Finally, he confided the situation to her, and her view was a clear one. He needed to come forward; there was too much at stake not to, and the longer he waited the worse it would become, both for him and for the people that might be victimized by the missing pills.
Her conviction gave Daniel the courage and resolve that he needed. He informed his CEO, Mitchell Blackman, of his decision, and was surprised when he didn’t get any pushback. Blackman expressed similar feelings to Daniel’s; his conscience was tormenting him as well. They would come forward together, individually as well as representing the company, and let the chips fall where they may.
The relief that Daniel felt was palpable. Blackman had surprised him, but it was a very pleasant surprise. He knew that Blackman had far more to lose, and not just his preeminent position within the company. Daniel was single without any close family; Blackman had a wife and two teenage children.
But while misery loves company, so does anxiety, and just having someone alongside him felt very supportive and comforting. They would go to the FBI the next morning, and unburden themselves.
Daniel left the office that evening, heading home and not knowing if he’d ever be back, or what might lie in front of him.
He was never seen or heard from again.
Carla Alvarez said she has been friends with Juanita Diaz since grammar school.
They both grew up on Jerome Avenue, in the Bronx, and they have remained friends ever since. They refer to each other as “my sister from another mother.”
Once we saw Carla’s name on the call list, Laurie called her and asked if she’d been in touch with Juanita, and Carla’s response was that she is very worried about her friend.
That response alone was enough to get Laurie and me up here to a diner on Route 45 in Spring Valley. Carla works as a cashier at a department store nearby, and she said that she could talk to us during her lunch hour.
We drive up the Palisades Interstate Parkway, the road that parallels the Hudson River on the New Jersey side. Of course, it gets a little complicated, since halfway up you enter New York State, even though you’re still on the Jersey side.
It is a sign of New York’s regional, obnoxious dominance that it refuses to stay on its own damn side of the river.
When we get to the diner, there is a Hispanic woman who seems to be around Juanita Diaz’s age sitting alone in a booth. We take a shot and go over to her, and sure enough, it is Carla Alvarez.
“Thanks for seeing us,” Laurie says. “We won’t take a lot of your time.”
“No, it’s okay. I was going to call the police.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I am worried about Juanita. She is my best friend.”
“Why are you worried?”
“I don’t know where she is. I cannot reach her for weeks. And her poor husband…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but if she did it would have reflected on Danny’s murder.
Laurie’s turn. “Where did you see her last?”
“She was at my house; she came to stay with me when she left home.”
“Why did she leave home?” I ask.
“She and Danny, they were having trouble in their marriage. She needed time to think, and to be with someone who understood her. So she came to me. If I were in that position, I would go to her.”
“How long did she stay with you?”
Carla thinks for a moment. “A week, maybe more. She talked to Danny a couple of times, and she seemed to feel better. So she was going to go back home.”
“But she didn’t?”
“I don’t know; I don’t think so. I got home from work, and there was a note from Juanita. She said that something had happened to Danny, and that she was going home. But I called Danny, and he told me that he had not heard from her, and that nothing was wrong with him.”
“What happened next?” Laurie asks.
“I didn’t hear from anyone for two days. I called Juanita on her cell phone a few times, but it was turned off. So I called Danny again, but this time he was different.”
“What do you mean?”
“He told me that Juanita didn’t want to speak to me, and that I should stop bothering them. That was crazy, you know? I did nothing wrong, and Juanita would never say anything like that.”
Carla is obviously upset, and there is no doubt in my mind that she is telling the truth as she knows it. “Do you have any idea why Danny would say that to you?”
She shakes her head. “No. Danny and I, we were always friendly. We both had Juanita, you know? I kept calling Juanita, but no answer. I didn’t call Danny anymore, and then I saw on the TV what happened to him. So terrible.…”
Laurie asks if Juanita seemed to be worried about anything other than her marriage, or if she indicated anything at all about she or Danny being in any other kind of trouble.
“No,” Carla says. “And if there was anything, she would have told me. Me and Juanita, we tell each other everything.” She continues, with more than a trace of sadness, “And now she tells me nothing. That is why I’m so worried. That is not Juanita.”
We ask Carla to please call us if she hears from Juanita, and she agrees. “Should I call the police and tell them what I’ve told you?”
I think about this for a moment. It’s unlikely her story will motivate anyone to do anything. The fact that Juanita Diaz hasn’t called her friend is not by itself ominous news. But it certainly can’t hurt to do so, and it has no potential to damage Pete’s case. “If you feel comfortable with that, then of course,” I say.
Laurie and I head over to the Oakmont Gardens, which is now no longer a hotel, but rather has been converted to mini-apartments. They are rented long term, and based on the look of them, must be rather inexpensive. The grounds are poorly kept, with litter strewn fairly liberally on the grass.
The manager of the place is Edward Rozelle, and when we tell him we are there to ask questions rather than rent an apartment, he adopts an attitude that is simultaneously wary and obnoxious. My first reaction is to dislike him, and I suspect that over time he wouldn’t grow on me. “Our customers expect total privacy,” he says.
I nod. “I’m sure they do. Is this one of your residents?” I show him a picture of Juanita. There is a slight reaction, but I can’t tell what it means.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“It must be comforting for your residents to have you protect them so diligently. But moving right along, have you seen her? She was staying in room 221; she made a phone call from that room.”
“I really can’t comment on that.”
“Makes sense,” I say. “So let’s try a different subject. What are you doing on Thursday and Friday?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you don’t answer these very reasonable questions, I’ll present you with a subpoena, and a federal marshal will escort you to a two-day deposition, which will feel like root canal without novocaine. Sound good?”
I am, as per usual, lying through my teeth. I don’t have the power to subpoena him, and I have as much chance of getting a federal marshal to help as I have of bringing in Marshal Dillon, or declaring martial law, or being named grand marshal of the Rose Bowl Parade.
Fortunately, Rozelle is not aware that I am full of shit, and he folds like an accordion. Laurie, who is totally aware that I am in fact full of shit, manages a slight eye roll with a smile, a maneuver she’s perfected over the years.
“You guys always have to get your way, huh?” Rozelle asks. “Don’t you ever talk to the cops?”
I have no idea what he’s babbling about, so I say, “We’re talking to you now.”
He nods. “Yeah, she was here. With a guy.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Nah, she was in the car, and he brought her into the room. I didn’t see her again.”
“How long were they here?” Laurie asks.
“Almost two weeks. I saw him coming and going a couple of times, but not her.
What’s the story with her?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I give you the impression that we were going to share information? Forgive me if I did. Do you have housekeepers that clean those rooms?”
“What do you think this is, the Hilton?”
“Is that a no?” I ask.
“Yeah. That’s a no. People clean their own rooms, until they leave.”
We question Rozelle a while longer, and actually manage to get a little information, which may or may not prove helpful. The guy with Juanita paid in cash, twenties, which Rozelle no longer has. He signed his name Wally Reese on the check-in sheet, but did not have to provide identification to prove that was his real name.
Rozelle says the car he was driving was silver colored, and he thinks it was a Toyota Corolla, but he isn’t sure. He did not get the license plate number.
“Has anyone else stayed in that apartment since they left?” Laurie asks.
“No, we got a bunch of vacancies.”
“Go figure,” I say. “Make sure no one goes in there before tomorrow. We need to get forensics people in here.” I know Pete has people he can call on to retrieve fingerprints, and I want them in there as soon as possible.
“You’re going to get prints, or maybe DNA?” Rozelle asks, apparently somewhat impressed by the concept. “Any chance you’ll tell me what’s going on?”
“Zero.”
We’re making progress in the search for Juanita Diaz.
Unfortunately, my job is not to find Juanita Diaz; it’s to defend Pete Stanton. That’s not working out quite so well.
I’ve put Hike in charge of the traditional defense aspects of the investigation, meaning interviewing prosecution witnesses, analyzing the evidence, recruiting our own experts, etc. He has been updating me on all of it, and he’s done a nice job.
The problem is that while we may score points in that area, it will not carry the day for us. If it is ultimately a jury’s choice between the prosecution’s evidence, and our refutation of that evidence, we will come in second place. A very distant second place.
I’ve been skirting the edges, spending my time finding out about rich people having surprise heart attacks, and a wife who left her husband and son. What I really need to know is who the hell wanted Danny Diaz dead, and why.
Sam moves that ball forward a giant step by coming over with the first of the GPS records of where Diaz’s cell phone has been in the past couple of months. The locations are listed by coordinates, which of course mean absolutely nothing to me. But Sam has started the large, tedious task of assigning actual locations to the coordinates, and is about ten percent finished with that process.
“I thought you might want to get these now, because of this one,” he says, pointing to an entry on the list.
I immediately know why he focused on this particular one. It is an address in the Riverside section of Paterson, which is the territory of Dominic Petrone and his family. There are many law-abiding, peaceful citizens in this area, but I’m betting that Diaz was not visiting one of them.
“Did you check who lives at the address?” I ask, although knowing Sam as I do, I have no doubt that he did so.
He nods. “Yup. The house is owned by Gina Russo, wife of Joseph.”
This is good and bad news. The bad news is that Russo is number two in the family to Petrone himself, which means he’s probably ordered beatings or killings more times than I’ve ordered beer. I am uncomfortable being on the same planet with Russo, to say nothing of having to deal with him. I have no idea why the house is in his wife’s name, and it doesn’t seem like a priority for me to find out.
The good news is that I have an in with Russo. When Willie Miller was in prison, Russo was an inmate there as well. Three prisoners, clearly paid for their efforts, were on a mission to kill Russo in the exercise area, and they had makeshift knives to help them in the process.
Willie, who had never so much as exchanged hellos with Russo, happened to be there as it was going down. Willie’s the kind of guy to instinctively take the side of the “one” in any “three-on-one” encounter, particularly when the three have weapons.
Willie himself is a walking weapon, and using his karate skills, he kicked the three assailants all the way to the hospital. The only thing worse than killing a high-level Petrone family member is failing to kill one, and the three assailants all mysteriously died within a month of being released from the prison hospital.
Russo was understandably grateful to Willie, and offered his services whenever needed. Willie has never quite understood Russo’s attitude; he just never considered what he did to be that big a deal. In fact, Willie told me that the fight was the most fun he had in his seven years in prison.
We took advantage of Russo’s gratitude to Willie once before on a case, and now it’s time to do so again.
I call Willie and tell him, “I need to meet with Joseph Russo.”
“You got it,” he says, with casual certainty.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he says. “I’ll call him now.”
“Mention how we’re good friends, you and I, and that he shouldn’t kill me.”
“You got it,” he says again, so matter-of-factly that I’m afraid he’ll really repeat what I said to Russo.
Ten minutes later, Willie calls back. “He asked what you wanted to see him about.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I didn’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“Come on over.”
Willie wants to go with me, as does Laurie. I say yes to Willie but no to Laurie. I don’t see Russo as the type to open up to women. And if he insults Laurie, I sure as hell don’t want to have to challenge him to a duel.
The real question is whether or not to bring Marcus. My instinctive reaction is to have him there for protection, but when Marcus is around there is always the chance that things will get out of control. My goal is not to antagonize; it is to get information. Besides, Willie’s relationship with Russo will hopefully provide me at least a thin blanket of protection. So Marcus is out.
Willie is going to pick me up, and a few minutes before he is due to arrive, Hike shows up to go over some elements of our potential defense.
“I can’t do it now,” I say. “I’m going to a meeting. Hey, maybe you should come along.”
“Who are you meeting with?”
“Joseph Russo.”
“As in Joseph Russo, Joseph Russo?”
“The very one,” I say. “You want to meet him?”
“What have I ever done to make you think I’m an idiot?” Hike asks. “I’ll wait for you here with Edna and Ricky, in case you happen to survive the meeting.”
I know Michael Corleone lived in that huge family compound.
And I know it was surrounded by walls, so fortified that even Kay couldn’t go out shopping without Tom Hagen’s permission. And I know that they had that amazing house on Lake Tahoe with those glass windows looking out at the snow. And I know their part of the lake was so secluded they could shoot Fredo while he was in a canoe, out in the open, without worrying that anybody would see it.
But that has not been my experience. I don’t hang out with too many crime kingpins, but I’ve been to a couple of their houses. I’ve even been to Dominic Petrone’s. And it is nothing like Michael Corleone’s.
Petrone lives in a regular neighborhood, nice but certainly not ostentatious, and you would never know which house among the group is his. There are no walls, no gated entrance. He always has a couple of his people on the main floor, but I think the main protection is the knowledge that no one would be dumb enough to go after Dominic Petrone.
It surprises me, but more than that, it gives me some insight. I’ve sometimes wondered why these people do the things they do, and the only answers I ever come up with are money and power. But when I come to this neighborhood, I feel that power must be by far the dominant motive.
Petrone is in
effect the head of a huge company, but he doesn’t have a fancy car, or a private jet, or a yacht, or most of the trappings that CEOs of large corporations have. I know he makes a fortune, but I think the money is just another aspect of the power. It’s also a way to keep score.
Joseph Russo’s house is very similar to Petrone’s. I know, because I’ve been there before, and when Willie and I arrive this time, my first impression is that he hasn’t done much with the place in the last couple of years.
Willie knocks on the front door of Russo’s house, and it is opened almost instantly. A very large person says, “Miller?” and Willie answers “Yeah.” We men of danger speak very few words.
Once we’re inside, we see a second large person. The second guy comes over and frisks me, which is one of my least favorite things. They don’t frisk Willie, which must be on specific instructions from Russo. The fact that they consider me more dangerous than Willie is sort of flattering.
We’re led into the den, where Russo is waiting. The TV is on, and I note for posterity that he is watching the Food Network. This comes as no surprise; Russo is about my height, and probably outweighs Willie and I put together.
Russo sees Willie, smiles, and says, “My man.” He comes over and they embrace, for longer than I would expect. I’m thinking of asking them if they want to be alone, when they disengage and Russo turns toward me.
“Speak,” he says.
“I’m investigating the Danny Diaz murder,” I say.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Danny was here, in this house, three days before he died.”
“You think I don’t know that?” He throws a glance at Willie, which seems to say, “Why do you hang around with this dope?” Willie just shrugs in return, probably wondering the same thing.
Actually, while Russo obviously knew that Danny was here, until now I couldn’t be sure of it. I only knew that his phone was here, and although it was likely that he was carrying it, it wasn’t definite. Now it is.
“Why was he here?”
Russo thinks for a moment, as if weighing his answer, but I suspect he knew why we were coming over, and knew exactly what he would be willing to say. Finally, “He worked for me.”
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