by Marc Rainer
“I asked him that, and he said he hadn’t been doing anything with meth or anything else that would blow up,” Foote answered.
They pulled past the barn on the left. One of the doors had fallen completely off its rusted hinges.
“And what is it we’re looking for?” Graham asked. “You said that he wasn’t actually storing any more heroin in the house.”
“He said he’d kept a ledger in a drawer in the kitchen,” Foote said. “He recorded all the dope amounts and prices so he could keep track of what Dom and then Collavito owed him. He said they paid him for what he took to New York as well as what he dropped off in KC.”
“Well, here we are,” Graham said as he stopped the car near the front door to the house.
Foote used Cannon’s house key to open the front door. He stepped inside and froze in his tracks.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed.
Along each side of the entryway were stacks of large, clear, plastic storage bins. Each had been punctured several times to allow oxygen inside. In the bottom of each bin Foote saw a few inches of dirt, some sticks, a few blades of grass and weeds, and—
“Snakes!” Foote yelled, stepping backwards and almost on top of Billy Graham, who had stepped into the doorway behind him.
“Oh Hell, no!” Graham said. “I’m not going in there. They’re stacked floor to ceiling, for Christ’s sake!”
The sound of their voices stirred some of the reptiles, which began vigorously shaking the rattles on their tails.
“I am not going in there!” Graham repeated.
“Wait just a minute,” Foote said. “It looks like they’re all in their containers. Maybe we’ll be okay just to head for the kitchen—”
“The hell with that,” Graham said, pointing to the floor of the hallway. “What are those?”
Foote’s eyes followed Graham’s finger down to some long strips on the floor.
“Snake skins. They shed them from time to time,” he said.
“So, they’re not all in their containers, are they?” Graham asked.
“Apparently not.”
“I am so not going in there!”
“I don’t think I am either,” Foote said. “Let’s go back to the car for a minute.”
They shut the door and returned to their car. Foote called the local office of the FBI, which relayed his call to a Texas Rangers station. They waited half an hour for a ranger to arrive. When he did, they explained their situation.
“If we could just get to the kitchen,” Foote explained, “we could probably just be good with that.”
The ranger nodded, went to the front door, opened it, stood there for a moment, then closed it again. He returned to his vehicle and made a phone call.
Foote looked at the ranger as he returned from his car.
“Well?”
“I called one of our animal control agencies,” the ranger said. “They’ll be out in a bit. I’m not going in there.”
They waited another forty-five minutes for the truck to arrive. The animal control officer walked to the front door, opened it, closed it, then returned to his truck and made a phone call.
“You’re not going in?” Foote asked him when the man re-emerged from his truck.
“Oh sure,” the animal control guy said. “Most of ’em are in containers. I just don’t have room for all of ’em on my truck, so I had to call another one of our guys to help me transport ’em. We’ll take some of ’em to the zoos, some will have to be destroyed. I’ll get you in as soon as I clear the front hallway.”
They waited for another hour as the animal control officer carried out bin after bin of venomous snakes. Another man arrived to help him, and Foote and Graham lost count of the containers that were carried to the trucks. One of the animal control guys retrieved a heavy sack and a long, metal hook from his truck and headed back toward the house.
“A few got loose,” he shouted to Foote and Graham and the ranger, who were all standing by their cars.
“We know,” Graham shouted back.
Another thirty minutes passed before the first animal control guy motioned them toward the door.
Foote stepped inside, only to freeze again.
“I still hear rattles,” he protested.
“They’re somewhere in the back,” the animal control guy said. “We’ve got a route cleared to the kitchen for you. The snakes are stacked on every wall in the house. We don’t have room for all of ’em, even with the extra truck. Follow me.”
Foote turned to look at Graham. Graham was standing outside the front door, shaking his head from side to side. The ranger was standing behind him.
“Looks like it’s just me,” Foote said.
“At least he kept the temp down,” the animal control guy said. “That generally keeps ’em pretty docile.”
“Good to know,” Foote said, his head turning on a swivel from side to side.
They went into the kitchen. Foote saw a collection of glass tubes and other laboratory equipment on an island in the center of the room.
“My guess is that he’s been milking them for their venom,” the animal control officer said. “You can make a little money selling it to the companies who make the anti-venom antidotes.”
“Good for him,” Foote said almost under his breath.
He walked to a side of the island and began opening the drawers. He found the ledger in the third one down.
“Let’s go,” he said. He followed the animal control guy out again.
Foote held up the ledger so that Graham saw it. He tossed the book to Graham, then took out his cell phone.
The ranger walked up.
“The animal control guys said they’re just going to board up the house for now. They’re not sure they’ll have room for all of the snakes.”
“We have what we need,” Foote said. “Thanks for the help.”
Foote hit a contact number on his phone.
“What’s up John?” Supervisory Special Agent Michael Furay asked.
“Where are you guys now?” Foote asked.
“Pennsylvania. Why?”
“Is Cannon in the car with you?”
“Yeah, he’s sleeping in the back. It’s my turn to drive. Why?”
“Give him a message when he wakes up, will you?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Tell him I’m going to kill him.”
Massapequa, Long Island, New York
Supervisory Special Agent Michael Furay sat in the passenger seat next to Supervisory Special Agent David Hillman, his counterpart in the Brooklyn-Queens New York office of the FBI. Hillman was sitting in the driver’s seat. They watched as Tyler Cannon honked the Camry’s horn twice, then drove away from the gas station.
“John Foote will pick him up and put him in custody at the rendezvous point,” Furay said. “Cannon told us the routine was always the same here: drop the duffel behind the dumpster, blow the horn and scram. He never knew the customers, and they didn’t want to see him. It was all set up by Beretta in Kansas City.”
“We’ve been watching the downstream part of this for months,” Hillman said. “Your guy’s customer is Victor Fontana. He was originally a young tough in Gotti’s crew, back in the day. He’s got three of his mob soldiers helping him cut the stuff, according to our informant here. They always meet in Fontana’s living room, about six blocks away, cut the heroin, package it, and then it hits the street for sale.”
“You had any fatal overdoses up here that can be tied to this crew?” Furay asked.
“Three that we know of. It used to be that it was only a ghetto problem. Now the stuff’s in every ethnic group. Our three ODs to date include a little Jewish girl—she was a college student; a fire captain’s son here on the island; and a long-time addict—a homeless guy—who apparently wasn’t prepared for the strength of this shit. Even after they cut it by adding whatever they’re diluting it with—it varies from shipment to shipment—if the user gets a dose with more fentanyl in the mi
x, it’s lights out.”
“And you can tie those deaths to this crew’s dope?” Furay asked.
“Yeah. Our informant is the cousin of one of the street dealers who work for Fontana. He used to help them package it. He got cold feet and a conscience after the college kid died. He called us, we met him, and he’s told us about the conversations these guys have while they’re cutting the dope. They think it’s a big joke when a junkie dies.”
“Do we have a warrant for Fontana’s house?” Furay asked. “We can’t let this stuff hit the street, as lethal as it is.”
“Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means our federal magistrate here has a bug up his ass about anticipatory search warrants. I have a guy waiting in his chambers—”
“At this hour?” Furay looked at his watch. “It’s after seven.”
“Judge Milner isn’t lazy, he’s just scared of his shadow, and terrified of getting reversed by one of the district judges. He wants us to call in when we have eyes on the dope going into Fontana’s house. Then he’ll okay hitting the place.”
“What if we lose Fontana?”
“Don’t worry, Mike. We got this, and the dope isn’t going anywhere. I gotta guy on our task force who’s a postal inspector. He’s got a mail truck lined up, and he’s dressed in his mailman outfit. The plan is for him to knock on the door to Fontana’s house like he’s got a package to deliver. Our guy inside says that you can see the table where they do the work right there in the front room. They just keep the curtains closed. Our postman at the door gives a signal, we radio our guy in the judge’s chambers, the judge says, “Go,” and we go. Even if we don’t see Fontana put the duffel in his car, we’ll see the duffel or the dope in the house.”
“Okay. I just promised our prosecutor in Kansas City—”
“Yeah, I meant to ask you about that guy. What’s his name? Trask? He must have some kinda juice at Main Justice to get them to sign off on taking these guys out west for trial.”
“He’s sharp enough. He told me that your prosecutor here was okay with it because of some concerns about jury tampering.”
“There is that,” Hillman said, nodding. “We’ve lost more than one of these mob trials that way. This is Gotti’s old crew, after all.”
Hillman pointed to a man walking up to the dumpster. The man—a balding guy in his late fifties wearing a black leather jacket—bent down and stood up again, holding the duffel.
“That’s our guy, and that’s your dope.”
Fontana walked back to the rear of the service station. Moments later, a Ford Taurus pulled out from behind the building.
“Steve, did you get a visual on the duffel bag going into the Taurus?” Hillman asked over his radio.
“Negative, boss,” a voice responded. “I saw him walk back there with it, but my view was obstructed by another vehicle that was parked next to the Taurus. I’m sure he has it, but I couldn’t swear to an affidavit saying that I saw him put it in the car.”
“Shit.” Hillman put down the radio and picked up his cell phone. “Joe, we’re gonna need your delivery act at the house.”
Lee’s Summit, Missouri
Trask smiled to himself as he measured out the portions for the three bowls.
It’s like I have a smaller version of the three bears. Boo gets the big one, Nikki gets the middle-sized one, and Tasha gets the little one.
Lynn was shopping, and Trask had told her to take her time. He would cover the meals and medicines tonight. He watched and waited as the pups licked their bowls clean. He offered Boo a little extra after she finished, and he splashed a bite or two into the other bowls, so the other dogs didn’t feel left out.
You’re worrying me a little, Boo-boo. That bout with bad insulin cost you some weight you couldn’t afford to lose. Let’s see if we can get a couple of pounds back on those ribs.
She finished the food and walked over, sitting dutifully in front of him with her back turned. He carefully measured the dose in the syringe, and gave her the injection, angling the needle in carefully to minimize the sting.
Lynn’s a lot better at this, since she was a medic once upon a time.
Boo was as still as a rock waiting on the shot.
Best patient ever. I just try not to hurt her.
She felt the needle withdraw and turned to get the treat he had waiting in his hand.
“Eye drops and more treats, Boo,” Trask said.
She shifted her weight on her front paws and held her ice-blue eyes open and up toward the ceiling. Each eye received four rounds of drops, and the medicine was followed with another dog biscuit.
“Good girl, Boo-boo,” Trask said, patting the big dog’s head. He handed a biscuit to Nikki and then another to Tasha. “You girls are mooching off your sister’s condition, aren’t you? She doesn’t mind a bit.”
The last treat had been handed out, so Boo led the others downstairs and outside to the back yard. Trask walked out on the deck and looked down into the yard. It was one of several evening rituals. Just like at the dog park, little Tasha followed Boo like she was attached to the larger dog’s left hip. Nikki, the old teacher, followed the other two around the inside of the fence at a much slower pace.
God knows I need this. Three little angels on loan from Heaven, full of unconditional love. No human complications, games, hidden motivations, or evil. They keep us grounded. I just wished they lived longer.
His cell phone rang. It was Furay.
“Four more in custody, Jeff. I’ll put the identifiers in an email to you tonight. Is Cam still flying out to help the guys here with the removal hearings?”
“Yep. I’m not sure they need the help, but he’s never seen New York, and we owed him a trip for all the side work he’s been doing. I’ve been there and done that before. You can have New York and L.A.; I don’t like anthills. Any problems on your end?”
“Not really. We had to do a little song-and-dance for their magistrate up here to get into the lead guy’s house where they had the dope. It went well. We got all the drugs back as well as the targets.”
“Great news. Jose got his three defendants here yesterday. It didn’t take much effort. He was watching Drew-vision and saw that they were all smoking again in the living room. They were stoned, sitting ducks for the arrest team.”
Furay laughed. “That’s great. Any news on Beretta?”
“Not a thing. He left before we spun Collavito, so we can’t open a case on him yet for being a fugitive, and that rules out issuing any grand jury subpoenas for the airline manifests. His car is still parked at KCI.”
“You may have a suppression motion to answer on the search here. It’s a good search, but you know how some defense counsel can be.”
“What’s up?”
“The lead guy—Vic Fontana—has a counsel on a retainer—a real loudmouth named Larry Bernstein. He showed up while we were taking all the wiseguys out of the house and he started raising all kinds of hell. He also has some history with the inspector from postal who did the song-and-dance I mentioned. They don’t like each other very much. Bernstein’s a big, fat dude, and the postal guy’s freakin’ huge. It looked and sounded like a couple of elephants with Brooklyn accents goin’ at each other.”
“That should be fun,” Trask said. “Have a safe trip home.”
“We will. We’ll be driving a helluva lot slower on the return trip. I think we averaged about ninety on the way up here.”
Las Vegas, Nevada
Paul Beretta tried Collavito’s cell again. There was still no answer. Puzzled, he tried the number for the tire store in Liberty, Missouri.
They should still be open.
The store phone rang several times, but no one answered it.
Beretta frowned. He thought for a moment, then dialed the number in New York for Vic Fontana. Fontana did not answer his phone. His wife did.
“Hello?” The female voice sounded upset, tense.
“Beth? Th
is is Paul Beretta in Kansas City. I was trying to reach Vic. Is he around?”
“He’s in jail, Paulie. The feds came and got him and some of his boys after dinner tonight.”
“For what, Beth?” Beretta already knew the answer, but hoped he’d hear something else.
“They said they found some heroin in the house, Paulie. I can’t believe that myself. What do you think? Could Vic really be doing anything like that? Paulie?”
Beretta had already turned off his phone. He began emptying the drawers and closets in his room. He was packed and in a cab to the airport in less than ten minutes.
“Terminal 3,” he told the cabbie. “The international terminal.”
“Oh, heading overseas?” the driver asked, trying to make conversation.
“Yeah. A short-notice trip.” Beretta’s terse tone got a shrug and the desired silence from the cabbie.
Beretta took some slow, deep breaths. His hands reached for the money belt around his waist.
It’s more than ten grand. Probably three times that amount. I’ll have to fill out that damned form. Oh, well. Can’t be helped. It’ll be the last time, anyway.
He’d planned this all out, long before, in case of the unthinkable emergency.
Well, it’s here. That’s the reason you planned for it, he told himself. You’ll be fine.
He just needed to get out of the country before they found him, before they could indict him and get his picture plastered on every bulletin board in every airport on the coast. There was no other choice, no chance to go back to KC to pull other things together. They’d be looking for him there, and probably had eyes on his car at the airport. He had to go tonight.
He had done the research, looking carefully at every option and evaluating every place where there was no extradition treaty with the United States. He had ruled out eastern European nations like Ukraine for the same reasons he’d ruled out countries in the western Pacific and Africa. They were too politically unstable, with governments itching to seize private wealth and asking too many questions.