The Payback Game

by Nathan Gottlieb

  After a few minutes had passed, Galvani also backed out of the driveway and headed back south.

  “Now what?” Hannah said.

  “We follow Galvani,” Boff replied. “He might make another stop up here, though I doubt it. He’s either going to the garage in Brooklyn to drop off the SUV or, more likely, straight to the Hells Angels’ club to make his delivery.” He turned to Wallachi. “Pete, keep a considerable distance behind them. When we reach the thruway, you can close the gap.”

  Cullen tapped on Boff’s shoulder. “What do you think was in those bags?” he asked.

  “Well, I can tell you what wasn’t. Heroin, cocaine, or guns. Which as I said before, the Hells Angels can get in New York without this kind of fuss.”

  “Then what was in the bags?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  Hannah nodded out on the way back. As her head settled onto Cullen’s shoulder, he let her sleep. Manny took a snooze, too. Three quarters of the way back to New York, Galvani stopped for gas. So did Wallachi. Then they continued south toward New York.

  “Well,” Boff said a few miles down the road, “this confirms our theory about why the Hells Angels need cops. Obviously, the Canadians smuggled in some kind of contraband. If Galvani gets stopped by a trooper, he flashes his badge, and the SUV doesn’t get searched.”

  Hannah was wide awake again and still curious. “Why are you so sure they’re going to the Hells Angels’ club?”

  “How else would they get the stuff to the Angels?”

  “Same way as before,” she replied. “Give them to that biker in Bushwick to drive in.”

  Boff shook his head. “Those big duffels are much too big for the side bags on Green’s Harley.”

  “So maybe,” Cullen suggested, “Galvani will put the smuggled stuff into smaller bags. Like he did before.”

  “I highly doubt it,” Boff replied.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Judging by the size of those three bags he took from the Canadians, he’d need at least eight smaller bags. That would mean the biker would have to make at least four trips into Manhattan hauling contraband. That’s an unnecessary risk. Not to mention a colossal waste of time. That’s why I believe Galvani is going straight to the club to make the drop himself.”

  Wallachi said, “The fact that Galvani gave the Canadians the black bag he got from the Hells Angels pretty much says this was a biker operation.”

  “I agree,” Boff said.

  Just as Boff had predicted, Galvani drove into Manhattan, where he eventually turned onto East 3rd Street and parked in front of the Hells Angels’ club in a space reserved for the gang’s bikes. Wallachi stopped up the street near 2nd Avenue, as he had last time.

  Galvani and Laterza stayed in the SUV until two Hells Angels came out the club’s front door. One of them was Galvani’s friend from Bushwick, Ted Green. The cop stepped out of the SUV alone, walked over to Green, and gave him a quick hug.

  “Get shots of this,” Boff said to Manny.

  Seconds later, six more Angels walked out of the club and followed Galvani to the rear of his SUV. The cop looked up and down the street first before he used his tool to open the false bottom. Two at a time, the bikers hauled the bags out and took them inside the club, after which Galvani closed the compartment, stood up, and glanced around again.

  The whole operation had taken less than a minute.

  Boff nodded. “This was a well planned op.”

  As they watched, Galvani spoke to Green for a couple minutes, then stepped back into his SUV and drove toward 1st Avenue.

  “Back to Brooklyn,” Boff said.

  “Frank,” Wallachi said, “I wish we knew what was in those bags.”

  “I know someone who might be able to help us get a handle on that.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend of mine.” He said nothing more.

  Galvani returned to the parking garage and drove inside. About ten minutes later, he and Laterza came back out in the Beamer. Laterza drove to Crown Heights, let Galvani off in front of his apartment building, then took off.

  Chapter 34

  The next morning, Boff’s information broker, Billy Wright, called to tell him he had a dossier prepared on Bassett and a financial workup for Doyle. Knowing Wright liked sweets and junk food as much as he did, Boff stopped along the way to pick up a box of Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Wright was talking to a customer at the counter in his shop when Boff walked in. After the customer left, Wright put the CLOSED sign on his door, then led Boff to the backroom, where Boff set the donut box down on a table next to a Krupp coffee maker. Then he grabbed a bag of Wright’s pricey Weaver’s coffee and a filter and started brewing a fresh pot.

  “I’m curious, Frank. Why the interest in Bassett?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  When the coffee started dripping, Boff took two Bavarian Kreme donuts out of the box, handed one to his ex-DEA partner, and sat down on a chair with his own.

  “But after what you saw in Massena,” Wright said, “you basically had the case cracked. Maloney was killed because he was some kind of threat to the biker operation. Doyle got whacked because he was looking into the cop’s murder. So, again, why Bassett?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Boff replied, licking cream off his forefinger. “Maybe it’s just that something about him keeps nagging at me. I didn’t buy his excuse for not having the gym built in time. It just doesn’t ring true for me. And it’s certainly possible that Doyle may have been getting ready to fire Bassett when he was killed.”

  Wright made a face. “You don’t actually think Bassett killed Doyle just to save his job, do you? That’s a bit of a stretch.”

  “Probably is, Billy. Just hang with me a bit on this idea, okay?”

  “Okay. You’re the boss.”

  Wright slid off his chair, filled two mugs with coffee, handed one to Boff, and sat back down.

  “I know this Bassett thing may be farfetched,” Boff said, “and it’ll probably amount to nothing. But it still feels like an itch that needs to be scratched. The bottom line here is there’s no harm in checking him out. Anyway, tell me what you found out about the guy.”

  Wright swiveled his chair around to face the screen, typed a minute, then studied what was on his screen before he turned back around. “I hacked into the non-profit’s computer and got Bassett’s Social Security. Based on what I found, Bassett appeared to have been having money problems, at least for awhile. But then, just like that—” Wright snapped his fingers “—his problems got solved. Over the past few months.”

  “What kind of financial problems are you talking about?”

  “Well, first, you gotta keep in mind that Bassett was making a shitload of money with his venture capital firm before it imploded. And like a lot of guys with big bucks, he wasn’t shy about spending his money.”

  “On what?”

  “Three years before his company crashed and burned, Bassett bought a condo in a fifty-four story, luxury high-rise called Sky House on East 29th Street. Two bedrooms, two baths, about eleven hundred square feet on the fortieth floor. With a magnificent view.”

  “Costing…?”

  “I spoke to a realtor familiar with the building. He said in the neighborhood of a million and a half.”

  “That’s a hefty nut to bear.”

  “There’s more. A year later he bought a two-bedroom condo/townhouse in Hampton Bays, a half block from the beach on Shinnecock Bay. Couldn’t get an exact fix on the price, but the average cost for a townhouse like that in Hampton Bays is around three hundred and fifty thousand. Basically, this guy was mortgaged up the kazoo.”

  “When his business collapsed, did he lose either of the homes?”

  Wright shook his head. “No. Although he had to take out second mortgages on both of them. I asked a buddy at a credit agency to check out his plastic. The guy was close to maxed out and was paying only slightly more than the minimum to avoid an interest rate bump.�
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  Boff took another bite of his donut, chased it with coffee, then said, “Did Bassett’s financial situation change when Doyle hired him?”

  “Not at first. I did some research on how much a nonprofit CEO makes in salary. The national average is around a hundred and sixty thousand. This is New York, so we can maybe bump it up another forty grand or so.”

  “Considering the nut he was carrying, that’s not a lot of money.”

  “Right. And here’s where it gets interesting. Like I said before, a few months ago his financial picture suddenly started to brighten. My credit agency guy said Bassett began paying off a lot of the principal on his cards.” Wright paused to take a bite of his donut and then sip some coffee. “So if Bassett was paying off card debt, we can assume he was no longer under the gun with the mortgages. I mean, shit, a guy facing the loss of a home sure as hell doesn’t pay extra to credit card companies.”

  Boff nodded. “Obviously he must’ve come into some money. Did you get a handle on that?”

  Wright shook his head. “I tried, Frank. I tried. But if Bassett had a sudden windfall, I couldn’t find out where it came from.”

  Boff thought a few minutes about what Wright was saying. “Well, one possibility comes to mind,” he finally said. “At the beginning of this year, Doyle organized a charity event to raise money to build a summer camp for the kids he was helping. The event raked in two million. According to Cassidy, Doyle expected to have the camp built in time for this summer. But it wasn’t. And Doyle was pretty upset about that. When I met with Bassett at Cassidy’s hangout, the guy told me that when he realized he wouldn’t be able to get the camp going this summer, he put the bulk of the money in certificates of deposit.”

  Wright nodded. “So…so you’re thinking what if he didn’t place the money in CDs. What if, based on the sudden change to his financial situation—”

  “—he siphoned off a nice chunk of it and put it in his pocket.”

  “Taking your little theory further,” Wright said, “Doyle somehow found out that Bassett was embezzling from the nonprofit and threatened to go to the D.A.”

  “So to stop him from doing that,” Boff concluded, “Bassett had Doyle whacked.”

  At this, Wright shrugged and sipped some coffee. Neither man said anything for a minute. Then the information broker said, “Well, it’s an intriguing theory, Frank. But without proof of embezzlement, that’s all it is. A theory. Digging up concrete proof of embezzlement is beyond my talents. You got any suggestions?”

  “Not just yet. Let’s table that for a moment and turn to Doyle. Let me hear what you found on his financial records.”

  Wright turned around to the computer, typed some more, read what was on the screen, then swiveled back around.

  “Doyle appeared to be a straight arrow when it came to his finances. Paid his taxes on time, did the same with mortgage payments and any other outstanding debts. There was, however, one thing I found a bit off kilter.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Doyle’s records show that he had a personal accountant, presumably to handle all his finances. But a couple weeks before he was killed, Doyle hired a second accountant. A corporate one.”

  This perked up Boff’s interest. “What kind of work does the corporate guy’s firm do?”

  “A variety of things, but the bulk of their business comes from nonprofits.”

  Boff thought about this for a minute. “So the obvious reason for hiring a corporate accountant when he already had a personal one—”

  “—was to have the corporate guy audit the books to see if they were cooked.” Wright spread his hands. “You know, Frank, there are an awful lot of ifs in this theory of yours.”

  “Yes, there are. So at some point, I’m going to want to talk to this second accountant. Did you get his name?”

  “Stuart Hamilton. Works for Plante & Young.” Wright spelled the names and Boff wrote them down.

  “Let’s set the money aside for awhile,” Boff said. “Tell me what you found out about Bassett’s personal life.”

  Wright swiveled back to the computer again, typed again, then took his time studying what came up before turning back to Boff.

  “Bassett grew up in Harlem. Father was a sanitation man. The old man didn’t make enough money to be able to send Bassett to a top college. But Earl must’ve done well in school, because he got a scholarship to Princeton and another full ride to Wharton. After graduating from business school, he worked eight years for an investment banking firm. He apparently made enough money at that firm to start his own venture capital company.”

  “Which you said did well, right?”

  “It certainly appears so.” Wright glanced at his computer screen again. “Well, at least at first. But with a sudden downturn in the economy, Bassett’s company was forced to fold. At that point, the only work he could find was short-term consulting. Until Doyle offered him a full-time gig.”

  “And your conclusion?”

  “Well, except for his sudden windfall, Bassett looks clean and legit. But the same can’t be said for his siblings.”

  “Oh? How many brothers and sisters?”

  “Four brothers. One’s serving life for killing a cop in a bungled bank robbery. A second, Reggie, was a big-time drug dealer in Brooklyn until he got busted. Served about ten years. Got out three years ago.”

  “Did Reggie go back to dealing?”

  Wright shook his head. “Don’t know. Couldn’t get anything on that.”

  “What about the other two brothers?”

  “One is a mob lawyer. Name’s Carmelo. He came close to being disbarred once over alleged jury tampering, but the D.A. couldn’t make it stick. The last brother, Dwayne, is an auto mechanic at a garage in Brownsville.”

  “Spell the mechanic’s first name for me.”

  “D-w-a-y-n-e. This one’s never been arrested, although it appears he was a person of interest in the killing of a gun dealer associated with the Hells Angels.”

  That caught Boff’s attention. “Is Dwayne an Angel?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where’s the shop he works at?”

  Wright checked his computer. “Mike’s Auto Repair. Two-forty-eight Junius Street.”

  Boff wrote the address on his pad. “I’ll check Dwayne out with Wallachi. If he’s a member of the Hells Angels, it’ll be another interesting piece in the Earl Bassett puzzle.”

  At this, Wright shrugged. “Frank, if you ask me, this guy Bassett’s a sidetrack. Even if he was embezzling, the weight of evidence says it was Galvani and/or the Angels that had Doyle killed. You were hired to find the reporter’s killer, not go off on a wild goose chase.”

  Boff finished off the last of his donut without a word, then washed it down with coffee. Then he stood up and said, “What you say is true to an extent. But I’m not about to scratch Bassett off my suspect list. Not just yet.” As he started for the door, he said over his shoulder, “Well, the upside is I’m making good money from Cassidy as this case drags on.”

  “What’s the downside? There’s always one.”

  Boff turned back to Wright. “I might get killed.”

  Chapter 35

  The first thing Boff did after leaving Wright’s shop was to call Detective Damiano. “Close any of your cases yet?” he asked her.

  Only one. Still backlogged. How about you? Making any progress?

  “Quite a bit. We saw Galvani and his crew make a phony raid. He also used that church SUV I told you about to pick up some kind of contraband in upstate New York. It was smuggled in from Canada. He delivered the contraband to the Hells Angels club.”

  Wow! That is progress! Well done, Mr. Boff. Now how do the phony drug raids and the smuggling fit together?

  “I’ll tell you later. In the meantime, could you check with DMV for a Dwayne Bassett?” Boff spelled the full name. “He works in Brownsville, so I’m assuming he either lives there or nearby. I want to know what kind of vehicle he drives.”r />
  I’ll call it in. You wanna hold?

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  Boff took out a pad and pen. After a few minutes, the detective came back on line.

  There were two guys in Brooklyn by that name, but one of them spells it D-u-a-n-e. The other one lives in Brownsville. He drives a Kawasaki Vulcan, license plate number DCG-six-six-two-four.

  “Thanks.”

  Wanting to get a handle on what the contraband might be, Boff drove to midtown Manhattan around noon. Leaving his car in a garage, he walked to the park in front of the New York Public Library on 6th Avenue. There he found one of his former DEA partners, Marty Schlosberg, waiting for him on a bench. The agent was chowing down on a deep-fried hot dog from a nearby vendor’s cart.

  Schlosberg was around Boff’s age, with badly thinning hair that was prematurely gray around the temples. As Boff sat on the bench, Schlosberg handed him a dog like the one he was eating. They didn’t say hello or shake hands, but that didn’t bother Boff. He knew his ex-partner wasn’t a fan of his. None of his former partners were. Except Wright. Taking the hot dog, he noticed that the agent had put on considerable weight since the last time he had seen him.

  “Marty,” he said to open the conversation, “it looks like you put on all the weight you’d taken off.”

  The DEA agent nodded. “Yeah. I couldn’t hack that concentration camp diet my wife had me on, so I quit it. She was pissed at me for awhile. Even threatened to get a divorce. But she got over it in a few weeks.”

  “I expect you received a promotion from our last caper?”

  “I did. Just don’t ask me to thank you. I got an ulcer from all the aggravation you gave me on that case.”

  Boff smiled. “Does that mean you don’t want to work another case with me?”

  Schlosberg shrugged. “If this op can get me another bump in salary grade, I’ll suffer with you again. Whatcha got?”