The Big Scam (12 page)

“Let me see if I can't check some of this out,” Ida said. “If we can find out who Luitu is and this Marty Krompier, maybe something'll match up.”

“How're you going to do that?” Parisi asked.

“I'll run over to the library.”

Dellaporta gave a short, hard laugh. “You think they got books on this stuff?”

“Maybe. If not, they've got free Internet service. That's where I was running all the addresses we were going to use for those home equity scams. If there's any information available on this, that's where it'll be.”

“How long you going to be?” Manny tried to disguise his excitement.

“If there's a computer available, an hour, more or less.”

“Hey Tommy, they got any magazines there?” Dellaporta asked.

“Not that you'd like.”

“The fuck you know what I'd like?”

“All theirs have words.”

JACK STRAKER AND HOWARD SNOW SAT DOWN
across from Vanko who asked, “Is the inspector out there?”

“His Majesty, Charles the Sniveler?” Straker said. “I saw him leave about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Jack, we're trying to lull this guy to sleep. Please don't go twisting his nipples.”

“Nick, he isn't about to go to sleep with his career making all that noise.”

Vanko looked at Snow. “Any chance you can help keep your partner in check?”

“Shouldn't be a problem, I'll just use the same approach I did when I got him to baby that Mercedes.”

Vanko shook his head. “After I'm fired, I'm going to look for a job working with adults.”

“That's the attitude, Nick,” Straker said. “Screw him.”

“Actually, I've got you in here because of another problem. Something to keep idle hands busy. The SAC wants to see what we can do about the Judge Ferris disappearance.”

“Let me save you some time,” Straker said. “It was Danny DeMiglia, in the library, with the candlestick.”

“I know it's been a while since you've been in a courtroom, but juries have this quirk about not voting guilty based on hunches, even if they are yours, Jack.”

“I thought the state police were taking the lead on it,” Snow said. “At least they're the only ones I see on the news talking about it.”

“This would be more of an unofficial inquiry.”

“In case you're wondering, Howie,” Straker said, “that means, Let's have the expendables do something stupid and see if it works. If it doesn't, it's not like they're losing real agents.”

“Like you'd want it any other way,” Snow said.

Vanko handed a sheet of paper to Straker. “I reviewed the intelligence file on DeMiglia. That's a list of his known associates. I'm sure you could charm one of them into helping us. And for the time being, this is just between the three of us.”

“Because of the new guy? What's his name—Egan?” Straker said.

“Let's just say not all loyalties have been established yet.”

As the two agents were leaving, Abby appeared in the doorway. “You didn't tell me we were getting another agent.”

“Why, is someone here? No one called me.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, bring him back.” Vanko settled behind his desk. “What's his name?”

Over her shoulder, Abby laughed and said, “Sheila.”

Vanko bolted to his feet. He had never had a female agent on the squad; he had never even considered it. As a rule, women in the Bureau didn't get into trouble, which was the usual route to the Opera House. Dropping a woman into the midst of his little penal colony could cause problems. It was difficult enough keeping the troops focused on the task at hand without a pair of breasts distracting them. He walked out through the hinged door to the reception area. “Hi, I'm Nick Vanko.”

The woman emerged from a shadowed corner, and Vanko was struck by how plain her face was. While none of its features were particularly unattractive, its composite was one of overwhelming ordinariness that would be difficult to memorize. Her age was hard to judge. Her skin was coarse and stippled and had a worn maturity to it that he suspected had haunted her even in childhood. At the same time, it did not have the looseness of middle age. Surprisingly, she wore no makeup, as if she had surrendered all social expectations and had convinced herself that appearance and its eventual purpose, companionship, were no longer a possibility, or even a desire. She was noticeably underweight, and from her baggy black pants suit, he guessed that she had lost a good deal of the weight recently. Her slender figure didn't seem to have a curve to it, but it was impossible to tell under the shapeless clothing.

Although he had deflected a thousand reactions to his own face, he could not pull his eyes from hers. Then he noticed her hair. He could see that given a little care, it would have been striking. It was rich and thick, but it appeared to have been pushed into its present disorder with the towel that had dried it. Was she afraid that exhibiting its fullness would further diminish her face? Her eyebrows and lashes were dark and lustrous and made her skin seem even paler, irreparably coarser. Her pupils, bezeled by pure cognac irises, were widely dilated and gave her a look of hollow distraction, of chronic exhaustion. The survivor of a catastrophe, or possibly still in its grasp.

An agent's appearance was a difficult thing to stereotype, but Vanko started to wonder if she even was an agent. She seemed to possess none of the requisite hauteur of authority that was issued with a badge and gun and, with rare exception, jealously maintained.

She extended her hand and looked at him like no one had since the accident, totally free of discomfort. “Sheila Burkhart.” Her voice was worn out, husky, yet sensual.

Her handshake was surprisingly firm. “What squad are you coming from?” It was a question subtly designed to test whether she was an agent, but he immediately regretted it.

She opened her credentials. “I assume this is what you're really asking.” She smiled and suddenly he saw her confidence. Although vulnerable to the pressures of the moment, it was part of a thick vein that ran deep, ingrained by the kind of successes that came from hard work.

He glanced at her photo and saw a different person. The issuing date was three years earlier and she looked noticeably more robust, but still unquestionably plain. “Oh no, that's all right.”

“Don't be embarrassed, I've had to show them more than once lately.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Come on in.”

Instead of sitting behind his desk, he took a chair next to her. “What squad
are
you being transferred from?”

“You really didn't know I was coming.”

“It's been kind of crazy with the inspection and all.”

“You don't have to make excuses to spare my feelings. You'll find I'm pretty impervious to criticism.”

He smiled. “That would explain how you got here.”

“I like that. Most supervisors wouldn't admit that their squad was the office dumping ground.”

“Most agents wouldn't admit they had been dumped.”

“If that's your way of asking what I did to be sent here, it's pretty clever.”

“I'd rather hear it from you than the front office. I have a feeling your version will contain a lot less topspin.”

“Fair enough. In a word, they think I'm crazy.”

“Are you?”

“Probably. A little, anyway.”

“Then I'm afraid you're underqualified to be around here.”

She laughed. “I smell coffee. Can I get a cup before I burden you with your newest problem's autobiography? I've only had thirteen or fourteen so far today.”

Vanko stood up. “Sure. How do you like it?”

Sheila stood up. “No, I'll get it.” Vanko directed her to the coffee machine. “Can I get you some?” she asked.

“No thanks. Ten's pretty much my limit.”

Holding the paper cup between both hands, she sat back down and took small scalding sips between sentences. “I was working on a violent crimes task force. Mostly NYPD, a little bit of ATF, a couple of DEA, state police, blah, blah, blah. But the work was first-rate. Mostly serial offenders, rapists, a bank stickup crew, a couple of home-invasion gangs. Then a year ago, some
fucking
animal up in Harlem raped and strangled a twelve-year-old girl.” Vanko was stunned, not by her expletive, but by the hatred with which she spit it out, as scorching as any man he had ever heard. “It is my opinion that he has killed other girls since then.” The last sentence was slower and more formal, as if it had been delivered too many times before as a defense.

“I don't think I've read anything about it.”

“Clever
and
tactful. I've only been here five minutes and you've figured out why I was sent packing from the task force.” She waited for him to say something, then continued. “I was the only woman on the task force, and because Suzie Castillo—that's the twelve-year-old victim—was a female, they made me lead investigator. Which makes sense. So I start working it, knowing nothing about homicide investigations. But I do know a little about serial offenders because of the cases we were working. No matter what the profilers tell you, each one is different. You have to learn as you go, not only about how to, but you've got to learn about the individual you're looking for. So I start working it like a maniac, and before I know it, this thing's got ahold of me. I'm working sixteen hours a day, sometimes straight around the clock. I don't notice it, but everyone is starting to pull back from me. I guess they could see that it was taking me over. But I couldn't.” She sipped her coffee.

“And that's why you're here?”

“More or less.”

“ ‘More or less' usually means more.”

“Hey, I'm sure you want me to leave a little mystery, something for you and the people downtown to gossip about. Or are you trying to tell me that you're not going to call the office to find out if what the wacko has told you is really true.”

“The minute you leave.”

She took another sip and looked at him. “What happened to your face?”

Vanko felt himself flush, but he sensed that she was asking the question more to find out about him than about his face, and his reaction would reveal a lot. “People don't usually ask that,” he said without the slightest trace of anger.

“Look at this face. The only thing it's ever earned me is the right to ask that question.”

He did look. There were small indications of her dissatisfaction with its effects on the world. In unguarded moments, fatigue turned down the corners of her mouth and her eyebrows knitted themselves together sadly.

“There's nothing wrong with your—”

She held up her hand.
“Bup, bup, bup,
I've only known you fifteen minutes, but you seem like an unusually honest guy. Don't ruin it.”

“Fair enough. Nine years ago, I was working surveillance and we had a multi-kilo deal on some Colombians. The guy I'm on gets hinky and takes off. I'm a relatively new agent, but fortunately off probation. I take off after him. He gets it up over a hundred on the expressway, and I'm on him. But, as I was about to find out, I was out of my league. Intentionally, he cuts into this woman and forces her into me. And…” He pointed at his own face. Momentarily, the life disappeared from his eyes.

“And her?”

In a strained voice, he said, “She died.”

“Jesus!”

They both lapsed into silence.

Finally she said, “Maybe you're right, maybe I'm not crazy enough to fit into this squad.” When he failed to smile, she asked, “So tell me about the worst day I'm going to have around here.”

Vanko pinched the end of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “If the inspector we've drawn has his way, they'll all be the worst.”

“I'd offer to sleep with him, but that usually makes things worse.” Vanko finally laughed. “In case he asks, what am I supposed to be doing around here?”

“Well, we do a lot of photography. Have you had any experience?”

She stood up and moved over to the row of his immigrant photos. “Actually, I'm pretty good.” She examined each of the photographs. “Some people try to become accomplished photographers so they'll always be asked to take the photos.” She turned back to him. “That way they never have to be in them.”

 

Just before Tommy Ida returned from the library, Baldovino maneuvered Parisi into the back room. Manny took out half of the silver certificates and handed them to his boss.

“What's this?”

“I told you we'd split whatever I made in Atlantic City.”

“You didn't go to Atlantic City. Besides, this is a gift from your father.” Parisi tried to hand them back.

“My father was an honorable man. This gives me the chance to be what he taught me. Please.”

Parisi could see that Manny needed to do this, to offset the problems he had brought to the crew by the only means at his disposal. To Parisi, the gesture represented more than money. For the first time he understood that loyalty had a downward arc. Not only was he responsible for protecting the don, but, just as important, for protecting the men who had sworn their allegiance to him. “You know, Manny, sometimes you knock me out.”

Ida walked in, carrying a thin roll of papers. The others filed in without a word.

He laid the pages on the table. “There's quite a bit of stuff on the Internet about the Dutchman's treasure. There's chat rooms, maps of Phoenicia, there was even a television documentary done on it. They all say the same thing: a map does exist. Schultz, whose real name was Arthur Flegenheimer, was about to go on trial and thought he had a better-than-even chance of doing some time. So he and Lulu Rosenkranz drove up to Phoenicia one night with this iron box. Like I said, the Dutchman was a real miser, so it was loaded with most of what he had accumulated—gold, jewels, and cash. It was supposed to total seven million.”