Tragic (11 page)

“So Vitteli wins but you guys figure out he cheated,” Fulton said.

“Right,” Gorman agreed. “We think he had a guy at the Labor Department filling him in on what we were up to, and of course we had to file that formal complaint with the union. So while he didn’t have all of our cards on the table, he knew he was in trouble. That’s why I believe he called Vince and wanted to meet so that they could ‘work things out,’ his words.”

“Did Vince believe him?”

“No. In fact, he was pretty sure that Vitteli sent some guys out to his house to try to intimidate him a few days earlier.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard about this,” Fulton interjected.

“Yeah, three guys showed up at the house acting like they were looking for work,” Gorman said. “Vince wasn’t convinced. He took down their license plate number on a notepad and showed it to me.”

Karp leaned forward. “Do you have the note?”

Gorman shook his head. “No. Vince was pretty ticked off about those guys coming to his house. He was going to confront Vitteli about it.”

“There were three guys at the scene,” Fulton pointed out.

“I’ve thought about that,” Gorman said. “And I wish I’d asked
Vince more about them. I know he said one of them spoke with an accent, Russian or something like that. But I should have asked him for a description.”

“Was Vince worried?” Guma asked.

Gorman thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “Maybe for his wife and son,” he said. “But he was a tough guy, and confident—always sure he could handle whatever came his way. I knew he was carrying a gun that night. But then he called and said Vitteli had agreed to step down; it seemed like it was all going to work out.”

“How do you know that?” Karp asked.

“I was in Washington, D.C., talking to a law firm about our problem with the Labor Department and Vince called from the bar. He said Vitteli knew his goose was cooked and was going to announce that for ‘medical reasons’ he was going to step down and there’d be another election,” Gorman said. “He wanted some concessions; essentially that Vince would drop the Labor Department stuff and work out the ‘financials,’ which probably meant walking away from any theft charges and arranging for a golden parachute. Vitteli wanted to stay on in a reduced role, along with his pal Joey Barros. . . . You know Joey Barros, don’t you? A real piece of work and dangerous . . . But anyway, Vince said they had to go. He was going to let Jackie Corcione stay on, mostly because of his loyalty to Leo, but I was going to take over as lead counsel for the union, and Jackie would have been on a tight leash with me.”

“But Vitteli had supposedly accepted these conditions?” Karp asked.

“That’s what Vince said. Of course, now I think it was all just to get him off guard.”

“I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that Vitteli hasn’t said a thing about stepping down in the press,” Guma said, “though he’s certainly been quoted enough talking about what a great guy Vince was. He called him ‘my brother,’ if I remember right.”

“ ‘To show an unfelt sorrow is an office which the false man does easy,’ ” Karp replied as he tapped his pencil on the legal pad.

The others looked confused. “What?” said Guma.

“Nothing . . . just a quote from
Macbeth,
” Karp said. He looked at Gorman. “Thanks for coming in and talking about all of this. Frankly, we’ve had our own suspicions about Vitteli’s role. Is there anything else?”

Gorman shook his head. “No. Sorry, I wish there was. But if I hear anything I’ll let you know. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the players and what they had to lose. Vince was a good man. I hope justice will prevail.”

“So do we,” Karp said. “Rest assured we’ll do everything we can to see that it does.”

Several hours later, Karp was still thinking about the conversation with Gorman when he arrived home at his loft on Crosby Street. However, his senses were momentarily overwhelmed by the smell of roasted garlic and herbs emanating from the kitchen, where Marlene stood with her back to him at the stove.

“The famous Ciampi marinara?” he asked as he walked up behind and wrapped his arms around her. “What’s the occasion?”

Marlene laughed and turned, reaching up to place her hands around the back of his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. “No occasion in particular,” she said. “But it’s Friday night, the boys are off to a friend’s for an overnighter, and I know how amorous Italian cooking with a glass or two of red wine makes you.”

Karp feigned a yawn and shook his head. “Geez, that all sounds great, but I’m wiped,” he said. “I think I’ll just have a bowl of cereal and turn in early . . . OW!”

“Oh, pardon me,” Marlene replied, having just squeezed his cheek, “I didn’t mean to pinch your cheek. Now, would you repeat what you just said, please?”

Laughing as he rubbed his face, Karp bent down to kiss her again before saying, “Boy, that smells great and watching you cook turns me on.” His hands started to roam.

Marlene giggled and pushed him away. “That’s better, lover boy. But enough. Go wash up. Dinner is ready, and then if you’re good, you can resume your attentions.”

A few minutes later, the couple was seated on the couch in the loft, which was essentially a large open space housing the kitchen, dining area, and living room, where they sat, with three bedrooms down the hall. “So how did your day go?” Marlene asked as she sipped Chianti.

“Mmmph flurgle lafa,” Karp replied with a mouthful of meatball. He swallowed and smiled. “Actually had an interesting conversation with an attorney named Mahlon Gorman, who represented Vince Carlotta. He thinks Charlie Vitteli was behind the murder.”

“That’s no surprise,” Marlene said. “He have any proof?”

“Not really, just some compelling reasons,” Karp said. He started to tell her about the conversation, but when he reached the part about the three young men who’d shown up at the Carlotta residence before the murder, Marlene frowned and spoke.

“One of them spoke with a Russian accent?” she asked.

“Apparently,” Karp replied. “Why?”

“It’s probably nothing, but I had an interesting conversation today, too, that involved three young men, one of them a Russian,” she said and told him about Nicoli Lopez.

Karp thought about it as he stuffed a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth. “Think that’s a bit of a coincidence?” he asked.

“Yes,” his wife replied. “But how many times over the past twenty-plus years have coincidence and fate played into this family’s life and our careers? You willing to overlook coincidence now?”

Karp looked at her and smiled. “Not at all,” he said. “I was just making a comment. I can see the gears turning in that pretty head of yours. What do you have in mind?”

“I have a couple of ideas,” Marlene said.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Well, one will be to call your cousin Ivgeny and see if he’s
heard anything in the underground Russian community about this,” she said.

Karp nodded. It was a subject they didn’t talk about much, but Ivgeny Karchovski was not only his cousin—their grandfathers had been brothers—and a former colonel in the Soviet Army, he was also the head of a Russian organized crime family in Brooklyn. Ivgeny had helped him in the past, including assisting in preventing a terrorist attack, but both men knew that they had to stay at arm’s distance given their respective careers.

“Fine, let’s throw a Russian gangster into the pot and see what trouble comes of that,” he replied.

“I’m glad you approve,” Marlene said with a laugh.

“I didn’t say I did,” Karp replied.

“You didn’t say you didn’t, either,” she retorted.

“Isn’t that a double negative?” Karp replied. “Are you trying to confuse me?”

“The wine may be confusing you, but I’m not,” Marlene said lightheartedly. She was quiet for a moment and then added, “Seriously, and if you also don’t object, I think I’m going to go have a chat with Antonia Carlotta.”

Karp frowned. “I was going to have Clay talk to her. What would be your standing in the case?”

“Private investigator working for Nicoli Lopez. Maybe if I can find out something about her boyfriend, you might get a break in the case,” Marlene said. “And maybe a woman’s touch is called for here. I’d like to take a shot at it, anyway.”

Karp thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “As long as you call Clay in if this turns out to be more than a coincidence.”

Marlene smiled and leaned over to kiss him. “Thanks. Now are you finished with dinner?”

Karp arched an eyebrow. “I believe I am. So I take it you’d like some help washing the dishes?”

Marlene rose from her chair and held out her hand. “The dishes can wait. But I got an itch that needs to be scratched.”

M
ARAT
L
VOV WOKE UP SHAKING
from a bad dream in which three grinning hags peered down at him as he bobbed in a cauldron of hot water. His own sweat felt warm and sticky on his back and his head pounded from the liter of vodka he’d consumed the night before.

As though to orient himself in the dark, he reached out with his fat hand to touch the nude body of the woman sleeping in the bed next to him. Actually, “woman” was a stretch. She was a child, fourteen years old, maybe younger, though hard to say about some of the fresh meat off the boat from the former Soviet Union, where records were poorly kept and life was cheap.

One of his many businesses was trafficking in underaged girls lured to America with promises of jobs as nannies or domestic servants only to be sold into sexual slavery. He got a kick out of advertising his merchandise—albeit in thinly disguised code—on the back pages of one of New York’s famous alternative weekly newspapers. And he routinely singled out one of the younger, more attractive girls to “sample” for himself, keeping them drugged and virtual prisoners in his impressive home in South Brooklyn.

When he tired of a girl, he’d sell her off as used goods and choose another from the next shipment. Of course, his elderly
Russian Jewish neighbors thought he was just a businessman, one of the
Novyi Russkiy,
or “New Russians,” known for their conspicuous-consumption lifestyles. That, too, amused him.

Life was good, but the dream of the three hags had frightened him badly. As he touched the girl, he was surprised by how cold she felt. She’d been plenty warm earlier that night as she whimpered, squirmed, and cried out in pain beneath his grunting. He shook her slightly but still she didn’t stir. Willing his pounding heart to calm down, he listened for the sound of her breathing and heard nothing but the ticking of the clock next to his nightstand. His voice trembling, he softly called out to her.

“She can’t hear you.”

It took Lvov a few moments to recognize the deep, cold voice of Joey Barros, whose tall, dark figure he could just make out in a corner of the room. His visitor leaned over and pulled the chain on a reading lamp behind his favorite chair. The light did little to illuminate the room but he could see the skeletal facial features of the man well enough.

“You!” Lvov half whispered, half screamed the moment before his bladder voided, adding more damp warmth to the bed beneath him.

“Yes,” Barros said quietly before nodding at the girl next to Lvov. “Wasn’t she a little young?”

Trembling, Lvov turned his head slightly to look at the girl. He tried to scream again but his voice was so high-pitched that it came out as a strangled whistle, a frightened tea kettle boiling over as he scooted as far away from her as he could get. He realized in that moment that he had not been lying in his own night sweat but in the warm blood that had poured from the gaping wound in her throat. Her beautiful blue eyes were open but also blank and unmoving as they stared sightlessly at the ceiling. But more horrifying was the smile that curled her lips ever so slightly.

Surprisingly fast for such a fat man, Lvov’s hand flew to the red button flashing on the nightstand next to him. It would summon
his bodyguards to dispatch the intruder. He would then fire them, if he was merciful enough not to have them garroted, for allowing Barros to make it into his bedroom.

Barros’s expression turned to one of amusement. “There’s no one there,” he said. “I believe they’re out back having a smoke and no one’s watching the chicken coop.”

Lvov’s eyes widened as he realized he’d been betrayed. But he wasn’t done yet. He rolled over and flung open the drawer of the nightstand, grasping for the Russian-made Makarov pistol he kept there.

“You looking for this?” Barros asked, holding the handgun up with a pencil stuck in the barrel. He dropped his hand and the gun fell toward the floor.

As the Makarov dropped, Barros moved toward Lvov. A straight-edge razor appeared in his hand as if by magic and gleamed wickedly as he held it up.

“
NYET
, PLEASE, NO!” Lvov screamed as he tried to scoot away from the approaching blade, but his progress was stopped by the body of the dead girl. “I did what you asked. Bebnev will kill the others tomorrow. Then you can kill him and have no more problems!”

“Only one,” Barros growled.

“I’ll pay you anything!”

“You don’t have enough.”

“Girls, drugs . . . you’d be a happy rich man,” Lvov pleaded.

“Not my thing,” Barros replied. “I’m happily married, and I don’t do drugs.”

“Anything!” Lvov squealed.

“You don’t have anything I want,” Barros said as he held out the blade and leaned over as though he intended to shave his cowering victim.

Desperately trying to sink into the mattress, the Russian gangster sobbed and held out his hands to ward off his attacker. He was surprised that such a thin man could be so strong as Barros
grabbed his face with one hand and swung the blade with the other. There was a burning sensation across his throat and the feel of warm liquid running over his skin; then he was choking as blood drained into his severed windpipe.

“Shhhhhhh,” Barros said, placing a finger to his lips as if to comfort a child awakened by a nightmare. He straightened up and stood looking down as the fat man clasped his hands to his throat in a futile effort to stop the hemorrhaging. The hands fell away, the body tried to draw a few last gurgling breaths, and then it was over except for the twitching.