“That name rings a bell. Wait! Isn’t he the schmegeggy who shot you in the leg a couple of years ago during that warehouse bust?”
“Well, technically. It was my prosthetic leg.”
Dugan laughed. “He’s back from Alaska? Well, why didn’t you say so? He’s the guy whose e-mails and other data we downloaded off the FBI’s secure service in Quantico. The people down there never knew what hit them. And Bishop never knew what hit him.
“Of course I’ll do it. When do we go?”
“As soon as O’Keeffe gives me the schedules of the two people who helped Davis at the bank. In the meantime, I’m going back to her apartment and pick out some nice clothes for you.”
“Oh shit, Lou, what do you know about women’s clothes?”
“Well, I know we get so much of it delivered to the house on a daily basis because of what Steph buys for Tiffany and herself on QVC that UPS is going to build a new service center down the street from us.”
“You’re too funny. I’ll go with you. How about mid-morning, when traffic dies down.”
“You’re on. I’ll be back to pick you up at 10 AM.”
Seventeen
It was 10:40 AM when Martelli and Dugan pulled to the curb in front of Davis’s apartment on Henry Street in Brooklyn. After checking to ensure Bishop or any other agent of the FBI was not parked nearby, Martelli turned around, grabbed his briefcase, and both he and Dugan exited his Crown Vic. “What’s with the briefcase, Lou?”
“There’s a woman who lives next door to Davis’s apartment. If she or someone else should come out, I need to have an excuse for being there.”
“Which is?”
“I’m selling insurance.”
“And my excuse?”
“You’re a trainee with the insurance company. I brought you along for my call on Davis.”
“Okay. Let’s light this candle.”
As before, Martelli punched a few buttons, and upon getting several queries, hollered “Delivery,” and received two responses that buzzed him into the lobby. From there, it was a quick trip to the fifth floor and apartment 512. While Dugan kept watch, Martelli deftly picked the lock, and within a minute, they were in.
“Well, I guess the maid hasn’t come in yet,” observed Dugan, facetiously.
“The building manager’ll figure out at some point the place has been abandoned, probably when the rent hasn’t been paid for a month or so. At least there’s no body rotting away in a corner somewhere.”
The two headed for the bedroom. Nothing had been disturbed since Martelli was last in the room. Dugan immediately started picking up the clothes on the floor and restoring them to the racks in the closets. That done, she had a much better picture of what was available. Fortunately, she and Davis were about the same height and build, so it was more a question of style and taste than of fit.
“What do you think is appropriate for this occasion, Lou?”
“Well, how about something semi-professional . . . maybe a pantsuit with a white shirt open at the top to show some cleavage.”
“Right, and I’ll accentuate it with jewelry and some dress shoes. I’ll also need some nice earrings, diamonds perhaps.”
“Use your own stuff, if you like, Missy. Hell, you don’t even have to wear her clothes if you don’t want to. But remember, she was a blonde, so I thought her clothes should be coordinated with her skin and hair coloring.”
“Jesus, Lou, that’s right. I’ll have to get a good wig. My neighbor has some. I’ll borrow one of hers. And I’ll have to do my nails . . . something spectacular, to be sure. I’ll do them tonight, just in case we have to move quickly.
“I’ll also take another look at the photos Antonelli took of Davis. It might give me some ideas about how she does her makeup.”
“That’s a great idea, Missy—”
He was interrupted by a call from O’Keeffe. “Yes, Sean.”
“Lou, we’re in luck. The bank is holding training today and tomorrow. Mann and Edleman will be out of the Flatbush Avenue branch until Wednesday morning. So, I guess we better hit the bank tomorrow, so to speak. It may be our only chance to avoid detection.”
“Okay, stand by.
“Missy, Sean says out best chance to pull this off is today or tomorrow. Today’s out of the question, for sure. What about late tomorrow morning? Can you get off? If so, I’d pick you up around 11:30. We’d drive to my house, let you get made up—you can use Tiffany’s cosmetics—and then go straight to the bank. I should be able to have you back to the lab before 3 PM, allowing time for you to change, again, at our house.”
“We can do that. I’ll get someone to cover for me. I’ll tell my boss I have an appointment with the gyno. He gets squiggly about those things, so there won’t be a problem.”
“We’re on for tomorrow, Sean.”
“Got it. I’ll talk to you later.”
Martelli ended the call and turned his attention back to Dugan, who by now had slipped into one of Davis’s black pantsuits.
“Wow, that’s a knockout. But might it be a little too much for a weekday afternoon. Looks more like something she’d wear on a Friday night for cocktails.”
Dugan nodded. “Let me see,” she mumbled, as she shifted various pieces of clothing down the rack, stopping now and then to examine a particular dress or pantsuit closely.
“How about this?” she asked, taking a light-brown pantsuit off the rack and holding it against her body. “Worn with brown patent leather shoes, a gold chain belt, and diamond stud earrings, it’s just the right thing for an afternoon in the city.”
“I have to agree. See if you can find everything you need, and let’s get out of here.”
Martelli looked around and found a small travel suitcase that had been thrown in one corner of the bedroom. “Here, use this for what you gathered.”
Dugan searched the room for shoes and accessories, finally settling on an ensemble that was not too formal and yet, just stylish enough to convince the people in the bank she was a professional. It took but a moment, and they were out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind them when the door to apartment 514 opened.
“Mr. Martelli, you’re back.” Mrs. Sampson looked them up and down, not that she appeared to be able to see much through her thick eyeglass lenses.
“Well hello, Mrs. Sampson. We were just leaving. I took a chance Ms. Davis might be available to meet with us today about her insurance, but she still doesn’t seem to be home. You haven’t seen her, have you?”
As Martelli was talking, Dugan slowly moved behind him so the small suitcase she was carrying was hidden from Mrs. Sampson’s view.
“Why, no, Mr. Martelli. It’s been awfully quiet in her apartment, too. I’m really beginning to worry about her. Do you think I should call the police and file a missing person’s report?”
“That’s always a possibility, Mrs. Sampson, but it might be a little early to do that. She may have decided to take a late vacation at the shore or, perhaps, visit her parents. Who knows? We wouldn’t want you looking foolish if all of a sudden she showed up right after you filed a report with the police.”
“Oh my goodness no. We elderly get a bum rap most days anyway. People don’t give us much credit for brains, you know. It’s sad how little respect we get. But you know what I say.”
“No, what’s that, Mrs. Sampson?”
“They can go to hell!”
“I’m with you, Mrs. Sampson. By the way, how about letting Ms. Dugan try her sales pitch on you. She’s a trainee, and I was hoping to have her try selling Ms. Davis some new apartment renters insurance—”
With that, Sampson waved him away and slammed the door in their faces.
“You are so good with women, Lou.”
Eighteen
‘J oe, would you let me see the Davis evidence box for a moment? I want to check on something that’s been bothering me for a while.”
Martelli was standing at the counter in the Evidence Room located in the
basement of 1PP. It was Tuesday, just after 11 AM. In a short while he would be picking up Dugan and taking her to his house in Brooklyn, where she would transform herself into the spitting image of Nicole Davis. But first, there was one last piece of business that needed his attention.
“Here you go, Lou. Are you going to take anything with you, or just going over what’s in the box.”
“I just want to check on something. I can do it here, Joe, while you wait, in fact. No need even to sign it out.”
Martelli cut the tape sealing the box shut and lifted the lid. Rummaging through the contents, he finally found the small bank envelope containing the keys to the safe deposit box. Dumping them into his left hand, he looked at them a moment, and then returned them to the envelope . . . or so it seemed. What the attendant did not see was Martelli palming one of the keys and slipping it into his left pants pocket.
Anyone who knew Martelli would not have been surprised. Palming objects and picking pockets were but two of Martelli’s many ‘talents’, though it had been a while since he practiced either. Even in grade school, while most of his peers were playing baseball or basketball after school or on weekends, Martelli was hustling to make a buck on the streets of Brooklyn and New York City.
Given young Martelli’s behavior while attending high school, he should not have been surprised when immediately upon graduation, Pietro drove him to the Army recruiter’s office and ‘helped’ him enlist. This was, after all, very much like what Lou’s beloved grandfather, Claudio, did to Pietro decades earlier.
Back then, young Pietro owned a ‘lowered’ 1940 Mercury two-door sedan, black, with full skirts, duals, and a special aluminum flywheel. It could do 90 miles per hour in second gear and 100 in third. The car had a flathead V8 perfect for racing, no third shift being necessary. As teenagers, Pietro and a boyhood friend, Alfredo Bianchi, later to become Godfather to the Bianchi crime syndicate, enjoyed many grand nights of drag racing on Long Island’s parkways. Pietro even learned to drive his car without lights, a skill he later would teach his son Louis. That ability and his car’s all-black finish allowed him to vanish more than once when the police were on his tail.
Pietro also was known to do ‘rumrunners’—spins—and pass a pursuing police cruiser going in the opposite direction, flat out. Then, he would cut his lights and while the police struggled to turn around, slip the Mercury backwards into a stand of trees and bushes to watch as the police sped by, unable to see him.
One day the police came to the Martelli house and told Pietro’s father Claudio they would be waiting for his son the next time he came to Long Island to drag race. Moreover, they said, if they caught him, it would be at least ten years before his son saw the outside of a prison. After that, Martelli’s grandfather not only made his son sell the car but he laid down the law. He forced Pietro to finish high school, attend trade school, and eventually helped him qualify for the NYPD Police Academy.
If anyone were to ask Louis today, he would tell them with that by that one act—forcing him to enlist in the Army—his old man unquestionably saved his life.
Martelli dropped the bank envelope into the evidence box and replaced the lid. “Thanks, Joe. I appreciate the effort. She’s all yours.”
“Happy to be of service, Lou. Have a great day.”
Martelli made his way to the IT lab, where Dugan was waiting, suitcase in hand.
“You all set, Missy?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be. I studied the pictures Antonetti took and have a good idea how this woman put on her makeup. I also think I know how she may have dressed. I’ll accessorize with a few things from my wardrobe, have already done my nails, found a great wig in my neighbor’s closet, and frankly, once I get the makeup on, the woman’s own mother probably wouldn’t have able to tell us apart.”
The drive to the Martelli’s home was uneventful, which was unusual for midday Manhattan traffic. Dugan took over Tiffany’s room. Thanks to the trip to the cosmetic show, it now was stocked with some of the finest make-up on the market today. Martelli paced the floor downstairs like an expectant father.
It was almost 12:30 PM before Dugan came down the stairs.
When Martelli turned to look at her, he let out a gasp.
“My god, Missy. For a second I thought I had seen a ghost.”
So good was Dugan’s attire and makeup that her portrayal of Nicole Davis was as close to anything even Hollywood could have achieved. She was Nicole Davis incarnate.
“Let’s do this,” Martelli said, extending his hand to Dugan.
They walked to his car, where Martelli held the door for her. Going around to his side, he opened the door and slid behind the wheel. “My briefcase’s in the back. It contains latex gloves, evidence bags, two marking pens—just in case one goes dry—and sanitary wipes. You’ll take the briefcase in with you. Clear out the safe deposit box. When you’re finished, put the gloves in the briefcase, wipe the box clean, and tuck it under your arm for the trip back to the vault. Let the bank employee take the box from you. That way, the only prints on the box will be his or hers.”
Reaching into his left pants pocket, he grabbed the key to the safe deposit box and gave it to her. “Here you go. The box number is 137. If they ask where your little envelope is, tell them you left it in your desk drawer. I’m sure you can handle it.
“You’ll have to sign their log, so just copy the last signature you see. This is a good time to lay on a little distraction. Don’t worry about your fingerprints being on the key because they’ll hand it back to you. I’ll wipe it clean before I return it to the Evidence Room.”
Dugan nodded as Martelli continued.
“Be sure to hand the key to the bank employee helping you. Let him or her open the box. You want them engaged and distracted. They’ll ask if you want to use a private room. Say ‘yes’. You’re going to empty the box, and we don’t need them to know that. If you’re working with a guy, show him a little cleavage. Tease him a little. I want him focused on you, not the box. If it’s a woman, make small talk about her shoes, clothes, whatever. Compliment her on her hair or makeup.
“When you’re done, let them lock the safe box door and hand you the key. Then, walk out of the building and back to where I’m going to drop you off. I know where the cameras are around that branch. I’ll drop you off and pick you up where there’ll be no recording of our coming or going.
“Got it?”
“Man, it’s like drinking water through a fire hose, but yes. I understand everything.”
“Good!”
Martelli slipped his car key into the ignition, turned it, and his NYPD-issued Ford 2014 Crown Victoria Police Interceptor with the big 3.7-liter engine roared to life.
“There’s no turning back now, Missy.”
Nineteen
The Brooklyn Bank and Trust Company branch on Flatbush Avenue was not unlike most buildings of its type, with a long bullet-proof Plexiglas-enclosed customer counter to the left of the front entrance and multiple offices to the right. The currency vault was located behind and to the rear of the customer counter, an area that could only be accessed through a locked door from the lobby. Safe deposit boxes were housed in a separate vault, this one located to the rear of the building. This vault could only be accessed through a locked gate during business hours. Signature cards, which customers were required to sign prior to being given access to their safe deposit boxes, were housed in a locked file cabinet to the right of the gate.
Even given it was the lunch hour, business was light, perhaps as a result of its being Tuesday. As Dugan stepped inside the branch, she was greeted by a well-dressed young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. “Good morning, ma’am. May I be of assistance?” He could not take his eyes off her chest.
Dugan chuckled to herself. I see you’ve met the ‘girls’. “Why yes, I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop a few things into my safe deposit box. Would that be possible?”
“Of course, of course. Just follo
w me. We’ll get you signed in and into the vault in no time. By the way, my name is Landan Whitaker. And yours is?”
“I’m Nicole Davis. Nice to meet you, Landan.”
Whitaker smiled broadly. It had not escaped him that virtually every eye in the branch was on him and the knockout blonde he was escorting to the rear of the building. “This is only my second day at this branch . . . just filling in while some of the regular staff is away for training.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Dugan. “That explains why Ms. Edleman isn’t here. She’s the one who helped me the last time I was in. She’s very nice.”
“Here we are, Ms. Davis.” Whitaker opened the file drawer labeled D-F, fingered through the file cards, and finding Davis’s, pulled it out for her to sign. “Oh, here, use my pen.”
Dugan took the pen, and just as she was about to sign, dropped her purse on the floor. “Oh, my!” She started to bend down when Whitaker stopped her.
“Please, allow me.” As the banker bent over to pick up Dugan’s handbag, Missy took a careful look at the way Davis previously had signed the card, and once confident of her next move, skillfully created a near-perfect copy in one sweeping motion. Then she dated her entry.
As Whitaker pulled himself erect and handed Dugan her purse, she handed him her card, giving him little chance to check the signature. Not that he even bothered to look, given his eyes were again fixed on her cleavage.
“Ah yes, everything seems to be in order, Ms. Davis. So, let me just put this back in the drawer, and we’ll get the box right out for you. Just give me your key and box number—”
“Of course, here’s the key. It’s box 137.”
Safe deposit box 137 was near the floor, forcing Whitaker to get down on one knee before he could insert both his master key and the customer’s key into the locks for box 137. With the door open, he slid the long, thin box from the shelf and handed it up to Dugan. Then he stood.
Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6) Page 5