Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series)

by Dennis Carstens

  “Leave it alone, Dante,” Vivian mildly chastised him.

  Ferraro placed the photo in the inside pocket of his suit coat and said, “Then I will do whatever I can to help you. It will be my pleasure to help get this beautiful girl out of prison. And now, my love, it is getting late for this old man. Let me get you to your hotel and I will personally drive you back to the airport tomorrow.”

  “You won’t personally drive me anywhere, you old fraud,” she laughed. “But I’ll enjoy the company.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  While Vivian and her ex-lover were enjoying—in Vivian’s case, not enjoying— the hip-hop musical, Charlie Dudek was sitting in his car across the river in Brooklyn. Specifically, he was situated outside a bar in Brighton Beach trying to find his quarry. This was now the end of his second week in and around New York and so far, no luck. His employer had informed him, via email, the man had been warned about the contract taken out on him. Charlie had also found out by listening to bar talk that his employer was also in hiding. Apparently, the hunted was also hunting.

  Dimitri Kirilov, the man who hired Charlie, was the head man of a U.S. branch of a Russian mob. His boss was back in Moscow and had tentacles that reached into the highest levels of the Russian government. Rumor had it that the man, Constantin Sokolov, had Vladimir Markoff, the Russian president, on speed dial.

  Charlie had also discovered why Kirilov wanted the mark eliminated. Andrei Dernov was the number one hitman for a rival gang. But more importantly, Kirilov had positive proof that this psychopath had a sexual taste for young girls. Kirilov, a monstrous sociopath, was the proud father of three young girls himself. Normally, there was no such thing as a depravity unacceptable to Russian gangsters. This particular inclination of Dernov’s was too much. Plus the contract had the additional bonus of ridding his rivals of a valued employee.

  When Charlie found out that Dernov was a pedophile, he could feel the blood rising and heating his face. He had decided that Dernov needed a particularly nasty departure from this life and Charlie knew just how to provide it.

  Charlie was growing increasingly impatient. The Russian needed to be dealt with harshly and soon. He also had unfinished business in Minnesota and was anxious to get back at it. After going online and copying the bios of the CAR Securities principals, Charlie had gone over them so many times he could recite them from memory. He smiled a sinister smile thinking about his upcoming visit with them.

  When 2:00 A.M. rolled around Charlie decided to pack it in for the night. The bar he surveilled was a small, neighborhood joint whose clientele was mostly Russian working-class men. Charlie had overheard a man who was an associate of Dernov mention it while Charlie was eavesdropping in another bar. This was the second night he had looked for Dernov here with no luck.

  As Charlie yawned and thought about calling it a night, two men walked out of the bar’s side door and into an alley. There was a light above the door that illuminated the men while they stood for a few seconds. Charlie quickly placed his binoculars to his eyes, focused in on the men and a chilling smile made his lips curl. Andrei Dernov was standing in the alley urinating while talking to his friend.

  “Hello, Marc, what can I do for you?” Steve Gondeck said into his desktop telephone. Gondeck had been paged about a call from Marc Kadella while seated at his desk over a minute ago. He liked Marc, whom he considered to be a decent guy and fairly straight criminal defense lawyer, at least as much as prosecutors believed any of them to be straight. Uncertain of why Kadella was calling but believing it had something to do with Madeline Rivers, he was hesitant to answer the phone. Instead, he sat and stared at the tiny, blinking red light for a full minute hoping it would stop. Gondeck finally surrendered and answered the call.

  “Hey, Steve,” Marc replied, “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay, I’m listening,” Gondeck said.

  “Not on the phone. Can we meet?”

  “Marc, if this is about Maddy, I…”

  “Steve,” Marc interrupted, “trust me on this, okay? Just meet me and hear me out, please.”

  “Okay,” Gondeck said with obvious reluctance in his voice. “When and where? Not downtown,” he added.

  “Can you come out here to my office? There’s a diner across the street…”

  “I know it,” Gondeck said. “You can buy me lunch,” he added after looking at his clock.

  “Deal,” Marc said. “See you in what, a half-hour? I’ll get a booth.”

  “Sure, see you then.”

  The waitress picked up their menus then turned and walked away to place their lunch orders. Both men watched the shapely twenty-year-old walk away, then Marc began.

  “You know, you might want to eat a salad once in a while. The waist on those pants looks to be getting a little tight,” Marc chided him.

  “Is that what you wanted? You wanted me to come here so you could insult me. Like, I don’t get enough of that at home,” Gondeck replied. “Besides, you’re not one to talk there, slim.”

  “It’s our age and what we do,” Marc said. “We work too much, eat poorly and never take time for regular exercise. It’s a wonder any of us lives past sixty.”

  “Don’t forget the stress,” Gondeck added. “So what’s up, Marc?”

  “Before I get to that, let me ask you, do you think I made reasonable doubt for Maddy?”

  “The jury said no,” Gondeck replied.

  “What did you think?”

  “The truth? I thought it was fifty-fifty.”

  “All right, I’ll let it go, for now.”

  “Good. Let’s eat. I need to get back to work.”

  “I need to tell you something, I’m not sure what you can do about it but,” he shrugged and held up his hands, “I figured I’d give it a try.”

  “About Madeline,” Gondeck said, a statement not a question.

  “Yes, but I need your word this is between us for now.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “I know but I think you’ll be okay with it once I tell you. Plus, I won’t give you any details except I, personally, had no knowledge of any of this beforehand. Okay?”

  “Okay, go ahead,” a now very curious Gondeck replied.

  Marc leaned forward, as did Gondeck, to be sure they could not be overheard.

  “Before I start, I’ll take your word for it that you’re not recording this.”

  “What? Of course not. You’ve been watching too many cop shows. No, I am not recording this.”

  “Even if you do, you won’t get anything incriminating.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Steve,” Marc whispered, “I know for an absolute fact that Maddy did not kill Rob Judd. She was set up. And I know who did it and why. How I know this is privileged and I won’t tell you, but Ethan Rask, one of the CAR Securities guys….”

  “I remember,” Gondeck said.

  “…confessed everything.”

  “And you didn’t bring this up before because it was illegally obtained,” Gondeck said.

  “Well, ah, yeah, slightly.”

  “Slightly my ass. I’m not even gonna mention names but I have a pretty good idea who was involved.”

  “No one was hurt. No one laid a hand on him. That’s all I can tell you,” Marc assured him.

  Gondeck leaned up against the back of the booth’s bench seat and silently looked at Marc for several seconds.

  “Do you believe me?”

  “Let’s say I do,” Gondeck said with a shrug. “I don’t know what we can do about it.”

  “I know,” Marc sighed. “I just thought it was time to tell you. Think about it, okay? Let me know if you come up with…”

  “Marc, I’m on the wrong side in this. I adore Maddy, you know that. But the evidence was there and…”

  “I’m telling you positively she is innocent.”

  Gondeck heavily sighed then said, “All right, I’ll think about. Thank God I’m not involved in t
he appeal.”

  “Come on in,” Corbin Reed said when he opened his front door and found Jordan Kemp waiting for him. The five CAR principals were meeting at Reed’s luxury townhouse to make the final arrangements for the liquidation of CAR Securities.

  “Is everyone here?” Kemp asked while stepping into the foyer.

  “Not yet, we’re still waiting for Walter. He had some bullshit deal he had to attend for one of his kids. He called a couple minutes ago and said he’d be along pretty soon,” Reed replied as the two men entered his living room.

  Kemp walked across the plush, white carpeting then stepped down into the sunken living room. Waiting were Ethan Rask and Victor Espinosa. They were sitting in matching, off-white chairs, each on one side of the large, gas fireplace set into the wall. Kemp heartily greeted both men with a huge smile. Kemp had never let his feelings show but he absolutely despised both of them. He hated Rask because he was so sleazy that every time Kemp shook his hand he wanted to take a shower. He could barely stand to be in the same room with Espinosa because Kemp was a closet bigot and believed all Latinos were drug-dealing gangsters who would slit your throat for amusement. It did not help that Espinosa was involved with people who fit the stereotype. Of course, unknown to Jordan Kemp, both Rask and Espinosa felt the same way about him.

  Kemp flopped his bulky body down on the sectional couch opposite Rask and Espinosa. “Getting close to zero hour,” Kemp said to the two men.

  “What do you want to drink?” Reed asked Kemp. While Kemp greeted the two co-conspirators Reed went to the bar to freshen his cocktail.

  “A scotch and soda, Corbin,” Kemp said. “And make it the good stuff for once.”

  Ethan Rask impatiently looked at his watch and growled, “Where the hell is that idiot Pascal?”

  “Relax, Ethan,” Kemp said with a smile. “He’ll be along.”

  Walter Pascal, if anyone was watching, appeared to be driving aimlessly through a residential area of South Minneapolis. He almost laughed at his own paranoia but also remembered the old saying, “You’re not really paranoid if people are really out to get you”.

  Ever since he became caught between the FBI and CAR Securities, Walter believed he was being followed. In case they had attached some type of tracking device to his car, he had driven to a rental agency and with a fake ID Ethan Rask had acquired for him a long time ago, rented the Buick he was currently driving. Tonight’s meeting was one the FBI should not find out about.

  Forty-five minutes after renting the car, satisfied he was not being followed, he parked in the small lot by Corbin’s townhouse. A minute later he was greeting the men waiting for him in Reed’s living room.

  When all five of them were settled into their chairs, Jordan Kemp started the discussion. He removed a document of several pages from his suit coat pocket, unfolded it and handed it first to Victor Espinosa.

  “Here it is. This is the plan, in detail for each of us. Look it over, especially your end of things, and make sure it looks right.”

  After Espinosa read it over and acknowledged its accuracy, he handed it to Ethan Rask. For the next twenty minutes, while they all waited in silence, each man in turn read the contents of the document and passed it along.

  Corbin Reed, the last one to look it over, finished reading it and said, “Looks good.” He handed it back to Jordan Kemp then stood, held up his drink and said, “Gentlemen, to a long and luxurious life.”

  The others stood, joined him in the toast and amid smiles and mild laughter, downed their drinks.

  FORTY-NINE

  Vivian Donahue’s one-time illicit lover, Dante Ferraro, was seated in the kitchen breakfast nook drinking the strong, Sicilian coffee he loved. Dressed in a black, silk bathrobe and matching silk pajamas he was in his million dollar Brooklyn Heights home. His housekeeper/cook, Consuela Madera, a sassy Puerto Rican who had been with him for over ten years, again chided him for drinking too much of the heavily caffeinated drink. And again, Ferraro ignored her and poured more from the sterling silver carafe.

  Unlike Vivian, the years had not been kind to the old gangster. Barely seventy, he was at least eighty pounds overweight, his once jet black hair, what was left of it, had gone completely gray and his health was that of an eighty-five-year-old. Semi-retired now, Dante Ferraro took comfort from the fact he would die in his bed and not a prison cell.

  “Animals,” he growled. Ferraro was reading the Daily News story about a body found in Barreto Point Park in the Bronx. The victim’s name had not been released but the reporter revealed the tattoos on the body clearly identified the man as a Russian mobster.

  “Who are animals?” Consuela asked. She was standing next to him, her right hand lightly resting on his left shoulder while she looked down at the paper.

  “Russians,” Dante answered her.

  “What time are your friends coming by?” she asked him.

  “Ten o’clock,” he replied.

  “You should get ready. It’s almost nine,” she said. She patted him on the shoulder and turned to continue her duties.

  “I can still tell time,” he growled. “But you’re right.”

  At precisely 10:00 A.M., not one minute before, not one minute after, the front doorbell rang. Consuela opened it and found three tough-looking men in their forties standing on the stoop.

  “Good morning, Consuela,” the oldest of the three, the one nearest the door said. “Is the boss in?”

  “Yes, he’s waiting for you in the little room,” she replied. Consuela knew who and what these men were. When she first came to work for Ferraro, they frightened her down to her toes. Since then, she had come to realize they lived outside the law but were always polite and even kind to her.

  Ferraro had a small, sparsely furnished, windowless room in a corner of his home. It had been specially built with only one amenity, a wood-burning stove in one corner. There was a small, cheap, wooden conference room table that could accommodate only four with four comfortable chairs around it.

  Dante Ferraro had never aspired to become head of the DiMartino family. The last two had both died in prison and the current one, the one the tabloids loved, would likely end up the same way. It was Dante Ferraro who secretly, quietly, brought the family into the legitimate world. It was he who, behind the scenes, made dozens of partnerships with legitimate businesses, all of whom were happy to be involved with him. He cut out competition, consolidated the businesses and made all of them operate more smoothly. And they all made more money with a lot less hassle from the government. Because of this, Ferraro was still treated with great deference and respect. When he summoned you to meet with him, it was still considered an honor.

  His three guests entered the meeting room and found the old man seated at the table’s head. Each of them silently took his hand and affectionately pressed their lips to it. They did so silently because, in this room, words were never spoken out loud.

  The three men were all capos with family crews to manage. Ferraro never met with any underlings of these men. To begin the meeting, Ferraro took a slip of note paper and wrote out a question, then passed it to each man who read it in turn. These were the men Ferraro had ordered to find out what they could about Rob Judd. For the next half hour, all four of them silently wrote notes to the old man and each other about this and a couple of minor problems to bring to Ferraro’s attention and counsel. At the end of the meeting, Ferraro had no more information for Vivian than he had before. So far, they had come up with nothing, even from their contacts in the federal government law enforcement agencies.

  Silently showing his displeasure by the look on his face, the last note written was his order to the three of them to keep digging. He made it clear they were to leave no stone unturned. There must be something out there somewhere and Ferraro did not want to disappoint Vivian Donahue.

  When the meeting adjourned, Ferraro gathered all of the slips of paper and tossed them into the stove. He took a can of lighter fluid from a shelf, sprayed the flamma
ble liquid over the papers then closed the iron grate. He struck a wooden match, tossed it in through an opening in the grate and a brief ‘whoof’ occurred when the fluid ignited. Being this careful was a significant reason why Dante Ferraro, despite being ratted out by several turncoats, had never been convicted of a crime. No evidence, no convictions.

  At about the same time, Ferraro was having his morning coffee and grumbling about what animals Russians were, Charlie Dudek was driving across the New Jersey state line into Pennsylvania. Charlie had completed his task in New York the previous night — Dante Ferraro was reading about it in the Daily News — and was on his way to Minnesota.

  Charlie was westbound on I-80 heading toward flyover country. The driving distance being approximately 1200 miles, Charlie could do it in a day if he wanted to push himself. Being the careful sort that he was, Charlie would watch his speed and get a motel room outside Chicago and be back to Minneapolis by tomorrow afternoon. Charlie had confidence the people he was going to meet with would still be there. Plus, this would give him time to think about exactly what he wanted to do. He had never, not once, done anything like this before. This was a personal score to settle. The question he was having so much difficulty with was: how can he do this and help Madeline Rivers?

  FIFTY

  Marc, Connie Mickelson and Julian Bronfman were all seated in the same meeting room at the women’s prison that Marc always used when he came there to meet Maddy. They had arrived early and were waiting for her to be brought to them. There was silence between the three lawyers, all of the small talk having been used up on the drive. Ten minutes after being let into the room, they saw Maddy and a guard through the door’s window walking toward them.

  “My goodness,” Bronfman said as he watched her approach. “You didn’t tell me that about her.”