Leader of the Pack (Andy Carpenter) (16 page)

“We’d better be.”

They went over the details for the next ten minutes; Carmine wanted to make sure that everything was nailed down, that every possible eventuality was accounted for.

“This is going to put you back on top, Carmine. You’re going to be bigger than ever. We’re going to take back the family.”

“You did good, Gino. We pull this off, and you’re right there with me. And when I die, you will take control.”

“You’ll be here a long time, Carmine. I’ve learned a great deal from you, and I’ll learn much more in the future.”

Carmine smiled. “The first thing you’ll learn is what happens to people who betray the family. There are many of those, and they will all suffer for it. Every one of them.”

“They deserve their fate.”

“We will get revenge for Nicky,” Carmine said.

Gino promised to get back to Carmine when the final details were set, and when they had confirmation that Ryerson was coming. Carmine was sure that he would; Ryerson was the type to feel invulnerable and completely in charge.

It was a feeling Carmine had had himself for many years, and would soon have again.

As a former FBI agent, Jerry McCaskill has always known that crime doesn’t pay. What he learned from his years in the Bureau is that stopping crime pays even less.

As law enforcement personnel go, FBI agents are paid quite well. But compared to people at the top of other professions, they are substantially undercompensated. So with three kids barreling toward college age, Jerry left the FBI to head up security at a start-up tech firm.

Financially, at least, he’s never looked back. He got a bunch of stock when the company had its IPO, and he has a terrific salary, a large staff, and a bunch of perks. He’s given a great deal of autonomy to make the security rules, and a healthy budget to implement and enforce them.

The company’s offices are in Fort Lee, literally within walking distance of the George Washington Bridge, though I can’t imagine why anyone would be interested in walking to the George Washington Bridge. Cindy Spodek had suggested that I talk to McCaskill about Carmine Desimone’s criminal enterprise, since he had been in the Central New Jersey bureau’s organized crime division.

Techno-systems Inc. occupies the top three floors of a building so modern it looks like it must have been finished this morning. Yet compared to the interior of their offices, the rest of the building seems like a prewar colonial. Techno clearly wants to convey the impression that they are on the cutting edge, and for all I know, they may be. I wouldn’t recognize the cutting edge if I sliced my finger on it.

Jerry McCaskill comes out of the reception area to greet me with a big smile on his face, a firm handshake, and a sincere sounding “Nice to meet you, Andy.” If a working FBI agent ever displayed this demeanor, they would send him for behavior modification treatments, with electroshock therapy the fallback position.

Once we’re settled in his office, I thank him for seeing me. “I’m doing it for Cindy,” he says. “She was a big help to me in the Bureau, and actually gave me a recommendation for this job.”

“Good old Cindy.”

“She’s terrific, smart, and a great judge of people,” he enthuses.

“Yes, she is.” I’m agreeing quickly, in the hope of moving this along. The trial will start before he stops praising Cindy.

“She says you’re a pain in the ass.”

“She’s not the sharpest tool in the law enforcement shed,” I say.

He laughs. “I hear you’re taking another shot at letting Joey Desimone walk?”

“This time he will.”

“I didn’t follow the first trial; I was out of town on an assignment. But I understand the jury didn’t have to deliberate too long.”

I certainly don’t want to rehash my past failures, so I say, “Let’s not talk about Joey. Let’s talk about Carmine.”

He nods. “OK. What about him?”

“I think he had Nicky Fats killed.”

“Then you’re not such a sharp tool yourself. There’s no way.”

“That’s what everybody says.”

“Everybody’s right.”

I tell him how this all started, about the comment Nicky Fats made to me, as it turned out just a few hours or so before he died. “He didn’t decide at three o’clock in the afternoon to take a shower. Somebody killed him, and they killed him in Carmine’s house.”

“I doubt it,” he says. “But let’s assume for a moment that’s true. Maybe it had nothing to do with what he said to you. Was there anyone else around?”

“No. And I would think you might be right, if it had ended there.” I go on to tell him about the attempted hit on me on the highway, and the murder yesterday of Edward Young’s driver. “It simply isn’t possible that this is coincidental.”

He thinks for a moment, and then nods. “OK, again let’s assume you’re right. Nicky Fats got killed, and the same people are coming after you, trying to stop your investigation. Even if that’s all true, what are you doing here?”

Part of the truthful answer to that is I have nowhere else to go, and I want to at least fool myself with the illusion that I’m doing something productive. But I don’t think I’ll mention that.

“I’ve done some research on arrests and convictions of organized crime families, from Chicago to New York,” I say.

“And?”

“And the Desimone family has been getting off easily. Any idea why that would be?” I’m taking a risk of angering him with that question, since for quite a while he was one of the main people who was in a position to arrest them.

But if he’s angry, he’s hiding it well. “Two reasons, which are in some way connected. First of all, there are manpower priorities within the Bureau, and our resources were not aimed at them in any targeted way. Second, they have been comparatively inactive for a while, which is likely why they were not targeted.”

“Inactive?”

He nods. “Not totally, but they stayed in what you could call their low-key comfort zone. Prostitution, gambling, minor drug stuff … very little violence, or big-time drug involvement.”

“Was that unusual for them?”

“Historically, yes. But their business model has had to change because they’re not as insulated as they once were. The commitment by their people is not what it was. Less loyalty, less sense of honor, as law enforcement has made their lives more difficult.”

“Which came first, the law enforcement success, or the lack of loyalty?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Probably the success, but they sort of went hand in hand.”

“And why were you guys suddenly able to pressure them?”

“A lot of reasons, but mostly attitude. When the system decides that enough is enough, it can be really powerful. And then the surveillance methods improved, to the point where we heard everything the bad guys said.”

“What can you tell me about Tommy Iurato?” I ask.

“Typical of the new breed; loyalty is to himself. But very, very dangerous.”

“Dangerous enough to kill Nicky Fats?”

“Dangerous enough to kill anyone, without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Like the Solarnos?”

He hesitates a moment. “The jury said your client killed the Solarnos.”

“I don’t believe he did.”

He smiles. “Said the lawyer to the cop. The evidence was pretty convincing.”

Arguing Joey’s guilt or innocence is not why I’m here, so I ask, “Ever hear of Simon Ryerson?”

“No.”

“He may not be a player in the case, but I need to find out if he is, and what his business is with the Desimones. Any idea how I can do that?”

He shrugs. “Ask him?”

Luis Zavala knew and accepted his limitations. He had already risen higher than the overwhelming majority of his countrymen by achieving the position of minister of the interior. While he used to dream of someday advancing even further, perhaps even to the presidency, he eventually came to understand that his current position was as high as he was going.

The forty-nine-year-old Zavala’s limitations were political, and in no way related to his competence. He simply could not inspire the way the elected leaders could; he was neither eloquent nor charismatic. But he had done an excellent job since joining the government, a truth that was conceded to by officials both inside and outside his party.

So he was respected and relatively well off; his salary did not provide luxuries, but it certainly provided a higher standard of living than most Peruvians enjoyed. Zavala lived with his wife and two children in an upscale Lima neighborhood. He was far removed from the impoverished areas where many of the citizens lived, but tried to be sensitive to their needs.

As Peruvian government departments go, the Interior Ministry was a model of efficiency. They had proven themselves in recent emergencies, such as a terrible storm that devastated three communities. Eleven people died, but if not for Zavala’s insistence on a high level of emergency preparedness, the toll would likely have been much higher.

On this particular day Zavala could relax at home and enjoy the life he had built for himself and his family. They were celebrating a holiday called Día de Todos los Santos, known in English as All Saints Day. His wife was also off from work, and schools were closed, so the Zavalas were experiencing a rare and welcome day of togetherness.

The doorbell rang and Luis answered it. It was a young woman who explained that her car was failing to start, and she wondered if she could use the Zavalas’s phone to call for help.

Since Luis was mechanically inclined, he offered to take a look at it, and she gratefully accepted the offer. He followed her to the car, which sat with the hood open. When he walked alongside it, three men suddenly appeared behind him, one holding a gun, and shoved him into the backseat.

The woman then calmly closed the hood, got into the driver’s seat, and drove off. By the time she did so, Luis Zavala was blindfolded and gagged on the floor of the car.

Kidnappings in Peru, like elsewhere in Latin America, have increased in frequency. They are always of prominent people, since those are the ones likely to fetch significant ransoms. It is a thriving industry.

It took twenty minutes for Luis’s wife to notice that he was gone, and even then she assumed he had gone to the store or something without telling her. It wasn’t until three hours later, after checking with various friends, that she called police.

There were no leads, and all they could do was wait for the expected ransom demand. The police said that in situations like this the ransom demand usually came within forty-eight hours.

That did not happen in this case, for a couple of reasons. First, the kidnappers were not after money, at least not after ransom money. Their economic goals were much higher. Second, ransom was not demanded for Luis Zavala’s return, since he was never going to be returned.

Two and a half hours after Luis was kidnapped, he was executed with a gunshot in the back of his head.

The killing shocked the country, and the president gave the obligatory speech of outrage, vowing a return to law and order. Zavala’s deputy minister, Omar Cruz, assumed the vacated position, promising to be true to Luis’s legacy.

He was lying.

Asking Simon Ryerson anything is proving very difficult. I’ve called his office eleven times, and the first ten times an assistant told me that he wasn’t in. Each time they’ve asked what the call is in reference to, and I’ve responded that it’s a personal, legal matter.

On the last call I elevated the stakes a bit, and left word that if I didn’t speak to him, I would have to issue a subpoena. It was an empty threat, since I don’t possess the power to do so. Hatchet would make me prove relevance before I could compel him to testify, even in a deposition, and Ryerson is apparently savvy enough to know that, since he’s still avoiding me.

Between Laurie and Sam, we have gotten some information on Ryerson. He’s wealthy, having taken in almost seven million dollars in the past year. We haven’t discovered the source of that wealth though; since it’s been awhile since Ryerson has held down anything approaching a real job.

Unemployment hasn’t stopped him from accumulating frequent flier mileage. He hasn’t traveled that much domestically, flying to California once and St. Louis four times.

But interestingly, he has traveled to South America seven times in the past year. Colombia twice, Venezuela once, Ecuador once, and Peru three times. In each case he flew first class, and returned two days later. Certainly, his contact with Tommy Iurato, coupled with his South American trips, makes me suspect some involvement with drugs, but it’s obviously not something I can come close to proving.

Ryerson’s refusal to talk to me is in a strange way sort of encouraging. I’m fairly well known, and he could easily have me checked out. Because I’ve been so persistent, I would think that he would talk to me, at least to find out what I’m calling about. If he didn’t talk to me personally, he could have an associate or a lawyer learn what the issue is about.

The fact that he doesn’t do those things means he probably knows what it’s about, and doesn’t want to deal with it. And if he doesn’t want to deal with it, that could be because it’s problematic for him.

These are the kind of rationalizations that keep me going.

But Laurie is going to have to assume command of the Simon Ryerson portion of the investigation, because I’m heading into trial mode. I’ve given her the OK to spend money on finding resources in South America that might assist us in learning why Ryerson has been going there, and whether it has anything whatsoever to do with Joey Desimone’s trial.

I’m going to be totally preoccupied with the trial. That’s always the case, but I’m feeling even more obsessed with this one than most. In repeatedly going over the transcript of the first trial, I’ve been very disturbed at my performance.

I’m a better lawyer now, but I should have done better then.

And now I have a second chance.

“There is no law against adultery” is how Dylan begins his opening statement. “Nor should there be. We don’t have to like those kind of actions, and we can be disappointed when we see them, but we should not legislate against them. It’s just my opinion, but I don’t think that’s the role of government.