Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6)

by Theodore Jerome Cohen

  At the time, the Bureau’s fear was that NYPD’s murder investigation would compromise the FBI’s investigation into the operations of two organizations—a Wall Street firm and a Brooklyn-based, Islamic charitable organization—that were funding terrorism. It was Bishop’s job, therefore, to ‘contain’ Martelli. More to the point, it was the agent’s job to treat Martelli like a mushroom, keeping him in the dark and feeding him shit, the purpose of which was to distract him, if not shut him down, while the FBI went about its business. If, in the process, the Bureau happened to solve the murder of the international banker, that would have been icing on the cake. However, unlike the NYPD’s focus, solving the murder was not the FBI’s first priority. And therein lay the conflict.

  There was nothing personal about it on Bishop’s part, though Martelli took umbrage. Bishop felt he was simply doing what he was told to do by Washington . . . keep the NYPD in general and Martelli in particular out of the way so that the FBI could pursue and eventually arrest the people responsible for funding the terrorists without fear that the Bureau’s case would be compromised.

  Despite Bishop’s best efforts, Martelli outsmarted both him and the Bureau. The NYPD detective not only solved the case of the banker’s murder, but he ‘took down’ the principals in the Wall Street firm and the Islamic charitable organization as well, leaving Bishop and his agency with egg on their faces. Adding to his chagrin, Bishop now had a good idea just how he and the Bureau had been outmaneuvered.

  Despite everything that had happened, Bishop could not help but give the devil his due. To him, Martelli was one helluva detective, a man unlike anyone he ever had known, bar none—someone he even was forced to admit he liked.

  But uppermost in Bishop’s mind whenever he thought of Martelli was the issue of inter-agency rivalry—FBI versus NYPD. If Lundquist was dead, and there’s every possibility this is the case, thought Bishop, and if her body eventually turns up, then the NYPD most likely would have jurisdiction . . . which means there’s a good chance Martelli and I might again bump heads.

  The issue of inter-agency rivalry—FBI versus NYPD—was a show-stopper for Bishop. There was no question in his mind that the pursuit of Lundquist’s killer or killers by the NYPD had the potential to conflict with his task force’s work on the Mafia-controlled waste-hauling industry. God forbid the FBI and the NYPD should cooperate! We could kill two birds with one stone.

  So the question swirling around in Bishop’s head as he lay awake staring into the darkness at 3 AM that morning was a simple one in construct. How do I approach Martelli and ask for his help? The challenge was to find a ‘politically correct’ answer to this question. Finding it would keep him awake until dawn.

  Thirty-one

  ‘Lou, it’s a voice out of your past.” Special Agent Ron Bishop was the last person Martelli had expected to hear from—especially at this time. But there he was, sounding cheerful and upbeat as if there never had been a moment of history between them.

  “Ron? Ron Bishop? Well I’ll be damned. I thought you were in Alaska. When did you get back?”

  Bishop chuckled. “I’ve been in the lower 48 for quite some time, over two years to be exact. I’m now the FBI’s special agent in charge of the task force on the Mafia-controlled waste-hauling industry. I spent much of 2012 and 2013 working out of the Philadelphia office with undercover agents in Lancaster and York. But late in 2013 I moved my office back to New York City, though we still have major operations underway in Pennsylvania.”

  “You’ve been busy, Ron.”

  “As have you, Lou. Believe it or not, I’ve been following your career in the newspapers. Congratulations. That must have been tough not being able to save that woman from committing suicide, the one who was raped in Syracuse more than 20 years ago.”

  “That was a difficult one, all right. There are some things in our work, Ron, that you’re never able to put out of your mind.”

  “And that case involving the mayor. Who would have thought?”

  “Well, I had a little help from an old friend of my Dad’s, believe it or not. Sometimes you get lucky.”

  “So, how’s the family? Our son’s in college. Your daughter Tiffany must be attending one as well.”

  “We’re well, thanks. And your wife?”

  “Cindy? Oh, she’s great. She loved Alaska, having grown up in Colorado. Frankly, she can have it. The worst problem we had was learning how to live by our clocks. You can’t imagine how strange it is to wake up at 3 AM with the sun overhead. It really messes with your head.”

  “So, Ron, to what do I owe the honor?” asked Martelli, who sounded apprehensive.

  “I thought you’d never ask, Lou,” Bishop joked. “I need your help. This isn’t a request from the Bureau, this is personal. And frankly, I didn’t know where else to turn.”

  Martelli appeared stunned. A special agent of the FBI was coming to him, not on official business but on a personal level, and was asking him for help. This sounded serious. “Of course, Ron,” Martelli responded, with some hesitation in his voice. “How can I help you?”

  “How about lunch today, noon, my treat, the Porter House New York in the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle. I’ll tell you all about it then. Yes, I know, that’s where we last had that ill-fated one-on-one. Not to worry. No hard feelings. I really do want to put our past behind us and start fresh.”

  “Okay, Ron, you have my curiosity piqued. I’ll be there. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.”

  Martelli placed his telephone handset on his console and sat for a minute, staring at it. He appeared not to know what to make of Bishop’s call. The last time they had met for lunch at the Porter House restaurant he had purposely spilled a drink on Bishop, distracting him long enough to pick the agent’s pocket and remove his Bureau-issued computer security token. While Bishop was in the men’s room cleaning up, Martelli and Dugan, working by cell phone and using Bishop’s computer access data that they had obtained earlier, hacked into the FBI’s secure server in Quantico, VA. Once that was accomplished, Dugan downloaded all of Bishop’s computer files and e-mails. These were the data Martelli used to break the case on which both he and the FBI were working . . . the data Martelli needed to stay one step ahead of the Bureau.

  Was asking me to lunch at the Porter House Bishop’s way of letting me know he had figured out what happened the last time we were there? The guy’s smart, I’ll give him that. And if he’s as good as I think he is, what is so important that he needs my help . . . and on a personal matter, too?

  Martelli’s head was swimming with questions, but he would have to wait until noon to get them answered.

  Thirty-two

  Bishop already had been shown to their table by the time Martelli reached the Fourth Level of The Shops at Columbus Circle in the Time Warner Center. The agent stood as the hostess showed the detective to where his host was waiting. Bishop rose and put out his hand. “Lou, my God, what has it been? Four years? You look terrific.”

  “Hi, Ron! You haven’t changed a bit. I must say, it’s good to see you.”

  “Come on, sit down. I’m starved.”

  The men sat. Within seconds, a server appeared. “Hi. I’m Wendy. I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with drinks and appetizers? Also, I’d like to let you know that our special today is the roasted Amish chicken with lemon, garlic and parsley, and a warm escarole salad for $21.”

  “Lou, are you still drinking caffeine-free Coke with lemon and ice?”

  “You bet. I’ve already had two cups of coffee today, and I’m already getting the shakes.”

  “Make that two, Wendy. And we’ll skip the appetizers, I think.”

  Martelli nodded his agreement.

  “Sure. I’ll be right back with your drinks and some rolls.”

  Martelli started to chuckle. “What’s so funny, Lou?”

  “If someone had told me in December, 2010, that you and I would be sitting here today having lunch together, I would
have said they were nuts!”

  “Hard to believe, all right. We sure locked horns, didn’t we?”

  “It was horrible, Ron. As it turned out, we both were on the same side, after the same guys, but serving different masters. We had a high-profile homicide on our hands, with a few others thrown in for good measure. You, on the other hand, already had a lot of capital invested in closing down a major source of funds to Islamic terrorists in the Middle East.”

  Bishop nodded in agreement as he placed his napkin on his lap.

  “As I recall,” Martelli continued, “a charitable organization in Brooklyn and a firm on Wall Street were the ones linked to the terrorists.”

  Bishop laughed. “You have a good memory.”

  “Believe me, Ron, I understood why you wanted to take over the murder investigations of the banker and those associated with him. But we were convinced the Bureau would bury those cases while you quietly continued to pursue your own agenda. This would have left the mayor and our commissioner with egg on their faces while the public and the media clamored for the NYPD to take action.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to say you would’ve been correct, Lou. Fortunately, as it turned out, you not only solved the murders but took down the principals funding the terrorists as well. That’s the good news. On the other side of the ledger, the agency blamed me for not keeping you in check, and that’s okay, someone had to take the fall. But the good part of that was, it gave Cindy, our son, Jason, and me a year in Alaska to enjoy the great outdoors courtesy of the American taxpayer.

  “Talk about making lemonade,” Martelli quipped.

  “What can I say, Lou? I’m sorry, I truly am. I know it seemed personal to you, but in truth, it was nothing more than one of those damn inter-agency pissing contests we sometimes seem to find ourselves in with the NYPD and various other agencies from time to time.”

  Martelli nodded. It appeared he understood the position Bishop had been forced into by his superiors, one in which the man had no choice but to comply.

  “I’m sorry, too, Ron. It sure does suck, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll say. But you know, it goes with the turf. Still, I do have to ask you one question, Lou. It has to do with something that’s bothered me—”

  “Here you go, gentlemen . . . two Cokes, lemon, and ice. And here’s your assortment of rolls, olive oil, and butter. Have you found something on the menu you’d like for lunch?”

  Bishop looked at Martelli. “Lou, do you know what you want? I haven’t looked at the menu, but I know what I’m going to have.”

  “Go ahead and order, Ron. I’ll take a quick look.”

  “Wendy, I’ll have a burger, medium rare, but no cheese, just lettuce, tomato and pickle. And could I have some French fries with that?”

  “The fries come with the burger, sir.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “And for you, sir?” she asked, turning to Martelli.

  “I’ll try the grilled chicken club sandwich, please.”

  “Thank you. By the way, we all work together, so if there’s anything you need, feel free to ask any server.”

  Wendy collected the menus and returned to the kitchen to place their order.

  Bishop took a sip of Coke. “As I was saying, Lou, I have to ask you one question, something that’s been bothering me for four years.”

  “Sure, Ron. Shoot.”

  “It was you masquerading as a drunk on the sidewalk in front of that furniture store in Brooklyn in late 2010, right? One of my agents and I were in the apartment above the store, watching the storefront across the street that housed the charitable organization we suspected of feeding money to terrorist groups. You staggered up the street belting out extremely obscene drinking songs and then urinated on the utility pole in front of the furniture store. I thought I knew who it was on the street, but my partner at the time—Agent Timberlake—talked me out of it. The more I thought about it over the years, however, the more I became convinced it not only was you but also, that by urinating on the pole, it was your way of telling me and the Bureau to go piss up a rope.” He laughed. “Tell me I’m right.”

  “You’re right.”

  They both laughed. “What the hell were you doing, Lou, other than making us look like fools?”

  “I was on my way to the back of that building you had staked out to plant a surveillance device. I knew you were watching it from the apartment across the street. I also knew you had TV cameras inside the dummy power transformers mounted on that utility pole as well as on a pole in the alley behind the building you had under surveillance. But I had to have my own eyes and ears in that alley. And the only way they were going to get there was for me to plant them.”

  Bishop shook his head. “Jesus, Martelli, I could use a man like you on the task force. Have you ever thought about joining the Bureau? We offer great benefits, and—”

  Martelli put up his right hand, stopping Bishop in mid-sentence. “Ron, I’m honored. I really am. But the Department took me in when my life and leg were shattered. They gave me an opportunity few others offered, and in the process, helped me put my life together again. The Force is as much a part of my life now as it was my Dad’s, God rest his soul. I owe them a lot.”

  “I understand. They’re fortunate to have you, Lou.”

  “Well, Hanlon isn’t always of that opinion. There are times when he’d like to take me to the woodshed and beat the hell out of me with a strap, that’s for sure.”

  “We all have our crosses to bear. But he does seem to be a little overbearing, given my limited encounters with him.”

  “That, sir, is an understatement!”

  “Oh, here comes our lunch now.”

  “Here you go,” said Wendy, as she first set Bishop’s plate in front of him, and then, Martelli’s. “And here’s some ketchup and mustard. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “Not me,” said Bishop. “Lou?”

  “No, I’m good, Wendy. Thanks.”

  “How about refills for your drinks?”

  “Sure,” replied Bishop. “I think we each could use one.”

  “I’ll be right back with ‘em,” she said, turning and heading for the kitchen.

  “So, Ron, you said you needed my help with something of a personal nature. What can I do for you?”

  Thirty-three

  Bishop pursed his lips and thought for a second. “This is a difficult one for me, Lou, and I’d like to ask you to keep what I’m about to show you just between us.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a photograph. “I’m looking—”

  “Here’re your drinks, gentlemen.” Wendy set fresh drinks in front of both men and put their empty glasses on her tray. “Is there anything else I can get for you? If not, I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch.”

  “Thanks, Wendy,” responded Bishop.

  The server moved on to another of her customers.

  Bishop handed Martelli the photograph he had taken from his suit jacket. It was of Lundquist. “I’m looking for this woman.”

  Martelli, holding what Bishop had just given him in his left hand, gave no sign of recognition. He took a bite of his chicken sandwich while appearing to study the photograph. I could have guessed, he thought. This is going to be hard, but I’m not going to play games with the man.

  Bishop put some ketchup on his hamburger, cut it in two, picked up a half, and took a bite.

  “We have her, Ron.”

  Bishop brightened. “You do? Where?” He quickly put down his hamburger and wiped his mouth, using his napkin.

  Martelli looked Bishop directly in the eyes. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but she’s dead. She’s in our morgue.”

  Bishop’s face turned ashen. He turned away from Martelli, lowered his head, and bit his lower lip. It was a good ten seconds before he turned back to Martelli and spoke, almost in a whisper.

  “Where did you find her?”

  “In Thomas Paine Park, across the st
reet from your office. She was shot once at close range in the back of the head.”

  “I knew it! That son of a bitch Tommie Lupinacci had her murdered.”

  Bishop did not say anything for a few seconds. Then, slowly, and choosing his words carefully, he continued. “Okay, I’m going to level with you, Lou, and for God’s sake, this is just between us. This woman—her name is Nicole Davis—was one of my informants.”

  “I had a pretty good idea that was the case, Ron. I also know her real name is Katlyn Lundquist. I suspected she had some kind of relationship with the Bureau after my partner and I saw you and one of your men leave her apartment building one morning last week. She left this letter for you.”

  Bishop looked at Martelli with a quizzical look on his face as the detective reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew the letter found in Lundquist’s safe deposit box—the letter addressed to Bishop.

  “Where did you get this?” Bishop demanded. “We went through her apartment after she disappeared and didn’t find a thing.”

  “Ron, I’m going to be as straight with you as I can, believe me. However, there are some things I won’t tell you, things I can’t tell you, for your own good. That way, if what we’re discussing blows up in our faces, you’ll have plausible deniability, and I’ll take the hit.

  “Let’s just say we found some things taped to the underside of the dresser in her bedroom. Oh, and for the record, I didn’t open the envelope. I would never do that. I haven’t a clue what’s inside. That’s between you and Lundquist. And for what it’s worth, Ron, I’m sorry. I really am.”