The Big Scam (17 page)

But then an unexplainable silence descended between them. Thinking back, Vanko realized it was simply the point at which a man and a woman, having fulfilled the routine social requirements of an encounter, would have moved on to the physical, would have found a way to touch. Even though both Nick and Sheila suspected the other felt a similar attraction, neither could ask the other to ignore their own unattractiveness. Years of uneasy glances had led them both to fear that only attractive people could feel the warmth of intimacy. To test this hypothesis and fail would leave them without hope.

He had sat parked outside her apartment for a while, thinking about how the evening had ended and wondering if he had missed some cue. Had there been any? Some neighborhood children were playing barefoot around an open hydrant to escape the August heat, their clothing pasted against their chubby brown bodies. Unnoticed by the others, one delighted boy fired his massive squirt rifle at them. Parents sat on cars parked on the sidewalk watching them, placidly smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.

Until tonight, the car accident had been the perfect coupling of crime and punishment for Vanko. At the mirror the first time, instead of pity, he found his mangled image redemptive. A normal progression toward wife and family was over, undeserved, forfeited by a few moments of self-indulgence. But now that desire had been reawakened, his self-imposed exile was in desperate need of revocation. He wanted to touch her. Just grazing her skin would have been enough, even casually, an accident they both would have known was intentional. Unlike visual recollection, aggraded by a million freeze-frames a day, touch was the sense of darkness. He wanted that single, isolated pressure, so distinct, so retrievable, a private channel to reconnect with her on demand. Vanko could still see her profile and, although it remained uncommonly plain, it aroused him. He needed to feel her.

The evening ended all at once. No “It's getting late,” not even “I'll see you tomorrow.” She walked him to the door, not even shaking his hand, as if she, too, suffered the same fear. They both knew when the evening, along with its invisible borders, had been exhausted. To venture any further might threaten whatever came next.

Vanko hadn't noticed when the four teenage boys came up to his car. One of them knocked on the window to get his attention and threw his palms up angrily. Vanko understood that to mean
LEAVE
.

He passed a fruit market that was still open, a storefront church, a laundry where the women stood around outside to escape the heat of the dryers. Graffiti was everywhere, some of it exceptionally colorful and well drawn. He stopped at a light. Four or five pairs of old sneakers hung from its crossbar. On a brick wall next to a bodega was a mural of a young brown-skinned man with a black, seagull-shaped mustache. Above the huge head were the words “In memory of Enrique Rabadan.” Toward the bottom, now mostly worn away, were the dates his life began and ended—twenty-one years in all. At the next corner was a wrecked NYPD car. A front-end collision with a white airbag hanging limply from the dashboard. The bumper had fallen off and lay immediately underneath. Vanko could see that it had been there for a while. It reminded him of those images in Afghanistan after the Soviets had left, their destroyed tanks along the roadside like some monument to the nation's indomitability.

The humidity felt like it was pouring in the open windows, so he closed them before dialing his sister's number.

“'Lo.”

“Nancy, it's Nick.”

“Mmmm, hi.”

“You were sleeping.”

He could hear her turn over. “It is almost one in the morning. Anything wrong?”

“No, nothing. It's nothing. Sorry, I'll call you tomorrow.”

“No, it's all right. Just let me slip downstairs so I won't wake the kids.”

After a minute, she said, “I don't know which is more surprising, you calling this late or not knowing what time it is. What's up?”

“I've met someone. I think.”

“You think?”

“Just recently. I'm not sure how she feels.”

“So you're calling in the middle of the night trying to get me to tell you some woman I don't know is interested in you.”

“That's what I love about you the most, the way you beat around the bush to spare my feelings.”

“As firstborn, that's my job. So, who is she?”

“She's an agent. Sheila Burkhart.”

“Interesting that you put her profession before her name.”

“Meaning what, Doctor?”

“Like it's something you had to get off your chest. Is there something wrong with a woman having that job? Christ, Phil sells insurance. No, wait a minute. This isn't a test run to see how Mom and Dad are going to react, is it?”

“No…well, maybe a little.”

“To tell you the truth, I'd be surprised if at this point they'd object to anyone of a childbearing age. Anyway I already like her.”

“Why?”

“Because she isn't Greek.”

“You do remember that we're Greek.”

“Only too well. I'm the good daughter; I married a nice Greek boy.”

“What's wrong with that? Phil is a good guy.”

“Phil's a great guy. And most of the time I feel very lucky. It's just that sometimes the whole thing gets so Old Country. Every Sunday at the restaurant with the cast of thousands. Weddings are month-long nightmares that seem to occur every two weeks. And funerals, well, you know those are always the Greeks' finest hours.”

“Weddings and funerals? Let's slow it down a little, I just met her. I needed to talk to someone. It's all kind of uncharted territory, since…”

“The accident.
It's all right to say it, Nick.”

“Okay, okay. I just don't want to get my expectations up.”

“Why not? Life is expectations.”

“Even false expectations?”

“You have to look at the possible consequences. Isn't what might happen worth taking a minor ding to your ego if it doesn't work out?”

Vanko laughed. “I'm afraid when it comes to this stuff, there's no room left on my ego for even minor dings.”

“Enough, Nikko. Did you call for advice or for someone to listen to you wring your hands?”

“With some reluctance, I'll choose advice.”

“Then pick up the phone right now. Calling in the middle of the night will show her you're interested. It sounds like someone needs to take a risk.”

“Thanks, Nancy. I'll let you know.”

Despite knowing his sister was right, he wasn't ready to completely throw caution to the wind. He could talk to Sheila about what he had seen in the photographs. She answered on the first ring.

“It's me.”

“Me who?” she teased.

“The guy who was at your apartment tonight.”

“You're going to have to be a little more specific.”

“You know, tall, dark, Picasso-esque.”

She laughed. “Oh, Supervisor Vanko.”

“I need to ask you something, but I don't want to start an argument over it.”

“I'll do my best.”

“How sure are you that there's a serial killer?”

“Does that mean you don't think I'm crazy?”

“I guess that depends on your answer. The task force says there's only one victim. You said you think there's more.”

“Fair enough. I think he's now disposing of the bodies instead of displaying them like he did with the first one.”

“Are serial killers able to change their MOs like that? I thought part of their power trip was showing off their handiwork.”

“It is. But don't forget what I said. Each one of them is different. After Suzie Castillo was found, we started asking people for DNA samples. The media got wind of it and reported that the killer had left biological evidence at the scene or on the victim. He knew he screwed up. I think he just started disposing of the bodies after that, knowing that a single homicide in East Harlem is much easier to forget about than a serial killer stalking young girls. And if I'm right, it's worked, because everybody has moved on from the Suzie Castillo case.”

“Then who are his other victims?”

“You saw the photos on my wall.”

“And I saw the ones you took
off
the wall because they had found their way home.”

“Most of those eight that are still up there have been missing longer than any of those in the box. Are some of them runaways? Maybe. But I've talked to all these families. Some of these girls are simply not the kind to take off.”

“Okay, how many of the eight are possible victims?”

“All of them…none of them, I don't know,” she said. “If you don't believe there are other victims, why are you asking me these questions?”

He thought again about the way she was living. Even if Suzie Castillo was the killer's only victim, maybe they could get lucky and catch him. “Okay. I saw something in those photos.”

He could already hear her moving across her apartment toward the wall.

“Look at the school photo of Suzie. See how there's a faint glow of light around her?” Sheila didn't answer. “You have to look closely. She has a few hairs out of place. They're much lighter in color. It's caused by a technique called rim lighting. It's done by putting a low-intensity light source immediately behind the subject and using a darker background.”

“I can see it now.”

“I've never heard of a school photographer going to that much trouble.”

“Like he enjoys his work a little too much.”

“Possibly, but that's not all. Of your eight missing girls, I spotted three of them photographed with the same technique.”

“I see it. So out of these nine girls, four of them were photographed by the same person.”

“That's what it looks like. It could be just a coincidence.”

“Would it be all right if I took a couple of days to check it out?”

“Maybe it wouldn't take that long if some of the squad helped you.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You don't know how much I appreciate that, Nick.”

“I like the sound of that.”

MIKE PARISI WAS THE ONLY ONE IN THE KITCHEN
when the phone rang. “Hello.”

“Who's this?” The voice was a little unsure.

“This is Mike. Who's this?”

“You don't need to know who this is, Mike. I used to live in the neighborhood, and you guys helped me out of a small jam once. I'm just calling to repay the favor.”

“Okay.”

“I saw that crap in the paper about that Baldovino guy getting arrested and how the fucking FBI made fun of him, but there's something the papers don't know about the FBI.”

“Go on.”

“I live over in Jersey now, and I got this neighbor, he's with the FBI. He doesn't tell anybody, but his kid told my kid. Couple of days ago I'm watching the news, and they're talking about this broker named Sam Shelby being arrested for insider trading. They show him being brought out in handcuffs. He's holding his hands up trying to hide from the camera, but I see it's this agent. His real name is Garrett Egan. I don't like him. He's one of these people who's always looking down his nose at you. At first I'm thinking this is some kind of undercover deal, but then I figured out it can't be. He wouldn't have been on TV like that where people could blow his cover. And ever since then, we haven't seen him or his family. They don't come out. Our kids play Little League together. They stopped coming to the games. And now their house is up for sale. And it's priced to sell quick. Evidently he needs money. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Anyway I just thought you'd like to know. Maybe you could call the reporter who did the story on your friend and tell him about it. I'd love to see that in the paper.”

“I'd like to see that myself. I appreciate this,…”

“Chris.”

“Why don't you give me a number where I can get ahold of you.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to help you guys out. Like I said, you helped me out of a jam in the neighborhood a ways back, and I always felt like I owed you one. Maybe this'll even us.” He hung up.

Parisi turned around to find DeMiglia's driver, Angelo, standing behind him. It had only been two days since he had given the map to the underboss, and he had hoped it would take a long time to have its authenticity decided.

“Danny would like to see you. Outside. In the car.” Had the map proven a forgery—or worse, had DeMiglia found him out? If it was good news, why hadn't the underboss come himself? As he walked out of the club, he silently chanted the don's words:
Panic is an enemy.
Angelo opened the back door to the Cadillac and Parisi got in.

“You think that's cute not telling me it was only half the map? That the Feds have the other half?” DeMiglia said. “What kind of cutesy bullshit is that?”

“I knew you'd find out, it's right in the journal, but you were so skeptical I thought if I told you that, you'd blow the whole thing off without getting it checked. And if it was a fraud, then it wouldn't matter if half was missing.”

DeMiglia thought about it for a few seconds. “You're right, I wouldn't have had it checked.”

“Is it real?”

Smugly, DeMiglia asked, “Do you know anything about those guys that check documents?”

“Not really.”

One corner of DeMiglia's mouth turned up. “All these so-called experts, they're scared to death of being wrong, so they'll never come right out and say, Yes, it's a forgery, or, No, it's legit.” DeMiglia picked up the map from the seat. It and Joseph Baldovino's journal were now encased in a large clear plastic envelope. “The bottom line is, the best these guys will say is”—and now he read—“‘no evidence of forgery.' But he did say that the handwriting at the edge of the map with the words ‘Lulu's map' was written by the same person who wrote in the journal. Manny's sure that's his old man's handwriting, right?”

“He's positive. You have to admit, it is pretty distinctive.”

DeMiglia went on, “Also the paper used for the map was ‘consistent in its construction with that used sixty-five to seventy years ago.' The same thing for the paper in the book ‘twenty to twenty-five years ago.' And there was ‘no feathering of the ink in either document.' ”

“What's feathering?”

“The way he explained it to me, when paper gets old, it becomes dry and”—he looked at the second page of the report—“porous. If you try to get old paper and write on it, the ink gets blurry, that's feathering. Not to the naked eye, but he's got one of these super-microscopes and can see all that little bullshit. So what's he's saying is the ledger was written twenty years ago and the map seventy-five years ago. Now the clincher is the ‘foxing.' Do you know what that is?”

“Foxing? No.”

“Old paper gets these little patches on them. They're different colors. I think he said moisture causes them. Almost like the paper gets moldy. On the map, there was ‘evidence of foxing,' while on the journal, there was none at all.”

“Why would that be?”

“At first he said he couldn't be sure, but then he asked if I knew where they were stored. When I told him about the bank vault, he said that would prove they were authentic because the controlled temperature and humidity there wouldn't produce foxing.”

“But because the map was fifty years old before it was put in the vault, it would have foxing,” Parisi said.

“Exactly. Then he said that he had wondered why the foxing on the map wasn't a little more developed, but being in the vault for the last twenty years would explain that.”

“So the map is real.”

“I finally got him to say that, but only off the record. There's one other thing he found.” DeMiglia flipped to the last page. “By the way, I didn't tell him what it was a map to.” He went back to the report. “ ‘Next to the X that is presumed to mark the object of the map, there is the beginning of a line drawn leading toward the torn edge of the paper, indicating that a line may have been present before the document was divided. The other detailing on the map indicates that this line may have been consistent with other areas on the map, which contained additional directions.' ” Parisi nearly mentioned that he had also noticed the mark, but remembered DeMiglia's disdain for anyone who knew more than he, or as much.

“In other words,” DeMiglia continued, “it looks like when they cut up the map, they tried to make sure the treasure couldn't be found without both halves put back together.”

“Now that we know it's real, maybe we can find it anyway.”

“Hey, it was a fun little pipe dream, but without the other half, it's over. Face it, Mike, it's time to get to work on other plans.”

Uncharacteristically, Parisi found himself wondering just how well guarded the FBI office was. Could a good burglar get in there at night or on the weekend? But they had to have thousands of files, how would he find it? Then it hit him.

“Danny, what if I could come up with a way to get the other half?”

“No more bullshitting around. You're doing the diamond job. I'm calling Jackie Two Shoes and buying that hebe's paper.”

Parisi gave him the details of the phone call about the FBI agent. Revenge ignited in DeMiglia's eyes. To give the possibilities a few seconds to sink in, Parisi lit a cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. “Maybe we can flip this guy. Think about it. We'll offer him money for the file. It's not like he's giving up government secrets, he's just returning our property. He's going to get fired anyway. He needs money to pay back what he stole. It's not that far-fetched.”

“How do you know it's even true about this guy? Maybe it's somebody who looked like him.”

“Like I told you, the guy who called is his neighbor. The family hasn't gone out since it happened, and they put the house up for sale.”

“Can you call this guy back and get some more info?”

“No. He just gave me his first name. Chris.” Both men sat thinking until Parisi said, “Wait a minute. The phone in the kitchen's got caller ID.”

They hustled out of the car. In the back room, Parisi grabbed the cordless handset and pressed the search button. “Here it is, Christopher's Plumbing Supply. He said the agent lived in his neighborhood in New Jersey.”

“Call him.”

Parisi hit the redial button.

“Christopher's Plumbing Supply. This is Chris. Can I help you?”

“Chris, Mike Parisi.”

There was dead quiet. “Yeah, Mike, how'd you get this number?”

Apparently DeMiglia was right. “We have lots of friends, Chris. And very few enemies. And you called us as a friend, right?”

“Right.”

“And we want it to remain that way. I need that agent's phone number and address.”

“You're not going to do anything to him, are you?”

“And have the entire FBI after us? No, I'm thinking about your idea of calling the papers. If they had his phone and address we would be taken a lot more seriously. Plus it would be easier for them to make his life miserable.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I'll get it. Hold on.” When he came back on the line, he said, “Okay, let me see…here it is.”

After the plumbing-shop owner gave him the numbers, Parisi said, “Chris, if you ever need anything, you've got our number.”

“Thanks.” There was some hesitation in his answer. Parisi supposed he was wondering if they were going to call the newspaper with the information or whether more drastic plans were being made. “But I told you why I was doing this.”

Parisi hung up. “I've got to say, Mike, that wasn't bad.” DeMiglia looked at the piece of paper with the agent's phone number and address and handed it back. “In fact, it was so good I think you can handle Agent Garrett Egan yourself.”

Parisi was surprised. DeMiglia had a reputation for believing that revenge was a dish most delicious served hot and from his own hand. As he now did with every order from the underboss, Parisi searched for its false bottom. This one was relatively easy to locate. To turn the agent, a bribe would have to be offered. Ever cautious, DeMiglia did not want to be the one who could be charged with the crime. And at the same time, should Parisi be arrested in the act, it was almost as good as sending him out on the diamond job, which saved DeMiglia the fifty thousand he would have had to pay the New Jersey bookie to assume the diamond merchant's uncollectable gambling debts, an amount he evidently felt worth its potential return. Parisi felt pleased with himself for developing insights into such stratagems. Then another reason for the large payout occurred to him. If the plan backfired and DeMiglia's motives were questioned for sending the inexperienced
capo
to commit such a crime, the large sum of money, out of his own pocket, could be offered as proof of his good intentions.

The important thing right now was that DeMiglia had been sidetracked again. But Parisi had worked himself into the very corner he had tried to avoid: the FBI on one side and Danny DeMiglia on the other. As walnuts went, not very promising.

 

Garrett Egan let his phone ring a dozen times before he answered.

“Garrett?”

Egan didn't recognize the voice, an occurrence that, since his arrest, had made him extremely cautious. “Who's calling?”

“Someone who wants to help you.”

Egan laughed harshly. “This should be good.”

“I'm dead serious. You need money; I have money.”

“Who is this?”

“Lots of money.”

“I'm hanging up unless you tell me who this is.”

Parisi sensed Egan's reluctance to do so. Chris had to be right about him being desperate. “You're going to have to meet with me to find out.”

“I'd have to be nuts.”

Egan sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Parisi.

“This is all very friendly. I'm talking about a lot of money with a minimum of effort.”

“Sounds like a way to get into trouble.”

“I was hoping it sounded like a way out of trouble,” Parisi said.

“Whoever you are, I'm going to pass. Don't call here anymore.”

“I can call you, or I can call the newspapers…Sam Shelby.”

“Who are you?”

“I'm a person who needs a small favor, nothing illegal. No risk to you.”

After a long pause, Egan asked, “How much is a lot of money?”

“It's negotiable, but no less than five figures.”

Again Egan didn't answer right away, but Parisi knew the agent didn't have any choice if he wanted to spare his family further disgrace. “Someplace very public. The Green Ridge Mall in an hour. Outside the cigar shop.”

“I'll have a newspaper under my arm. And Garrett—or Sam—in an hour and a half, it'll be too late. I'll have called the papers.”

With just an hour left until closing, the mall was quickly becoming deserted. Egan sat as far from the cigar shop as he could and still keep an eye on its front door. He watched with dark amusement as the shoppers thinned from around him.
Even here.
Even here, he was becoming more alone by the minute. With the FBI methodically severing all ties to him, it seemed like the entire world was becoming part of the conspiracy.
Great, the first signs of paranoia.
He shifted his weight on the hardwood bench and discreetly tried to read the faces hurrying toward the exits.