Ultimate Betrayal (10 page)

CHAPTER 14

David always marveled at how little his old Philadelphia neighborhood had changed over the years. Sure the houses showed signs of age, as did the people he recognized while they drove down Rosemont Street. But, all in all, the neighborhood looked pretty much as it had years ago. Brick, garage-less, row houses with window flower boxes, three-step stoops, and shallow porches lined the street.

David helped his father carry their bags into the Hood home and then moved the Lincoln. He didn’t want the company car announcing their location. He found a place to park it two blocks away and walked back to the house with the 9mm in one pants pocket, the .45 in the other pocket, and the Uzi under his suit coat.

Gino Bartolucci was a robust, vibrant sixty-year-old. Although he still owned Bartolucci’s Market and had an office there, he’d long ago passed on the reins of his illegitimate enterprises to much younger men, and no longer had any overt mob involvement. Gino had outlasted the expected career life span of a Philadelphia Mafia Don. Those who didn’t die at the hands of a rival usually wound up in a federal penitentiary on a racketeering or murder conviction. Gino had been a survivor because he was smart, careful, had surrounded himself with blood relatives, and had been damn lucky.

On the drive from Bethesda to Philadelphia, Gino called and left a message on a private cellphone that belonged to Louis Burkett, a bookish-looking clerk at the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Philadelphia office.

As his driver pulled off Broad Street, ten minutes from Gino’s South Philadelphia home, Gino’s cellphone rang.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“It’s Louis.”

“So, whatcha got?”

Burkett was the prototypical records clerk and always surprised people when they inquired about his job and learned he worked with the Bureau. Because he read everything that crossed his desk and had a photographic memory, he could converse in detail about some of the most sensational FBI Investigations. People assumed Burkett was a Special Agent rather than a clerk, and he saw no reason to disabuse them of their assumptions. But Louis Burkett was damned good at his job, and his computer-like memory made him a fabulous resource for Gino Bartolucci.

Ten years earlier, Gino had picked up gambling markers Burkett had run up with an Atlantic City bookmaker. He allowed the man to work off the balance of his debts by providing information. But Burkett had a problem: He continued to gamble and lose. And Gino continued to bail him out of trouble—for a price. Burkett told Gino everything he knew about the Feds’ RICO investigations in Philadelphia. Gino then sold that information to his “friends.”

“I haven’t found much about the bombing in Bethesda,” Burkett said. “No evidence points to a specific individual or group. Part of the detonator and traces of the explosive survived the blast, but were too fragmented to tell us anything. The killer used plastic explosive, that’s certain. And it’s obvious he went for overkill. But there’s no way to trace the stuff to a supplier.”

“That’s not much.”

“There is one thing, though. The detective assigned to the case, guy named Cromwell, thinks your son-in-law was responsible.”

“That’s how much the cops know.”

“The bottom line is nobody knows anything.”

“That’s not quite correct,” Gino replied. “There’s at least one guy who knows something. The killer.”

After his driver dropped them off in front of their South Philadelphia home, and his bodyguard walked them to the front door, Rosa passed through the entry and made her way to the kitchen. Gino went down a set of steps and into the basement. He entered a one hundred fifty-foot long corridor that spanned the width of five row houses, all owned by Gino under corporate entity names. This underground passageway had allowed Gino, his family, and his men to elude the police and thugs on several occasions. Near the western end of the corridor, Gino stepped into a room equipped with office furniture, sound equipment, and a telephone listed in the name of Angela Tartaglia, an eighty-four-year-old widow who lived rent-free on the first floor of the house above. He made four calls and gave each of the persons who answered the same cryptic, coded message: “Your order will be ready for pick-up at eight tomorrow morning.”

CHAPTER 15

In a matter of hours, Chicago Police Detective Dennis O’Neil gathered quite a bit of information about the murders of the three former Marines. Cops in the three cities where the men lived faxed him copies of the homicide reports. Each man was killed by a single gunshot to the head, just behind the left ear—assassination-style. A different .22-caliber silenced pistol had been used in all three murders. The weapons had fired jacketed hollow-point magnum rounds. The killer had removed the suppressor and dropped the murder weapon next to each victim’s body. No witnesses.

O’Neil knew the murdered men were neither victims of random crime nor targets of a thief. Thieves and common criminals didn’t use suppressors. And didn’t leave behind their victims’ wallets or their weapons. The men lived in three different regions of the country. If he hadn’t started to put the reunion together, none of these murders would have been connected.

Although the three murders were really none of his business—at least on a professional basis, O’Neil couldn’t help himself. The victims were Marines, some of whom he’d served with. He just couldn’t drop it. There had to be some common denominator. He called Gunnery Sergeant Sam Collins on the Marine Corps Personnel Desk, at The Department of the Navy.

“Gunney, this is Dennis O’Neil from Chicago. How’s things at the Puzzle Palace?”

“Hey! Dennis, howya doin’?” Collins responded. “You gettin’ your reunion organized?”

“You bet, Gunney. You were a big help. I couldn’t have done it without you. But listen, I’ve got another request. I need some more information on three names. Could you fax me copies of their personnel files?”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Even if the files are for men who were all murdered in the last month?”

“You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“Nope! Something’s fishy. Three former marines from my combat unit in Afghanistan were murdered in the last thirty days. I really need your help.”

Collins didn’t immediately respond. O’Neil waited.

“You gotta keep this to yourself. You didn’t get these files from me, you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Okay! Give me their names. I’ll get back to you as fast as I can.”

Collins pulled up the names of the three murdered Marines on the Marine Corps’ computerized personnel system. In less than thirty minutes, he’d retrieved the three personnel files of Lieutenant Eric Carbajal of Belen, New Mexico; Gunnery Sergeant Zachary Perkins of Anaheim, California; and Gunnery Sergeant Fred Laniewski of Wildwood, New Jersey. He attached the files to an email addressed to Dennis O’Neil, sanitized them by removing any classified data, and sent the email.

O’Neil reviewed the three files; searched for commonalties. He found the men had three things in common: Each had been assigned to O’Neil’s old Marine company in Afghanistan; each had been wounded and then furloughed to something called the Special Logistical Support Detachment-Afghanistan; and each had been murdered in the last thirty days.

CHAPTER 16

Montrose Toney dumped the stolen red Camaro and retrieved his white Acura. He drove to Philadelphia and found Peter Hood’s street at 11 p.m. He drove past the house and looked for the Lincoln Towncar he’d chased back in Maryland, but it was nowhere in sight. He continued down the street, made a right turn, and circled back toward the house.

Carmine Santori had worked for the Bartolucci Family since he emigrated from Sicily at the age of sixteen—forty-four years earlier. First for Gino’s father and then for Gino after the old man died. He was one of the four men Gino had called to meet with him at the market at eight that morning. The meeting had lasted only ten minutes. All Gino needed to say to the four men was, “My son-in-law is in danger—maybe from the same people who killed my Carmela and my grandchildren. I want you to keep an eye on Peter Hood’s house on Rosemont.”

Carmine kept watch over the Hood home from a second-story bedroom in the front of Johnny Galante’s house, across the street from the Hoods. Johnny Galante was happy to do a favor for Don Bartolucci.

“Hey, boss,” Carmine said into his cellphone. “I don’t know if I got something, but some guy cruised the street here two times in the last five minutes.” He gave Gino the description of the car and the plate number.

“Sit tight and watch,” Gino said. “You don’t do nothin’ that’s gonna warn him off. You got that?”

“Sure, boss.”

Armed with Carmine’s information, Gino called Philadelphia Police Sergeant Sean Rafferty who had long ago decided to milk his police job for all he could get and then retire to the Jersey Shore before some strung out lowlife decided his chest looked like a bull’s-eye. It hadn’t taken him long to come to the attention of the Bartolucci family. Rafferty recognized Gino’s voice.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I need a quick ID on a D.C. plate.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

“And that’s a problem because . . . .”

“No problem. Give me the plate number.”

Rafferty used his home computer to access the D.C. Department of Motor Vehicles. He inputted his access ID and password and printed out the motor vehicle records of a Montrose Toney. He then accessed the FBI’s National Crime Data Network and downloaded and copied Toney’s criminal records. He walked to a pay phone near police headquarters and called Gino.

“I got what you wanted.”

APRIL 17

CHAPTER 17

David mindlessly channel-surfed on Peter’s television. When he hit C-SPAN, he saw a name from his long ago past crawl across the bottom of the screen: U.S. Senate Confirmation Hearing for Rolf Bishop, Deputy Director of Central Intelligence. This was the first time since he left Afghanistan that he’d heard or seen his old commander’s name. Curious, he watched the hearing, which seemed to proceed well for Bishop, who’d been a loyal member of the President’s political party. Bishop’s military record proved he was a bona fide American hero. The opposition party members of the Senate apparently could find no substantive reason to oppose Bishop’s nomination to the position of Deputy Director of the CIA.

David had to admit the man looked good. He had to be close to sixty years old, but he looked younger. Distinguished and trim, he presented a wonderful image on the tube. He remembered what an insensitive bastard Bishop had been and thought the former Army colonel would probably be the perfect choice for the CIA position.

Then David noticed a slight, almost imperceptible look of surprise register on Bishop’s face when a crusty old senator from South Carolina asked him a question:

“Ah read yo Army 201 file, Colonel Bishop, and ah’m mighty impressed. But one thang confuses me. What was this Special Lo-gistical Support Dee-tachment you headed up in Afghanistan? Ah cain’t find any reference to any sech unit in any of the military’s Tables of Organization. Ah’m jest kinda curious.”

“Mr. Chairman, Senator Birdsong, the Special Logistical Support Detachment’s mission was to match up field units’ needs with supplies, equipment, and materiel that was shipped to Afghanistan. It was our job to ensure no unnecessary delays occurred in putting much-needed equipment, food, ammunition, etc., into the hands of our men and women in the field. I commanded the unit for about a year-and-a-half. It was standard Quartermaster Corps procedure.”

“What a bunch of crap!” David said.

“What’s that, son?” Peter asked as he entered the room.

“Oh, nothing, Dad,” David replied. “Just reacting to the crap that flows from Washington, D.C. This guy on the hot seat commanded the last unit I served with in Afghanistan. He’s up for one of the top CIA jobs. He just lied to the Senate Intelligence Committee.”

Peter sat on the couch and looked at the television screen while the camera moved in for a close up shot of Bishop. “I wouldn’t trust that guy as far as I could throw him,” he said. “Look at his eyes. They’re dead—like shark eyes.”

It was a relatively slow day for Dennis O’Neil. He needed to be in court to testify in a homicide trial in two hours, so he’d decided to stay in the squad room to review his case notes. He took a break for a moment and stretched his sore back muscles. He looked down, took his spare tire-of-a-belly in both hands, shook it, and grunted. He’d have to go on a crash diet before the Marine reunion. He didn’t want his old buddies to see him like this. There wasn’t much he could do about his gray hair and white mustache, short of hair dye, and that wasn’t his style. At six feet, three inches, he knew he still made a good first impression—except he had to do something about the extra twenty pounds he carried.

Detective Joji Kimura sat across the room and watched the small color TV set on the middle of an empty desk.

“What the hell are you watching?” O’Neil asked.

“The confirmation hearing on the new CIA Deputy Director, Rolf Bishop.”

O’Neil laughed. Kimura, the squad’s resident conspiracy theorist, always fixated on anything to do with the CIA. Dennis paid no attention to the TV and returned to his notes about the trial, until he heard someone mention “Special Logistical Support Detachment.”

The odd feeling in his gut that occurred when coincidences happened suddenly returned. He scribbled in his notebook a reminder to call his Pentagon contact, Sam Collins. Then he wrote: “What is or was the SLSD?” and “Get names of all persons ever assigned to SLSD, and names of all men who served with three dead Marines.”

O’Neil left his chair and walked over to where Kimura sat transfixed by the television screen. While he watched, O’Neil zeroed in on Bishop’s face. He thought, at first, he recognized the man. But, after a moment, he realized it wasn’t Bishop’s face he found familiar. It was the look in the man’s eyes, the set of his mouth, and the overall impression he left. O’Neil had seen other men with the same sort of “look.” Some had been well dressed, some were criminals, some were cops. But they all had one thing in common: an inhuman, sociopathic coldness in their eyes.