The Path of Silence

by Edita A. Petrick

  Chapter 4

  “I really can’t say, officer. He was with us such a short time. He was about my height, maybe taller and normal weight…” Mr. Ruggiano said and trailed off with a labored frown. It was supposed to show us that he was doing his best to recall but frankly, for him this employee was unmemorable.

  He had a business card that would have drawn a crowd in any Smithsonian art gallery. He was a work of art too—tailor’s, trainer’s, manicurist’s, stylist’s and cobbler’s.

  Ten seconds into the meeting, I realized that I was staring at my annual salary, before taxes. I understood why he didn’t offer to shake hands. I wasn’t wearing gloves and my raw hand might have spoiled the results of his last hot-wax hand treatment.

  Guilford was now on Curtis Street, in Donchester Heights. I thought it was off the beaten motor path. The “domestic” product was missing from its name. It was dropped by popular demand. The dealership had relocated three times since Mr. Twain was issued the business card. Each move was into a bigger and better showroom.

  “Why did you move out of the Jamieson Car Market?” I asked. “It’s a large plaza with a dozen dealerships. Surely teamwork is good for business.”

  Mr. Ruggiano adjusted his gray-striped cravat. He measured me with a superior look and said huffily, “Our products appeal to motoring enthusiasts with refined taste.”

  I smiled. “I guess showcasing exorbitantly priced exotic imports, while surrounded by domestic mediocrity, must have scared away a lot of potential customers.”

  “It was nothing like that,” he bristled. “Our client list is full. Indeed, we have a long waiting list for many of our imports.”

  “I guess those long waiting lists must have annoyed many potential customers sufficiently, to skip next door to the Chevy or the Ford dealer and drive away in a new car,” Ken quipped.

  We didn’t connect with the manager from the start. His appraising look had dismissed us the moment he saw us. We were not customers. He would try to get rid of us quickly. Our presence didn’t enhance his showroom products. We wore jeans and our jackets were department store articles, not tailored apparel.

  He said he didn’t remember Brick-Twain but admitted that he had been hired, as a sales manager, when Guilford was still at the old location. I asked to see Twain’s file. It scared him.

  “I don’t have access to historical personnel files. They were sent to archives, off-site, in storage. Naturally, if the police require such information I’ll make arrangements to retrieve them. However, it will take time.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  His memory awakened. “Twain was a good sales manager, well liked—by everyone,” he said.

  “Who is everyone?” I pressed him.

  “Well, myself, my secretary and our part-time salesman. Twain suggested that we seek a bigger and better location. He had alerted me to the “prestige” factor. Specializing, focusing was the answer—showcasing our product. It’s the right way to leap into the second decade of the century.”

  “So he advised you to drop the domestic product,” I said and looked around. “How many of these imports did Mr. Twain sell in his two months of employ with the dealership?” I asked.

  “Several.”

  “Surely you must have sales records?” I challenged.

  “Only current ones. The historical files are stored in the archives. It would be difficult to search them, time consuming.”

  By now, I wondered whether the Dead Sea Scrolls were not hidden in those dealership archives. Ruggiano certainly didn’t want to search them.

  “So you knew Mr. Twain very well after all,” I probed.

  He flinched. “Well, like I said, officer, he was with us only two months. I mean he was a valuable employee…we discourage socializing on the job.” He found a face-saving loophole. I saw that it had just occurred to him.

  “A great salesman, a brilliant motivator, not a fan of domestic cars, visionary, your height, average weight—and not inclined to stay and see whether his motivating techniques worked,” I summarized, watching his face.

  “In this line of work, officer, the staff turnaround is great. It’s a norm,” he assured me.

  “Do you know where he lived while he worked for Guilford?” Ken asked another dangerous question.

  Ruggiano bowed. “I’m sorry but there is nothing more I can tell you about Mr. Twain.”

  “Did he ever tell you why he was leaving Guilford?”

  “Since we were negotiating to leave the Car Mart location, his decision to leave could have been a result of our pending relocation.”

  I sensed that the dealership’s mobility was a ticklish issue. I decided to see how much it would bother him. “Four years ago, this dealership was located on Pratt Street, correct?”

  “Yes, of course,” he snapped impatiently.

  “Pratt is downtown. That was a good location—for domestic and exotic products. Why move to the Jamieson Car Mart? Your domestic line was secondary to your imports. A car mall like Jamieson, flooded by every possible domestic make and model, would overwhelm, indeed strangle, all your sales of domestic product. Why squeeze into a location where the majority of customers are not in an economic bracket that would allow shopping for the kind of cars you have here?” I swept my hand over the huge glass and granite showroom. It held two Ferraris, one exotic Cheetah, a Porsche, two Maseratis and three Lamborghinis. All were separated by roped-off walkways.

  It was daring to amass several million dollars worth of exotic automobiles on one floor. This was a dealership, not a convention center. It would have security but the showroom was street-accessible. Hell, a brazen thief with a Ram pick-up truck could gun down the pedal and fly right through the glass, to land on top of the classic Lamborghini Diablo GT. It was burnished ochre, with the ubiquitous black spoiler. I had touched it, when I bumped into the brass information post, trying to read its specs and price. The manager was descending the magnificent staircase. In a bullhorn voice, he sternly warned me not to touch the product again.

  Briefly, I wondered what he would say if I told him that I got a Diablo GT2 for my sixteenth birthday, in lacquer cherry red. And when I tested the gift, I drove it through the estate security fence, setting off an alarm in two counties. My father believed I did it on purpose, except he called it ‘a tempest in a teacup.’ My two older brothers believed I did it because I confused the clutch with the gas pedal and our staff believed I did it because I was suicidal. No one would have believed I did it because suddenly I got the most horrendous case of hiccups and started choking so I didn’t bother trying to explain that they were all wrong. No one listened to me anyway. It taught me to listen to myself above all other voices, above all other din.

  “Our lease expired on Pratt. We were considering another location in the first place. Is there anything else?” Ruggiano flashed his hand. It left the air scorched with the imprint of his gold and diamond ring. It also brought me back from uncomfortable place called my past.

  “Did your lease expire at the Jamieson Car Mart as well, or did the rest of the dealers force you out when you dropped the domestic product line?” I asked.

  “Really, officer, what does that have to do—”

  “This is the third location for your dealership in less than two years. It’s magnificent. The business must be brisk. I was just wondering whether the Car Mart dealers were jealous of your success—with high-end imports in a mall that’s almost exclusively populated by domestic product. After all, the last two Guilford locations were progressively bigger and better than the one you had at the Car Mart.”

  “We target a very specialized market,” he said and wrung his hands until his knuckles cracked.

  “In summary, the Guilford Exotic Import dealership is doing extremely well,” Ken nodded.

  “Yes,” the manager said with relief.

  “Finally,” Ken fired.

  Ruggiano’s wrinkle-free face froze in shock. However, immediately his back-up system kicked in�
��a gentleman’s exasperation.

  “Really, officer, I’m not sure what you’re suggesting. I have answered your questions about Mr. Twain. I told you all I know. I cannot help you anymore. I must ask you to leave.”

  Ken said. “Four years ago this dealership was located on Pratt and surviving mostly on sales of the domestic product line. The exotics were there just to tease the eye and draw the customers—to buy the American product. The lease expired. It was a business decision to seek a less expensive rental location, to cut down on the operating costs. You found such a location at the Jamieson Car Mart. That lease didn’t expire. It ran for five years. But just over a year into the lease, the Car Mart is no longer considered a suitable location and—since a five-year lease can only be terminated with heavy penalties—the dealership drops the domestic product line. It then chooses to payout the remainder of the lease, so it can move to a bigger showroom. We’re now standing in the biggest showroom I have ever seen, in any dealership. The success of this highly specialized business must be staggering.”

  “Our products come with a high markup,” Ruggiano declared.

  I saw that if he had a cell phone, he would have dialed 9-1-1 just to interrupt this interrogation.

  Ken nodded at the burnished orange Diablo. “That’s a five hundred thousand dollar car. How much profit is there, built into the price?”

  “Eighty thousand,” I answered.

  Ruggiano’s lids drooped. I feared he was going to faint. I snapped my fingers to interrupt his act then pointed at the sports car. “These imports are not that easy to import. Even Vegas dealership would have difficulties importing one of the classic exotics a month. I doubt you can bring in one every six months. And if you sell one or two of these a year, then indeed you can claim spectacular success. Do you?”

  We left the dealership, so the manager could reflect on that dangerous question, as he lay prone on the polished granite floor.

  “They hired Brick as a sales manager when still at the Car Mart location,” Ken said, when we were already in my Acura. “And two months later, they’re dropping the domestic product, stocking up on exotics and paying off the lease. Brick, the brilliant motivator, is moving on. Guilford is heading into bigger and better digs. I sure would like to hire that kind of lucky charm for my sales manager.”

  “Maybe he was more than a lucky charm.”

  “You don’t believe that he could have turned that dealership around?”

  “He was a messenger, Ken.”

  “A messenger of good tidings?”

  “I was thinking more like of cash influx.”

  “Do you mean that he bankrolled…”

  “He could have brought an offer to bankroll.”

  “From whom?”

  “Someone with a lot of dirty disposable income—cash.”

  “Money laundering?” Ken whistled.

  “That could be the bottom line but I don’t think it’s that simple.”

  “If not, then we’re knee-deep in quicksand and sinking.”

  “Yep.”

  “Why can’t it be that simple? Money laundering is an old problem. Brick was recruited to scout out businesses as potential clients for some cartel or syndicate, domestic or foreign. That would explain his disappearance. He was a set-up man.”

  “He was executed. It’s not that simple.”

  He asked, “What do you think he did for two months at Guilford and why the dealership?”

  “He probably did just as you said, set up a cash flow. Guilford was ripe for that sort of thing. Ruggiano would not be overly bothered by conscience. He had a high-end product. You can launder a lot of money through a business that deals in those kind of price tags.”

  “Then it’s simple,” he insisted.

  It was—and it wasn’t. We could raise a red flag with the State Department. We could pass on a tip to someone in the Bureau of Economic and Business Affairs, about suspected money laundering operation but that would nail shut Brick’s case better than a rivet gun. I felt that Guilford could use a closer scrutiny. If only to confirm that it was as we said. A mediocre business, on the brink of bankruptcy, that went to see stellar success in four years—by adopting unorthodox and risky methods. It had phased out the staple of any car dealership and soared into the sky with sales of cars that an average citizen might see on the street once or twice in a lifetime.

  “Recruitment by sporadic disappearance, coercion, threats and ultimately abduction, is vastly different from the type practiced by syndicates that aim to launder money,” I said. “Normally, such clans go after people who are already on the fringe of penal institution. Not solid citizens, economists with a well-paying job at the IMF and no criminal record.”

  “Meg, do you believe what his fiancé had said?”

  “Not every word of it but if you filter out her prejudices against racial minorities, especially those who run 7-Elevens, the rest is believable. Brick was recruited by force and threats. Ultimately, someone tagged him and shackled him—the pacemaker. Whatever that gadget was, it was planted in his chest to assure obedience.”

  “Control?” he sounded skeptical.

  “More than that, partner. Slavery. I believed Patricia when she said that Brick knew. He had to know what he carried in his chest and couldn’t do anything about it. He disappeared because he wanted to stay alive.”

  “The syndicate must have pulled him in.”

  I sighed. “I don’t think it’s a syndicate, Ken.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because syndicates don’t stick a bomb filled with futuristic toxin into your chest. They will woo you, court you, promise and deliver, the kind of lifestyle that will see you bake on a beach five times a year. If you fall short of their lofty expectations, they would execute you but they’ll do it with a gun, a car or toss you out of the boat in the middle of the ocean. They don’t implant you with a state-of-the-art device that would let you function normally for four years. Hell, I can’t think of anyone who would waste that kind of R&D to execute an economist.”

  “Military?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Military and explosives go hand in hand.”

  “Yes—hand in hand—not buried in the chest, Ken.”

  “Who would be so pioneering as to implant a bomb for control into someone’s chest?”

  “A doctor.”

  He reflected on something then said, “I’ll talk to Brenda, see what the gossip is around Johns Hopkins.”

  “Don’t go into it too deeply,” I warned.

  “What’s the worry?”

  “Brick was executed. That makes me nervous.”

  “He outlived his usefulness.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What if it was an accident?” he suggested.

  It was possible but I felt it wasn’t it. “Patterson thought that Patricia’s rants were just that, empty ramblings, fragmented recollections, products of her afflicted mind. I don’t think so.”

  “Did you notice the patient who stood beside her?”

  “Yes, Ken. She reminded me of Brenda. Forget what Patterson said. People end up in Mongrove for many reasons. Life is tough in general. Patricia said that Brick wanted to run away. Islands. What if Brick, finally, reached the point where he could no longer live in slavery to whoever it was who stuck the bomb into his chest? What if he was at that gas station, running away?”

  “He had spent four years, doing whatever it was they needed him to do. All that time, he knew he was a walking ghost. He wouldn’t dare to go far. What do you think was the radius of that device?”

  “Even if we had known everything as we exited from that 7-Eleven and rushed to search the neighborhood, I don’t think we would have found whoever it was who had set the device off.”

  “Brick could have gone outside of the radius of control,” Ken suggested.

  “It’s possible. He was running. That’s why he was executed.”

  “But why wait four years, Meg?”
r />   “Maybe it took him that long to figure out what was going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He would have tried to get rid of the device. When he realized he couldn’t, he complied, doing what they needed him to do. It saw him live—and enjoy two months of working with Mr. Ruggiano and probably quite a few others. But if it’s an organization, it has to have goals. This is a forceful operation, slavery. Brick must have finally figured out where it was leading. That’s what made him bolt.”

  “Meg, if we’re dealing with an organization, then Brick couldn’t have been their only recruit.”

  I turned to stare at him. “You don’t think—”

  “There would have to be more operatives, recruited the same way.”

  “God Ken, I hope you’re wrong,” I murmured.

  “Organization means structure and hierarchy—both need people to populate it.”

  “If that’s the case, then the device Brick had in his chest was not a prototype.”

  “You’re not suggesting mass production of these?”

  “Some products are mass produced without ever making it to the open market.”

  “I’d like to see you suggest that to Joe,” he murmured. “Hell, just how aggressively do these people need to launder their money?”

  “That’s a good question. Any petty criminal could have served as a messenger and a cash flow set-up man for a place like Guilford. Why send in an economist with a bomb in his chest?”

  “Brick was at Guilford eighteen months ago,” Ken said and waited.

  “Training,” I said. I knew what was running through his mind.

  “For what?” he whispered.

  “Bigger and better things. Those that probably made him run, once he had figured out what it was about.”

  We drove in silence for a long time then Ken asked, “Do they really make an eighty thousand dollars profit on the sale of one those fancy cars?”

  “Yep. Up to twenty percent markup.”

  “You didn’t check this out on the side, did you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how did you know?”

  “I used to own one.”

  He laughed all the way to our office on Fayette, while I chuckled because that’s all I could get out of my tightening throat. I buried my past more than twelve years ago and it still had the power to choke me.