Hounded (13 page)

“You’re going to get prints, or maybe DNA?” Rozelle asks, apparently somewhat impressed by the concept. “Any chance you’ll tell me what’s going on?”

“Zero.”

We’re making progress in the search for Juanita Diaz.

Unfortunately, my job is not to find Juanita Diaz; it’s to defend Pete Stanton. That’s not working out quite so well.

I’ve put Hike in charge of the traditional defense aspects of the investigation, meaning interviewing prosecution witnesses, analyzing the evidence, recruiting our own experts, etc. He has been updating me on all of it, and he’s done a nice job.

The problem is that while we may score points in that area, it will not carry the day for us. If it is ultimately a jury’s choice between the prosecution’s evidence, and our refutation of that evidence, we will come in second place. A very distant second place.

I’ve been skirting the edges, spending my time finding out about rich people having surprise heart attacks, and a wife who left her husband and son. What I really need to know is who the hell wanted Danny Diaz dead, and why.

Sam moves that ball forward a giant step by coming over with the first of the GPS records of where Diaz’s cell phone has been in the past couple of months. The locations are listed by coordinates, which of course mean absolutely nothing to me. But Sam has started the large, tedious task of assigning actual locations to the coordinates, and is about ten percent finished with that process.

“I thought you might want to get these now, because of this one,” he says, pointing to an entry on the list.

I immediately know why he focused on this particular one. It is an address in the Riverside section of Paterson, which is the territory of Dominic Petrone and his family. There are many law-abiding, peaceful citizens in this area, but I’m betting that Diaz was not visiting one of them.

“Did you check who lives at the address?” I ask, although knowing Sam as I do, I have no doubt that he did so.

He nods. “Yup. The house is owned by Gina Russo, wife of Joseph.”

This is good and bad news. The bad news is that Russo is number two in the family to Petrone himself, which means he’s probably ordered beatings or killings more times than I’ve ordered beer. I am uncomfortable being on the same planet with Russo, to say nothing of having to deal with him. I have no idea why the house is in his wife’s name, and it doesn’t seem like a priority for me to find out.

The good news is that I have an in with Russo. When Willie Miller was in prison, Russo was an inmate there as well. Three prisoners, clearly paid for their efforts, were on a mission to kill Russo in the exercise area, and they had makeshift knives to help them in the process.

Willie, who had never so much as exchanged hellos with Russo, happened to be there as it was going down. Willie’s the kind of guy to instinctively take the side of the “one” in any “three-on-one” encounter, particularly when the three have weapons.

Willie himself is a walking weapon, and using his karate skills, he kicked the three assailants all the way to the hospital. The only thing worse than killing a high-level Petrone family member is failing to kill one, and the three assailants all mysteriously died within a month of being released from the prison hospital.

Russo was understandably grateful to Willie, and offered his services whenever needed. Willie has never quite understood Russo’s attitude; he just never considered what he did to be that big a deal. In fact, Willie told me that the fight was the most fun he had in his seven years in prison.

We took advantage of Russo’s gratitude to Willie once before on a case, and now it’s time to do so again.

I call Willie and tell him, “I need to meet with Joseph Russo.”

“You got it,” he says, with casual certainty.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he says. “I’ll call him now.”

“Mention how we’re good friends, you and I, and that he shouldn’t kill me.”

“You got it,” he says again, so matter-of-factly that I’m afraid he’ll really repeat what I said to Russo.

Ten minutes later, Willie calls back. “He asked what you wanted to see him about.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know.”

“What did he say?”

“Come on over.”

Willie wants to go with me, as does Laurie. I say yes to Willie but no to Laurie. I don’t see Russo as the type to open up to women. And if he insults Laurie, I sure as hell don’t want to have to challenge him to a duel.

The real question is whether or not to bring Marcus. My instinctive reaction is to have him there for protection, but when Marcus is around there is always the chance that things will get out of control. My goal is not to antagonize; it is to get information. Besides, Willie’s relationship with Russo will hopefully provide me at least a thin blanket of protection. So Marcus is out.

Willie is going to pick me up, and a few minutes before he is due to arrive, Hike shows up to go over some elements of our potential defense.

“I can’t do it now,” I say. “I’m going to a meeting. Hey, maybe you should come along.”

“Who are you meeting with?”

“Joseph Russo.”

“As in Joseph Russo, Joseph Russo?”

“The very one,” I say. “You want to meet him?”

“What have I ever done to make you think I’m an idiot?” Hike asks. “I’ll wait for you here with Edna and Ricky, in case you happen to survive the meeting.”

I know Michael Corleone lived in that huge family compound.

And I know it was surrounded by walls, so fortified that even Kay couldn’t go out shopping without Tom Hagen’s permission. And I know that they had that amazing house on Lake Tahoe with those glass windows looking out at the snow. And I know their part of the lake was so secluded they could shoot Fredo while he was in a canoe, out in the open, without worrying that anybody would see it.

But that has not been my experience. I don’t hang out with too many crime kingpins, but I’ve been to a couple of their houses. I’ve even been to Dominic Petrone’s. And it is nothing like Michael Corleone’s.

Petrone lives in a regular neighborhood, nice but certainly not ostentatious, and you would never know which house among the group is his. There are no walls, no gated entrance. He always has a couple of his people on the main floor, but I think the main protection is the knowledge that no one would be dumb enough to go after Dominic Petrone.

It surprises me, but more than that, it gives me some insight. I’ve sometimes wondered why these people do the things they do, and the only answers I ever come up with are money and power. But when I come to this neighborhood, I feel that power must be by far the dominant motive.

Petrone is in effect the head of a huge company, but he doesn’t have a fancy car, or a private jet, or a yacht, or most of the trappings that CEOs of large corporations have. I know he makes a fortune, but I think the money is just another aspect of the power. It’s also a way to keep score.

Joseph Russo’s house is very similar to Petrone’s. I know, because I’ve been there before, and when Willie and I arrive this time, my first impression is that he hasn’t done much with the place in the last couple of years.

Willie knocks on the front door of Russo’s house, and it is opened almost instantly. A very large person says, “Miller?” and Willie answers “Yeah.” We men of danger speak very few words.

Once we’re inside, we see a second large person. The second guy comes over and frisks me, which is one of my least favorite things. They don’t frisk Willie, which must be on specific instructions from Russo. The fact that they consider me more dangerous than Willie is sort of flattering.

We’re led into the den, where Russo is waiting. The TV is on, and I note for posterity that he is watching the Food Network. This comes as no surprise; Russo is about my height, and probably outweighs Willie and I put together.

Russo sees Willie, smiles, and says, “My man.” He comes over and they embrace, for longer than I would expect. I’m thinking of asking them if they want to be alone, when they disengage and Russo turns toward me.

“Speak,” he says.

“I’m investigating the Danny Diaz murder,” I say.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Danny was here, in this house, three days before he died.”

“You think I don’t know that?” He throws a glance at Willie, which seems to say, “Why do you hang around with this dope?” Willie just shrugs in return, probably wondering the same thing.

Actually, while Russo obviously knew that Danny was here, until now I couldn’t be sure of it. I only knew that his phone was here, and although it was likely that he was carrying it, it wasn’t definite. Now it is.

“Why was he here?”

Russo thinks for a moment, as if weighing his answer, but I suspect he knew why we were coming over, and knew exactly what he would be willing to say. Finally, “He worked for me.”

“Not for years.”

“That don’t change nothing. Like Willie here, he was one of my guys.”

“So he was here for help?”

He nods. “Like you.”

“So help me find his killer,” I say.

“If I knew where he was, he’d be dead already.”

I know that Russo means that sincerely; he’s a scary guy that radiates danger. As someone who was scared of the cookie monster until I was seventeen, it’s intimidating to me.

What is really scary is knowing that at some point, I might wind up implying to the jury that Russo and his people might be guilty of the Diaz murder. The fact that Diaz worked for and hung around with such dangerous people can be seen as creating other suspects besides Pete.

But that is for another time, and hopefully in another galaxy, far, far away. “What did Danny want you to do?” I ask.

“To find a guy.”

“What was the guy’s name?” Russo is not exactly the talkative type, and only answers the exact question he is asked, as briefly as possible. It’ll serve him well if he’s ever called before a Senate Committee, like Michael Corleone.

“Diaz didn’t know the name, or much about the guy. Which makes him harder to find, you know?”

“Why did Diaz want to find him?”

Russo laughs a short laugh. “You don’t know nothing, do you?”

“Not so far, so tell me, please. Why did Danny Diaz want to find him?”

“Because the guy had Diaz’s wife.”

“What does that mean? He kidnapped her? Or she went with him willingly?”

Russo can’t stifle a frown at what he sees as my latest stupid question. In fact, I doubt he is even trying to stifle it. “If she wanted to be with the guy, Diaz wouldn’t have come to me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know the guy, but that if Diaz found him, I should be the first call he should make.”

“Did he say why this guy had his wife?”

“No, just that he was leaning on Diaz. I didn’t care why; I don’t like my people getting leaned on.”

“If you find him, will you call me?” I ask.

He nods. “Right after I kill him.”

Edward Rozelle was worried by the lawyer coming to see him.

He didn’t know what happened to that woman, the one Carpenter referred to as Juanita Diaz, and he didn’t want to know. But the guy who brought her to the apartment, the one who used the name Wally Reese, was a scary guy. And Alex Parker was even scarier. And so were the cops.

Rozelle didn’t want to get involved; he was well paid for providing the apartment, and he hoped that would be the end of it. But his desire to remain out of it suddenly conflicted with his desire to make more money. He now had information that he knew Parker would pay for.

So he called him on the number that Parker had given him, and the man answered on the first ring. “This is Edward Rozelle,” he said. “From the apartment.”

“I know who you are.”

“A lawyer named Carpenter came to see me. He was asking about the two people who stayed here. Said the woman’s name was Juanita Diaz.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. I said I didn’t know what they were talking about.”

“What else?”

“Nothing. He tried to threaten me, but I didn’t say anything. I just thought you’d like to know that he was here; you said you were interested in more information.”

“Do you know how they came to find you?”

“Yeah. They said a phone call was made from room 221.”

“Did they ask the man’s name, or who he was?”

“Yessir. Told them I had no idea.”

“How about the car?”

Rozelle jumped at the chance to answer this question. “I told them it was a silver Toyota.” Since the car was actually a black Honda, Rozelle saw this deception as a way to further please Parker.

Parker saw it a bit differently. Rozelle had said he told Carpenter nothing; claimed to the attorney that he didn’t even know who he was talking about. Then describing the car, even if inaccurately, proved that his previous statements were a lie.

Rozelle would die for the error.

“You did well,” Parker lied. He then said truthfully, “You will get what you deserve.”

Once off the call, Parker didn’t bother to reflect on what he had always known to be an essential truth: it was never a good idea to count on other people. But sometimes there just was no choice; one person could not be in two places at once.

It wasn’t Rozelle who was the problem; he knew nothing and would eventually be easily disposed of. The issue that Parker needed to address was Wally Reese, the man he had hired to deal with Juanita Diaz. He did not know if Reese had used his real name with Rozelle, but he was stupid enough to have done so. And if that were the case, Rozelle would probably have been cowardly enough to share it with Carpenter.

Just about the only good news in all this was that he was supposed to meet with Reese that very night. They were meeting in a strip mall parking lot in Mt. Ivy, about ten minutes from Spring Valley. The place would be deserted at that hour; the stores would have long since closed.

Reese was there first; he was anxious to report in and get his money. When Parker arrived, he wasted no time with pleasantries. “Where is the woman?” he asked.