“Bullshit.”
“Fine,” Tito said, and hung up.
Gino stared at the phone. The abruptness was just Tito. It was his message that cut deep. Gino had his pride, after all, and it had just taken a direct hit.
Chapter 14
“THAT MUST BE THE MISSUS,” WILLY SAID, slouched in the passenger seat, his eyes at half-mast. They’d been watching the house for five hours already, moving the car from place to place to keep suspicion to a minimum, sometimes parking over half a block away. At the moment, they were situated on a side road that T-boned into Famolare’s street, not quite across from his home. An attractive woman in her mid-forties, solidly built and well tailored, had opened the front door, purse in hand, and was impatiently standing there, apparently waiting for someone who was taking their time.
The explanation appeared moments later. A young woman stepped into view in a short skirt, skintight tank top, and what looked like motorcycle boots. The green of her hair radiated in the sunshine. Despite the cold nip in the air, the girl’s midriff was bare and her light jacket open to better display her wares.
“Man,” Willy added. “I bet things get a little strained in that household.”
The body language between the two women bore him out, as the girl flounced by her mother, uttering some unheard comment, causing the latter to glare at her in speechless irritation before slamming the door.
They crossed the yard to the car in the driveway.
“Follow them or sit tight?” Willy asked.
“Sit,” Joe responded.
The car—a Lexus—backed roughly into the street, its movements reflecting the anger of its driver, and sped away to the west.
Not two minutes later, a second car pulled into the same driveway from the opposite direction.
Willy grunted, surprised. “You know that was going to happen?”
“No clue,” Joe answered, watching carefully.
A man swung out of the car, locking the doors and pocketing the keys. He was dressed in jeans and a work shirt and was carrying an overnight bag.
“That our boy?” Joe asked.
Willy glanced at the rap sheet before him. “Gino Famolare, in the flesh. Guess he just missed them.”
“I don’t think so,” Joe said quietly. “Look.”
They watched as Famolare studied the street down which his wife and daughter had just vanished, apparently checking to make sure they weren’t coming back.
“My bet,” Joe said, “is that he likes a little quiet time after coming off the road. By the bag, he may have been gone a few days.”
“Why not just head for a bar?” Willy asked. “That’s what I used to do.”
Joe laughed softly. “Yeah—that clearly worked for you.”
“Up yours.”
They settled back to wait, expecting nothing much to happen, when—twenty minutes later—the door opened again and Famolare reappeared, wearing slacks, a sports shirt and jacket, and looking freshly showered.
“Oh-oh,” Willy said, straightening up. “The boy is restless and on the prowl.”
“Could be,” Joe agreed, starting the engine.
They followed Famolare’s car onto Bloomfield Avenue heading back toward Newark’s downtown.
“Business meeting?” Joe wondered out loud.
Willy wasn’t wavering. “I could smell the cologne a block away. He’s going to see his squeeze. Maybe she’s downtown ’cause he’s a cheap bastard, or maybe they’re meeting in a hotel because she’s married to Tony Break-Your-Legs or somebody, but it’s a broad. That much I guarantee.”
They went from Bloomfield to Martin Luther King and traveled into the city’s middle, up to the scaffold-clad courthouse with its statue of Lincoln sitting on a bench out front. There they turned left onto Market, driving east.
Willy smiled. “He’s headed for the Neck. I should’ve known. Perfect.”
“Why’s that?”
“Most discreet area in the county. It’s called Down Neck ’cause of how it fits between the Passaic and the harbor, or the Ironbound ’cause it’s surrounded by railroads. Huge Portuguese population.”
“Sounds charming,” Joe commented skeptically.
“Oh, no,” Willy protested. “It’s really great. Good food, good people. They police their own in the Neck. The cops never have to worry. Damned near the safest place I know.”
“Sounds like Chinatown in New York,” Joe said.
Willy shook his head. “Way different. Chinatown, you get the tongs and the gangs—everybody scared to death. The cops don’t go in ’cause they’re afraid they’ll get killed. In the Neck, it’s just peaceful—or else. You kill your wife here, nobody calls the cops until your body’s found in the gutter. No muss, no fuss. Everybody’s happy.”
In fact, having now entered the Neck, Joe noticed the whole mood of the street change. From downtown’s feeling of a clock stopped in an era of black-and-white, Market Street in the Ironbound was almost festive. Banners were hung over the road announcing an upcoming festival, stores and shops were decorated with colorful signs, many written in a language Joe couldn’t read. And the sidewalks were full of people laughing, relaxed, and looking utterly at home.
“There he goes,” Willy said as Famolare took a right down a side street.
Joe followed him, falling farther back in the dramatically thinned traffic. He eventually pulled into a parking spot a few streets down as their quarry stopped opposite a very pleasant two-story wood-sided house.
“Ah.” Willy smirked, enjoying himself. “The advantages of separate bank accounts and a little income on the side.”
Joe was half hoping a fat man in a business suit would appear on the house’s doorstep, but unfortunately, Willy had hit it right on. As Famolare emerged from his car, a beautiful young woman with long dark hair threw open the door and came running down the steps into his arms. They kissed warmly before he draped his arm across her shoulders and escorted her back into the house.
Willy laughed. “What’re we goin’ for, boss? A quickie or some quality time? I say we grab something to eat—like you said, the man’s been on the road for days.”
· · ·
Inside the house, Peggy DeAngelis threw her arms around Gino’s neck, pushing him off balance against the closed door, and kissed him passionately, her hips grinding into his.
“God, I missed you,” she murmured between kisses.
He stayed silent, his hands coasting along the thin fabric of her dress, feeling the heat of her skin radiating beneath it. She wasn’t wearing much—just a pair of thong underwear—and as his fingertips discovered this, his own excitement began building. After receiving the news of the fatal fire in Vermont—an irritating and bothersome complication, not to mention a black mark on his reputation—he had thought of Peggy right off as the perfect antidote. Staking out his own house afterward, he’d thought his wife and kid would never leave for the latter’s weekly session with the shrink.
He pulled away long enough to savor the young woman before him, her eyes shining, her lips moist. He unbuttoned the top of her dress and buried his face between her breasts, breathing in her warmth.
Definitely the cure for a bad day.
· · ·
Jonathon Michael left the farmhouse and got into his car, rolling down the window now that the sun’s effects were taking hold. The nights were still cold, and snow was still piled against the north walls of most buildings, but there was no mistaking the feeling of spring in the air.
Michael’s car, like those of most cops, was as much office as vehicle, so he drove a mile up the road, pulled off under a tree with a view of Lake Champlain in the distance, and started reviewing his notes.
He’d been driving back and forth ever since Joe Gunther’s departure south, chasing an angle he’d thought of only out of despair.
He opened the map that he, Tim Shafer, and Gunther had consulted days ago at the state police barracks. Then, they’d unsuccessfully tried extracting an expla
nation from Joe’s pattern of arsons and farm sales. Now Michael felt he was seeing one slowly coming into focus.
Methodically, he filled in a Post-It note and stuck it to the map, right over the property he’d just left, recently purchased from one of the farmers that Gunther had identified among his land sales. Michael’s motivation had sprung from the primary list of buyers Joe had compiled from town clerk records. What if he hadn’t probed deeply enough? Might not individual interviews with each buyer be more revealing?
In fact, they had been.
· · ·
Wolff Properties—a loaded name for a realty firm, Michael had thought the first time he visited—was located in downtown St. Albans, on the first floor of one of the short, squat, red brick buildings facing the town’s historic Taylor Park, where a small, captured British cannon stood comically on guard, pointing—some thought tellingly—directly at the health food store.
Michael walked by the picture window filled with photographs of listed properties and entered a long, narrow room that ran straight to the back of the building, lined along one wall with a row of four desks, reminiscent of a string of abbreviated docks at a marina, each desk having a dinghy-like chair hanging off its far end for visiting customers.
“May I help you?” asked a woman sitting at the first dock. There was a young man on the phone two stations behind her who barely glanced up at his entrance—not the curiously named and smooth-talking John Samuel Gregory he’d met last time.
“I’d like to see Mr. Wolff, if he’s in.”
“And who should I say is calling?” she asked, getting up.
Michael showed her the badge he had clipped to his belt under his jacket. “My name is Jonathon Michael. He knows me.”
“Oh, my goodness”—she paused—“I hope everything’s all right.”
He gave her a reassuring smile and joked, “You haven’t robbed a bank today, have you?”
She looked startled, as if the question were serious. He quickly eased her concern. “Sorry—old joke.”
She laughed uneasily. “Right. I’ll see about Mr. Wolff.”
She was back in under a minute, gesturing to Michael to follow her into a side office, beyond which was a conference room with a large white-haired man standing over a pile of papers fanned out across a table.
“Mr. Michael, Mr. Wolff,” the woman said, retreating and closing the door behind her.
Clark Wolff crossed over to Michael with his hand extended and his best salesman’s smile. “Good to see you again. Still digging around the real estate business?”
As before, Michael noticed that Wolff spoke in an almost theatrical tone, unexpectedly soothing. “Something like that.”
Wolff offered him a seat before settling himself opposite. “How may I help this time?”
Jonathon chose his words carefully, not wanting to reveal too much too soon. “We’re looking into a situation that involves several properties south of town. In the process, I discovered your office brokered not just the Loomis farm but a few others as well, and that some of those deals were kept very much under wraps.”
Wolff’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes narrowed just a fraction. “And you think there may be some irregularity with that?”
Jonathon also maintained his poise. “If there is, now would be a good time to mention it.”
“There is not, Detective,” Wolff said firmly. “Discretion is just that, for the most part, especially so in real estate. As you can appreciate, emotions run high when properties change hands. Sometimes it’s helpful to keep a low profile.”
“Like getting someone to buy his neighbor’s land so no one will know you’re actually behind the purchase?”
Wolff agreed. “For example.”
“Why would emotions be that hot?” Jonathon asked innocently. “Surely, buying and selling property is what you do.”
Wolff crossed his legs carefully. “The realty business is a little like the stock market sometimes,” he explained slowly. “What may seem like no big deal to us can be misinterpreted by others.”
“As in the purchase of eight farms covering a relatively small area?”
Wolff froze for a moment. “Eight?”
“That’s how many have changed hands recently. When you look at the map, seems like a lot of activity with no logical explanation.”
Wolff pursed his lips. “What’s the nature of your investigation, Detective? Can I ask that?”
Jonathon smiled indulgently. “You can ask. Are you denying that you’ve been involved in eight land deals down there?”
In fact, Jonathon was bluffing here, since of the eight transactions that Joe had identified, only five had been traced back to Wolff’s office, meaning the remainder were either coincidental or just better disguised.
The Realtor stood up and crossed over to the papers that were spread across the far end of the conference table.
Jonathon expected him to retrieve a document to aid in his explanation. Instead, the older man merely placed both hands flat on the table, looking like an ancient and worn-out prizefighter.
“Detective,” he said, not looking up, “I have been in this business for almost fifty years. Chances are, I’ve set foot on almost every piece of real estate in the county, in one capacity or another. That has sometimes put me in awkward situations. I’ve been accused of fleecing widows and robbing destitute farmers and raping the environment and being a multimillionaire at everyone else’s expense.” He finally swiveled his large head to look at Jonathon directly. “But I have done none of those things, including making a million bucks. I have tried to conduct myself with honesty and integrity, and I have bent over backwards to get to know people and to prove that it has never been my intention to do anyone harm or to cause anyone distress.”
He straightened to his full height. “If you have something to tell me or to ask me, spit it out, because while I may conduct some of my business discreetly, I have nothing to hide from the authorities. That having been said, I am also not going to divulge private aspects of a business deal that may cost me everything if word gets out.”
He stopped speaking and waited, putting Jonathon squarely on the spot.
The latter cleared his throat quietly, wishing Gunther were there to keep him company. “Sorry, Mr. Wolff. I didn’t mean to imply you were up to anything. It was just that the pattern of sales I noticed might play into our investigation. You can understand why that got my interest.”
Wolff smiled tiredly. “What I understand is that you have things you can’t tell me, and I have things I don’t want to tell you. Since you’re the one who came to me, maybe you can convince me why I should be more forthcoming.”
Jonathon pondered that for a moment. He had no proof that Wolff was any less honorable than he claimed. During his research, the people he’d interviewed had all said Clark Wolff was a straight shooter. But there were rules of engagement all cops tended to follow, and revealing inner aspects of an ongoing case to an outsider, no matter how trustworthy, was a definite violation.
“Mr. Wolff,” he said, “the Vermont Bureau of Investigation is the state’s primary major crimes unit. We do not investigate misdemeanors. We handle murders, rapes, drugs, arson, and all the other headline grabbers. You can take it from me that the reason I’m here is not trivial. If I sense your holding back is with the intention of impeding my work, a few leaked details about a business deal will be the least of your worries. Is that convincing enough?”
It was a credit to Wolff’s maturity and experience that he didn’t simply blow up and throw Michael out. Instead, he chuckled after a pause and said, “All right. Let’s tiptoe into this and see how far we get. A little mutual back-scratching, okay?”
Jonathon didn’t answer, nonplussed by the man’s apparent imperturbability.
“For example,” Wolff continued, “you said I’d done eight deals in that area. I only know of three. Whose math is off?”
Jonathon extracted his notepad and consulted its con
tents. He recited the eight names of the farmers who’d sold out.
Wolff absorbed the list and answered, “I arranged the Loomis sale, as you know from before, as well as Cooper’s and Chauvin’s. I’d heard unrelated news—or so I thought—about a couple of the other farmers. That Beatty had been killed by his tractor and Martin put in the hospital for something with his lungs. Of course I knew about how Loomis’s barn burned down; and I won’t deny that I knew Noon was in trouble because of a couple of milk spoilage episodes. But he came to me. Before then, I’d never even met the man. As for the others, I honestly didn’t know their properties had been sold. Which is troubling, because I should have. It means a competitor worked fast and quietly and set in before anything was listed.”
Jonathon’s brow furrowed. “But you bought them out, through proxies. Are you denying that?”
“I absolutely am. I’ll even admit that I would have dearly loved to have gotten those three farms. They said they sold to me? Personally?”
“To your office.”
“What’s that mean?”
Jonathon was confused. “One of the people out there, I guess.” He gestured toward the other room.
“Except for Karla,” Wolff explained, “they don’t work for me. I give them a phone, a desk, and an association—meaning the credibility of my good name. In exchange, I get paid a small percentage of every deal they make. Who signed the paperwork?”
“I couldn’t read it,” Jonathon admitted. “I assumed it was you, since the signature was written over Wolff Properties.” He pulled a copy of one of the sales agreements out of his pocket and handed it to Wolff. “That’s not your signature?”
The old man stared at the document for a long time, plainly working out what was going on. He finally shook his head.
“No. It belongs to John Samuel Gregory. One of my associates.”
From the tone of the man’s voice, Jonathon could tell that all this suddenly made sense to him. But he wasn’t happy.
Chapter 15
“MR. WOLFF,” JONATHON MICHAEL ASKED, “What the hell is going on?”
Clark Wolff kept staring at John Gregory’s illegible scrawl at the bottom of the sales agreement. “In a word,” he finally answered, “ambition.”
St. Albans Fire Page 13
