talking Conner into a lighter sentencing of these victims, Conner wouldn’t hear of it.
The ringing phone gave him a start. He answered as always—gruffly. “Mazzini.”
The female voice was clearly no-nonsense. “Mr. Mazzini, listen carefully. I won’t repeat myself. Jack Conner has a contract out on you. Check your email. Our organization has a hollow-point and a headstone, both reserved for you if you harm one more factory girl, one more reporter. This is no idle threat. We know where you live, where you drink your coffee, and each of your previous victims. We want Conner. We’ll be in touch.” The line went blank.
Mazzini sat back, searching his mind for a fit for this voice. Nothing came. He went over to his laptop and checked. The email was there. He had no doubt it would be. His years in the business helped him easily separate the novice from the pro. This woman was a pro. As he read the email the caller had sent, especially the part in Conner’s hand, he became angry, and just a little concerned. It wasn’t a complete surprise to receive a message that Conner had put him on the contract list. He was expendable; of that there was never a question. What bothered him, though, was the ease with which Jack Conner wiped out a human life, especially now that it was his.
This struck a nerve in Mazzini. “I’m no better than Jacko,” he said out loud. He lived alone. No one could hear him. But he could.
Mazzini looked at his mother’s photo in a frame on the end table. Sometimes it was hard for him to look at her; he was always deceiving her into thinking he sold insurance. Not a complete lie, he thought to himself.
He put together that if Conner wanted him rubbed out, Conner had to have seen him as a liability, of no further value. Knowing that his life could end soon seemed such a waste. What had he contributed?
Before he could berate himself any further, there was a loud knock at the front door. Mazzini stiffened, reaching for the .38 he had in his briefcase. He had few unannounced visitors. And with today’s news, his next might just be the makings of a painful day.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. No voice called his name. He could hear the doorknob being tried. These were bad signs. No doubt, the would-be intruder knew he was home. Lights at the window. Light under the door. Mazzini eased over to the side of the front door hinges. He would have just one chance, if Conner’s style of thug was any indication.
The pins in the door lock tumbler were falling into place, the lock-picker’s success apparent as the knob twisted all the way. But the deadbolt was more difficult. The intruder couldn’t easily pick it, or at least patience ran out before 225 pounds of body busted open the door like a linebacker. Mazzini responded by kicking the door back into the assailant, hoping to knock him down. But the opponent was sturdier than he had counted on. Mazzini fired one round through the door, not certain of his target’s exact position, but he had to take the offensive. A groan followed by two gunshots from the intruder were all Mazzini heard before the assailant ran off down the hall. He considered looking out the door and taking another shot, but he couldn’t be sure if he might take a bullet in the head. Instead, he closed the door as well as it would shut after the three bullets and splintering took their toll. A few drops of blood, indicative of a hit, though insubstantial, lay within a foot of the doorframe. Mazzini escaped harm, but he was visibly shaken for the first time in many a year. He knew the guy would return; he just didn’t know how soon.
Mazzini sat down, taking deep breaths. Now he knew what his victims felt, whether at the point of a gun or just his heavy threats. All he could hear was his own breathing. No wonder no one in the building made any noise. In this neighborhood, it was best to stay inside.
What now? He wanted to thank the earlier caller—the warning had heightened his vigilance. He recalled taking walks with his mother, her talking about how life could change in a few heartbeats. He could run, face Conner and his hired bodyguard in the style he was accustomed to, or come clean and help put Conner behind bars.
Funny, he thought—thinking about turning the leaf, about putting a crook behind bars. Perhaps it’s time.
Could he trace the email? He was good and had ways. But he didn’t underestimate the woman who had called him. Ballsy, he thought.
As to his immediate dilemma, he knew he had to leave. The would-be killer wouldn’t be far away—injured, but probably not seriously. Mazzini wondered whether there was any comparison between an injured crook and an injured lion when it came to ferocity. He just didn’t want to find out. Picking up the small suitcase he kept packed, he checked the hallway, where he noticed a few footprint tracks with smeared drops of blood.
Better to wipe the tracks so the neighbors don’t get too fed up and call the cops, Mazzini thought. He stepped back inside, grabbed a handful of paper towels, and wiped the hallway as clean as time permitted.
And now? His front door was splintered. He put down the suitcase and fabricated a hole in which the deadbolt could give the appearance of holding. A few minutes later, he left.
Mazzini was no fool. He expected the same of any other above-average thug. Should he use the front door or the rear? His end-result should be the garage, but it didn’t feel safe enough. Too confining. Besides, he would want to check for a bomb before entering or starting his car. He decided on a side entrance, with due caution. A taxi from there to a motel.
From the backseat of a Diamond Cab, he contemplated the life changes he was experiencing. How quickly they appeared. He found comparisons between the images flitting by, as the taxi driver wove the streets, and the more memorable episodes from his life. Something had to change. He now knew what it was.
Secure, or so it seemed, inside Motel Indigo on the outskirts of town, he set his handgun by the nightstand—not on it, in case he had a reputable visitor for some reason. He didn’t want to upset anyone or cause undue interaction with the police. But it would be leaning against the stand.
He just settled in on the bed, TV clicker in hand, when his cell phone triggered. “Damn,” he objected. Should he answer? “Mazzini.”
“Yes, I know.” The female voice of earlier paused, giving her offense time to do its work “Time can be our enemy, if we abuse it. Have you made up your mind?”
Mazzini drew a long, slow breath. “Yes. Before we go further, I need to know who you are.”
“Femme fatale will do. What is your decision? You have only one, you know.”
“Yes. Only one. Forgive me, but I don’t like divulging my life and my plans to a stranger.”
“We can arrange a meeting. You won’t tell me where you are, but you will tell me where we can meet.”
“Pushy, aren’t you? What part…”
“Pushy? You prick. You accuse me of being pushy? You, who threatens single mothers, who kills undeserving men and women who just happen to be speaking up against moral depravity. I should just put a 30-06 between your eyes; save the court’s time and wasted energy.” The caller
was hot and angry.
A few breaths were the only sounds breaking the silence.
“Fuck off.” Mazzini hung up.
“Fucking imbecile,” Niesha said out loud. She had quite a mouth when need be. Her girlfriends knew this. But Niesha had made a pact with herself many years ago to never let Lishan hear her talk this way.
Lishan’s eyes drifted skyward as her aunt cussed. She thought it best to just let it go.
She dialed again. No answer. This time she sent a text. “Do you really want your mother to know what you do? Do you? I know the rest home. Don’t push me, Mazzini. You’ve got ten minutes.”
Niesha had uncovered Mazzini’s family data—not an easy task. She hoped not to play that card, the threat, but he left her no choice.
Six minutes passed before he called back. He knew the caller wouldn’t fall prey to any of his angling. He wouldn’t call her bluff, nor would he delay. His mother’s happiness was where he drew the line, even if it meant his own demise.
“You’re right,” was all that Mazzini could muster. In the past, he would have exploded, but he had begun to feel the person he had become.
In fact, he thought, I’ve become my father.
The change in Mazzini’s voice was apparent. He knew it; it didn’t matter. Lightness enveloped him—the relief, the confession. He heard a familiar click, the sign that his caller was now recording.
“You know I’m recording this.”
“Yes.”
“Have you been Jack Conner’s hired gun for the past fifteen years?”
“Give or take.”
“I need you to be more specific. What did you do for him? Include Factory 17.”
“I bullied for him. If someone got in his way, I took care of it.” Mazzini’s hands began to sweat. He knew this was as good as being in front of a judge and jury. “I killed a few people along the way.”
“What about the P.I.—Beck—in upstate New York?”
Again, a pause as Mazzini took in just how much his caller knew. “Yeah, I was the hit man.”
Silence Her Page 23
