One Dog Night (26 page)

“Mr. Ricci will see you in Suite 36575 of the Mandalay Bay Thursday afternoon at three
P.M.
”

“Thursday is Thanksgiving Day,” I point out.

“Tell me something I give a shit about.”

“Is Ricci aware that I am under Dominic Petrone’s umbrella of protection?”

Russo laughs. “We’ll find out soon enough, huh?”

“I’m going to bring one of my investigators, Marcus Clark.”

“I don’t care who you bring.”

Click.

Nobody says good-bye anymore.

Court is closed on Wednesday because of personal business Judge De Luca has to attend to, and it’s obviously closed for the four-day Thanksgiving weekend. Which means I only have to get through two court days, stretching it so that I don’t have to start presenting the defense case this week. The way Dylan is dragging this out, that shouldn’t be a problem.

Once the call is behind me, and I can breathe normally again, Hike and I settle in to go over the witness list and make our preparations. There is nothing in it that we haven’t gone over ten times before, but total familiarity with everything is absolutely necessary, and there’s no other way to get it.

At one o’clock I turn on the Giants game as background noise, though the truth is I pay more attention to that than the case files.

Cindy Spodek calls at halftime, which is probably a coincidence, since she is not generally that considerate.

“Is your fax number still the same?” she asks. “I have a list to send you.”

“These are people that were reported missing during that period and never found?”

“Right,” she says. “Six hundred and forty-one names.”

“That many?”

“And I’m sure there are quite a few that never made it to us. I believe this is the part of the conversation where you say, “Thank you, Cindy. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“No, this is the part where I ask if you’ve ever dealt with Carmine Ricci, and you say, ‘Sure, he’s a pussycat.’”

“You’re dealing with Ricci?”

“I’m meeting with him next week,” I say.

“I’ve got a better idea. Don’t.”

“Can’t be helped, Cindy. Any tips?”

“Besides getting your affairs in order? Andy, seriously, this is not a wise idea.”

“Did I mention it can’t be helped?”

“An hour before you see him, call my number here at the bureau on your cell phone. If you feel things are getting dangerous, show him that you made the call, and tell him that we know where you are.”

“Good idea. I will,” I say. “Thank you, Cindy. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Very well put,” she says. “Now let me talk to Laurie.”

I give the phone over to Laurie, and she and Cindy chat for about an hour. Most of Laurie’s side of the conversation consists of her saying things like, “I can’t stop him. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

I call Sam and tell him that I’m going to be faxing him Cindy’s list of names of missing persons from around the time of the fire. He can add it to Pete’s list and get started.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asks, a perfectly logical question.

“Find out whatever you can about these people. I know you don’t have time to dig too deep into each one; the public records should be enough. I want to know if they were connected to any of the people involved in this case, any of the people you’ve already found in the phone records. Pay particular attention to the various players in the Delaware trial.”

“Got it,” he says.

“How is it going on getting the judge’s phone records?”

“Should have it very soon. And then we use it to find Loney.”

“Yes, but that part is going to have to wait until I get back from Vegas. If we’re going to deal with Loney in person, I want Marcus there.”

“Okay, whatever you say. Meanwhile we’ll get started on this list.”

“Can you get more help?”

“Don’t need it. We’re fine.”

“Sam, your staff does not consist of people we want to overwork, you know?”

“Andy, they’re amazing. I tell them to go home and take the rest of the day off, they say no. I hope I’m that energetic when I’m their age.”

“I was never that energetic at any age,” I say.

As I hoped, Dylan’s big mouth works in my favor.

He spends the next two days putting on witnesses of little consequence, and then questions them as if they were crucial to his case.

None of the witnesses present direct evidence about Noah. They either talk about the extent of Noah’s addiction, or his expertise in chemical engineering.

I question each of them, and make points which show the jurors our side is still alive and feisty. But all I’m really doing is biding time until Vegas.

We have to fly out on Wednesday, since I don’t want to risk a flight cancellation that would leave me unable to make the meeting with Ricci.

I haven’t been to Vegas in twenty years, and I have no idea where to stay. When I mention that to Marcus, he says, “Mandalay Bay.”

I’m surprised that he even knows the name of a hotel there; Marcus does not seem like the Vegas type. “Why?” I ask.

“Sushi bar.”

Marcus eats sushi; this truly is a global society. Mandalay Bay is where I’m meeting with Ricci, so staying there may not be a positive. If his goons chase me out of the room with guns blazing, I don’t want to run next door to my room.

But ultimately I make the reservation there, telling the reservations clerk that I want to be as far as possible from suite 36575, which is where the meeting is. The clerk says that it’s no problem, and at the end of the call tells me to “have a lucky day.”

I’d better.

When we are leaving for the airport, Laurie hugs me very hard and long. It feels good, but less so when I realize that she is doing it because it may be the last time. Tara licks my face when I kneel down to pet her; and I whisper to her that Laurie should be her go-to person for biscuits and stomach-scratching if I don’t come back. I pet and say good-bye to Bailey, nearly waking her in the process.

I bought first-class tickets for Marcus and me from Newark to Vegas. Marcus gets through security without incident, which means he’s not carrying a gun, and he’s not actually made of steel.

The other passengers in the waiting area all seem to be staring at Marcus; he is someone you stare at until he stares back at you, and then you pretend you weren’t staring and walk away.

I can’t imagine they’re pleased that they’re going to be on the same flight as Marcus. If it’s overbooked, and the airline looks for volunteers to give up their seats, there will likely be a stampede.

Conversations with Marcus do not come easy for me, since he says almost nothing, and what he does say I can’t understand. I actually prepare a few things to say, which I figure I’ll spread out throughout the trip, and hopefully get by.

Marcus sits at the window, and I sit next to him. I turn to say something to him when the plane starts to leave the gate, but he’s sleeping. He sleeps the entire way, and I have to wake him at the gate in Vegas. This works out well, since I can now save my planned conversational tidbits for the trip home, should he happen to be awake, and should I happen to be alive.

Vegas looks nothing at all like it did the last time I was here. The cab driver takes us on the scenic, longer route, since that is the best way for him to drive up the cost on the meter.

The hotels are simultaneously remarkable and ludicrous. There is one meant to look like the skyline of New York, one of Paris, and one of Venice. They are cleverly and respectively called New York, New York, the Paris, and the Venetian.

Strangely, I don’t see any hotel designed to replicate Paterson. Perhaps “the Patersonian” is on the other side of the strip.

Marcus and I enter the hotel. Between that moment and the moment we go up to our rooms, four different hotel employees say things like, “Welcome back, Mr. Clark,” and “Good to see you, Mr. Clark.” Marcus just grunts in response, but no one seems put off by it.

Marcus has a life, and I don’t.

I meet Marcus for dinner and drinks at the sushi bar, because that’s where he wants to go. As we walk up to the person behind the desk, she lights up and starts talking a mile a minute in Japanese.

I’m about to tell her that I don’t understand what she’s saying, until I realize that she’s talking to Marcus, and “Clark” is sprinkled through the diatribe, though it sounds like “Clock.”

Marcus is smiling and nodding, hanging on every word. He even grunts in Japanese, though his normal “yuh” sounds more like “yih.”

The maître d’ comes over and joins in, and they’re laughing and chattering away, still in Japanese, which means it takes a long time to get our table. Which is fine, since I don’t like sushi anyway. Fortunately, Marcus makes up for that by eating enough for me and half the guests in the hotel.

Once he’s finished, and before the enormous check arrives, he grunts and leaves. I head up to my room, where I order room service, call Laurie, turn on the TV, and fall asleep.

I sleep maybe four hours; I’m way too stressed to relax. Marcus and I meet in the morning at the buffet, which has an unbelievable array of very appealing food. For me it represents a potentially fitting last meal; for Marcus it is a chance to provide onlookers with a lasting memory and bragging rights. They will forever be able to say that they were there the day Marcus Clark defeated the Mandalay Bay’s all-you-can-eat buffet.

Two o’clock rolls around all too fast, and five minutes before the appointed hour Marcus and I go up to Ricci’s suite. I don’t think there is any chance that Marcus will be allowed in the meeting with me; I’m sure that my being alone will be the only way I’ll get in. But I like having Marcus with me, and I want them to know he’s here.

I knock on the double doors to the suite.

It’s showtime.

“We need to meet with the judge.”

Brett Fowler had said it, and it immediately pissed Loney off.

“No, we don’t,” Loney replied, trying to remain calm. Loney always had anger issues, which was generally not a good thing for the person he was angry at.

“Yes, we do. Carpenter called him.”

“I know. I spoke to him.” Then, pointedly, “He’s my contact.”

“Then you know he’s freaking out. Look, Loney, I’m sure you think I’m stepping on your toes here, but I don’t really give a shit. This guy is about to issue his ruling. We’ve been waiting six years for this, and we’re going to make damn sure he doesn’t change his mind, or jump off a building.”

As annoyed as Loney was, he knew that Fowler was right. “Okay, I’ll set it up.”

“I already did,” Fowler said.

“You’re crossing the line.”

“I know,” Fowler said. “And I’ll cross back as soon as he issues his ruling. So for now let’s not argue about this, okay? You’re not the one calling the shots here.”

Loney also knew that was true; he was essentially a hired gun. For now. “Where’s the meeting?”

“In Delaware, about a mile from where he lives. It’s a place I have set up there.” He gave Loney the address, and told him it was a warehouse. “The last thing we want is for the judge to be seen with us, especially me.” Since Fowler was a professional political operative, such a sighting would cast any judge in a negative light.

“He’ll be there at ten tonight,” Fowler said. “Can you make it?”

“I’ll be there.”

Fowler liked the action; he always had. That’s why he’d spent seven years in the Marines, and that’s why he became a political operative in Washington. War, Fowler understood as well as anyone, is war. No matter what the battlefield looked like.

On the drive to Delaware he reflected on the progress that had been made. The only thing he had not anticipated was the speed at which the events would take place. The precipitating factor in that was the implication of Galloway. It sent things a little more out of control than Fowler would have liked, and Carpenter had proven to be something of a wild card.

But ultimately the result would have been the same; all that Carpenter had really changed were the tactics and the timing.

The big picture was intact and moving along beautifully. Holland would stay in line and rule in Entech’s favor, which was the key all along. Everything would flow from that, and quickly, since there would be nothing to impede the progress.

Galloway would probably be convicted, at least that’s what the media had been saying. Fowler really had not been paying much attention. Even though he was mostly responsible for Galloway being on trial in the first place, the end result of that trial was not particularly important.

People were going to die; there was no getting around that. Anyone who knew what was really happening, who had helped in making it happen, was going to have to die. Just like those twenty-six people had died at his hands. The secret had to be preserved, or there would be no place on the planet to hide.

That was coming soon, and Brett was gearing up, getting ready for the action, for the war.

Damned if he wasn’t looking forward to it.

He got to the warehouse at nine-thirty. Loney drove down from New York, and was there ten minutes later. It was formerly a medical supplies storage facility, but was now mostly empty. The
FOR LEASE
sign looked weather-beaten and the place was old and in terrible shape; it seemed likely that the medical supplies it housed must have included whiskey and bullets to bite on for pain.

They briefly went over the plan for the meeting. Loney would do the talking, since the judge knew him, and was aware of the danger he represented. Fowler was just there to be a calming influence, should one be needed.

Loney was to tell the judge that it was almost over; that once he issued his ruling this would all be behind him. Providing the judge kept his silence on the matter, neither Loney nor anyone else would ever call or visit him again.

It’s a message that had been delivered repeatedly ever since the trial date was established. Loney doubted the judge ever believed it, or that he would believe it now.

The fact was that it wasn’t true. The judge knew too much, and was too unstable emotionally to be trusted. It wouldn’t happen the next day, or the next week, or even the next month, but the judge would soon take his secrets to his grave.