That was just great.
“Just don’t order a thousand donuts, Timmy. Show a little class.” Then I realized he had my credit card number. “Within reason.”
We arranged to meet in his Hackensack office at 5 PM. Next, I called Morgan Jones, the security executive at Tiffany, and filled him in.
“If you like,” I said, “I’ll bring you along.”
He jumped at the chance. It might save his job.
CHAPTER 16 – DEMOLITION DERBY
I could have stayed home, but I wanted Jones to know how involved I was. I was hoping Tiffany would be very grateful. In the end, I even talked Condon into letting him inside the house.
“Have him buy some jewelry,” I said. “That should seal the deal for you guys.”
By 6:30 PM everything was set up. There were half a dozen cars parked near the sting house. I knew they belonged to some of the cops inside. They made sure to leave a spot for the van in the driveway. I was in an unmarked car with a local town cop named Lucarelli at the foot of the cul-de-sac. I didn’t need Rosa to see me. Another unmarked car was parked across from us, with two more town cops. Their job was to block the street in case anything went wrong. Our car was their backup. Condon called in some chips, and most of the cops involved in the bust were drawn from local jurisdictions. They spent an awful lot of time with radio checks. This was a big deal for them, being part of a “task force.”
There was very little traffic on the block. Most of the people who lived there were sitting down to dinner.
At 7:30, a pair of headlights turned onto the street. The cop next to me tensed.
“Relax,” I said, “It’s not the van.”
A blue Audi with a whip antenna drove past us and parked about halfway up the block.
“Nice car,” the cop said. “Must be an older model. The new ones have antennas embedded in their windshields.”
While I was thinking about that, the van turned onto the street and drove up to the house. It was the same van I’d seen at the Staten Island party. I watched as Rosa Casablanca and her two helpers got out. The men went to the back of the van and started unloading. Rosa headed up the walkway. Our radio crackled:
“OK. Here they come. Everybody stay cool until she actually sells something.”
Rosa was just about up to the front door when she stopped. She reached in her pocket and pulled something out and put it to her ear. A cell phone. She listened for a second and then started walking back to the van. She started waving to her helpers, who were just walking up to her.
“What the hell is she doing,” the cop next to me asked.
The blue Audi that had been parked just up the block from us peeled out, leaving rubber, and headed toward Rosa, who was now running away from the house.
“We’ve been blown,” I said.
The Audi stopped just long enough for Rosa to jump in, then it wheeled around and headed back down the street right at us. By now, the two helpers had dropped whatever they were carrying and were sprinting toward the van.
“Whoever was in the Audi must have been monitoring the police radios,” I said. “Block the street!”
It was close, but Lucarelli managed to swing our car out across the road. The Audi swerved to avoid us and jumped the curb, smashing into a car parked in a driveway next to us. The other task force car reacted more slowly, but managed to ram the fleeing van. The quiet suburban street had turned into a demolition derby. Doors in nearby houses started to open. Lucarelli and I jumped out of our car, guns drawn, and approached the Audi. Behind us I heard shouts and commands from the cops who had crashed into the van. I heard a “whoosh” as a fuel tank exploded and could feel the heat on my back.
Rosa came out of the passenger side door of the Audi and began running. The driver opened his door and came out shooting. I heard Lucarelli cry out and he went down. I rolled to the ground and aimed into the middle of the shooter’s body. The light from the blaze behind me was a great help. Five quick shots. He fell to the ground without a sound. I looked back at Lucarelli.
“I’m OK,” he gasped. “Go get the bitch.”
I sprinted past the gunman, who was on his back staring up at nothing, and went after Rosa. She had cut between houses. I might have lost her but some backyard lights, activated by a motion detector, caught her just as she ran into some adjacent woods. Then I just followed the sounds of her cursing as she slammed into a succession of bushes and trees. I found her lying in a heap at the bottom of a small stream holding her foot. Her nose was bleeding and she had several cuts on her cheek.
“I think I broke my fucking ankle,” she cried.
It wasn’t much of a stream, but she was getting soaked.
“Put your weight on your good foot.”
I reached down to pull her out.
“I know you, you prick,” she said, and bit my hand. She wasn’t about to let go, so I slugged her with my gun. Then I dragged her by the collar of her shirt back to the road. Condon and couple of his men met me half way and they cuffed her.
“Well, that went well, didn’t it,” I said.
Rosa spit at me.
“He’ll get you, you mother fucker.”
***
“Radio silence,” I said. “A wonderful thing.”
I was sitting in Condon’s office at 3 A.M. when he walked in after finishing up the last debriefing. After being interviewed by cops from three jurisdictions, I had been banished. I was tired and had a splitting headache from six of the worst cups of coffee ever made.
“I never figured they’d have a lookout,” Condon said. “And the locals believe in keeping in touch with each other. Remember how there was a big shit storm after 9/11 because nobody could talk to each other on different radios. Now every little police force has a state-of-the-art communications system. They can dial up the Space Station. But when push came to shove, they came through. We nabbed everyone.”
“Is that how everyone saw it?”
“Well, the State Police Captain did say it was, and I quote, “a once-in-a-lifetime world-class fuckup.”
“How is Lucarelli?”
“He’s fine. His vest stopped two bullets, although one creased his side.”
“What about the cops who rammed the van.”
“They’re OK. But the two bad guys got singed a bit. They were lying on the ground close to the van when the gas tank went up.”
“Who was the guy I shot.”
“Julio Casablanca. Rosa’s little brother. Hard core gunny. Been in the joint more than out. Nice shooting by the way. He took three in the chest.”
“I fired five times.”
“And two in the throat.”
“Oh.”
No wonder he didn’t make a sound.
“You guys have enough to roll up Rosa’s operation?”
“Yeah. Despite the cock-up, we got stolen goods, resisting arrest, attempted murder of a police officer and half a dozen other felonies. Rosa hasn’t cracked yet, but she will. We picked up her older brother, Cesaro, who we think is the real brains behind the operation.”
“I told the Tiffany people there would be minimum publicity.”
The last glimpse I got of Morgan Jones, he looked shell-shocked.
Condon shrugged.
“Shit happens. You saw the street when we left. Looked like Iwo Jima. No way it’s not on the morning news. But Tiffany is a savvy organization. They’ll know how to spin it. Hell, bottom line, they showed how gutsy they are.”
CHAPTER 17 – COMA
It was almost dawn when I got home, my head still pounding. I called my office and left a message with Abby telling her I was taking the day off.
“Don’t call me unless there is a nuclear attack,” I said.
I knew I was still too caffeinated and wired to sleep in a bed, so I sat in a recliner in my family room and turned on the TV. I found the cable channel devoted to covering deliberations in the United States Senate. The debate I watched was from the previous week, but it did the
trick. I was able to nod off. Then my cell phone buzzed. It was just after 9AM and it was Abby.
“Is it the Russians or the Iranians,” I said, groggily.
‘What?”
“The nuclear attack.”
“It’s worse. I checked your other messages. One was from Father Zapotoski. He said he found out something and wanted to run it by you.”
I was annoyed.
“Damn it Abby!”
“Just listen. I called him back to tell him you’d be in touch later. No answer and for some reason I couldn’t leave a message. So I called the church and they told me he’s in the hospital. Intensive care.” She paused. “Apparent stroke or heart attack.” She emphasized the “apparent.”
***
Father Zapo was at Richmond Memorial Hospital in Dongan Hills. When I got to I.C.U., I still felt, and probably looked, so bad I was afraid they would try to admit me.
Isabella Donner was standing next to a resident who was reading a chart at Father Zapo’s bed. A nurse was adjusting something on one of the machines keeping the old priest going. I nodded at Isabella, who gave me a wan smile. I approached the doctor. His name tag said “Gallo.”
“How is he doing?”
He looked at Isabella.
“Mr. Rhode is a close personal friend,” she said. “You can speak freely.”
“Father Zapotoski has been this way since he was brought in,” Dr. Gallo said. “We don’t expect him to regain consciousness.”
“Has anyone been in to see him?”
“Just his pastor,” the nurse said, “and Miss Donner and some other ladies.”
“From the Rosary and Altar Society,” Isabella explained. “I don’t think he has any living relatives.”
I turned back to the doctor.
“What can you do for him?”
“Palliative care,” the doctor said, “and that’s about it. He’s under a DNR protocol. Even if he wasn’t, at his age I doubt that he could withstand the procedures necessary to reverse the damage.”
“Is he brain dead?”
“No. Far from it. His EEG isn’t too bad. But as long as he’s comatose we don’t really know what’s going on in there.”
“This was kind of sudden, wasn’t it?”
“When you’re 80, things can be very sudden. They tell me he smoked like a chimney and liked his vodka. Something had to give.”
Now I felt guilty about that second vodka I bought him at the Sleepy Hollow Inn. The nurse stepped away. Still, I lowered my voice.
“What about his blood work? Was it normal?”
“I don’t recall seeing anything out of the ordinary, other than protein and chemical anomalies common with stroke victims, lower potassium levels and that sort of thing. And, of course, some of the common medications he was on, typical of men his age. Why do you ask?”
“So, you didn’t do a full tox screen?”
“That wasn’t called for. Again, why do you ask? What do you suspect?”
“I think he may have been poisoned.”
Gallo looked at me and then at Isabella.
“Have you contacted the police?”
“I’m a little short of proof,” I said lamely. “What would it take to get you to look at the blood more closely?”
“That battery of tests is expensive,” Gallo said, somewhat embarrassed. “I’m not sure they would be covered by his insurance. If the police ordered it, that’s one thing. But other than that, I guess in the absence of any family someone in authority at the church would have to give permission.”
I knew it would take a miracle on the order of the loaves and fishes for that to happen.
“Doctor, if there is any chance that someone harmed Father,” Isabella said, “I’m sure you would want to know about it. Mr. Rhode is a detective. I’m sure his instincts can be relied upon. We were both close to Father Zapotoski. I know he would want you to do the tests.”
Gallo lowered his voice.
“Listen. You’re lucky. We have our own lab here. I know the tech guys. No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”
I thanked him and gave him my card.
“I’d appreciate a call if you find anything out, or if there is any change in his condition.”
“I might not be on duty, but I’ll let the nurses know,” he said.
***
Isabella and I left the hospital together. I walked her to her car.
“How did it happen?”
“He collapsed at the 7 AM mass. I only found out because Imogene called to ask me if I could spell her tomorrow if she came to visit.”
“I appreciate the support you gave me upstairs, Bella.”
“I just hope you’re wrong, Alton. Otherwise it’s too horrible to contemplate. I love Our Lady of Solace. I was born in Tottenville. It’s the only church I’ve ever known. To think someone might harm a priest. Well, it’s horrible.”
“Father Zapo called me. He said he had some new information. Do you have any idea what it was?”
“No. All I know is that he was excited about something.”
“I want to get into his room at the rectory. But I’d need a tank to get by Miss Bulger. Will you help me? I hate to ask. You’ve already gone out on a limb.”
“You think it has something to do with his suspicions, don’t you? Just like you don’t think he’s had a stroke, either.”
“Will you help me, Bella?”
“His door is locked. I don’t know where Father’s key is. The hospital may have it. Monsignor and Imogene have spares, but I don’t know how you can get those. Mrs. Phung has one too, of course, but she doesn’t work Tuesdays.”
“Who is Mrs. Phung?”
“She is a combination cook and housekeeper, been there forever. Vietnamese. She may be older than Father Zapo, but nobody knows. Imogene wants to get rid of her because she’s hard of hearing and half blind, and misses more dust then she gets, but the Monsignor has a soft spot for her. He even puts up with her favorite dish, chicken with cashews.” Bella laughed. “Most of the time she forgets to put the cashews in it.”
“Let me worry about getting in the room, Bella. Will you help me?”
She hesitated.
“Yes. I’m due to work from 11:30 AM tomorrow so Imogene can come to the hospital. Monsignor has a Rotary meeting. Come to the rectory at noon. Call me from your car and I’ll let you know if the coast is clear. You will have at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”
***
When I got back to my office, Abby said, “Well?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Me neither.” She paused. “But he is an old man.”
“Yeah.”
“Course, it’s never a good sign when your client croaks.”
“He’s not dead yet. And he’s not really even my client anymore.”
“True. On both counts. But you get my meaning. I’ll get his file out for you.”
I called around to see if anyone else thought Father Zapo’s stroke was too convenient. The general consensus was of Abby’s “shit happens” variety. Cormac Levine, being a friend, managed to bump me up to the District Attorney himself.
“I owe you a lot, Alton, but I’d be wasting a favor on this. An 80-year-old priest in crappy health has a stroke and you want me to exhume the bodies of three men he thinks were murdered, presumably by a serial killer. He has no proof and no suspect. You drew a blank. Don’t think I don’t want to help, but I can’t do the impossible. A judge will laugh me out of court.”
“First off, you don’t owe me a thing, Mike. That’s not how I operate.”
There was a long pause.
“Just bring me something, Alton. Anything. I took some heat for you from two of the widows you spoke to. They wanted to know if you could be charged with harassment. And I’ll take more heat if you need it. But as regards your suspicions, legally I’m at a dead end.”
He was right, of course. All I had to go on was my gut. And Kalugin’s, of course. But I wasn�
�t sure that would carry much weight with a District Attorney. I had to count on Zapotoski’s blood work coming back positive.
Great, I was rooting for a priest being poisoned.
CHAPTER 18 – HOLY BURGLARY
As planned, I met Isabella just after noon the next day and she escorted me to Father Zapo’s room at the rectory. It was down a long hall at the rear of the ground floor. We passed a small library and a kitchen that smelled of cabbage.
Zapo’s door was indeed locked.
“You would think people trusted each other in a rectory,” I said.
“It’s the kids,” Bella said. “It’s a real problem. But how will you get in?”
I opened a small leather case I carried for just such a situation. A moment later, after inserting one of the tools of my trade, I heard a satisfactory click.
“The benefits of a misspent adulthood,” I said as the door swung open.
The priest’s room was larger than I expected, but colorless, furnished in Early American Goodwill. The single bed, neatly made, had a reading lamp clipped awkwardly to one of its metal posts. At the foot of the bed was an old footlocker that I suspected had been Zapotoski’s during his career in the Polish military. A chest of drawers stood next to the wall near the door and there was a night table on the other side of the bed. A beat-up lounger faced a small 19-inch TV on top of a small wicker stand in one corner of the room. If anything matched, it was by accident. There were two windows, between which was a small writing desk with a green-shaded banker’s lamp, pens and an old laptop. There was an open closet filled with clerical garb, as well as some “civilian” clothing: shoes, jackets and pants. The wooden floor was partially covered with two small area rugs, one brown; the other, browner. A door led to a small bathroom with a stall shower.
“It looks like he takes his vow of poverty seriously,” I said. “Where does the Monsignor sleep?”
“His suite is on the second floor,” Bella said. “She emphasized the word ‘suite’.”
We both heard the phone ring at the front desk.
“I’d better get back there,” she said.
SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) Page 10
