Ultimate Betrayal (11 page)

When the hearing ended, O’Neil watched Bishop move to the raised platform where the senators sat and chatted them up. O’Neil noted that the retired Army officer had some of the most influential and powerful men in the country eating out of his hands.

“That dude is smooth,” he said.

“What was that, Dennis?” Kimura asked.

“Nothing, Joji. Just thinking out loud.”

While O’Neil drove cross-town to the courthouse, he pushed all thoughts of his testimony in the homicide trial to the back of his mind, and focused on his new mystery. Three former Marines had been killed in the previous few weeks. All apparent executions. Then he’d learned from Pentagon records each of the three murdered men served in Afghanistan in a unit called the Special Logistical Support Detachment. And he’d just found out the next CIA Deputy Director had commanded the Special Logistical Support Detachment. O’Neil briefly considered the possibility all of this might be pure coincidence. But he quickly discarded the thought.

Montrose Toney had cased the Hoods’ street several times and come to the conclusion that an attack on his target here was not his best alternative. He ticked off the problems in his mind: too restrictive a physical environment, limited parking close to the house, and being on foot in this neighborhood could be suicidal. He felt like an Albanian Muslim in a Christian Serb neighborhood. But he knew this street like it was his own. He’d grown up in an all-black neighborhood that looked just like it. The row houses served as bleachers for the residents, with the street as their arena. Toney knew he fell into the category of “troublemaker” as far as these people were concerned. He knew the residents had probably already spotted him.

He could tell someone was at home at the Hoods’. He’d seen movement through the sheer front window drapes. But he had no idea if David Hood was in there. He pondered the problem for a few minutes and then remembered the name of the detective in charge of the Hood murder investigation: Roger Cromwell. He’d read all the accounts in the Baltimore and D.C. papers about the case. He called 4-1-1 on his cellphone and got the number for Peter Hood on Rosemont Street in South Philadelphia. He called and when a man answered, Toney said, “This is Detective Cromwell with the Bethesda Police Department. Is Mr. David Hood there? I need to speak with him.”

“He’s out right now,” a man said. “Can I help you? I’m his father. Can I have him call you back?”

“That’s all right, I’ll call later,” Toney replied, and hung up.

After Toney’s most recent swing down Rosemont Street, Carmine Santori again called Gino, who immediately telephoned Bobby Galupo, the man he’d picked years ago to take over the Philadelphia organization. Galupo, in turn, called one of his men, Rocco Fortunato, stationed in a car at the end of the Hoods’ block, and told him to follow the white Acura and report back every fifteen minutes.

Rocco Fortunato, a beefy young hoodlum in his twenties, tailed Toney. He followed him from South Philadelphia all the way past the Philadelphia sports complex, out past the oil refineries on the south side of the city, and finally to a motel near the Philadelphia International Airport. After he watched Toney take a small suitcase from the trunk of the Acura and enter room 157, Fortunato called Bobby Galupo.

Toney had been on the move for nearly sixteen hours, most of it in the driver’s seats of the stolen Camaro and his own Acura. He was exhausted and needed sleep before he went after Hood. He had to come up with a way to hit the man and get away clean, and he knew he’d be able to think more clearly after he’d had some rest.

Jennifer Ramsey rapped on the side of the doorjamb of Lieutenant Croken’s office. “You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, take a seat.”

She sat down in one of the two chairs in front of Croken’s desk.

Croken picked up a piece of paper from his blotter and waved it at Jennifer. “This is Detective Cromwell’s request for reassignment.”

Jennifer said nothing. She was thrilled that she might be rid of Cromwell, but she was surprised the man had requested the personnel action. Things had to be pretty bad between partners for one to ask for a reassignment. Her relationship with Cromwell obviously qualified. A request for reassignment by one partner, however, could leave a black mark on the other partner’s record. She wondered what reason for reassignment Cromwell had put in the official request.

As though he read her mind, Croken said, “Detective Cromwell claims you were insubordinate, didn’t back him up in a dangerous situation, and”—here Croken paused—“that you have a substance abuse problem.”

Jennifer knew these charges made by an experienced detective with years of service with the Bethesda Police Department could ruin her career. Even if she rebutted the charges and won in a hearing, she would be tainted forever within the good old boy network. “I . . . that’s all nonsense. You can’t believe I—”

Croken raised a hand to stop her. “You’re right, Ramsey. I don’t believe a word of it. I’ll make this paperwork disappear. But I’ll give Cromwell another partner. He’s off the Hood investigation. I want you to take it over. I’ll assign you another partner as soon as I can. But for now, you’re on your own. You’re doing a great job. Don’t let assholes like Cromwell affect your attitude about a career in law enforcement.” Croken gave her a brief smile and added, “Now get out there and find the killer.”

Jennifer said, “Thanks, Lieutenant,” and backed out the door. Croken’s nose was already buried in some report.

APRIL 18

CHAPTER 18

The shrill ring of his cellphone brought Toney out of an erotic dream. Not quite sure where he was and still half asleep, he rubbed his eyes and glanced at the bedside clock: 6:17 a.m. He picked up the phone and said, “Hello,” in a voice thick with fatigue.

“You’d better have something good to report,” Rolf Bishop said.

The man had a way about him that caused Toney to produce massive quantities of adrenaline and stomach acid every time he spoke to him—or whenever he just thought about him.

Toney took a deep breath. “I got everything under control,” he said.

“When you’ve completed your assignment, then I’ll know everything’s under control,” Bishop snapped. “Until that happens, nothing’s under control, and your assurances are nothing but bullshit. I’m sick and tired of excuses. If you don’t solve the problem by noon today, I’ll have it solved some other way. Understand?”

Toney was wide-awake now, and frightened. Bishop had just told him he was about to be fired. The thought of losing his meal ticket panicked him.

Elderly female shoppers know that if they don’t get to the market early, all the best fresh produce and choicest cuts of meat will already be sold. So, early most mornings a gang of old, gray-haired women, many of them widows dressed in black, marched into Bartolucci’s Market. While they shopped, they caught up on gossip—complained about lazy daughters-in-law who spent their beloved sons’ hard-earned money; or how no good sons-in-law treated their innocent, kind-hearted, virginal daughters. And of course, they boasted of their beautiful, brilliant, and athletic grandchildren who loved their grandmothers more than anyone else.

David Hood entered that stage at 7 a.m.

“
Ciao
,” Gino said from his office doorway.

David walked over to Gino and they hugged. Gino turned and led the way into his office. David sat down. Gino closed the door and moved to his desk chair.

“They were killed because of me,” David blurted. “I’ve got to find out why.”

“You don’t know that,” Gino said. “It could have been something else.” He thought, Maybe it was retaliation for something I did. Although he didn’t believe it.

“I’ve got to destroy the people who did this.”

Gino was worried. The last thing he wanted David to do was sacrifice his own life in pursuit of revenge. “You let me handle this, David!” Gino said. “Your hands never have to get dirty.”

“I
want
to get my hands dirty.”

Gino needed to keep David out of the revenge business. It was only a matter of time before he got his hands on the
mulanyan
who had cruised past Peter’s home. This Montrose Toney character. Peter had told him about the guy in the Camaro who’d chased them. Gino guessed that guy was Toney, or someone associated with him. When he got his hands on the bastard, he’d find out what was going on.

Gino opened his mouth to tell David it would be foolhardy for him to get involved, but stopped himself when he saw the cold, determined look in his son-in-law’s eyes. He knew at that instant there was nothing he could say to dissuade him. And it was better that he brought David in with him than have David running around on his own. “All right, David, we’ll work together,” Gino agreed. “But you gotta stay calm and professional. No cowboy tactics, you understand?”

“I understand, Gino. This is business.”

“
Bene
!” Gino exclaimed. But he didn’t believe a word of it.

David told Gino everything he knew about the explosion, which unfortunately wasn’t much. He then answered questions Gino threw at him. These questions took him back to the military, through the birth and growth of his company, who his friends, associates, and competitors were. Gino asked if he had any enemies, not just competitors, but David couldn’t think of any—except for whoever was behind the wheel of the red Camaro that had chased him and his father after the funeral.

Gino’s desk telephone rang. He glanced at the screen on the phone, recognized the number, and said, “I need to take this.”

Gino snatched up the receiver and said, “
Ciao, Roberto
.”

“The
mulanyan
from D.C. is on the move,” Bobby Galupo said. “He left the motel and drove out to the area around 45
th
and Spruce. You know, out past the Penn campus. He stopped at the drive-in at a Mickey Ds. Now he’s kinda driving around, like he can’t make up his friggin’ mind what he wants to do next. But I can tell you one thing . . . he’s heading to South Philly.”

“
Bene, Roberto, grazie,
” Gino said. “I think we both know where he’s headed.” “My boys are ready to go,” Galupo said. “Everything’s set up.”

“Thanks. But tell your boys we sure as hell want this done real quiet. And I want the guy alive.”

“
Capisco
.”

As soon as Gino put down the telephone receiver, David demanded in a strained voice, “What’s going on?”

“Whoa, calm down,” Gino said. “Remember, no emotion. This is business. I’ve had guys watching your father’s place since yesterday. We spotted a white Acura cruise the street. If someone goes to the trouble to blow up an entire house and kill people, and if they’re after you, as you think they are, then they ain’t gonna quit. We’ve been on this
mulanyan
in the Acura since last night and it looks like he’s on his way back to your dad’s place.”

“Maybe the same guy that was in the red Camaro.”

“Maybe.”

“So, what are we going to do?”

Gino stared at David. “We’re going to wait here until we hear from my friends.” He thought again about what Peter had told him about the man in a red Camaro. He was now convinced the explosion had nothing to do with anything he’d done. This was about David. Suddenly the love and affection he held for David grew thin. If his son-in-law had done something wrong, committed a crime that got his family murdered, he would make him pay.

Montrose Toney wasn’t an educated man; but he wasn’t stupid. He’d never taken action without proper planning. But he was about to put himself at great risk with no planning at all. He had a choice. He could point the car in any direction that would take him as far away as possible from Philadelphia, D.C., and Bishop. Or he could take a chance and go after Hood. But he was no more able to walk away from Bishop than a junkie would be able to walk away from a free fix. He’d become accustomed to the good life made possible by Bishop’s money. Besides, if he ran, how the hell would he ever be able to hide from a top guy at the CIA?

Toney parked the Acura in the block south of Rosemont Street. He walked casually, as though he belonged in the neighborhood, and approached the Hood house. There was no one out on the street. He assumed that by this hour of the morning, 9:15, the working stiffs had gone off to their jobs and the local kids were in school. But it surprised him there were no women pushing baby strollers, or old men and women ambling along the sidewalk. Especially on a warm, sunny morning.

He climbed to the top of the Hood stoop and walked the two paces across the shallow porch to the front door. A sixty-something man sat next to the front window, newspaper in hand. It was the man who’d been with Hood at the cemetery in Bethesda. He’d have to do him, too.

Toney rang the bell. The man inside dropped his newspaper and got out of the chair.

The door opened and the man said, “Come in; I’ve been expecting you. My son isn’t here right now, Mr. Toney. Why don’t you sit down and relax? He should be back soon.”

Toney developed an instant pain in his chest while he mechanically followed the man into a small living room. “What the . . . how do you know my name?” he asked as he reached for his pistol.

“Please excuse my rudeness. I haven’t told you my name. It’s Peter Hood.” The man smiled and added, “I’m not the only one who knows your name, Mr. Toney. Actually, for someone who’s been in Philadelphia for just one day, you’re quite well known. Why don’t I introduce you to some of my friends?”

Toney backed away as though Hood had a contagious disease. He’d fucked up. He backed toward the front door, but before he could reach it, three men stepped into the living room—one with a large pistol in hand and two with shotguns. All their weapons pointed directly at his chest.

The man with the pistol shouted, “You got one second to drop that pistol or we’re gonna blow your ass all over the wallpaper.”