Play Dead (13 page)

Windshield Man has been assigned to keep an eye on me and report back on my actions. Marcus is positive that he was not sent to do me harm, and Marcus’s instincts in the area of doing harm are usually quite accurate.

This conversation is conducted within earshot of Windshield Man, who seems to show no interest in it at all. He perks up a bit when Marcus inquires what I would like to do with him. The way he asks the question, I assume my options range from letting him go to dumping his dismembered body in the river.

I opt for letting him go, after Marcus and Laurie assure me that he will not go back and accurately report what has happened to his mob bosses. To do so would not be good for his job security, or his life expectancy.

We send Windshield Man walking off into the darkness. “I’m gonna miss his wit,” I say. Laurie and I get into the car to leave, and Marcus declines a ride. I have no idea how he got here, but he’s clearly going back the same way.

It’s only a five-minute ride home, and Laurie and I talk about the situation while taking Tara and Reggie for their nightly walk.

“The list of things I don’t understand keeps getting longer,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for instance, let’s assume Petrone sent someone to kill me on the highway. Why would he then have Windshield Man just watching me? What have I done in the last two weeks that could have changed Petrone’s mind about killing me?”

“I don’t think you can make that assumption. Maybe it wasn’t Petrone who sent the shooter on the highway,” she says.

“You think there are other crime bosses out there sending hoods out after me? Maybe there’s a competition to see who can kill me first.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. But while it’s obvious that Petrone has an interest in this, he clearly isn’t the only one.”

“Keep going…,” I prompt.

“Well, there’s whoever planted the tap on your phone. Whether it’s some secret government agency or just someone with access to their equipment, it wasn’t Petrone. And don’t forget, there is also the person who murdered Stacy Harriman.”

“That could be Petrone,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so—it’s not his style.”

“To set it up to look like a murder-suicide? If he was doing it so that he could get Richard out of the way, so he could smuggle something into the country, that was the best way for him. He left no reason for anyone to suspect it had to do with Richard’s job.”

“I understand that,” she says. “But it falls apart with the pills—or the injection. Doing it that way was leaving it to chance. Petrone would have set it up to look like Richard put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It removes the chance of survival.”

It’s a good point, and one I hadn’t thought of. “So how do I find out what interest Petrone has in this?”

“You could ask him,” she says.

Yes, I could.

V
INCE
S
ANDERS KNOWS
pretty much every person in America.

And those he doesn’t know, he can get to. He has a Rolodex slightly larger than Poland. It has always struck me as an incongruity that a person as disagreeable as Vince would connect himself to humanity in this fashion, but I’ve come to believe he wants to be able to genuinely dislike as many people as possible.

Vince has always had a relationship with Petrone, and he has occasionally served as a conduit between me and the crime boss. Now that I have decided to confront Petrone and question him about his connection to the Evans case, my logical move is to contact Vince and ask him to set it up.

“Why should I?” he asks.

“What do you mean, why should you?”

“Which part of the question didn’t you understand? Why should I get you in to see Petrone?”

“Because we’re friends and because it’s important to me.”

“You want to try again?” he asks.

“Because it’s in connection with the Evans case, and if a big story comes out of it, you’ll be the first to get it.”

“Always happy to help a friend,” he says. “You got a tuxedo?”

“I do.”

“Then put it on; I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock tonight.”

I’m not understanding this. “I need to wear a tuxedo to meet with Dominic Petrone?”

“Tonight you do. Read my newspaper.”

Click.

A quick check of Vince’s paper reveals that there is a charity function tonight. The publisher of Vince’s paper is on the board of directors of the charity, as is Dominic Petrone. It is characteristic of Petrone; when he is not peddling drugs, employing hookers, laundering money, and killing his enemies, he is one heck of a public-spirited guy.

To pass the time, I join Kevin as he leaves to interview Gale Chaplin, a former neighbor of Richard and Stacy’s in Hawthorne. During the trial she proved to be a damaging witness, describing how Stacy had told her of difficulties she and Richard had been having in their relationship. She had also, according to Gale, expressed worry about Richard’s “temper.” She was the only witness to say anything like this, and it proved harmful to Richard’s case.

Chaplin and her family moved a couple of months ago to a town house complex just off Route 4 in Englewood. It’s a very desirable location because of its proximity to the George Washington Bridge and, therefore, to New York City.

She seems quite proud of the place, and when Kevin makes the mistake of admiring it, she takes that as an invitation to give us what she calls the “grand tour.” It is three stories high, and by the time we get to the top floor, I am too out of breath to give much more than admiring grunts. If I ever moved in here, the first thing I would do is interview elevator salesmen.

We finally settle in the kitchen, and Chaplin offers us coffee and cheesecake. Cheesecake is not something I understand. I consider the place for cheese to be on top of a pizza, and I reject any notion that a pizza topping can also be a cake. For instance, I would be similarly opposed to pepperoni cake.

I’ve planned to let Kevin take the lead in the questioning, but when she starts telling us in excruciating detail how much the value of the house has gone up in just the two months they’ve lived here, I feel compelled to intervene. “As I’m sure Kevin told you, we’d like to talk to you about your testimony at the Richard Evans trial.”

She nods. “I read about what’s happening; is it really Reggie? He was such a sweet dog.”

“Yes, it’s definitely him. That has been established.”

“So there may be a new trial?”

“We certainly hope so,” I say. “You spoke about Ms. Harriman confiding in you that she and Richard were having problems…”

“Yes.”

“And that she was fearful of him, of his temper.”

“Yes.”

“Were you and she close?” Kevin asks.

“No, not at all. But she came over for coffee one day, and it just started pouring out. Like she had been holding it in and had to finally tell someone.”

“Did it surprise you?”

She nods vigorously. “Very much; my husband, Frank, and I had liked Richard. He was always such a nice neighbor. But when the murder happened, I felt like I had to tell what I knew.”

“How long before the murder was your conversation?”

“About two weeks,” she says.

“And she never mentioned anything after that?”

“No, I don’t think we even talked again. She was never really that friendly; most of the time she just seemed to keep to herself. I don’t think she was a very happy person.”

“Why do you say that?” Kevin asks.

“Well, for instance, we both grew up near Minneapolis, but she wouldn’t talk much about it. She seemed well read and quite capable of talking about many subjects, as long as the subject wasn’t herself.”

“Any idea why that was?”

“Well, Richard mentioned one day that she had a difficult childhood. And then there were the problems with Richard. People from abusive households often enter into abusive relationships when they become adults. Don’t they?”

I’m not really up for psychobabble now; I’m in my pretuxedo bad mood. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I say. “I TiVo’d
Dr. Phil.
”

Kevin and I leave, and I drop him off at the office before heading home. He’s worried about my meeting with Petrone but agrees to my request to call Marcus and tell him not to interfere.

I had left a message for Laurie that I was going to a black-tie gathering, and told her she was more than welcome to come along. My investigative instincts help me anticipate her answer before she says anything; she is wearing sweatpants and has put my tuxedo out on the bed.

I don’t know much about fashion history, and as an example, I don’t know who invented the tuxedo. But whoever the father of the tuxedo might have been, he should have been neutered as a child. The tuxedo is as dumb an item as exists on the planet.

Actually, maybe the invention was a joint effort; maybe it was idiocy by committee. One dope created the bow tie, another the suspenders, another the iridescent shoes, and still another the ridiculous cummerbund.

As bad as each item is, when they are put together, especially on my body, they reach a perfect symmetry of awfulness. If you put me in Giants Stadium with sixty thousand men wearing tuxedos, I would still feel as though everybody were staring at me. I don’t just
feel
stupid when I wear a tuxedo. I am by definition stupid, or I wouldn’t be wearing one.

I go outside at 6:55 to wait for Vince to arrive, and he is characteristically late. That leaves me standing, penguin style, in front of the house, waving to smiling neighbors dressed in normal clothing.

Vince finally arrives, and I get in the car. He is dressed in khaki pants and a sports jacket with a shirt open at the neck.

“Well, don’t you look snappy!” he says.

I’m about to take my cummerbund off and strangle him with it. “You told me to wear a tuxedo.”

He laughs. “I was kidding. It’s a casino night. Where do you think we’re going, Monte Carlo?”

“So nobody else is going to be dressed like this?” I ask.

Another laugh. “You got that right.”

I tell Vince to wait, and I go back into the house. Within ten minutes I’m dressed like a normal human being and back in the car. “That was your idea of a joke?” I ask.

“No, the way you looked in that monkey suit is my idea of a joke.”

I’m so pissed at Vince that I don’t talk to him for the twenty-minute ride to our destination. He spends most of the time whistling and listening to the Mets game; I don’t think my silent treatment is bringing him to his knees.

The charity event is being held at a ballroom called the Fiesta, on Route 17 in Hasbrouck Heights. Vince parks in the general parking area rather than using the valet service, explaining that with the valet it will take too long to get out. The true reason is that this way there will be no one for him to have to tip.

We walk into the lobby, where we are required to pay for entry and to buy chips. It costs me five hundred dollars, plus another five hundred for Vince, who seems to have forgotten where his checkbook might be. Vince tells me that it’s tax deductible, as if I should be grateful for the opportunity he’s giving me.

Once I’ve paid we enter the ballroom, which is already quite crowded. There are bars in all four corners of the room, and blackjack, roulette, and craps tables are set up throughout. The only people wearing tuxedos are the dealers.

Casino nights are among the more ridiculous inventions of modern man. The chips we have purchased are merely props that give us something to gamble with; they are not worth any money. The only problem is that gambling is one hundred percent about money; it is essential to the process.

I glance over at a blackjack table where a woman is agonizing over whether to double down with eleven against a dealer showing nine. She just can’t decide whether she wants to risk five worthless chips or ten worthless chips. Her children’s college education might well be on the line.

Gambling without money is like playing baseball without a bat and a ball. It’s goofy. Yet everywhere I look, people are laughing and having fun. What kind of a world is this? Why can’t these people spend their time doing something productive, something worthwhile?

They need only look at me to follow my example. I am here to meet with the leading crime figure in New Jersey, to find out if he is trying to kill me. My mother would be proud.

“Where’s Petrone?” I ask Vince.

“How the hell should I know?”

“You said he’d be here and that he would talk to me.”

“And he will. Just relax; play some blackjack.”

I hold up the chips with disdain. “With these?”

“I’ll take them,” he says, and goes off to play with both his chips and mine.

“I’ll be at the bar,” I say, and that’s exactly where I head.

I’m on my third Bloody Mary when two men, each ten years younger, four inches taller, and forty pounds heavier than me, walk over. Their very presence is menacing to me, and I instantly wish I were at one of the tables playing fake blackjack.

“This way,” one of them says, and they start walking toward the back exit door. My mind decides to follow them, but my legs don’t seem to be impressed, and I just stand there without moving.

The two men are out the door before they realize I’m not behind them, and they come back. “You coming, or what?”

I nod, and with an enormous effort, I actually start moving. I follow them out the door and down a corridor. They stop, and one of the men frisks me to make sure I’m not armed or wearing a wire.

I’m not a big frisking fan, whether I’m the frisker or the friskee. I prefer the honor system, but these two guys don’t seem familiar with that system. They probably didn’t go to West Point.

Satisfied that I’m not carrying an M-16 in my pocket, they then open a door and stand by it, waiting for me to enter. I do so, and they follow me in.

Petrone sits in an armchair, watching the Mets game on a large-screen television. It appears that we are in some kind of reception area where pictures are taken of wedding couples or Bar Mitzvah boys who have their parties in this facility.

Both men take positions, standing with their backs to the walls. “What’s the score?” I ask.

Petrone doesn’t answer or even acknowledge my presence. It’s not until the end of the inning leads to a commercial that he looks at me. “I understand you want to talk to me,” he says. “You have three minutes.”

I nod; right now three minutes feels like two too many. “I am representing Richard Evans. He did not murder his fiancée.”

Petrone doesn’t say a word, just waits for me to continue.

“I need to find out what really happened, and I think the truth is tied into his job with U.S. Customs.”

Still no response, which is not unreasonable, since I haven’t asked a question.

“I’ve been followed, shot at, and had my phone tapped, and I have reason to believe that you know a great deal about what is going on, and why.”

Still no response; he just stares at me. I don’t think it’s with admiration.

“You can jump in whenever you want,” I say.

“I have not ordered that you be killed; it is not something that interests me either way,” he says. “That is why you are still alive. But you have the potential to interfere with something that does interest me, and you would be well advised to be very careful.”

“So you didn’t have me shot at on the turnpike?”

He doesn’t respond, and I assume it’s because he’s already answered the question by saying he didn’t order me killed. Instead he looks at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

“Okay. I have no desire to interfere in your activities; all I want to do is get an innocent man out of jail. But to help me in my noninterference, can you tell me anything about the night of the murder?”

He thinks for a few moments, as if measuring his response. “You lawyers have a tendency to go from A to B to C to D. Sometimes A doesn’t lead to D. Sometimes they are on two entirely different roads.”

“That might be a little cryptic for me,” I say. “Can I assume you have no interest in the Evans case? Is that what you’re telling me?”