“Would you like to use one of our private rooms to work with your material, Ms. Davis?”
“Yes, that would be most helpful.”
He led her to a room the size of a small closet. It contained a desk, lamp, and chair. Having shut the door, Dugan opened Martelli’s briefcase, donned latex gloves, and then opened the box. Inside were a Social Security card, an insurance policy for her apartment, yellowed newspaper clippings, several photographs, including one that may have been of Davis’s parents, and two envelopes—one was marked Last Will and Testament and one a stamped, personalized envelope with a return street address in Columbia, PA, addressed to Special Agent Ronald Bishop, FBI, New York City. What the Hell?
Hurriedly she bagged and tagged the evidence in two plastic bags and placed them in the briefcase. Then, opening a sanitary wipe, she cleaned the entire box and tucked it under her left arm. Removing her gloves, she deposited them, the pen she had used, and the sanitary wipe and its wrapper in the briefcase before snapping its two locks shut. With the box under her left arm, her purse in her left hand, and the key in her right hand, she returned to the vault, to where Whitaker was waiting. “Is everything okay, Ms. Davis?”
“Oh, yes, Landan, it couldn’t be better.”
“Oh, here, let me take the box from you. That must be awfully uncomfortable. And if you’ll give me the key, I’ll pop the box back into the vault for you.”
Whitaker returned barely 15 seconds later, placing the key in Dugan’s right hand. “There you go. Is there anything more I can do for you today, Ms. Davis?”
“No, I think that pretty well takes care of my business, Landan. You have been an absolute doll.”
Dugan stuck out her right hand, surprising Whitaker. But he recovered quickly, and the two shook hands, smiling.
Then Dugan turned and sashayed to the exit, aware that once again, every eye in the branch was on her. Take a good look, boys, this is the last you’re going to see of Nicole Davis.
She had no sooner left the building and walked thirty feet toward where Martelli had parked when she heard Whitaker calling to her. “Ms. Davis, Ms. Davis, hold up a minute, please.”
Martelli, watching through binoculars, saw him chasing after her, though he could not hear what the banker was yelling to Dugan. Jesus, now what?
Martelli unlatched his seatbelt and appeared to get ready to intervene.
Whitaker, out of breath, caught up with Dugan. “I’m so sorry. I almost forgot to give you one of our new 2015 calendars.” He handed her the little black book with the bank’s name and year embossed in gold on the front.
“Why Landan, you are such a dear,” said Dugan, as she kissed him gently, leaving a bright red impression of her lips on his right cheek. Blushing, Whitaker walked slowly back to the branch under the jealous eyes of the other males, who were staring at him from their office windows. Dugan, smiling, turned and walked towards Martelli’s sedan, briefcase in hand.
Twenty
‘What the hell was that all about,” demanded Martelli as Dugan slid into the passenger seat next to him and handed him the briefcase.
“Oh, poor Mr. Whitaker, he was so smitten with Nicole Davis that I actually felt bad deceiving him. The man seemed quite earnest. That little scene a few minutes ago was the result of his forgetting to give me a calendar for next year. Here, perhaps you can use this.”
He laughed. “I can’t use it. But if you don’t want it, I’ll give it to Steph. She’s the only one in the family who seems to be able to schedule anything.”
“Sure, it’s hers.”
He put the calendar on the dash, turned the key in the ignition, and slowly pulled into traffic. “So, did you take a look at the stuff in the box? Anything interesting?”
“Oh, yes. And you’re not going to be happy.”
“Why do people always say that to me? What in particular is going to upset me now?”
“Well, for starters, how about a letter in a personalized envelope, addressed to your friend Ron Bishop, with a return address in Columbia, Pennsylvania?”
Martelli’s face reddened. He turned toward her in anger. “You got to be fucking kidding me!”
Dugan’s eyes opened wide. “Look out, Lou, that guy’s gonna hit you.”
Martelli jerked the steering wheel hard right, then returned his car to its lane. “What good is it to have laws against using those goddamned cell phones when driving if the idiots who own them have shit for brains?”
He took a moment to compose himself, then asked, “Who sent the letter to Bishop? Davis, I assume.”
“There’s no name in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope, only an address on Chestnut Street in Columbia. I’ll check it out when I get back to the lab,” said Dugan.
“Man, if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”
“Come on, Lou. I’m sure you and Sean will sort this all out when you get the stuff back to the First. But it certainly does raise some interesting questions regarding Davis’s relationship to Bishop. And on the good side, it explains, in part, why you saw him coming out of her apartment building last week.”
“Go on.”
“Do you want my opinion?”
Like I have a choice, Martelli chuckled to himself. “You’re going to give it to me anyway, so sure, go ahead,” he said as he headed the car back to his house so Dugan could change.
“I think now or in the past, Davis and Bishop may have had a ‘thing’ going.”
“That’s interesting. The last time I saw Bishop, which was in late 2010, I was sure he was married. We were joking about the case we were working and how it had us baffled . . . you know, we figured it would have to be handed down from father to son. I encouraged him to start prepping his son for the FBI Academy as soon as possible.”
“Well, maybe his wife divorced him since then, assuming he wasn’t divorced already. Some people don’t find Alaska the most desirable place to raise a family.”
“Anything’s possible. Frankly, being an FBI agent isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You never know when you’re going to get a call in the middle of the night and four hours later find your ass on a plane destined for some godforsaken shithole in the Middle East to chase down some scumbag on the US Government’s Most Wanted List. At least I get to chase them right here in Gotham City.”
“Well, whatever transpired between Bishop and Davis, the letter might have something to say about this.”
“That may be, but I’m not going to open it, Missy.”
“What? Why not, Lou?”
“It wouldn’t be right. I may do a lot of things that aren’t quite kosher, but I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to open that letter. It’s addressed to Bishop.”
She stared at him for a few seconds.
“What?” he asked, annoyed, briefly throwing both hands into the air.
“I just didn’t expect to hear that. You usually take whatever falls into your hands and run with it.”
“This is different. This is personal. I would hope Bishop would show me the same courtesy if the tables were turned.”
“Well, then, what are you going to do with it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. Later.”
“Fair enough.”
“Are you finished yet?” he asked, impatiently.
“No.”
“No? Okay, so—”
“So, I think Davis and Bishop also had a working relationship, Lou.”
“I agree. That occurred to me the moment I saw him and his partner leave her apartment building, and especially after I got a look at her apartment. I’ve seen the Bureau toss places. Davis’s apartment may not have been tossed by the FBI, but Bishop and his partner surely went through what was left of Davis’s possessions.
“No, whoever did that was ruthless, Missy. They were searching for something. I don’t know what—perhaps the envelope I found—but it must have been very important.”
“Something incrimina
ting, perhaps? I’m just thinking out loud, but what if Davis were on the FBI’s payroll?”
“You mean as an informant?”
“Possibly, or think about it, Lou . . . maybe she was even working undercover for Bishop.”
Martelli was quiet for a minute. Then he spoke. “If, IF, she was working undercover, you can bet Nicole Davis isn’t her real name. And if that’s the case, it would explain why her prints can’t be found in the FBI’s database. I’ll bet there’s nothing out there on the woman except what’s needed to establish a legal identity. You know, things like a fabricated Social Security number for employment purposes. I’ll bet she doesn’t even have a real driver’s license in that name.”
“This whole case makes me nervous, Lou, and it has right from the get-go.”
“No question. What we did today at the bank will almost certainly open Pandora’s box.”
Twenty-one
Itwas mid-afternoon before Martelli dropped Dugan at 1 Police Plaza. While there, he took a few minutes to step inside and walk to the Evidence Room. Having cleaned the safe deposit key Dugan had used with a sanitary wipe, he surreptitiously replaced it in the Davis evidence box when the attendant turned his attention to a telephone call.
After driving back to the First Precinct and with his office door closed, he and O’Keeffe, having donned latex gloves, now were preparing to go through the contents of Davis’s safe deposit box. Martelli emptied the contents of the two evidence bags Dugan had used onto a large sheet of white paper taped to his desk.
“First, this letter from an unknown person in Columbia, Pennsylvania, to Ron Bishop is not to be opened, Sean. Missy copied the return address and is going to poke around to see if she can come up with anything that might indicate who wrote the letter. But as I told Missy, I don’t intend to open it.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
“So, what are you going to do with it?”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Missy. ‘I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. Later.’”
O’Keeffe nodded. “Not a problem.”
“This Social Security card . . . I’m sure it’s legitimate in the sense it’s registered with the Social Security Administration. The real question is, was it created by the FBI to provide cover for Davis, say, as an informant or undercover agent? Frankly, this doesn’t interest me because we’re not going to be able to bust the security that protects a person’s identity when it comes to their Social Security number. So, let’s set that aside.”
“I agree, Lou.”
“What really interest me are these newspaper clippings. Let’s make copies of them so we’ll have something to study without damaging the originals.”
O’Keeffe carefully gathered the newspaper clippings in his gloved hands, ran to a copier, and returned a few minutes later with copies. He placed the originals back in one of the evidence bags.
Martelli looked at the stack of articles. “I wonder why Davis kept these.” He selected one. “Here, look at this one from the Lancaster Courier-Sentinel for April 21, 2012. The headline reads: Trash Hauler Executive a Victim of Hit and Run Near Mountville.”
“Here’s one from a later date, Lou. Same paper. Fire Destroys Trash Truck in Columbia.”
“Let’s lay these side-by-side in chronological order.”
The men aligned the seven articles from the Lancaster Courier-Sentinel. They chronicled a pattern of violence against the operator of an independent trash hauling and recycling company serving the Lancaster, PA, area. The last article, published in early June 2012, carried the headline Trash and Recycling Executive Ryan Belmont and Son Found Dead of Gunshot Wounds. Pictured in the article were both father and son standing in front of one of their trash hauling trucks.
“It’s interesting that these articles stop with the murders of Belmont and his son, Lou. You’d think after Davis went to all the trouble of collecting these articles she’d at least have followed the investigation and retained what she’d found regarding any arrests made.”
“Unless there never were any arrests, Sean.”
O’Keeffe nodded. “Well, you could be right.”
“If you ask my opinion, and without even reading the articles, I’d say this was a classic case of the mob moving in and attempting to force a little guy out of business. And if that’s the case, Mr. Belmont clearly didn’t take the mob’s warnings to close shop and leave town lying down.”
“What do you mean, Lou?”
“Look, Sean, the garbage, trash hauling, and recycling business is cutthroat, especially in the New York City area. It’s no secret that here, it’s controlled largely by the mob. Don’t even think that you, as a new independent operator, could gain a toehold. The mob has established what’s called a ‘cartage association’, and in doing so, they control everything . . . territories, prices, everything.”
“But we’re talking about Lancaster, Pennsylvania, not New York City, Lou.”
“Yeah, but if you’re a businessman and had successfully established a market somewhere else, what’s your next move?”
“Expand my territory.”
“Bingo. So, the mob starts to expand their territory, in this case by pushing into Pennsylvania. They start by setting up shop in towns like Lancaster and York, for example. Then they visit an independent operator’s customers with offers that undercut the little guy’s prices. This is a classic way of putting another operator out of business. In some cases, however—and this appears to be what happened in the case of Mr. Belmont—the guy fights back by visiting their former customers and undercutting the mob’s prices.”
“I get it,” said O’Keeffe. “So, if our theory is correct, they gave Belmont a few warnings, a robbery here, a burned out trash truck there, with the intent of frightening him into closing down. But when he refuses to fold his cards, they kill him and his son. End of Belmont. End of Belmont and Son Trash Hauling and Recycling. End of Story, at least as far as the mob is concerned.”
Martelli nodded. “But the question on the table still is, why did Davis save these articles? Unless, unless, she had some tie to the Belmonts.”
O’Keeffe appeared not to hear what his partner was saying. He had turned the last article around—the one describing Belmont’s death—and was staring at one paragraph.
“What wrong, Sean?”
“You’re not going to believe what I’m reading, Lou.”
“What’s that?”
“Listen to this paragraph. ‘According to Ronald Bishop, special agent in charge of the FBI’s task force on the Mafia-controlled waste-hauling industry, the Bureau is sparing no effort to hunt down the killers of Mr. Belmont and his son. Special Agent Bishop, whose task force is based in Philadelphia, said that as a result of the Belmont murders, the FBI not only is bolstering its investigatory efforts into mob-related activities in The Keystone State, but also is expanding its task force on the Mafia-controlled waste-hauling industry in New York City, which he believes is linked to several crimes committed in the Lancaster and York areas over the last several months.’”
“What’s the date on that article, Sean?”
“July 27th, 2012.”
“Looks like Bishop didn’t spend much time in Alaska after all.”
Martelli nodded, then turned to his computer and typed ‘Columbia PA map’ into his Internet search window. In an instant he had results. A click of the mouse brought up a desired map and the answer to a question that had been bothering him.
“Well I’ll be go to hell!”
“What’s that, Lou?”
“Columbia is midway between Lancaster and York.”
Twenty-two
‘What else do we have here?” asked Martelli as he pulled the envelope marked ‘Will’ from the top of his desk. He carefully slit the envelope with a scalpel Antonetti had given to him and withdrew the document, which was typed on two pages of white legal paper and stapled into a blue binder.
Martelli quickly turned to look
at the bottom of the second page, which had been signed and notarized in Columbia, PA. “Whoa, this is interesting.”
“What’s that, Lou?”
“This isn’t Davis’s will. It’s the will of someone named Katlyn Lundquist.”
“Maybe she’s a friend of Davis’s. Is Davis named in the will?”
Martelli scanned both pages. “Nope. And besides, if that was the case, why would Davis have an original? Why not just give her a photocopy?”
“Well, maybe Lundquist had several original copies made and simply gave her an extra one?”
“That’s always possible. But it doesn’t answer the question as to why Davis would have a copy of Lundquist’s will, given she isn’t named in it. Lundquist bequeathed most of her money to the National Watch and Clock Museum in Columbia and other Pennsylvania charitable organizations, with a substantial sum also allocated to Columbia’s Mt. Bethel Church. Lundquist obviously has ties to Columbia and cares deeply about the town, but there’s nothing here that connects her to Davis.”
“Let’s rattle Dugan’s cage and see if she can find out who this Lundquist person is,” said O’Keeffe.
Martelli grabbed his telephone handset from the console, hit the speaker button, and speed-dialed Dugan.
“Jesus, Lou, can’t a person get some sleep?”
“Well, if it isn’t the beautiful and talented Nicole Davis. Didn’t I see you earlier today, tantalizing the young men at the Brooklyn Bank and Trust Company’s Flatbush Avenue branch?”
“That would be me. And a sorry lot they were, too. I thought the guy who helped me, what was his name?—oh yeah, Landan Whitaker—I thought he was going to trip over his tongue.”
Martelli laughed. “Anyway, O’Keeffe wants to know—”
“Oh sure. Blame Sean. Nice try, Lou.”
“No, really. Sean and I were going over the will you plucked from the safe deposit box. Sean came up with a question, and the first thing out of his mouth was, ‘Let’s rattle Dugan’s cage. She’ll know the answer.’”
“Why, Sean, you’re such a dear to think of me.”
Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6) Page 6