Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  Jessi yelled into the phone hysterically, repeating the address several times.

  I’m on to something, he thought. Hell, yes. I’m really on to something.

  16

  “Where’s Peter?” Haverill asked his secretary.

  “I’ve been trying to reach him, sir.”

  “Trying isn’t good enough. I want to see him this minute.”

  Unlike Rappaport, Haverill had a fair idea of who was involved in the cement conspiracy. Following a private afternoon meeting that his Director of Security had requested, Haverill had taken a look at the accounting for the construction of the new wing. Although his own countersignature filled the lowest line on all the canceled checks, Haverill knew damn well he hadn’t received any kickbacks. The only other signature on those checks was that of Peter Knorpp. Knorpp, who drove a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car. Knorpp, with his perfect teeth and designer suits.

  Knorpp.

  A moment later his phone beeped. “I just checked with Security, sir,” said his secretary over the speakerphone’s intercom. “He used his ID card to access the private elevators twenty minutes ago. Mr. Brock, in Dispatch, assumes he’s in one of the model apartments because the computer shows the private elevator still at the top of the shaft, and Mr. Perkins remembers seeing him in the penthouse hallway on the monitors.”

  “Do I have a card to those apartments?”

  “I can get you one.”

  “Do that, would you? Just as quickly as possible. I’ll meet you by the doorway. Oh, and have Jacobs join me as well.”

  Haverill hoped he might have stumbled onto a meeting between Knorpp and whoever else was involved in the cement conspiracy. He wanted a witness to the meeting.

  A few long minutes later, Jacobs joined Haverill at the doorway that led to a hallway and the two model penthouse apartments. The carpets smelled fresh. The air was chilled, the recessed lighting, subtle.

  “After our talk I looked at some figures. I think Peter may be involved,” he told Jacobs. “Your people think he may be up here in one of the models. The models would make a damn clever place for a meeting. He can always use the excuse of showing the apartments—he’s responsible for sales, after all.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Back me up. Isn’t that what it’s called?”

  Jacobs suppressed a smile.

  Haverill led the way down the quiet corridor.

  The first apartment was empty. Jacobs eased the door shut silently and they moved on to the next. Jacobs placed the card in the slot, but Haverill brushed him aside and did the actual opening of the door.

  The two men stepped inside. Haverill leaned against the wall as if acting out a movie role.

  As they crept down the narrow apartment corridor, their shoes brushing the long strands of the white shag rug, both of them indifferent to the bold modern art on either wall, they could hear the soft slap of wet, determined flesh. There was no mistaking that sound. The two men looked at each other. Haverill motioned for Jacobs to stand back as he continued toward the living room.

  Jacobs was only too happy to oblige. Interrupting one of Knorpp’s trysts had no appeal to him.

  Haverill rounded the corner and saw two naked people entangled right on a chair in the middle of the spacious living room. The woman’s long, slender back faced him, its muscles flexing as she rose and lowered herself. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Involved with each other, they didn’t notice Haverill. The woman continued to ride her partner, her pace and efforts increasing. The top of the Knorpp’s blond head could be seen over her shoulder as he suckled her. Haverill heard the spongy slap of excited flesh. The room smelled of her.

  Say something! he told himself, nonplussed. He grew lightheaded, for something in him recognized this woman’s back. It looked like Kate’s back.

  He reached out for support and, in the process, bumped into a lamp, knocking it to the floor. The woman’s head rotated slowly. She glanced over her shoulder.

  Haverill stumbled toward her: his baby girl, Julia.

  She screamed.

  “You bastard!” Haverill thundered at Knorpp. The lovers fell apart as Knorpp stood to deflect the first blow.

  Julia’s face held a horrible, paralyzed expression.

  “My baby,” Haverill gasped as he swung wildly at Knorpp. The younger man blocked the hit with a forearm and delivered a strong right to Haverill’s jaw. Knorpp was not a fighter and gave away a full forty pounds to Haverill, but the right caught Haverill perfectly on the chin. A tiny pop and the big man went down.

  The last thing Haverill saw was his daughter’s flushed and naked body.

  17

  Jacobs greeted Civichek cordially, having already decided on a game plan.

  Civichek took a seat. Jacobs elected to remain in his desk chair. The soft whoosh of air conditioning droned steadily. To both men, the office seemed smaller in silence.

  Jacobs said, “I wanted to talk to you about your people.”

  “Surprise.”

  “We have our own security force here.”

  “That’s part of the problem, from what I hear.”

  “Earlier we had an incident involving one of your people.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Then you can understand my concern. We have a job to do here. Yankee Green isn’t exactly the subways of New York. We have adequate staff and more than adequate equipment to get the job done.”

  “The presence of groups like the Flock deters crime, both large and small. I have the results of several surveys confirming that. My people are here legally.”

  “Nevertheless, you’ve interfered with my operations.”

  “When the Flock is present, there is less vandalism and less serious crime. Anyone is allowed in this place. This place is a city—its own little city, that ain’t so little. Since when can people be kept out of a city based on the color of their neckerchief?”

  “We don’t judge people by neckerchiefs.” Jacobs was reminded of the lawsuit Haverill had told him about. Late yesterday, a young black attorney had filed suit against the Green for one million dollars in damages. Brick had been down to talk about it, since the arrests involved Security.

  “We had the opportunity to nail a pickpocket who’s been working the Green. One of your members interfered and the pickpocket got away. Your people,” Jacobs continued, “are interfering with the performance of my staff. That is a situation I can’t tolerate. And won’t. You’re a maverick, Civichek. You make up your own rules. The idea of society is for everyone to try and work within the same set of rules, not create their own. That’s a dangerous attitude.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Civichek said offhandedly.

  Jacobs said, “I spoke with the police up in Portland. I’d say your performance there was less than satisfactory.”

  “Portland?” Civichek’s brow crushed down over his recessed eyes.

  “If a single member of your organization is found to be carrying a concealed weapon, I won’t hesitate to take action.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t remember Portland? They remembered you just fine.”

  “The police were on us from the moment we arrived. Don’t pay any attention to that knee-jerk liberal.”

  “Until the courts decide differently, this shopping center is private property. You’re in my back yard, Civichek. I can deal with this however I please. I’m going to pull a raid on your people, and if I find a single weapon, I’m going to throw all of you out and keep you out. If there’s one thing you’ve been called by the press of the other cities you’ve visited, it’s a publicity hound. You think about how it would be to have your so-called law enforcers caught violating the law.”

  “Listen, Jacobs, we train our people the way we see fit. Have any weapons charges been filed against us? No. And when we’ve had court problems in the past, we’ve been exonerated. So get off my case.”

  �
��Get off mine. Take your people somewhere else. Your man cost me that pickpocket. I have reports that your people have stirred up trouble with some of the youth groups. That’s not supposed to be the way it works. You’re making my job harder, not easier. The idea is to work together.”

  “We are working together.”

  “I wasn’t even told your people were on the grounds. You call that working together?”

  “Get off my case.”

  “Listen to me, Civichek. From everything I can determine, you are in the Green for two reasons: One is to recruit new patrolmen for the Flock by generating enthusiasm and hitting the media; the second is to generate publicity. I’ll offer some free advice. If you really want some good PR, lead your people down across the tracks, past Washington Avenue, where the rate of violent crimes has tripled in three years—where you can really do some good.”

  The hard-faced young man stood. “We’re here because we heard you had a problem with youth gangs. We’ll leave when that problem has been resolved.”

  “I’m going to come down all over your people. One slipup and every paper and TV station in the Northeast will have it. Think about that.”

  “Likewise.” Civichek pulled the door shut with a bang and signaled his two guards, both of whom were looking at pictures in magazines.

  18

  As the overweight Larry Glascock stepped into the men’s room of the Dela Vista Theater, on Sixth Street, one of Bob Russo’s men jammed the door with his foot. Another of Russo’s men, in the lobby, was ready to warn of anyone approaching.

  Glascock’s triple chin made him look like a fat turkey. The head man of the testing laboratory was nervous and sweated profusely, staining through the underarms of his suit.

  Russo finished washing his hands and then dried them on a paper towel. He walked calmly to one of the stalls and retrieved his jacket where he had hung it. “What was our agreement?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You had a simple job to do. Nothing fancy. And now you go and play like Al Capone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Russo’s face turned crimson. He took the whimpering Glascock by the tie and led him to the front of one of the stalls. When Russo kicked it open, he pointed to an unconscious man sitting fully clothed on the toilet, white floor tiles splattered with blood. “He looked familiar? It took my people less than an hour to find him. He didn’t feel like talking so we used some persuasion. I don’t like having to persuade people. But I’ll persuade you too, if you don’t feel like talking.”

  “I—”

  “You had that Jew beat up. Why? What could you have possibly hoped to gain? That was a costly mistake, Glascock. If I didn’t have a few friends in the right places, I might not have known about it in time. As it is, I may not be able to salvage the situation. You’re breathing like a fat pig. Talk.”

  “He figured out the cement was bad,” choked out Glascock. “He knew we had either misreported our findings or switched cylinders. What the hell was I supposed to do? I knew you wouldn’t do anything. You’re so far removed from all of this no one will ever make the connection. I have my job to protect.”

  “We had an agreement.”

  “He sent a sample to another lab in Connecticut. He told me he did. By tomorrow, Monday at the latest, he would have had the results of those tests.”

  “What the hell did we pay you for?”

  “I—ah… ahh…”

  “What the hell did we pay you for?”

  Noticing the anger in Russo’s eyes, Glascock answered the question. “We okay the cylinder test. We sit on it for about a year, and then we discover that we switched cylinders by accident. The cement is bad.”

  “And who takes the fall?”

  “The guy out at the mall. Knorpp.”

  “And what’s so difficult about that?”

  “Rappaport knew the cement was bad.”

  “You idiot, that was the entire point, wasn’t it? So the timing’s a little off. All you had to do was look alarmed and run a few more tests and discover the cement was bad. What’s so fucking hard about that?”

  “I—ah…. That’s not the way it seemed.”

  “So instead you play Al Capone and hire a couple of thugs to rough the old man up. How much sense did that make? Now look at what you’ve done. Jesus Christ! You’ve got fat for brains, Glascock. Look at you. I pay you ten grand, and you go off and do this. I don’t believe it.”

  “He won’t say a thing to anyone. Mark my words. I had him all cased out, him and his wife…. He won’t let anything happen to his wife.”

  “‘Cased out’? What’s wrong with you? You sound like some slob off the ‘Rockford Files.’ ‘Cased out?’” Russo spun and hissed. “For your fucking information, Rappaport and his wife are under police protection. An investigation is under way. If I can find your hoods in less than an hour, how long will it take the cops? Two hours?

  “Now let me make something clear to you, Glascock. You fucked up. All by yourself. I have two options here: I can have my boys hang you and your henchmen on butcher hooks in some deep freeze in Providence for a few months, or I can suggest you take a leave of absence and disappear for a while. I can offer you the same conditions you evidently offered Rappaport. You have a daughter in college in Kansas—”

  “No, you can’t—”

  Russo grinned. “But I can, Glascock. And I will. No matter what you may be thinking you can get away with, you’re wrong. The police can’t help you. You enter a protection program, I’ll find your daughter. You understand?

  “What you do is head straight to Bradley Field. Don’t use the local airports. You charge your trip on plastic, so there’s a nice clear trail where you went. You fly to Cleveland. Are you getting this, fat man?”

  “Cleveland.”

  “At the Hilton, there will be a package waiting for you. Use the money in that package to fly wherever you want, except Kansas. You stay away for at least two months, living off the cash in that package. Is that clear?”

  “I—”

  “Do you have that? No going home. No going back to the office. No phone calls. You disappear just like that. You understand?”

  “I—ah….” The harsh lighting gave Glascock’s pale face a greenish pallor. He twisted his plump, stubby hands in his handkerchief. “Cleveland,” he said.

  “Right away,” said Russo.

  “I can do that.”

  “Get out of here.”

  The fat man hesitated, looked into the toilet stall at the bloodied man, and then hurried out the door.

  Russo said, “You and Rusty follow him, Tommy. Once he’s on that plane, call our friends and tell them Cleveland, tonight.”

  The man guarding the door nodded.

  Russo straightened his tie in the mirror and then left the bathroom.

  19

  Jacobs had come here only once, nearly a year earlier, and had left upon reading the prices. But, accepting his invitation to dinner, Susan had asked where he had in mind, and this had been the first name to pop into his head. He didn’t know restaurants. He cooked what he called “poor man’s food” at home or else caught some fish and chips at a local diner. The rest of his meals he ate at one of the family restaurants at the Green. But tonight had to be special.

  A few cars lined the side of the street, far fewer than even a year earlier. Jacobs watched the signal lights ahead of him change in succession as he walked slowly around the aging Volvo and opened the door for her. Wind hurled a single sheet of newsprint down an opposing street and out into the intersection. An errant funnel of wind lifted brown dust in its path, like a miniature tornado.

  He wore a tie and tan sports jacket. Susan Lyme wore a pale blue dress with spaghetti straps made of soft cotton that swished gently as she walked. She carried a cream-colored linen jacket. He took her hand and helped her from the car.

  “Doesn’t look very crowded.”

  “It used to be
the talk of the town. I must confess, I haven’t been here in quite some time. I hope the food’s still good.”

  “I’ve never been. I hear it’s delicious. It’s probably that darn mall out of town.” She winked. “It’s ruining everyone’s business.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “So, anyway,” she said, continuing their conversation from the car ride, “I ran those computer searches this afternoon. Much of it was done with a phone modem, using the databases of the newspapers in the various cities, and the modem had a high baud rate so I had to save the information to disk and then print it up. As a result, I haven’t been through all of it. The two stories that intrigued me were the rent-a-car bombing and the killing of the judge. In both cases dynamite was used. I found out that much.”

  They paused by the door, Jacobs listening intently. He opened it for her and followed her into Fontaine’s. The ceilings were low, the atmosphere enhanced by soft lighting and candles on all the tables. A wrought-iron gate separated the raised entrance from the sunken dining room. Well-dressed couples occupied several of the tables. A solo violinist worked his bow through Ravel in the far corner.

  “Stolen?” he said.

  “Nice,” Susan whispered, clutching Jacobs’s arm.

  He seemed uncomfortable with the contact. He gave the maître d’ his name, and the man excused himself and headed over to check with the headwaiter.

  “I was able to download a number of articles on both incidents, but I haven’t had enough time to go over them thoroughly,” she said.

  Moments later they were led through the small dining room, passing curtained private rooms to their right. The maître d’ stopped at the third curtain and held it back.

  “Ladies first.” Jacobs gestured.

  They stepped inside. Two oil paintings, individually lighted, faced each other on the end walls. The remaining wall was muraled with a scene of Rome. The table had a candelabrum, sparkling crystal, and a white linen tablecloth with matching napkins. The maître d’ seated Susan. Jacobs picked up the wine list as he sat down.