The Big Scam (18 page)

The caller was taking advantage of his situation, but right now, as much as anything, Egan needed to believe in something, any pinprick of light ahead, and the promise of money always glowed brightest with the illusion of hope. He closed his eyes and forced himself to forget about the cigar shop. The themeless mall music, which had increased its tempo to allegro, urged shoppers to decide on that last purchase.

Anyone with a shred of sense would have gone to the Bureau after being approached. He didn't need any more trouble, certainly not any with this potential. But the last thing FBI management wanted to deal with was another problem that had attached itself to the soon-to-be ex-agent. While the red tape of dismissal ground away at its own indifferent pace until it was safe to fire him, he was already being treated like he no longer worked there. The only one who didn't seem intent on stripping him of what little remained of his self-worth was his new supervisor. His offer of time off was an accommodation that, should it come to light, could be interpreted as giving aid and comfort to the enemy. But Egan's situation was well beyond the repair of well-meaning noncombatants. One of the unwritten laws of capitalism was that when money broke something, only money could fix it. With enough of it, he could repay what he had taken. Even if not in full, an earnest down payment could be used by a good lawyer to keep him out of prison. He opened his eyes and started toward the tobacco shop. It was time to meet the caller.

Mike Parisi checked his watch. He bought a newspaper, tucked it up under his arm, and walked out of the shop.

Egan spotted him right away, but waited to make sure he was alone. Finally he walked over to him.

“Garrett?” Egan nodded. “Let's go to the food court, I'll buy you a coffee.”

As they walked, Egan examined his face. “Do I know you?”

“No. And like I told you on the phone, I don't want to cause you any heartburn.”

“You don't think you've already done that?”

“It was important that I talk to you.”

They sat down at a table and Parisi said, “How do you take it?”

“I don't want any coffee. Just get to the point.”

“There's something we need for you to get for us. And if you do that, you'll be well paid.”

“Who is we?”

“I belong to a certain family.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Wait a minute. It's nothing like that. There was a piece of property that belonged to one of our previous members and you guys confiscated it twenty years ago. We want it. It's just a book.”

“What's in it?”

“Nothing that is going to endanger the safety of the country. It's not even evidence. It's a private matter. Useful to no one but us.”

“Just a book.”

“A twenty-year-old book.”

“How much?”

“I told you, five figures, and that's as specific as I'm going to get right now.”

“Well,
right now
I have enough problems. How do I know this isn't going to bring me more?”

“Let's say you get the book and give it to me. I pay you. I'm not sure of the federal law, but I believe that technically puts me in possession of stolen government property. Exactly who do you think I want to tell about that?”

“And if I say no?”

“I think we discussed that on the phone. If you care about your family, you don't have that option.”

“You're a cocksucker.”

“I know,” Parisi said. “And now that that's out of your system, let's move on.”

“Can I have tonight to think about it?”

“Not that there's a lot to think about, but sure, I'll call you tomorrow. I know this is out of the blue, but I'm being straight with you. When it wears off, you'll see this as a blessing in disguise.”

“Yeah. A really good disguise.”

 

No sooner had Mike Parisi left the mall than his cell phone rang. DeMiglia wanted to know how it had gone. Parisi had some reservations that he had already decided could not be admitted to the underboss, the biggest of which was the possibility that Egan would tell the FBI about the offer to ease his own problems. That didn't seem likely, but then nothing in this increasingly entangled farce did. Divulging even the smallest tremor of pessimism might cause DeMiglia to abandon the hunt for the treasure and refocus on his original, more tangible, target. “He's in,” Parisi said. Even if Egan wound up turning him down, the lie might give him another day or two. Right now that was the only out he had. “He needs money, and you know that's the best thing we can ask for.”

“When's he going to get it?”

“He said he would need some time to scout it out. I'm supposed to call him tomorrow.”

“How soon after that?”

“It depends on what he finds out. I'll let you know as soon as I talk to him.”

“You'd better hope you're right about this.” The line went dead.

PARISI BROUGHT TWO DRAFT BEERS TO THE
darkened booth and pushed one in front of Egan. “So, where we at?”

When Parisi called Garrett Egan at home, the agent had demanded they meet someplace more discreet than the mall. Parisi took this as a good sign. They agreed on the small neighborhood bar just outside Newark. Parisi swallowed a mouthful of beer and wiped the foam from his upper lip. He briefly considered checking Egan for a wire, but decided against it. The truce in their traditionally adversarial roles was tenuous enough.

Parisi hoped he was smart enough to detect any manipulation of the conversation that would indicate Egan was wearing a body recorder. The questions would be overly explicit, attempting to confirm each and every legal element constituting the crime of bribery.
So you're going to pay me this much if I do that for you.
If he couldn't detect them, then he probably deserved to go to prison.

“I want some guarantee that I won't wind up in handcuffs again,” Egan began.

“I guarantee it.”

“Meaning you can't promise anything.”

“That's right. But I think that I can guarantee that if you wind up in handcuffs,
I'll
wind up in handcuffs, and probably worse.”

“For me, worse might be better.”

“Jesus Christ, take a breath. This is not a big deal. You go get the book. You take your money and go home. Even if we got caught, it's a lousy book, not plans to the A-bomb. It's something they don't even want. Hell, it's not even theirs really. They don't even know they have it.”

“Are you ready now to tell me how much you're willing to pay?”

The way he planned to answer the question would be a test of whether Egan was wired. “I'm still not comfortable talking about money. You do what you got to do, and then you can hold me up for payment.”

“Fair enough. Where's this book at?”

It would have been easy enough for Egan to protest, to demand payment up front, but that he hadn't made Parisi more confident that he had the upper hand. “That's what you're going to have to figure out.”

“How did we wind up with it?”

“Twenty-some years ago, you guys arrested an old bookie by the name of Gustella Grimaldi. They called him Auggie. It was for some type of illegal gambling operation. In his property was a numbers ledger, I'm guessing something pocket size or maybe a little bigger.”

“That's it?”

“I told you this was easy money.”

“What's in it?”

“Not that easy.”

“You know I'm going to find out when I get it.”

“I'm aware of that. But then you'll be involved. Our trust will be a little more
established
at that point.”

“That seems reasonable. If this book is not in the bulky evidence room, it'll be in the 1-A section of the case file.”

“What's that?”

“It's a large envelope at the back of the file. For things that usually aren't the subject of the testimony. Incidental stuff like personal identification, address books, anything that'll fit in the envelope. Something they wouldn't need for prosecution. Do you know if it was used against him?”

“I think he took a cop, so there wasn't a trial. But when we tried to have a lawyer get it back, he was told the case was under appeal and the book was evidence.”

“That doesn't mean anything. They'll tell you everything is evidence just so they don't have to go through the bother.”

“What if it isn't in the file, but in that room you said?”

“The bulky room. If it's in there, it'll be more difficult. But let me see. If it's in the 1-A envelope, no one will even know it's gone.”

“How soon will you know?”

“What's the hurry? It's been twenty years.”

“I think we've discussed this enough for tonight.”

Egan shook his head slowly. “You think I'm wearing a wire.”

“I'd be an idiot not to think it's a possibility.”

“Yeah, you would be.” Egan stood up and calmly took off his shirt and undid his trousers, letting them fall to his knees. He turned around and then back again. “Okay?”

Parisi was convinced that testing the agent's sincerity further was probably not a good idea. “Okay.”

Egan pulled up his pants and buttoned his shirt. “As long as I'm going to do this, it should be tonight. I could get a call first thing in the morning, telling me I'm suspended. I'll have to go down to the main office in Manhattan, but I'll know something once I do.”

Parisi slid a small piece of paper over to him with “M” printed on it with a phone number. “That's my cell, the last four numbers are reversed. Call me as soon as you know.”

 

Charles Lansing sat at his desk out in the bullpen. He had not had one decent overhear since discovering the acoustical aberration between the vault and Vanko's office. He had not managed to elicit any further information about the “Dimino scam” from any member of the squad. Howard Snow was still a possibility, but the young agent appeared to be avoiding him intentionally.

He sat in the vault for a good fifteen minutes hoping someone would speak with Vanko so he could check the sound levels. When he came out, he saw that Sheila Burkhart was at her desk. It was almost nine-thirty. Usually when an office was under inspection, tardiness was nonexistent, which the local management offered as proof of ongoing efficiency. He walked over to her desk. “Hi, I'm Chuck Lansing. I'm on the inspection staff.”

“Sheila Burkhart,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“I'm sorry I haven't scheduled your interview, but when I was arranging them, you hadn't reported to the squad yet. Would you have time this morning?”

“I have time right now.”

There didn't seem to be any reservation in her answer. Most agents would have wanted a little time to realign their perception of the truth, to shut down certain memories and redistribute others behind the impenetrable shield of “to the best of my recollection.”

Lansing let her walk into the interview room ahead of him and then closed the door. He flipped open her file. “You're originally from Cedar Rapids.”

“Actually we have a farm about fifteen miles south of there.”

“You must find this a little overwhelming, I mean New York.”

“It takes a little longer to get around, but work's work.”

He looked back down at the file. “University of Iowa. Good school, but I don't see much extracurricular activity.”

“I had plenty of extracurricular activity. I worked on the farm every day. I was what those who got the
full
university experience called a townie.”

“No, no, I admire anyone who worked their way through school. I had a job at the library when I was in college.”

“It's like we were separated at birth.”

“Well, I know it's not exactly the same, but—”

“I'm just pulling your leg. If I could have sat around a sorority house for four years waiting for Mr. Pretty Boy Trust Fund the Third to show, I'd have been first in line to sign up. But those weren't the cards that came my way. So I did with what I had.”

“And did well. A B.S. in chemistry with a three point eight five overall. Are you planning to go to the lab eventually?”

“I'd rather remove both my eyes with a coat hanger.”

Lansing gave a short, nervous laugh. “Then what do you want to do with your career?”

“I'm doing it. I'm an FBI agent.”

Nodding like he understood, he closed her file and folded his hands on top of it. “I have to admit, I was a little surprised to find a woman on this squad. How did
you
wind up out here?”

“Doesn't it say in there?”

“Actually, I'm finding that none of the personnel files are particularly forthcoming about why people were transferred to this squad.”

“I heard that Nick Vanko was a great guy and at the time I was working for one of those supervisors who was just putting his time in until he could get promoted and become a bigger pain in the ass to even more people.” Her voice warmed slightly with a trace of sarcasm. “I'm sure you know the type.”

He wanted to believe the barb wasn't aimed at him. “I don't know if you've had much chance to interact with the other members of your squad…” He let it hang in the air, hoping that she would declare her allegiances without him having to expose the direction he wanted the interview to take. She said nothing. “You know, things like have you had any problems with anyone since you got here.”

“You mean like sexual harassment?”

Sexual harassment was perfect. “Yes, anything like that.”

“Well, my biggest complaint about sexual harassment is that I have not been the object of any.”

 

When Parisi got back to the club, Manny greeted him as soon as he walked in. “Did he go for it?”

Some of the others at their usual station around the card table looked up. “Yeah, he did,” Parisi answered without thinking, but then wondered if he was starting to believe his own lies. “At least he seemed to.”

“When will we know?”

“He's going to try for it tonight.”

Everyone smiled. “Way to go, Mike,” Tatorrio said.

“DeMiglia wants you to call him,” Dellaporta reported. “Said he tried to get you on your cell.”

“I had it turned off for the meeting.” He smiled. “Must have forgot to turn it back on.” He went into the back room to make the call. “Danny, it's Mike.”

“Well?”

“I just got back. We should know something later tonight.”

“You let me know, no matter what time.” Parisi had expected him to be a little more upbeat. After all, they were about to turn an FBI agent.

Then it came to him. DeMiglia had not thought far enough ahead. Parisi would be seen as the person who had compromised an agent, a notoriety DeMiglia wanted for himself. Worse, it would give Parisi an unpredictable amount of immunity if he were to be brought up in front of the commission on charges that he refused the orders of the underboss. For the briefest moment Parisi felt relieved. Almost accidentally, he had crawled out from under DeMiglia's authority.

Ironically, the underboss's cautious refusal to expose himself directly was going to paralyze his larger plan to eliminate the don's nephew. But DeMiglia hadn't risen through the ranks because he was incapable of adapting. The last thing Parisi needed right now was for him to devise a new strategy. It was time to put him back in charge. “I got to say, Danny, I didn't think it would work…”

“What?”

“I mean, come on, turn one of them? Everybody knows something like that isn't possible. But, goddamnit, you were right. And I played it just like you said, didn't give him room to breathe.”

DeMiglia couldn't recall giving Parisi those precise instructions but reasoned they must have been implied in his general approach to the situation. “You got to remember, I've being doing this for a long time.”

“And you'll be taking bows for this one for an even longer time. I'll call you as soon as I hear.”

“Ah, there's something else I'm curious about, but I need you to call me at that other number first.” DeMiglia, ever vigilant of wiretaps, had previously given Parisi the number of the public phone at a restaurant next door to the club where he conducted business.

“Five minutes?”

“One minute,” DeMiglia said, the authority back in his voice.

Parisi watched the sixty seconds tick off his watch, then called the number. “What'd you need to know?”

“How much did you tell him you'd pay for it?”

“I haven't given him a number, but I was thinking twenty-five grand.”

“That seems like a lot, but since you're not going to pay him, I guess it really doesn't matter.”

“Not pay him?”

“Once he delivers that book, you own him. What's he going to do, get a lawyer and sue you? He can't say anything because he stole from the FBI, so anytime you need anything from him you just threaten him with making a call to his bosses. You'll only have to do it once, then he'll understand forever.”

DeMiglia's proposal had its usual brutal practicality, but the degree of betrayal didn't seem right to Parisi. Although the agent had previously committed a white-collar crime, his involvement now was strictly to take care of his wife and children. DeMiglia, he suspected, wanted him further humiliated simply because he was FBI. “Yeah, you're right, Danny. I don't have to pay him. But there is one problem that could come up later. Say he does get convicted on that insider trading stuff. What's to prevent him from dealing me for receiving stolen FBI property? He could get himself immunity to do it. But I think if he had to tell them that he put the twenty-five in his pocket, he'll be less likely to do that.”