Judge & Jury (21 page)
Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
Until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I dressed and went and got my Saab out of the lot on Eleventh Avenue. But I wasn’t headed to the office.
It didn’t matter anymore about what was right or “appropriate” behavior.
I crossed the river through the Lincoln Tunnel and turned onto Route 3, to Secaucus, New Jersey. Secaucus was what came to my mind when they called New Jersey the “armpit of the universe.” Miles and miles of drive-in, big-box malls and fast-food franchises, stuck in between a toxic swamp and the Jersey Turnpike.
About a mile down 3, I pulled into the lot of a drab, two-story cinder-block building I knew well. United Workers of Electrical Contractors of New Jersey.
Local 407.
Cavello’s outfit.
I opened the glass door and went straight past the startled receptionist, flashing my FBI shield. “I’m going up to see Frankie Delsavio.”
The receptionist jumped up. “Excuse me, sir, you can’t just. . . .”
I didn’t even wait for her to finish the sentence.
Two broad-shouldered men, who figured this as their job description, jumped out of their chairs to block my way.
“Don’t even try it,” I said as one of them stretched an arm out in front of me. My eyes were flashing and probably a little crazy. “You understand?”
“Mr. Delsavio’s not around,” the goon grunted, looking as if he had flunked the screen test for
The Sopranos.
Too fucking large.
I shoved my ID in his face. “This is the last time I say this nicely.
Get out of my way.
”
I hustled up the stairs, moving on pure adrenaline. Everyone in the building was probably connected. Feds didn’t burst in here alone, without backup.
The second floor was filled with union offices. Cavello’s people who got the cushy assignments, doing nothing but collecting cash. I went down the hall as the bozos from the lobby followed behind. A few secretaries looked up, trying to figure out what was going on.
Another guy stepped in my way. Dark glasses and an open, wide-collar shirt over a polyester suit. “’Scuse me, sir!” He flipped open his jacket, exposing his piece. I didn’t even wait for him to pull it.
I pulled mine.
I stuck the muzzle under his nose and pushed the startled gangster against the wall. I pressed my FBI ID close to his face. “
This
says, ‘yes, I can.’”
People started getting up from their desks behind me. I saw that the two goons who’d followed me from the lobby had their pieces out.
“This is a legitimate, private business,” the guy against the wall declared. “Our corporate counsel is down the hall. You’re here without an appointment or a legitimate business purpose. Show me a subpoena or a warrant, Special Agent, or get the hell out.”
I pressed the gun into his cheek. “I asked to see Frank Delsavio.”
“As you were told”—and he looked at me straight on—“Mr. Delsavio is not on the premises. You can’t see him if he’s not here.”
Just then, a door opened at the end of the hall. A heavyset man stepped out, ruddy cheeks, hair combed over, in a short nylon jacket and an open plaid shirt.
“
Agent Pellisante,
” Frank Delsavio said in a raspy voice. “Sallie, why didn’t you just tell me it was Special Agent Pellisante? I just came back in. C’mon, step into my office. They musta not known I was here.”
“IT IS STILL SPECIAL AGENT, isn’t it?” Delsavio grinned. “Or maybe we should call you Professor. I hear you were teachin’ a class.”
Frankie was Dominic Cavello’s longtime number two, but in the big boss’s absence, he was running the show. On the family chart he was known as the Underboss. He’d been married for thirty years to one of Vito Genovese’s nieces. Royalty, Cosa Nostra-style. But not exactly one of the Five Good Emperors. He’d probably ordered ten to twenty murders we couldn’t pin him on.
I followed Frank into his office. There was a cheap hardwood desk cluttered with pictures of his family. On the walls there were some cheesy prints of Italy and a signed photo of Derek Jeter eating at one of Frankie’s restaurants. A few tubes containing rolled-up architectural plans were leaning against the wall. I smiled. I wasn’t sure if Frankie Delsavio had ever been near a construction site in his life.
“So you have to excuse me.” He motioned me to sit. “I’ve been out of touch the past few days. Down in Atlantic City, checking out a big site. So tell me”—he grinned, smirking—“how goes the trial?”
“Fuck you, you cockroach,” I said, grabbing him by the collar and taking him right out of his leather chair and pushing him against the wall. “
I want to know where he is.
”
A few books and artifacts fell to the floor. The grin on Frank Delsavio’s face disappeared. This was not a small man, and no one, not even the cops, pushed him around.
“I invited you in here as a friend, Nicky Smiles. There’s about two dozen people out there who don’t have much to do in their life. They can blow off your head. You’re not even on active duty, Pellisante. You sure you wanna do this now?”
“I asked about Cavello,” I said, pushing him harder against the wall.
“How would I know, Nicky? I told you, I’ve been out of touch. Besides, the Boss doesn’t clue me in on every little decision he makes.”
“Every little decision.” I smiled, the rancor boiling over inside. “You know, Frankie, the only reason I never closed you down was because I thought you had the only sense of humor in this shitbag outfit. Otherwise, you’d be waiting for
your
trial, same as him. But I’ll bring you in, Frankie. I could do it tomorrow. There’s enough on you, I swear. We’ll close this whole operation down. You’ll all lose the Beamers, your fat-cat jobs.”
“You know what I think, Nicky?” Frankie stared as he spoke. He shook his head at me with a little smile. “I don’t think you have the clout to do that right now. I don’t even think you’re on this case. The only reason I let you in here was out of respect to your past position. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d let go of my shirt—before I call in our lawyer down the hall and he slaps you and the Bureau with a harassment suit. That wouldn’t go over well in the classroom, would it, Nicky?”
“We’re not talking business as usual, Frankie.” I tightened my grip. “This isn’t going away. This is like Bin Laden. You don’t want to step anywhere near this shit. I’ll give you a week, then I’ll do what I promised. I’ll shut the whole operation down.” I let go of his collar. But I still stared at him. “That was a one-year-old kid your boss burned up, Frankie. Coulda been your granddaughter.”
Delsavio straightened his shirt collar. “I don’t know where Dominic Cavello is. And that’s the truth. And just for the record, Nicky, no way that could
ever
be my grandkid. ’Cause I’d never rat him out.” Then Delsavio grinned, flexing his shoulders. “But if he happens to call in or send me a postcard, I promise, you’ll be the first to know. Even before his own wife and kids, Nicky Smiles.” He grinned. “Anything you want me to tell him, you know, if he should write in?”
“Just this.” I smoothed out the mobster’s jacket. “Tell him I keep
my
promises, too.”
AN HOUR LATER, I was in front of Assistant Director in Charge Michael Cioffi, who ran the FBI’s New York office. “I want back in,” I said.
Cioffi was my boss. He was the one who had placed me on administrative leave after I beat Cavello. Outside of the politicos down in DC, he was one of the most senior people in the FBI.
“Nick.” He leaned back in his chair. “No one holds you responsible for what happened yesterday.”
“That’s not what it’s about, Mike.
Cavello is.
And I know more about him than anyone in the Bureau. Besides, we both know I’m a little too late in the game to ever qualify for tenure.”
The ADIC smiled. He stood up, stepped over to his office window. You could see Ground Zero from there, the vast, empty space. Beyond it, the Statue of Liberty. “So how’re the ribs?”
“No harm, no foul.” I raised my arms. “I get a big fat commendation for being wounded in the line of duty, and I didn’t even have to stay overnight.”
“That’s sort of the problem, Nick.” Cioffi smiled again, but this time tightly, his hands against the sill. “You weren’t exactly
in
the line of duty. And Ray’s been handling this for months now. And right now, the shit’s hitting the fan a little.”
I stood up, too. “This isn’t about Ray, Mike. I’ll report to him, I don’t care. Just put me back on assignment. You need me.” I looked at the boss I had served under for eight years. “
I
need it, Mike.”
The ADIC looked closely at me. I couldn’t quite read him. He stepped back to his desk and picked up a file. It looked like a field report. “I heard you paid a visit this morning to a certain union headquarters in New Jersey. You’re not on active duty, Nick. You can’t go wild, on a whim. We’ve got our people on this, Nick. They can’t be looking over their shoulder.”
“I understand that, Mike. That’s why I want back in.”
Cioffi sat back. I was just waiting for the nod. He let out a long, deliberating breath. “I can’t.”
“You what?” If the ADIC had pulled out a gun right there and popped a couple of hollow-point rounds into my chest, I don’t think I would have looked at him with more surprise. “
Mike?
”
“You’re one of the best I have, Nick. But you’re too close to this case. Way too close. Too emotional. This isn’t a witch hunt, Nick, it’s an FBI investigation. The answer’s no.”
I sat there, jaw hanging, the words digging their way into my brain, one by one.
“I’ll give you another assignment if you want back in. Wall Street. Antiterrorism. Name it, Nick.
But not this.
”
Not this.
I stood there absorbing the blows. I’d tracked this bastard for years. I’d lost two men bringing him in. I didn’t want
another
assignment. All I could do was stare back blankly. “Please,
Mike
. . .”
“No.” The ADIC shook his head again. “I’m sorry, Nick, you’re out. And I won’t change my mind.”
RICHARD NORDESHENKO HAD flown back out of Washington, DC. Right under the almighty U.S. government’s nose. Through London, then on to Tel Aviv. Then he drove along the coast back to Haifa.
The acacias were blooming as he piloted his custom Audi S6 up the heights of Mount Carmel to his home high above the Mediterranean. He had burned his extra passports before he left the States; he would never need them again.
“Father!” Pavel gleefully shouted as Nordeshenko stepped through the door. He was two days early. His wife, Mira, ran out of the kitchen. “
Richard!
Is that you?”
“It’s me,” Nordeshenko answered. He hugged both of them tightly, each in an arm. Three days before he didn’t know if he would ever see them again. “It’s good to be home.”
And it was. Through the glass doors, the deep turquoise of the Mediterranean was like a welcome, mood-lifting tonic to him. And the tender embrace of his family. He would never deceive them again. He had all the money he needed; his career was over. This was a young man’s game, after all.
“Father, come see.” Pavel pulled him by the hand. “I’ve found a defense against Kasparov’s Spanish opening. I’ve solved it!”
“What an Einstein we’ve raised,” he joked to Mira.
“No, what a
Kasparov,
” said Pavel.
The boy tugged him into his room. Nordeshenko was exhausted. And not just from the flight. He had dropped Cavello off at a safe house they had arranged near Baltimore. The bastard was to be crated up and put on a freighter.
And to where?
Nordeshenko found some amusement in his destination. Even Interpol would not go there.
He was happy to part ways. The malicious animal killed for sport, not for business or necessity. It was his nature. Back in Russia they would spit and call him a devil. Well, he had done his job. He hoped he would never see that piece of garbage again in his life.
“Look, Father.” Pavel dragged him over to the chess set. The boy held up a queenside bishop. “You see?”
Nordeshenko nodded, but in truth, he didn’t. He was so incredibly weary. The board was a jumble to him. Chess was a young man’s game, too. But he smiled, tousling the young child’s hair. “Look in the bag. I’ve got something for you,” he said.
The boy hurriedly undid the wrapping. His eyes grew wide.
World Championship Poker.
Pavel’s face erupted in joy. “Come,” he said, pushing the chessboard aside. “Let’s play.”
“My little Einstein wants to play poker? Okay. We’ll go best out of three. Then I get to sleep for about a week!” Nordeshenko pulled up a seat, recalling his great bluff back in New York, which seemed a lifetime ago. “And I’ve got quite a poker story for you, Pavel.”
His feet felt like twice their normal size. “Just let me take off these shoes.”
FOR A WEEK straight I never left my apartment. I kept replaying the tape from Cavello’s escape. The scene in the elevator. I even timed it—exactly forty-seven seconds. I’d watch it over and over. Then I’d rewind it and play it again. And again. And again.
The phone would ring. My doctor checking up on me. My department head from school. The Bureau—there was still an inquiry going on. And Andie—she called my cell phone a couple of times.
Finally, I stopped picking up, even my cell. All I did was watch the tape. Each time it was the same. Cavello lunges out, hits the button. The two marshals try to rein him in. The doors open. In steps the guy with the beard, surprising them. No time to react. He takes out the marshals, flips Cavello the disguise. In a moment they’re gone.
I focused on the guy with the beard. Zoomed in on his face. I tried to memorize every line, every feature. I kept running through the Homeland Security photo books I’d been given. I didn’t know what I was looking for. But something. There had to be something.
