by David Wind
“That’s bullshit!”
“I’ll be back at six. I need to talk to you.”
I didn’t like the way her voice sounded, but she was smarting from the verbal spanking and being yanked from her team. I also knew that by the time she got back, her emotions would grow into anger, steely genuine Italian fireball anger.
“Call me when you’re close to Penn Station.”
“I will.”
“And get a drink.”
“I did.”
“Get another, pretend I’m there.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Good.” I kept my voice strong. The last thing she needed was for me to sound like I felt sorry for her.
Still under observation from Femalé I said, “Get me the number of the Looker’s Club.”
She left and, a minute later the intercom beeped. “Line one.”
I picked it up and said, “I need to speak with Carlo.”
“Who’s calling?” asked a husky toned woman.
“Tell him it’s Gabe Storm.” The phone clicked onto hold and a sexy—way too sexy—recorded voice started listing all the pleasures that would be available. As she started to name the dancers and spell out their attributes the woman came back on the line.
“He’s in a meeting.”
“Tell him he wants to talk to me right now. Tell him he’s got eyes on him and he wants to talk to me.”
“Mr. Storm-“
“Listen to me carefully, tell him now or tell him I’m coming over. He doesn’t want me there, trust me.”
A moment later Santucchi said, “Storm you’re becoming a pain in the ass. What now?”
“Someone at the club was watching you last night and reported the meeting between you, me and Gina. The shit rolled from here to Washington. You got that?”
His voice came across with a low growl. “Yeah, I got that.”
“Is Joey there with you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe it’s him, maybe not. Watch your back, Santucchi. And when you find out who, before you do anything foolish, tell me. I’ll handle it for you—that, you can depend on.”
“You got that right.” He paused. “And Storm, you stay the fuck away, you dig that!”
Just before he hung up the phone a voice in the background asked what was up. It sounded like Joey the gorilla’s voice: I hoped it would turn out to be him.
I looked up and saw Femalé waiting for an explanation. “I think we just made some progress.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know yet, but its coming. Do me a favor. See if you can find anything more in the things from Scotty’s box.”
“No problem. Chris sent some copies of faxes from Miami PD. I left them on your desk. Anything else?”
“Not right now.”
Chapter 40
Gina stepped off the train and into my arms at six-oh-four. I held her for several seconds before pushing her back to look into her eyes to gauge her anger.
“Tell me while we walk.” Taking her hand, we weaved through the rush hour crowd.
“The call this morning was for me to report to the office ASAP. When I got there, Jim Kennedy sent me to Washington. The Assistant Director wanted to see me, and Jim wanted to know why one of his team was being called in.”
We did a quick side step to avoid a fat man, carrying a wide attaché case and rushing toward us like a loping camel, oblivious of anything in his path. When he passed, she continued. “I told him I had no idea, which I didn’t. I caught the express to DC and made it to the offices by twelve.
We reached the top of the escalator and started toward Eighth Avenue. “Cartweil didn’t mince words. He asked me what I was doing at the Looker’s Club and specifically why I was there with you. I figured it was best to be straight and explain.”
I guided her through the exit. “All?”
“I accompanied you on an interview with a suspect on ‘your’ murder investigation. I explained both you and the victim were close friends of mine.”
“He didn’t like that?”
“He told me friends have no place in Bureau business and I damned well should have known better than to walk into an ongoing investigation and jeopardize it.”
I bit back my retort. She needed to talk this out.
“What really pissed me off was when I asked him what investigation, considering my office was handling all investigations on Santucchi; he gave me one of those ‘who the hell do you think you’re talking back to’ looks. Then he told me I was not privy to everything going on in other divisions and no one authorized me to step out of my area of responsibility. He added that the investigation I blundered into involved more than just the Bureau.”
Gina gave an unladylike snort. Venom laced her next words. “He talked to me like I was a fucking rookie who didn’t have enough brains to be in the bureau. Then the son-of-a-bitch told me he was putting me on a desk!”
A bitter half smile tugged her lips. “I told him what he was doing was unjustified, and he told me he didn’t give a dead rat’s nuts what I thought and I could file a complaint and ask for a hearing—if I was stupid enough. He also inferred if I did, there would be a nice desk waiting somewhere west of Montana. The self-righteous bastard!”
She kept on talking, letting the words spew out, and paid no attention to where we were going as she vented. When we reached Thirty-Ninth Street, I steered her east and then stopped halfway down the block. “In here.”
She cut off her next words and looked at the door. “You’re joking?”
I gave her a lopsided grin and said, “Trust me.”
As soon as we stepped inside, she laughed. “What? You want your ass kicked?”
“Something like that.” I grinned as a man, barely reaching the five foot six mark glided up to us. His sandaled feet made no sound on the polished oak floor.
He stopped and with a polite head bow of his crew cut topped head, said, “Gabriel, so good to see you.” He wore a pale ivory silk robe decorated with flying red dragons.
“Master Ataki.” I dipped my head in return.
“It is good to see you as well, Ms. Torrelli.”
Gina flashed him a smile. “I think Gabe won’t agree in a few minutes.”
Master Ataki nodded. “I would not be surprised. I have prepared the white room. Everything you need is there.”
When we entered the cubicle, which was fifteen by fifteen, Gina turned to me. “Why?”
“I thought you could use a punching bag to work off some of your, ah…hostility.”
“Romantic guy, ain’t ya.” She went to the bench, took off her jacket, the nine-millimeter Berretta, and then the rest of her clothing and put on the white Karate Gi, securing the jacket with the black belt Master Ataki had placed with it. I did the same and a minute later, we were both dressed for what I had in mind.
“You do look good in classic white.”
She smiled and whirled. “The height of fashion indeed…. Okay big-boy, you asked for it.” She did a three-step lunge, changed direction, whirled and did her best to take my head off with flying roundhouse kick.
Ducking, I caught her ankle while she was in mid-air and spun her. She did a horizontal roll in the air, landing catlike on the balls of her feet and the tips of her fingers.
She winked and jumped. From there, everything blurred into a ballet of flashing motion and physical contact. We went at each other, punching, slicing, kicking and maneuvering, each taking hits but deflecting more than got through.
At one point, her right had slid under my block and caught me dead in the sternum, hard enough to knock some wind out, but not enough to put me down. Recovering, I went to the mat, scissored around her, and slipped my foot between her legs. She came down hard, rolled, and made it to her feet at the same time as me.
And we went at it again: all thoughts of the outside world were gone as our concentration narrowed to the small room. Twenty minutes later, covered in sweat and chests heaving, we sto
pped.
She stood still, her hair hung limp against the sides of her head, her breasts pushing against the fabric of the Gi. With her cheeks flush from the heat of our exertions, she smiled. “Jesus, I needed that. Thank you.”
I rubbed the spot on my chest where she had gotten through my defenses. “My pleasure.”
“What else do you have in store for us tonight?”
I winked. Dinner and….”
Her eyes got hungry and she stepped very close. “Let’s skip dinner and go right to what else.”
“Here?”
“Not here. Take me home, tough guy, take me home now!”
<><><>
Home became my place. We got there twenty minutes after leaving Master Ataki’s Dojo. We hadn’t bothered to change; I’d told him I would return the uniforms. We made it through the door… barely. Gina was on fire and I wanted to be burned. The bedroom was too far away, but the living room wasn’t.
The white Gi’s ended up in a pile next to where we’d dumped the clothing. The carpet became our world and the salty taste of her skin was like the kiss of the ocean. With her ferocity guiding us, I plunged into the heat that was Gina and everything else—Scotty’s death, the lost children and the FBI—faded into a never land we created as we moved together in a need as old as time itself.
<><><>
Sitting at the counter, showered and wearing sweats, we ate Chinese food from white porcelain plates and listened to the Beatles. So far, we had managed to avoid further discussion about her trip to Washington; but when the conversation ran thin and while my body was satiated and still carried the warmth of our lovemaking, my mind had shifted gears.
“What do you think happened?”
She set the chopsticks across the plate. “I don’t know. I’ve never faced something like this before, not in the twelve years I’ve been with the Bureau. I can taste how wrong it is.”
“Think it out.” With her anger drained, her analytical mind would begin filling in the blanks.
“There are two possibilities: The first is that there’s a lateral investigation, interagency; the second is the A.D. is dirty. But, no matter what kind of an ass he is, the second one doesn’t fly.”
“If it’s interagency, then they’re pulling strings to make him dance. At his level, the Assistant Director is as much a politico as he is a cop. What agency?”
She gave a graceful shrug. “There are two agencies with that kind of ability to pressure him: Homeland Security and NSA. NSA doesn’t fit—not for a Mafia case.”
“Homeland Security is a political octopus, but why would they be interested in this?”
She couldn’t answer me because she didn’t know the answer any more than I did. “Or, it’s someone who has the power to bring heavy political pressure to bear.”
Her eyes went distant. “Maybe—and you? Is there anything new?”
“A few things.” I explained Female’s discovery of the pattern formed by the abducted girls, and rehashed my talk with Lia Thornton but left out my meeting and arrangement with Arnie Steeplechase.
“I also got the records on Streeter from the Miami PD. He’s got a long sheet from years ago. While it was mostly pimping, there were two arrests for sexual assault and three arrests for statutory rape—no convictions. None of the victims or their families would press charges.
He was brought in three times for suspicion of kidnapping, but nothing stuck. Vice listed him as a suspected predator, and there’s a notation by one of the cops who believed Streeter was involved in trafficking, but they never came up with evidence. Did you call Miami?”
“Yes, on the way to Washington. He said he’d look into it for me.”
Taking her hand in mine, I squeezed it. “What are you going to do?”
Returning my pressure, she said, “I’ll go to the office tomorrow, I’ll sit at the desk, and I’ll pretend to be a good little girl.”
“And?”
“And I’ll start looking for whoever it or they are who did this to me.”
Then the phone rang. I pulled the portable from its base and looked at the caller ID. I glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes shy of nine.
“Why are you still at the office?” I asked Femalé.
“I got lost on the Internet. I found out some good stuff, but that’s not why I’m calling. Carlo Santucchi called, twice. He wants to talk to you.”
I looked at Gina. “When?”
“He gave me a number for you to call.” She rattled off the number and then said, “You can’t believe the stuff on the Internet about sexual predators. It’s scaring the hell out of me.”
“Go home. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay, Boss.”
I hung up and closed my eyes. What would Santucchi want? I punched in his number on the keypad and waited while the phone connected. Santucchi answered with a snarl.
“It’s Storm.”
“We need to talk.”
“Where and when?”
“Now. You name where. Someplace we won’t be listened to.”
I gave him the address of O’Brien’s and told him I’d be there in a half an hour. “Santucchi wants a meet.”
Gina’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“That’s what I’ll find out.”
“With me?”
“Not this time, G girl.”
“Then I guess I’ll go home. Call me after.”
I leaned toward her, cupped the back of her head with my hand, and kissed her deeply. She tasted of spicy Chinese food and softness—she tasted very good.
When the kiss ended, I went into the bedroom, changed into jeans and a pullover shirt, took the Sig Sauer out of the shoulder rig and put it into the belt clip. I was ready to meet Santucchi.
Chapter 41
O’Brien’s was getting busy. The bar was half-full and the tables were doing well. My table was taken, but there were three unoccupied tables off to the side. I commandeered the middle one.
Charlie reached the table fifteen seconds after I sat. “Just you tonight?”
“No. I’m expecting company. Think you and Tim can find me a Scotch?”
“No problem, Gabe.”
“Make it two. One with milk, and I’ll need privacy.”
She winked at me. “No problem, Gabe,” she repeated.
Charlie set the drinks down two minutes later and disappeared.
No one came into O’Brien’s during the next ten minutes, but when my watch said nine twenty-eight, the door opened and Carlo Santucchi entered. I held up my hand and he headed toward me.
Tonight he wore another thousand-dollar suit. This one was blue silk. His shirt was white, and the collar was open, with the tips flipped over the edges of the jacket’s lapels. A slight outline showed against the left side of his jacket. Apparently, Santucchi, like me, favored a shoulder rig, he just needed a better tailor.
Reaching the table, he sat and picked up the scotch and milk and took a deep drink. “Good scotch,” he said when the glass was back on the table.
“You’re welcome. You wanted to talk, yes?”
Santucchi looked around at the dark corners to see who was or wasn’t there. O’Brien’s wasn’t the most comfortable place for him. “How do you know someone is watching me?”
I gave him the short version of Gina’s trip to Washington. “Any ideas?”
“I have ideas.”
“Where’s Joey?”
Santucchi’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I sent him to the club in Bayside. Told him we were coming up short on the bar counts, to watch the action and report back.”
“Are you coming up short?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. You think it’s Joey?”
“It’s possible. He’s got… aspirations.”
A gorilla with aspirations, I liked that. “You think he’s trying to move in on you?”
“Anything’s possible, but he’s too dumb. Storm, I know you find it hard to believe, but I’m almost legitimate
. The clubs are clean and make money.”
“Give it a rest. There’s more and we both know it.”
He laughed. “I don’t think you’re wired, right?” When I nodded, he went on. “I’ll trust that. Look, everybody knows I’m a company man: I do what I do the right way and I’ve never drawn heat from inside. But having someone watching me doesn’t sit well, here.” He punched himself in the stomach with a sideway fist.
“Which means what to me?”
“I don’t like to be used without giving my permission. And I give back when someone gives to me.”
“Fair enough, any ideas about this joint investigation?”
“It’s bullshit. Your girlfriend stepped on someone’s toes by coming with you.”
His words had an interesting ring. “I imagine it’s same someone who shot at me in your club—the same someone who’s warning me off.”
“It could be.”
“You asked for this meeting. I gave you what I had, let’s reciprocate.”
“We will. Joey is connected to the Contes, by blood.”
His admission caught me by surprise. As I’ve said before, I’m not an expert on the various New York crime families, but it’s unusual for the families to cross over territorial lines. “So?”
“He’s a third cousin to Raymond Conte, but there’s bad blood between them so he’s out in the cold, so to speak. Raymond’s father asked Carinoma for a favor. He put him with me, three years ago.”
Sensing where this was leading, I picked up my drink, sipped it and said nothing.
“The call for the room on the second floor went to Joey. I didn’t know until I got there at five. Joey said it was a favor to Albert Conte. He said that’s all he knew.”
More food for thought. Albert Conte was the head of the Conte Family. Things were twisting out of shape. “So who’s the guy who took the shot at me?”
Santucchi spread his hands out. “Like I told you already, I don’t know. What I do know is Joey will be back to the club around two. We close at four, and he always goes to an after-hours dump on Fiftieth off Broadway—Chips.”
