Omerta (29 page)

“Are you going to tape this?” Nicole asked.

“Of course,” Cilke said.

Boxton said reassuringly, “Hell, we tape everything, even our coffee-and-doughnut orders. We also tape anybody we think we may have to put in jail.”

“You’re a pretty fucking funny guy,” Nicole said, deadpan. “On the best day of your life you couldn’t put me in jail. Think another way. My client Astorre Viola is meeting you voluntarily to give you an important piece of information. I’m here to protect him from any abuse after he does so.”

Kurt Cilke was not quite so charming as he had been in their previous meetings. He waved them into chairs and took his seat behind the desk. “OK,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

Astorre felt the man’s hostility, as if being on his own turf didn’t require his usual businesslike friendliness. How would he react? He looked directly into Cilke’s eyes and said, “I received information that there will be a heavily armed assault on your home tomorrow night. Late. The purpose is to kill you for some reason.”

Cilke did not respond. He was frozen in his chair, but Boxton sprang up and stood behind Astorre. To Cilke he said, “Kurt, keep calm.”

Cilke rose. His entire body seemed to blow up with rage. “This is an old Mafia trick,” he said. “He sets up the operation and then sabotages it. And he thinks I’ll be grateful. Now, how the hell did you get such information?”

Astorre told him the story he and Nicole had prepared. Cilke turned to Nicole and asked, “You witnessed this incident?”

“Yes,” Nicole said, “but I didn’t hear what the man said.”

Cilke said to Astorre, “You are under arrest now.”

“For what?” Nicole said.

“For threatening a federal officer,” Cilke said.

“I think you better call your director,” Nicole said.

“It’s my decision to make,” Cilke told her.

Nicole looked at her watch.

Cilke said softly, “Under executive order of the president, I’m authorized to hold you and your client for forty-eight hours without legal counsel, as a threat to national security.”

Astorre was startled. In his wide-eyed, childish way, he said, “Is that really true? You can do that?” He was really impressed by such power. He turned back to Nicole and said cheerfully, “Hey, this is getting more and more like Sicily.”

“If you take that step, the FBI will be in court for the next ten years and you’ll be history,” Nicole said to Cilke. “You have time to get your family out and ambush the attackers. They won’t know they’ve been informed on. If you capture any, you can question them. We won’t talk. Or warn them.”

Cilke seemed to consider this. He said to Astorre with contempt, “At least I respected your uncle. He would never have talked.”

Astorre gave an embarrassed smile. “Those were the old days and that was the old country, and besides, you’re not so different, with your secret executive orders.” He wondered what Cilke would say if he told him the real reason. That he had saved the man simply because he had spent an evening in the presence of his wife and had romantically and uselessly fallen in love with his idea of her.

“I don’t believe your bullshit story, but we’ll go into that if there is really an assault tomorrow night. If anything happens, then I lock you up, and maybe you, too, counselor. But why did you tell me?”

Astorre smiled. “Because I like you,” he said.

“Get the hell out of here,” Cilke said. He turned to Boxton. “Get the commander of the special tactical force in here, and tell my secretary to set up a call to the director.”

They were kept another two hours to be interrogated by Cilke’s staff. Meanwhile, Cilke in his office talked to the director in Washington over the scramble phone.

“Do not arrest them under any circumstances,” the director told him. “Everything would come out in the media, and we’d be a joke. And don’t fool with Nicole Aprile unless you have the goods on her. Keep everything top secret, and we’ll see what happens tomorrow night. Guards at your house have been alerted, and your family is already being moved out as we speak. Now put Bill on the phone. He’ll run the ambush operation.”

“Sir, that should be my job,” Cilke protested.

“You’ll help with the planning,” the director said, “but under no circumstance will you take part in the tactical operation. The Bureau operates under very strict rules of engagement to avoid unnecessary violence. You would be suspect if things go bad. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” Cilke understood perfectly.

A
FTER A MONTH
in the hospital Aspinella Washington was released but still had to heal sufficiently for the insertion of an artificial eye. A splendid physical specimen, her body seemed to assemble itself around her injuries. True, her left foot dragged a little, and her eye socket looked hideous. But she wore a square green eye patch instead of black, and the dark green accentuated the beauty of her mocha skin. She reported back to work wearing a costume of black trousers, a green pullover shirt, and a green leather coat. When she looked at herself in the mirror she thought herself a striking figure.

Though she was on medical leave she would sometimes go in to the Detective Bureau headquarters and help in interrogations. Her injury gave her a sense of liberation—she felt like she could do anything, and she stretched her power.

On her first interrogation there were two suspects, an unusual pair in that one was white and one was black. The white suspect, about thirty, was immediately frightened of her. But the black partner was delighted by the tall beautiful woman with the green eye patch and the cold level stare. This was one cool sister.

“Holy shit,” he cried out, his face happy. It was his first bust, he had no criminal record, and he really didn’t know he was in serious trouble. He and his partner had broken into a home, tied up the husband and wife, and then looted the house. They had been laid low by an informant. The black kid was still wearing the house owner’s Rolex watch. He said cheerily to Aspinella, without malice, indeed in a voice of admiration, “Hey, Captain Kidd, you gonna make us walk the plank?”

The other detectives in the room smirked at this foolishness. But Aspinella didn’t respond. The kid was in handcuffs and couldn’t ward off her blow. Snakelike, her truncheon crashed against his face, breaking his nose and splitting his cheekbone. He didn’t go down; his knees sagged, and he gave her a reproachful look. His face was a mess of blood. Then his legs folded and he toppled to the ground. For the next ten minutes Aspinella beat him unmercifully. As if from a fresh spring, blood started to flow from the boy’s ears.

“Jesus,” one of the detectives said, “how the hell do we question him now?”

“I didn’t want to talk to him,” Aspinella said. “I want to talk to
this
guy.” She pointed her truncheon to the white suspect. “Zeke, right? I want to talk to you, Zeke.” She took him roughly by the shoulder and threw him into a chair facing her desk. He stared at her, terrified. She realized her eye patch had slipped to one side and that Zeke was staring into that empty orb. She reached up and adjusted the patch to cover her milky socket.

“Zeke,” she said, “I want you to listen very carefully. I want to save time here. I want to know how you got this kid into this. How you got into this. Understand? Are you going to cooperate?”

Zeke had turned very pale. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

“OK,” Aspinella said to another detective. “Get that kid into the medical ward and send down the video people to take Zeke’s confession of his own free will.”

As they were setting up the monitors, Aspinella said to Zeke, “Who fenced your goods? Who gave you information about your target? Give me the exact details of the robbery. Your partner is obviously a nice kid. He has no record and he’s not that smart. That’s why I took it easy on him. Now, you, Zeke, have a very distinguished record, so I figure you’re the Fagin that got him into this. So start rehearsing for the video.”

W
hen Aspinella left the station house she drove her car over the Southern State Parkway to Brightwaters, Long Island.

Oddly enough, she found driving with one eye was more pleasurable than not. The landscape was more interesting because it was focused, like some futuristic painting that dissolved into dreams around the edges. It was as if half the world, the globe itself, had been bisected and the half she could see claimed more attention.

Finally she was driving through Brightwaters and passing John Heskow’s house. She could see his car in the driveway and a man carrying a huge azalea plant from the flower shed to the house. Then another man came out of the shed carrying a box filled with yellow flowers. This was interesting, she thought. They were emptying the flower shed.

While in the hospital she had done research on John Heskow. She had gone through the New York State car-registration records and found his address. Then she checked all the criminal databases and found that John Heskow was really Louis Ricci; the bastard was Italian, though he looked like a German pudding. But his criminal record was clear. He had been arrested several times for extortion and assault but never convicted. The flower shed could not generate the amount of money to support his style of living.

She had done all this because she had figured out that the only one who could have put the finger on her and Di Benedetto was Heskow. The only thing that puzzled her was that he had given them the money. That money had put the Internal Affairs Bureau on her ass, but she had soon gotten rid of their unenthusiastic inquiries, since they were happy to have the money for themselves. Now she was preparing to get rid of Heskow.

T
wenty-four hours before the scheduled assault on Cilke, Heskow drove to Kennedy airport for his flight to Mexico City, where he would disappear from the civilized world with fake passports he had prepared years ago.

Details had been settled. The flower sheds had been emptied; his ex-wife would take care of selling the house and put the proceeds in the bank for their son’s college expenses. Heskow had told her he would be away for two years. He told his son the same story, over dinner at Shun Lee’s.

It was early evening when he got to the airport. He checked two suitcases, all he needed, except for the one hundred thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills taped around his body in small pouches. He was wallpapered with money for immediate expenses, and he had a secret account in the Caymans, holding nearly five million dollars. Thank God, because he certainly could not apply for Social Security. He was proud that he had lived a prudent life and had not squandered his bankroll on gambling, women, or other foolishness.

Heskow checked in for his flight and boarding pass. Now he only carried a briefcase with his false ID and passports. He had left his car at permanent parking; his ex-wife would pick it up and hold it for him.

He was at least an hour early for his flight. He felt a little uneasy being unarmed, but he had to pass the detectors to get on the flight, and he would be able to get plenty of weaponry from his contacts in Mexico City.

To pass the time he bought some magazines in the bookshop and then went to the terminal cafeteria. He loaded up a tray with dessert and coffee and sat down at one of the small tables. He looked through the magazines and ate his dessert, a false strawberry tart covered with fake whipped cream. Suddenly he was aware that someone was sitting down at his table. He looked up and saw Detective Aspinella Washington. Like everyone, he was entranced by the square, dark green eye patch. It gave him a flutter of panic. She looked much more beautiful than he remembered.

“Hi, John,” she said. “You never did come to visit me in the hospital.”

He was so flustered he took her seriously. “You know I couldn’t do that, Detective. But I was sorry to hear about your misfortune.”

Aspinella gave him a huge smile. “I was kidding, John. But I did want to have a little chat with you before your flight.”

“Sure,” Heskow said. He expected he would have to pay off, and he had ten grand in the briefcase ready for just such surprises. “I’m glad to see you looking so well. I was worried about you.”

“No shit,” Aspinella said, her one eye glittering like a hawk’s. “Too bad about Paul. We were good friends, you know, besides his being my boss.”

“That was a shame,” Heskow said. He even gave a little cluck, which made Aspinella smile.

“I don’t have to show you my badge,” Aspinella said. “Right?” She paused. “I want you to come with me to a little interrogation room we have here in the terminal. Give me some good interesting answers, and you can catch your flight.”

“OK,” Heskow said. He rose to his feet clutching his briefcase.

“And no funny business or I’ll shoot you dead. Funny thing, I’m a better shot with just one eye.” She rose and took his arm and led him to a stairway up to the mezzanine, which held the administrative offices of the airlines. She led him down a long hallway and unlocked an office door. Heskow was surprised not only by the largeness of the room but by the banks of TV monitors on the walls, at least twenty screens, monitored by two men who sat in soft armchairs and studied them as they ate sandwiches and drank coffee. One of the men stood up and said, “Hey, Aspinella, what’s up?”

“I’m going to have a private chat with this guy in the interrogation room. Lock us in.”

“Sure,” the man said. “You want one of us in there with you?”

“Nah. It’s just a friendly chat.”

“Oh, one of your famous friendly chats,” the man said, and laughed. He looked at Heskow closely. “I saw you on the screens down in the terminal. Strawberry tart, right?” He led them to a door in the back of the room and unlocked it. After Heskow and Aspinella entered the interrogation room he locked the door behind them.

Heskow was reassured now that there were other people involved. The interrogation chamber was disarming, with a couch, a desk, and three comfortable-looking chairs. In one corner was a watercooler with paper cups. The pink walls were decorated with photographs and paintings of flying machines.