The Big Scam (19 page)

“Hey, it's your money. If you want to throw it away, go ahead. Me, I wouldn't give the prick a dime.”

That DeMiglia didn't attempt to argue the point told Parisi that he had considered the possibility of Egan turning on him for nonpayment, another win-win situation for the underboss.

“For me it's just a little insurance,” Parisi said. “If he does come up with the other half of that item, what should we do next?”

“Take it to my document guy. Make sure it matches up with what we got.”

“That makes sense.”

“You really think he's going to come through?”

“I think he's going to try.”

“Wouldn't that be something, Dutch Schultz's treasure.”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Parisi apologized in his head to Manny and Joseph Baldovino. “If it's in your possession, do you think people are going to refer to it as
Dutch Schultz's
treasure?”

 

It was after one o'clock in the morning when Egan finally called Parisi at the club. “Believe it or not, I got it. It was right where it was supposed to be, right there in the back of the file. I guess in the old days the filing system was much simpler. If you put it in there today, you'd never find it.”

“Where are you, I'll come and get it.”

“Hey, I'm desperate, not stupid. I believe possession allows me to set some of the rules.”

“Within reason,” Parisi said coolly. “What's bothering you about me coming and getting it?”

“A few things, like what's to prevent you from just taking the book and not paying me? It's not exactly a case I'd want the circuit court of appeals to hear.”

“True. How about I bring you the cash. You can leave, secure it, and then come back with the book.”

“That's very trusting of you.”

“Do I have any choice?”

“No, you don't. Which brings me to the important part of this. I've looked through the book, and I found a map.”

Parisi figured there was a better than even chance that would happen. “Go ahead.”

“I want to know what it's to.”

“That doesn't concern you.”

“I thought you mob guys had a better grasp of the laws of supply and demand.”

“And I thought you FBI guys had a better grasp of how appealing vengeance is to us mob guys.”

“I think there's strength to both arguments. Apparently, we need to come to some sort of agreement beforehand.”

“We can try,” Parisi said. “I was thinking twenty-five thousand for a couple of hours' work is more than fair.”

Egan didn't say anything right away. “Having a background in business—finance to be specific—I would interpret that to mean that whatever this map leads to has got to be worth at least, oh, four to five million dollars, probably more. Am I close?”

“Close enough.”

Egan sounded like he was talking through a smile. “That you would so readily agree means that it's worth two to three times as much. So now we're talking about ten to fifteen million. Isn't that a little closer?”

Parisi couldn't believe he had felt sorry for this greedy bastard. “It was buried over sixty years ago, and no one knows for sure what's inside, but the estimates, in today's dollars, go as high as fifty million.”

“Fifty million! Who buried it?”

“Dutch Schultz.”

“The old gangster?”

“That's the one.”

“How come you're being so straight with me?”

“For one reason, you were pretty much figuring out how much it could be worth on your own. But we've been out to the general area where it was buried, and I think we might need your help with more than just getting the map. Don't get me wrong, the map is important, but a lot has changed out there. And the government has access to things that we don't. We might need more from you. That's why. Now, how much?”

“Help how?”

“Who knows? I'm just trying to think ahead. Maybe some part of the map is in code. You guys got the best code breakers. Or maybe something with satellites. I don't know, something like that.”

“Two million.”

Parisi didn't want to seem too easy. “One million.”

Egan chuckled. “You're forgetting I've got the map.”

“Okay, two million, when we find the box.”

“No, I can't wait. I want it up front.”

Parisi laughed. “Stop and think for a second. I'm going to pay you two million dollars, and we may never recover the treasure? Do you really think I'd do that? Plus, if I did give it to you up front, where's your incentive to continue to help us?”

“Okay, two million when you find it, minus a hundred thousand up front.”

“Haven't you been reading the papers? The FBI has put us into Chapter Eleven. We don't have that kind of cash.”

Egan was silent for a few seconds. “Then what are you thinking?”

“When this was buried, supposedly it was worth as much as seven million, but who knows. So I propose a percentage. Five percent. So, if it winds up being worth fifty, your end will be two and a half million.”

“Ten percent.”

Parisi thought about what DeMiglia would do. “There's a reason greed is one of the deadly sins. Right now, I'd say the deadliest.”

“Okay, five percent, but I still get the original twenty-five thousand on delivery of the map.”

Parisi was pleased. With all the games, he was paying exactly what he had originally offered, twenty-five thousand. He had more than twice that in a floor safe in his basement at home. “I'll need the map tonight.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

THE AIR IN EAST HARLEM WAS THICK WITH
humidity and it was only 7:00 a.m. Vanko's squad sat in the small courtyard between the Church of the Miraculous Medal and the rectory, drinking coffee from a nearby bodega. The shadowed garden with its stunted locust trees and gently overgrown bushes seemed misplaced, anachronistic, a refuge from the very problems it was the church's duty to combat.

Sheila came out of the rectory door with the priest. They shook hands, and she walked over to the group. “Is everyone here?” she asked Vanko.

“Everybody but Brad.”

Straker said, “What about that new guy, Mr. Happy Face?”

“Egan? He called me at home last night. Evidently he changed his mind about taking some time off. He's selling his house and needs a few days to do some painting.”

“I'm surprised he'd be painting with all that experience hanging paper on Wall Street,” Straker added.

“Come on, Jack, you know the rule: we don't insult anyone unless it's to their face. Why don't you get started, Sheila.”

She passed out summary sheets. “These are backgrounds and Xeroxed photos of Suzie Castillo and the eight girls who are missing. The first three are the ones we think were photographed by the same person who took Suzie's school photo. Who Father Coyne tells me is,” she turned a small piece of paper so she could read it, “Eugene Diaz.”

One end of the courtyard opened onto the street, and suddenly the throaty carburetor of a gray Audi roadster drowned out Sheila's voice. It cut hard to the curb and parked in front of a fire hydrant, the only space available. The engine shut down with abrupt precision. As everyone watched, Brad Kenyon got out and retrieved a charcoal blazer from the backseat. The jacket's color was just a shade deeper than the car's and even had the same luxurious sheen. Underneath it he wore a white golf shirt and black dress slacks with razored creases. His soft Italian loafers flashed as he moved through the rising sunlight. He sat down next to T. H. Crowe. “Sorry I'm late.”

Crowe said, “Maybe you didn't get the memo, but the dress code is, if you're going to wear a blazer on surveillance, you have to wear an ascot, Mr. Howell.”

Everyone laughed, including Kenyon. “Maybe I could borrow one of yours, or did one of your ex-wives get them in the settlement?”

“What do you know about my ex-wives?”

“Enough to agree with them.”

Crowe shook his head. “I know you're not gay, but you really are missing a hell of an opportunity.”

Kenyon put his hand on Crowe's arm. “Maybe I just haven't met the right man yet.”

“Okay,” Vanko said, “you two can work on your routine some other time.”

Sheila gave Kenyon one of the handouts. “We have the luxury of the killer's DNA profile, so while we're documenting a day in the life of Eugene Diaz, we want to discreetly see if we can't pick up a sample of his. Discarded coffee cups, soft drink cans, cigarettes, gum, anything that a few of his cells might cling to.”

Vanko flashed back to Sheila's kitchen wall, the victim's body nude and twisted. He watched her carefully now. Something inside her was gaining momentum.

“Why don't we just go ask him?” Crowe said.

“First, that gives him the chance to say no and disappear before we can get a search warrant. And there's always a possibility that he still has one of these girls. I know it's a long shot, but I don't think that's a chance we want to take.”

“How long was the first girl kept alive?” Zalenski asked, his young face suddenly appearing serious.

“The best guess is thirty-six to forty-eight hours.”

Crowe said, “So how long have these other girls been missing?”

“The most recent one is about three weeks,” Sheila said with noticeably less confidence.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Howard Snow raised his hand as if in class, causing a faint smile to cross Sheila's lips. “Yes, Howard.”

“Have you got any kind of psychological profile on the killer that we might be able to match up with this guy Diaz?”

“NYPD had one done, but it was pretty nonspecific, so I didn't include it. You know the drill, white male thirty to forty years old who may live with a female relative and drive a well-maintained midsize sedan.”

“Say, Jack,” Snow said, “don't you live with your mother?”

“Anything else?” Sheila asked.

“Nick, how long are we going to run this?” Crowe asked.

“Normally, I say we'd go until we got the DNA sample, but with that inspector watching everything, we're going to have to work around him. Abby's going to tell him we got called out for the next day or two. After that I'll come up with something.”

“How are we doing with this inspector?” Straker asked.

“Unless one of you guys has rolled over on me, I guess we're doing all right. But don't kid yourself, this Lansing is on a mission. Just keep it nine-to-five until he gets bored.”

Vanko checked the address Sheila had for the photographer. “Okay, for the sake of the new people getting to know you lifers, I want to break up some of the incestuous relationships. T.H. and Sheila take the van. Dick and I'll ride together and Jack and Howard.” That Vanko had chosen not to put himself inside the van with Sheila for the next eight hours was assumed to be only a diversionary tactic by the always-observant and ever-prurient men of the squad. “Oh, Brad, I'm sorry,” Vanko said, realizing he had forgotten Kenyon. “I made these matches before you got here.”

“That's all right, Nick,” Crowe said with mock resignation, “Dances with Guccis can come with us.”

When DeMiglia and his driver walked into the Catania Social Club, they found Parisi, Manny, and Tommy Ida huddled over maps of the Phoenicia area and the photocopied halves of Lulu Rosenkranz's map. Ida was studying them with a magnifying glass.

Parisi had met Egan in the parking lot of a strip mall in New Jersey, which, according to the address Chris the plumber had supplied, was within half a mile of the agent's home. As soon as Egan got into the Cadillac, Parisi handed him twenty-five thousand dollars as a demonstration of good faith. “I hope the map isn't too far away. I've got people waiting to see it.”

Egan reached inside his jacket and handed over the numbers journal.

Parisi said, “I guess if we were playing poker, I would have lost.”

“I think you just identified the problem—we've been going at this like it's some kind of competition. If we want to find this thing, we're going to have to start trusting each other.” Then, with some ceremony, Egan offered his hand.

Parisi could see it was a sincere gesture. The agent could have chosen to feel smug about outmaneuvering him, not only on the entire negotiation, but also on the bluff of having the map with him. Instead, he was declaring a truce, offering to work together.

Parisi took the hand. “Fifty million dollars can be a hell of a matchmaker.”

Parisi watched DeMiglia as he looked over Ida's shoulder at the map. “Any luck?” the underboss asked.

“Not yet,” Parisi said. He noticed that DeMiglia was carrying a folder. “Is that from the document examiner?”

“Could you guys excuse Mike and me?” DeMiglia said. Everyone moved off into the front room.

“Do they match?” Parisi asked.

“They match.” A caustic smile pulled DeMiglia's mouth to one side. He took out the report and two plastic envelopes containing the map's original halves and handed them to Parisi. “Now the only question left is, can you find it?”

“We're going up first thing in the morning.”

“I'm going with you.”

Parisi could see that, despite efforts to keep it in check, DeMiglia's enthusiasm was growing. He hesitated slightly before saying, “Good. The more brains we got working on this, the better.”

“What about the Fed?”

“I've got him on retainer, so to speak.”

“So you did pay him.”

“Yeah, like we discussed, to keep him available until we're done with him. He may be needed for who knows what.”

“You know if you do need anything from him, he's going to expect you to pay him again.”

“I suppose you're right, Danny, but I can't worry about that now.”

“If you did it like I told you, you'd own him right now.”

“That doesn't mean he'd help us again.”

“So what did you do? You promised him more, didn't you?”

“I told him he could have five percent.”

“What?”

“That's what I
told
him, not what I'm going to do. When it comes time to cash out, I'm going to give him the Danny.”

“That's more like it.” DeMiglia nodded. “Fuck that Cassius guy, I'd better start looking out for you.”

 

It was almost 5:00 p.m. when Vanko called a halt to the surveillance. He told everybody to head back to the cave; he would meet with them there. When they got within a half mile of the off-site, he telephoned Abby. “Is Lansing there?”

“I haven't been in back all afternoon, let me go check.” She came on the line. “He's still here and he's got stuff stacked up around him, so it looks like he intends to stay for a while.”

“Why don't you take off. I'll talk to you in the morning.” He radioed Crowe. “T. H., where are you?”

“Just pulling into the cave.”

“The inspector's still there. I don't want to have to meet someplace else in this traffic. Think you could go in and encourage him to leave?”

“Give me ten minutes.” Crowe pulled the van into the off-site garage and got out. “Sheila, why don't you stay here with Brad while I get rid of this guy.”

Crowe walked into the bullpen area and threw his scarred leather briefcase on a desk.

“Oh, you're back,” Lansing said. “Is everyone else coming back here?”

“I don't think so.”

“I haven't interviewed you yet, would you have time now?”

“As soon as I download these photos, I've got a meeting to go to.”

“A squad meeting?”

“AA,” Crowe said with relief, implying that being an alcoholic was preferable to being at Lansing's disposal.

The inspector nodded, trying to give the impression he had simply misunderstood the subtle insult and turned back to the safety of his forms. Crowe took out a cable and linked his camera to the computer and turned it on. He then lit a cigarette and exhaled in the general direction of Lansing, who responded with a small, forced cough. Crowe blew the smoke in a thinner, more aerodynamic stream. Finally, Lansing turned around. “There is no smoking in government facilities.”

Crowe walked over to Lansing's desk. With the burning cigarette between his fingers, he leaned forward so the acrid smoke rose up into the inspector's face. In a voice scarred with an inviolable authority of experience beyond the imagination of the man who was now its target, he said, “It's after five. What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be back at the hotel bar with your inspector buddies playing I Fucked an Agent Harder than You Did Today?” He exhaled another full drag before walking into Vanko's office, closing the door with just enough of a slam to warn Lansing not to be there when he came out unless he wanted more. He could hear the inspector packing up his papers. Crowe called Vanko's cell. “He'll be gone in five minutes.”

Once Lansing's vehicle exited the garage, the others pulled in. Everyone went into Vanko's office. Sheila asked, “Did anybody see anything worthwhile out there that I missed?”

Straker said, “We took him from his apartment to his studio and then back. No stops for coffee or a drink. I guess we just need to stay on him until he leaves his DNA on something we can grab.”

Sheila made some notes before looking up. “I know there wasn't much going on out there today. Does anyone feel like we're wasting our time?”