Muzzled

by Rosenfelt, David

  “You should be flattered.”

  “I’m not. Although I have a feeling I wouldn’t have that much in common with my colleagues here.”

  “I have a couple of questions for you. Did Carla know you were going out on the boat that day?”

  He has to think about this for a while. Then, “Definitely, yes. I remember she wanted to come along, but I said that it was business.”

  “How far in advance would that conversation have been?”

  He shrugs. “Hard to say, but probably at least a few days. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment trip, and it was a Saturday, so I would have been letting her know we weren’t going to be together that day.”

  “You told me that Carla wanted to spend nights at your house rather than hers because her roommate was annoying.”

  “Right.”

  “She didn’t have a roommate.”

  His surprise is evident on his face. “I don’t understand.”

  I’m going to be upfront with him about this. It’s not necessary for his defense, but he should know the truth. “Alex, your relationship with her appears to be very different than you believed it was. She was using you; she was employed by the people who tried to kill you, and who wound up killing her.”

  “Are you sure?” He seems stunned by the news.

  “I’m sure.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a full twenty seconds, then grins a small, embarrassed grin. “Well, I guess that explains my sudden appeal to women. But why would she make that up about a roommate?”

  “Maybe she had a reason for wanting to be in your house. Maybe she was trying to figure out the lay of the land. We need to find out what was taken in that theft.”

  “I never went back there during the three weeks I was in hiding; I was afraid Russo’s people might be watching it. I hadn’t even known about the break-in.”

  “The police executed a search warrant on it; that’s how they found the explosive traces. Based on the discovery, the police didn’t take much of consequence. The more important question is what did the thieves take.”

  “I didn’t have anything of real value. I didn’t keep cash in the house, no jewelry or expensive artwork.” He pauses. “Damn, have someone check the filing cabinet in the closet in my upstairs office. It was always locked.”

  “What was in there?”

  “Work papers. They could be valuable, depending on who got hold of them.”

  “Why would they be valuable? What kind of papers?” When it comes to information about his work, Vogel can be reluctant to share.

  “Well, there was a lot of my own work … research results, progress in dealing with the FDA … that wouldn’t mean much to anyone and there are duplicates at Pharmacon. But there was also … there was a great deal of information about the new drug Robert Giarrusso was developing. It was very promising, though you can never be sure until you get into the testing protocols. But it was the reason we were starting our company.”

  I had a feeling that was what he was going to say. “I’ll get on it right away. I’ll stop at your house on the way home.”

  “There’s a key in the garage; it’s taped under the circuit-breaker box.”

  I leave and go straight for Vogel’s house. From outside it looks normal except that the grass is in serious need of a trimming. I imagine the neighbors are starting to get annoyed.

  The key is where Vogel said it was, and I use it to open the front door. The house is a mess; either the thieves were ransacking the place or wanted it to look like they were.

  I walk around the downstairs but don’t know what I’m looking for. The thieves tore up the place pretty well, but I can’t say what if anything was taken because I have no idea what was there in the first place.

  In the mess I see a bunch of dog toys; when I leave, I’ll take them with me and bring them to Aggie. She might be attached to them and they might remind her of Vogel.

  A downstairs room seems like a workroom, with tools and pieces of wood and metal. It’s the kind of room a real man who can build things might have, the kind of room that I will never have any use for. This must be where they found the traces of explosives.

  I go upstairs and the first room I see is the bedroom, which is in the same disarray as the downstairs. Nothing to be learned in here.

  Next I reach the office and walk past the mess on the floor to get to the closet. The door to it is closed, which seems unusual in this environment. Based on the look of the rest of the house, the thieves would certainly have opened it and looked inside, and they wouldn’t likely have closed it. They were unconcerned with appearances and made no effort to leave the place presentable.

  I open the door and look inside. I have no idea if the filing cabinet is still locked or not because there is no filing cabinet.

  Everything seems to be in place.

  Sam has rented an office in the building across the alley from the back of the bar. From the window he can observe all the comings and goings and even has a sight line into the office where I assume the meeting will take place.

  He had to rent it for three months; that was the minimum. It was two thousand a month, so it cost us six grand for a place we are going to use for six hours. Ritz-Carltons come a hell of a lot cheaper, and they leave chocolates on the pillow at night.

  Sam has been there most of the day, but has not reported much activity. A couple of people have come into the office briefly and then left. One of them is the bartender, which I take as significant. If there is an indoor way to move from the bar to the office, then their wanting me to enter through the back alley feels ominous.

  About a half hour before the meeting time, Sam texts the rest of the team members that three guys have set up shop outside the entrance in the alley. It’s another significant development and reassures me that we are not overpreparing for what might be a nonevent. Of course, I am definitely still rooting for a nonevent.

  Sam types, probably in an understatement, that the three guys “look like they can handle themselves.” Then he adds, “If need be, I can definitely pick them off from here.”

  Before I can respond, Laurie beats me to it, typing, “Sam, you brought your gun?” If there was an emoji face that conveyed total horror, I am sure Laurie would have added it.

  His response is “Just in case,” and she comes back with “Sam, take the bullets out of the gun, just in case.”

  With the knowledge that I will be met at the door, we make our final decisions. Marcus will be with me. If they just let us in, fine. If they attempt to do anything violent, or if they insist that I go in alone, then Marcus will deal with them. My role will be to stand aside and attempt to preserve my manly dignity.

  Corey Douglas will also be in the alley, about fifty yards away, pretending to be casually walking Simon. They will move in if necessary, as will Laurie, who will be in a parked car around the corner and out of sight.

  Sam set up my phone so that one press of a button will send an emergency text to everyone, should that be necessary.

  We have the option of driving into the alley or parking on the street and walking there. Marcus opts for walking; I have no idea why and I don’t care. Marcus calls the shots.

  So we park a block and a half away, passing Laurie in the car as we walk toward the alley. As we reach it, we see the three men standing casually in the doorway. They don’t look worried, nor does Marcus. I’m worried enough for all of us.

  When we’re about fifty yards away, I see Corey at the other end of the alley, walking Simon. They will gradually move closer as we make contact with the three goons waiting for us.

  As we reach them, I smile and say, “Top of the evening to you, lads.”

  It seems like in every “gathering of goons” one of them is the designated talker, and it’s always the guy in the middle. I don’t think it’s necessarily a sign of some kind of hierarchy; my guess is they are all equal in rank. Maybe they have a meeting beforehand and draw straws. But one talks and the other guys’ role
in communications is to nod their support for whatever Middle Goon is saying.

  In this case, Middle Goon says, “Where are you going?”

  I think it’s obvious to everyone where we’re going, but I say, “Into the office to talk to your boss.”

  “You,” Middle Goon says, then points to Marcus. “Not him.”

  “He’s my stenographer; I want to have a transcript of our meeting.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Which part didn’t you understand?”

  “You go inside. You”—Middle Goon points to Marcus—“beat it.”

  I have been in these situations with Marcus before. Usually he waits for the adversary to make the first move, but on rare occasions he moves first. I think he makes the decision based on whether he believes violence is inevitable, as well as an instinctive assessment of how much danger we’re facing.

  I’m not sure what happens in this case. I think I see Left Goon and Right Goon make almost imperceptible moves toward us. Maybe Marcus sees it as well. Or maybe he just wants to get an advantage. Or maybe he wants us to quickly clear the area before Sam accidentally shoots one of us.

  But Marcus doesn’t hesitate. He takes advantage of the leaning side goons first. He throws a left into the side of Right Goon’s head, turning him in the other direction, then throws an equally devastating right to Left Goon’s temple, reversing his trajectory as well. The crunching sounds are awful or wonderful, depending on one’s perspective.

  Gravity takes over in both cases, and their unconscious heads hit the cement along with the rest of their bodies. Middle Goon looks surprised; this was the last thing he expected.

  It is also the last thing he sees, at least for the rest of the evening. Marcus kicks him in the groin, then generously spares him the pain of it by knocking him unconscious with an uppercut as he bends forward. He lands on top of Left Goon, though I am positive that neither is aware of it.

  Marcus motions to me, and I follow him into the building. Before I do, I see that Corey and Simon have almost reached us. They will stand guard over the three goons and keep them from reentering the fray, in the unlikely event that any of them gain consciousness anytime soon.

  I’m sure Laurie will join them as well. I hope Sam doesn’t.

  Round one to the good guys.

  I recognize the guy sitting behind the desk: Tony Lynch.

  He’s called Big Tony because he’s big and because the Joseph Russo crime family puts pathetically little effort into coming up with creative nicknames.

  I met Big Tony because he was in the room when I went to see Joseph Russo, Sr., on another case. I remember him because when I was leaving, he told me that if I caused any more trouble, he would put a bullet in my head and dump me in the Passaic River. Certain conversations just stick in your mind.

  Big Tony doesn’t greet us with a welcoming smile, but rather a look of surprise. “How did you get in here?”

  “Down the alley, through the door, and into this office. It’s not brain surgery, Tony.”

  “My guys out there?”

  “Three big dumb-looking guys? Yeah, we passed them on the way in. I invited them to the meeting, but they preferred to stay unconscious on the cement. By the way, have you met Marcus Clark?”

  Big Tony’s look of surprise has been replaced by one of, if not fear, then concern. I don’t know if he’s heard of Marcus, or if, more likely, he realizes that anyone who put down three of his guys is a force that he will be unable to reckon with. “Get out of here.”

  “Tony, I’ve got a feeling that you may not spend much time at Mensa meetings. We are in charge here, not you.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you. So you might as well get out now. I’ve got more people on the way.”

  “Are they as tough as the three clowns sleeping outside? Tony, you don’t want us to leave, because if we do, you’re coming with us. And you will never be heard from again. You killed people, Tony, defenseless people. So whatever happens to you, you deserve it.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Phillips and Bledsoe did. And you gave the order.”

  “No.”

  “Then who did? Russo?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “Your decision. Let’s go.”

  Marcus walks toward him, and Big Tony, whose new nickname should be Little Brain, winds up to take a punch at him. Marcus intercepts and grabs hold of Tony’s arm and uses it to toss Tony at least seven feet, into a wall. It’s as if he turned Tony into a discus, the only difference being that a discus doesn’t scream in pain.

  “Your intelligence level continues to unimpress,” I say. “Okay, we ready now? Time to go.”

  Marcus walks over to Tony to coax him, but Tony wants no part of him. “Russo is not giving the orders.”

  “Who is?”

  “If he finds out I gave him up, I’m a dead man walking.”

  “Then he won’t.”

  “Victor,” Tony says with obvious reluctance.

  “And who might he be?”

  “He’s some foreign guy. Russian or one of those European shitholes. Thick accent. Russo told me to do whatever he says.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him; he calls me and tells me what to do.”

  “So on his orders you sent Phillips and Bledsoe out to kill Carla D’Antoni and blow up that boat.”

  “No, not me. That must have been someone else.”

  “Yeah, it was the murder fairy. Why were Phillips and Bledsoe killed?”

  “I wasn’t involved in that, but I would assume it was because they screwed up. The hit was supposed to be on that Vogel guy.”

  I’m sure Tony’s lying about not giving the order for the murders, but it doesn’t matter right now. I’m not going to try to convict him here; my goal is to learn. I do believe he is taking his orders and sending them down the line. “Why is all this being done?”

  “I don’t know; I swear. I just know there’s big money in it, enough to go around for everybody. I heard Russo say he’s going to make a fortune.”

  I press Tony for more information; but if he’s got any, he’s not giving it up. I wrap it up with “Last night, when the bartender called you, what did he say?”

  “That you were asking questions and I’d want to know about it.”

  I asked the question that way because I wanted Tony’s phone number. If I asked for it, he’d be on the alert. So my confirming that the bartender called him was good enough because Sam is going to get the number. Hopefully that will lead us to Victor.

  We leave and find Corey, Laurie, and Simon Garfunkel keeping an eye on the three fallen warriors. “Let’s go,” I say. “Fun time is over.”

  “Now?” Corey asks. “We have a bet on which guy will wake up first.”

  As if on cue, the guy lying on the left moans and moves a couple of inches. “Damn,” Laurie says. “Simon, you win again.”

  We now know a number of important things.

  We know that Alex Vogel did not kill Mellman and Giarrusso because we know who did. It was Bledsoe and Phillips. We also know that they killed Carla D’Antoni.

  We know that they were directed to do so by Big Tony, who was given the initial order by someone else. We also know that Joseph Russo, Jr., is involved; his fingerprints are all over everything.

  We also believe other things but aren’t certain about them. One of those is that Robert Giarrusso’s new drug idea is considered so valuable that all these killings have been done in pursuit of it.

  We believe that Russo will profit from all of this, since he has essentially been loaning out his people in support of it. We also believe that Tony was telling the truth about taking his orders from a man named Victor; it seems unlikely that Tony would have had the smarts to make up that story in the moment.

  We believe that Carla D’Antoni was part of the conspiracy, possibly on loan from Russo like the others.
She probably died because she learned too much, so once she accomplished her mission, she was deemed too risky to keep around.

  Unfortunately, what we know and believe has no value in the legal world we are operating in. We not only can’t prove any of it, we probably can’t even demonstrate to the judge that it is worthwhile for the jury to hear and consider.

  But it does have value in the investigative world. It gives us insights, which in turn provides more to go on as we dig to find evidence that we can use in court.

  So it’s back to the jail for me to talk with my client. He’s got some information he has not yet fully shared with me. He’s going to now. “Tell me about Giarrusso’s new drug,” I say as soon as we sit down.

  “Why is that important?”

  “Because I say it is, and I’m your lawyer.” He’s pissing me off. “This trial is about to start, and if I tell you I need something, then your job is to do whatever you can to get it for me. Otherwise you’re going to spend a lot of years in a small cell regretting that you didn’t.”

  “Okay.” I think he’s getting the message, but I’m about to find out for sure. “I was just being protective of it. Our business depends on secrecy. If this gets out, then someone else can steal it, and Robert’s family should be the ones to profit from it. And since it wasn’t patented, it could easily be stolen. But I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Alzheimer’s. Robert believed it could add five or ten years of productive life when the disease was diagnosed early enough.”

  “How does it work?”

  “I don’t know; that’s not my area. But in general terms, I think it somehow helps the body’s natural defenses against it. I really can’t be specific; I’m not a scientist. But Robert was incredibly excited about it; it was why we were enthusiastic about starting our own company. He was overly enthusiastic, though, and I tried to calm him down.”

  “Is that what you argued about that day, getting onto the boat?”