The Payback Game (8 page)

“What
’re you going to do with the numbers?” Hannah asked once they were in Boff’s car.

“Visit an ex-DEA partner who’s an information broker.”

“What’s an information broker?”

“Someone who uses a computer to dig up details about a person’s life.”

“Is that legal?”

“Yes. People have been doing it for thirty years or more. Now with the Internet and the importance of data and research, the profession is growing.”

“Sounds creepy to me.”

“In your line of work, Hannah, an information broker would be a valuable asset.”

“I already have one. Uncle Mike can find out almost anything.
Without
using a computer.”

“I’m curious about something. Why do you call him Uncle?”

“I dunno. I just started calling him that when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time at my grandpa’s house, and Uncle Mike was there a lot. I knew he was some kind of a famous writer, but I had no idea what he actually wrote. Then one night during a card game at grandpa’s house, I asked him about his writing. I think I was, like, eight at the time. When he told me about his newspaper work, I thought it sounded really cool. At twelve I announced to him and grandpa I intended to write for a newspaper when I grew up. From that night on, he began tutoring me on how to be an investigative reporter.”

“You couldn’t have asked for a better teacher.”

“I know. As part of my education, Uncle Mike started renting old-time movies about newspapers for me. He wanted me to see how newsrooms used to look and sound before computers and no smoking rules came in and the atmosphere went ‘sterile,’ as he says.” She pointed a finger at Boff. “Okay, enough about me. What’s your back story? What made you want to be a DEA agent?”

“As you heard, I was a patriotic guy back then. I wanted to serve my country.”

Hannah laughed. “Boy, knowing you now, I find that hard to believe.”

“I understand. But what you need to know is I was a real straight arrow as a kid. Cub Scout and Boy Scout leader. Captain of my basketball team. Vice president of my senior class.”

“What a nerd.” She chuckled.

“Anyway, during my senior year in college, a DEA recruiter came on campus. Just for kicks, I sat down with him. He painted a picture of the glamorous life I’d live as a federal agent.” He shrugged. “So, lacking any direction in life other than basketball, I signed on the dotted line.”

When Boff walked into the computer store with Hannah, Billy Wright was just finishing up with a customer in his twenties who had a nose ring and an orange, Mohican-style hairdo.

Wright handed him a laptop and said, “Okay, Robbie, it’s all fixed and ready to go. I got rid of all your bugs and also uninstalled your memory-eating, slow-as-hell anti-virus program. In its place, I installed a program I like called AVG. It’s free.”

“Thanks, Mr. Wright.”

“You shouldn’t have any trouble from viruses anymore. Providing you stay away from all the porn sites your bookmarks indicate you visit.”

Robbie smiled sheepishly. “It’ll be hard, but I’ll try.”

After the kid left, Wright turned the sign on the door to CLOSED. Then he gave Hannah a closer look. “Who’s this pretty young lady, Frank?” 

“Billy Wright, this is Hannah Riley. She’s a reporter for the
Brooklyn Eagle
. Her mentor is Mike Cassidy.”

“Nice to meet you,” Wright said. “Come into the backroom.”

Hannah took a careful look around the inner office. “How come you’ve got this wonderfully clean desk and the rest of the place is a pig sty?”

The information broker pointed a finger at Boff. “It’s his fault
. I’ve been meaning to clean it up, but Frank’s been keeping me too busy to get at it.”

Boff let out a laugh. “Really? Then how come when I took my wife and son on vacation for a week, and you didn’t have any work to do for me, the place looked every bit as messy when I came back as it did before I left?”

Wright flicked his hand in the air. “Whatever,” he said. “So what do you have for me now?”

Boff tore off the page on his note pad with the Social Security and phone numbers O’Connor had
given him. He handed it to his ex-DEA partner, and told him Maloney’s full name.

“How soon d
o you need this done?”

“As quickly as possible.”

Hannah stepped into the conversation. “I’ve got a question, too,” she said. “How much can you find out about somebody with just those numbers?”

“Just about anything and everything.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Tell me your Social Security number and I’ll give you a quick demonstration.”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I don’t know you well enough to trust you with my Social Security number.”

“Boff trusts me.”

“Another good reason not to give you my number.”

Wright looked amused. “Let me ask you something, then,” he said. “The first time you went to see your physician, did you have to put your Social Security number down on a form?”

“Yes, but….”

“But you trust physicians.” Wright looked at Boff. “Frank, how much do you trust doctors?”

“About as far as I can throw them. Hannah, the four lowest life forms on earth are lawyers, doctors, FBI agents, and priests. In that order.”

Wright grinned and looked back at the redhead. “Do you have a bank account?”

“Sure.”

“Banks require your Social Security number before they let you open an account. So do credit card companies.”

“Yes, but—”

“—but you trust banks and credit card companies?”

“Well…uh…no, not exactly. I just didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Actually, you did, but I don’t have time to go into that now. Let me get to work on this rush job Frank just handed me.”

The next day Wallachi called Boff to tell him he had set up a meeting for him with the op in his company who had been a cop in the 71
st
Precinct. With time to kill before the meeting, Boff suggested they have lunch again at Nathan’s. Before heading there, he picked up Cullen and Hannah. When they arrived at the restaurant, Boff’s friend was already there, drinking coffee at a table.

As they took their seats, Wallachi said, “Manny’s coming, too. But he’s late.”

“Par for the course,” Boff said. He turned to Hannah. “Manny is Wallachi’s, uh, apprentice. More or less.”

Wallachi made a face. “Frank, you’re not going to rag on Manny and ruin my lunch, are you?”

“I’ll try not to, but you know he brings out the worst in me.”

Wallachi shook his head and looked at Cullen. “How’s the shoulder, Danny?”

“I’m almost ready to spar.”

Then, turning to Hannah, the investigator said, “And you are…?”

“Hannah Riley. I cover crime and the courts for the
Brooklyn Eagle
.”

“She’s a protégé of Cassidy’s,” Boff added.

Wallachi nodded. “So…when Cassidy hired Frank, you came with the deal? Is that it?”

“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” she said. “Uncle Mike thinks Boff can help me on this case. And vice versa.”

Wallachi took a quick sip of coffee. “So…how do you like working with the Big Boffer?”

“I don’t. But he’s a necessary evil.”

Boff’s stomach was growling so he cut off the chit-chat. “Pete, let’s go order.”

After they had gotten their food and sat back down to eat, Manny Lipinski showed up
carrying a big camera bag slung over one shoulder. He was a muscular guy in his mid-thirties who considered himself a crack op.
Crack up was more like it
, Boff thought.

“You’re late,” Wallachi said.

Manny pulled over a chair from another table and sat down. “Sorry. I had to—”

“Never give me excuses,” Wallachi said. “How many times do I have to tell you that before it sinks into your thick skull? Either you’re on time, or you’re not. Okay, go order something.”

As Manny headed for the counter, Boff noted that the crack op was wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt. The last time Boff had been forced to work with Manny, he’d showed up for surveillance looking like a stockbroker in a charcoal gray suit, a powder blue shirt, a yellow tie, and a shiny, silver tie clip. Boff had ridden him hard about how stupid it was for an investigator to dress so noticeably, especially on surveillance.

The crack op returned to the table a few minutes later with a hot dog, fries, and a king-sized soda. Looking like he’s just noticed Hannah for the first time, he put on his best smile and smoothest voice.
“Hi, Gorgeous. I’m Manny Lipinski. I’m one of Pete’s top operatives.”

“Hannah Riley,” she said in a voice well south of interested.

Manny caught his boss frowning at him.

“Top operatives?” Wallachi repeated.

Manny made a face. “Well, Pete, I like to think of myself as one of your top people because you take me wherever you go.”

“The only reason I do that,” his boss said, “as you well know,
is because you’re a work in progress and need to be trained.”

Shrugging that off, Manny turned his attention back
to Hannah. “Are you Cullen’s girlfriend?”

“Not a chance.”

“So, like, do you have a boyfriend?” When she shook her head, he plowed on. “Then, you know, maybe, like, you and I could have, like, dinner some time.”

The redhead rolled her eyes. “Aw, Jesus Christ, you guys! Am I wearing a fucking sign that says Hit
On Me?”

“Looking like you do,” Manny replied with another smile, “you don’t need a sign.”

At this point, Wallachi put his Philly cheese steak down and wagged a finger at his crack op. “Manny, do I have to remind you again to keep Wally One-Eye in your goddamn pants?”

Hannah blinked and looked around. “Who’s Wally One-Eye?”

Wallachi was about to tell her that Wally One-Eye was what Manny called his dick when the crack op leaned forward and said, “Pete, don’t say it.”

Wallachi picked up his sandwich again. “If you promise to behave.”

“You’ve got my word.”

“For what that’s worth,” Boff chipped in. Then he changed the subject. “Pete, what time are we going to meet with the ex-cop from the 71
st
?”

Wallachi checked his watch. “He’s winding up surveillance for me
now at a warehouse loading dock in Crown Heights. I told him to meet us at a Dunkin’ Donuts that I know of near the warehouse. We’ve got forty-five more minutes.”

“Starting tomorrow,” Boff said, “I want to begin surveillance on Galvani.”

“No problem.”

Hannah looked at Boff. “Why do you want to follow Galvani around?”

“I’d like to see what he does when he’s off duty.”

“Because…?”

“It might give us some insight into him and his habits. Help us determine if he knows more about the Maloney murder than he’s told us.”

“You think he lied?”

“I have no idea. But bear in mind, Galvani spent five years in Narcotics. And narcs are trained to lie.”

“I’m coming along,” she said.

Cullen looked up from his salad. “Me, too.” 

At which Wallachi made a face. “
Five
people on surveillance? Boy, that’ll make us real hard to spot.”

“Pete,” Boff said, “we won’t be tailing Galvani close enough for him to see us. Manny’s going to attach a
GPS tracker to his car at the first place he stops at.” He looked at Manny. “You do know how to do that, don’t you?”

Manny made a face. “Duh! I’m surprised you didn’t ask me if I knew what a
GPS tracker is.”

Boff smiled. “The thought did cross my mind.”

Wallachi’s investigator, Al Chapin, was waiting for them at a table in the Dunkin’ Donuts on Bedford Avenue
. He was in his fifties with a round face, a double chin, and a pencil-thin mustache. A camera case sat on the floor beside his chair. 

After Wallachi introduced Chapin to the others, they ordered coffees and brought them to the table.

“So how’d the surveillance go?” Wallachi asked.

“There’s stealing going on for sure,” Chapin replied. “I took plenty of photos. Looks like the owners have a serious problem.”

“Good job. Write up your report and deliver it with the photos to the client tomorrow.”

“Will do.” Chapin turned to Boff. “Pete said you wanted to talk to me. What can I do for you?”

Boff took a quick sip on his coffee. “For starters, how long did you know Patrick Maloney and Eddie Galvani?”

Chapin took a moment before answering. “Both of them transferred into my precinct from Narcotics three years ago. I worked with them for two years before I retired from the force.” He paused and ran a
finger along the rim of his cup for no apparent reason.

Boff got the impression the guy felt uncomfortable talking about fellow cops. “Al, how well did you know them?”

“Other than ‘choir practice,’ I—”

Hannah leaned forward. “What’s choir practice?”

“It’s what we called the time we spent after a shift drinking with other cops. Now, as I was saying, I didn’t really hang with them other than choir practice. I’m married, they were single. My wife likes to have me around when I’m not working.”

“What’d you think of them as cops?” Boff asked.

Chapin shrugged. “They closed a higher share of cases than most. Everybody seemed to like and respect them. Including the captain.”

“You ever notice these guys do anything out of line?”

“Uh, no, Mr. Boff, no, I didn’t. They did things by the book. Well, as much as any cop can do and still make collars. I seem to recall them getting a couple of commendations.”

Boff paused a moment so it wouldn’t seem like he was hammering the guy with question
s. “Can you venture a guess as to why someone would’ve wanted to kill Maloney?”

Chapin shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind. Generally, if a cop gets killed, it’s in the line of duty. Vendettas are pretty rare.”

“Is it possible,” Boff continued, “that Maloney was involved in some kind of criminal activity off the job?”

“Well, sure…uh, that’s certainly possible. But the majority of the bad apples on the force are in Narcotics,
Vice, or Patrol.”

“And did they ever say anything about why they transferred in from Narcotics?”

“They didn’t have to, Mr. Boff. Undercover work is the most dangerous detail on the force. The burnout rate is high. These guys did five years undercover. A lot more than the average.”

Boff sipped his coffee before asking another question. “Did you ever catch either one of them in a lie? Or witness them cutting corners that were borderline rule violations?”

Chapin shrugged. “I dunno. I mean, not that I noticed. But, listen, Mr. Boff, every cop lies once in awhile and sometimes we—they—f lirt with rule infractions. The job is way too tough if you have to be a textbook cop.”

“One last thing,” Boff said. “Do you remember what shift Galvani was on?”

“Day. Although that could’ve changed.”

“When did Galvani generally knock off?”

“As I recall, he worked the eight-to-four.” Chapin finished his coffee and turned to his boss. “Pete, I gotta get going. The wife’s waiting for me.”

“Go ahead. And, again, nice job on the surveillance.”

“Thanks.” The op stood up, started to leave, then stopped and turned back. “I don’t know if this will have any bearing on your investigation, Mr. Boff. But one thing you should be aware of is that Narcotics is a cowboy culture where anything goes in the so-called war on drugs. Narcs are expected to make around sixty percent of their collars for felonies. Because of that pressure, they’ve been known to plant drugs on blameless people just to meet their arrest quotas.” Chapin shrugged. “Did these two guys do that? I don’t really know. But since they did work in Narcotics, I guess I couldn’t rule out them doing something illegal.”

“Thanks for the insight,” Boff said. “I know it was hard for you to talk about fellow cops.”

Chapin smiled. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah. I appreciate your willingness to help me.”

“No problem.” Looking relieved to be leaving, Chapin walked off.

Wallachi looked at Boff. “Did any of that help you?” he asked.

Boff shrugged. “No, not all that much. Let’s see what surveillance turns up.”