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

by Theodore Jerome Cohen

  “I’ll call him again, sir. He may be in a meeting. I apologize for the delay.”

  Another ten minutes went by before the detectives saw Bishop appear in the receptionist area, behind the glass. He waved for the men to come ahead, at which time the buzzer sounded, permitting them to push the door open. “Lou, Sean, I apologize. We were setting things up for our meeting, and I couldn’t break away until now. Agent Kane, here, will sign you in.”

  Kane stood to address Martelli and O’Keeffe. “Okay, gents, please give me your driver’s licenses and cell phones, and sign this log . . . Printed name, signature, and time in. I’ll also have to go through your briefcases, please. Are either of you carrying a camera? If so, it’ll have to remain with me.”

  Martelli and O’Keeffe both shook their heads. “No cameras, Agent,” said Martelli.

  “Okay, Bishop, they’re all yours,” said Kane.

  “This way, guys. We occupy several floors in the building. The elevators from here are programmed to stop only on those floors.” He pressed the ‘UP’ button. Within a few seconds the chimes sounded and an elevator’s doors opened. “After you, gents.”

  The men entered the elevator, and within seconds, the doors opened on the 8th floor. “We’re just down the hall, in Conference Room 807.”

  Conference Room 807 was something like a small college lecture hall, with a stage, podium, and drop-down screen for visual presentations. A small projection system hung from the ceiling. Seats toward the rear of the room were elevated, as was the stage. A credenza on which the Bureau had provided donuts and pastries together with regular and decaf coffee, a selection of teas, hot water, cups and spoons, cream, sweetener, and cocktail napkins was located to the left of the stage.

  “Okay, we’re safe now, guys, the New York Police Department has arrived!” Bishop hollered from the door as the three men entered the room. The five people who were standing around drinking coffee and eating let out a cheer. “These are Detective-Investigators Louis Martelli and Sean O’Keeffe of Manhattan’s First Precinct,” said Bishop. “They’ll soon receive special deputation authority from the Bureau.”

  Everyone came forward to introduce themselves and shake Martelli’s and O’Keeffe’s hands.

  “Hi, Lou, I’m Special Agent Stan Easton. I’m an accountant. We’ll be working together in Lancaster. I’ll be going down with you Saturday morning to relieve the agent who’s been working in my position for the last six months.”

  “Sean, I’m Special Agent Bill Landau, Ron’s boss. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re going to be working this sting operation with us. I’ve read your files. You guys have outstanding closure records. I don’t know how you do it. You certainly have been in some tight situations.”

  Martelli and O’Keeffe acknowledged Landau’s kind words, and shook his hand.

  “Lou, I’m Special Agent Amanda Whitman. I’ll also be working in Lancaster with you. I manage the office for the little business we formed there. It’s called US Trash and Recycling.”

  “Nothing like advertising the US government’s come to town, Amanda,” Martelli quipped.

  She laughed. “You have no idea, Lou. Wait until you see our trucks. We are in their face like you wouldn’t believe. And they don’t have a clue.”

  “Lou, Sean, allow me to introduce Special Agents Barbara Lee and Pete Timberlake,” said Bishop. “Pete and I have worked together for a long time.” The four shook hands. “Barbara and Pete’ll keep the home fires burning while we’re in the field. If there’s anything we need in the way of support, including cash, credit cards, weapons and ammo, and the like, they’re our go-to people. Amanda will contact them on your behalf.”

  By now Agent Landau had moved to the podium and clipped a small microphone to his shirt. Flipping a switch, he counted. “One, two, three, hello radio. Does that sound okay?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Okay, gang. Let’s get started.”

  Martelli and O’Keeffe hurriedly grabbed cups of coffee and several small pastries while the others raced for refills and sweets before taking seats to the front of the room. The first PowerPoint slide, yellow lettering on a blue background, was already on the screen. Emblazoned on it was the name of the sting operation and the cartoon of an eagle alighting with talons extended: Operation Eagle Justice.

  “Hey, Bill, where the hell did you get that name?” Bishop yelled, laughing.

  “From that little old lady with the green eyeshade in the basement of the Pentagon who’s responsible for naming all of our military operations. Where the hell didja think I got it from?”

  Everyone laughed as Landau moved to the next slide. “Jimmie Lupinacci, head of the Lupinacci ‘family’ and one of the biggest players in the New York City Mafia. He’s one helluva business man, I’ll give him that. And while he’s gradually moved into more legitimate businesses of late, he still has his hand in the pocket of every company that moves freight in to and out of New York’s and New Jersey’s ports and airports. He also controls several companies that man the docks and airports, insure cargo, and so forth. You get the picture. He’s a ruthless son-of-a bitch, and we’re watching him and his people closely.

  “Here’s the object of our affection . . . Tommie Lupinacci, Jimmie’s only son. He was knighted King of Trash by his father in 2005, responsible for overseeing the mob’s New York City cartage association, though he also dabbles in cigarette smuggling from time to time. This guy’s even more dangerous than his father. Tommie’s a certified, one-hundred-percent psycho, who would as soon shoot you as look at you. We suspect he was responsible for giving the order to kill our informant Nicole Davis, aka Katlyn Lundquist, who Martelli and O’Keeffe very smartly kept out of the public eye for us until we were able to make contact with them.”

  Whitman turned around, winked at Martelli and O’Keeffe, and gave them the ‘thumbs up’ sign.

  “Not content with running the mob’s trash and recycling business in the five boroughs and northern New Jersey, Tommie spread his wings into Pennsylvania some years ago, where by word or by force, he started to push the small independent operators out of business. In at least one case, that of Ryan Belmont and his son, we believe he had them killed when they wouldn’t shut down their trash and recycling operation. So far local authorities haven’t been able to come up with sufficient evidence to charge Lupinacci or anyone associated with him with the murders. That’s something we hope to rectify in this operation, though it’s only part of our focus.

  “Now, Belmont ran the Ryan Belmont and Son Trash Hauling and Recycling Company of Lancaster, Pennsylvania.” He pushed the button on his computer, bringing up the next slide. “The company, at the time of Belmont’s death in 2012, had three Mack MR600s with 17-yard Leach rear loaders. Pretty standard stuff as these things go.”

  “Hey, Bill, you’re really knowledgeable about this stuff,” shouted Baker. “I see a second career for you when you leave the Bureau.”

  “And I’m taking you with me, Chuck, to ride shotgun!”

  “These are our kind of people, Sean,” Martelli whispered to O’Keeffe.

  O’Keeffe nodded.

  Landau continued. “Anyway, after the Belmonts were murdered, their company went into receivership and the equipment was put up for auction. We picked up one of the trucks and started up a small undercover business in Lancaster, operating under the name US Trash and Recycling Company. We leased a building and parking lot west of town on Centerville Road just south of Route 30, and repainted the truck to make sure everyone knew who we were.” He punched up the next slide.

  The room was filled with laughter. The tops of the Mack truck’s cab and rear loader were painted a bright red, while the bottoms were painted a bright blue. A white stripe ran down the middle of both. The truck’s fenders, which also were blue, were covered with white five-pointed stars. On the sides of the rear loader were the letters ‘US Trash and Recycling Company’. Beneath the name, painted in script and enclosed in quote mar
ks, was the phrase “Let’s talk trash!”

  “My God, talk about jamming it where the sun doesn’t shine, Agent Landau,” exclaimed Martelli, laughing.

  “Call me Bill, Lou. And yes, we want to be ‘out there’, in their face. No one even has a clue what’s been going on. Whitman and an accountant run the office while two of Bishop’s men drive the truck, work with the customers, and do the marketing. You’ll meet the other guys when you get out there. So far we’ve managed to build a nice little business . . . not enough to provoke Lupinacci, though, and that’s where you guys come in.”

  “How so?” asked O’Keeffe.

  “Well, up to now we’ve kept it low key as we wormed our way into the business community. Now we’re going to step up our game.” He brought up the next slide. “This is my last one today. It’s of another Mack MR600 with a 17-yard Leach rear loader. We just leased this truck from an owner-operator in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and had it repainted to our specifications. It will be delivered to our lot in Lancaster tomorrow. You and Martelli will start running with it in the next few weeks. Amanda and the guys will fill you in when you get out there on Saturday. And listen . . . this truck is not your hot rod Crown Vic.” He laughed. “The guy we leased this beauty from is called the Godfather, and he’s expecting us to return it in one piece when we close shop. Does that tell you anything?”

  “Yes, boss,” Martell intoned, throwing up his hands. “We hear you!”

  “Okay, then, any questions?” Landau asked as he turned off the projector, set the microphone on the podium, and stepped down onto the floor.

  Martelli raised his hand.

  “Yes, Lou.”

  “Sean and I are new to this undercover game. Can you tell us a little about the credentials we’ll be carrying?”

  “Sure. First, we’ve pulled all your personal information from files provided to us by NYPD. That gave us everything we needed to create counterfeit identities for you. We’ll be providing you with fake picture IDs and business cards, Social Security cards, Pennsylvania driver’s licenses, Pennsylvania gun carry permits, and the like, all carrying your undercover names. Your addresses of record are transient boarding houses in western Pennsylvania towns. Even if someone wanted to look into your backgrounds, they wouldn’t stand a chance of finding anything . . . on you or anyone else that ever stayed in those places.”

  “And our NYPD badges and credentials, and the credentials you’re going to issue us?” asked O’Keeffe.

  “Bring yours with you. Amanda will store them and the deputation documents we’ll issue you in a waterproof, fireproof safe embedded in one cubic yard of concrete under the floor of our office in Lancaster. They’ll always be available, if needed, but you won’t carry them on a day-to-day basis. We can’t take a chance they’ll be seen. And if for some reason you get into trouble with the law, call Amanda. We’ll come in and get you out of town, even if we have to take you out in chains on trumped-up federal charges. The important thing is not to compromise the operation under any circumstances.

  “While I’m thinking of it, we’ve also created bogus files on you in the Pennsylvania state motor vehicle database, so if by chance you’re stopped by local or state police—and please, let’s not let that happen, guys—you’ll come up clean. We’ll also provide extra cash for you to throw around, as necessary, and a company credit card for gas.”

  “These guys are thorough,” O’Keeffe whispered to Martelli.

  “They better be. It’s our asses on the line.”

  “The cell phones you’ll be given will be changed weekly,” continued Agent Landau. “They’re untraceable. You can use them to call your families but please ask them not to call you. Here are some of my cards. Ron will give you some of his. If there’s an emergency at home, have your families call us. We’ll provide them with immediate assistance and get in touch with you if necessary. And no, we are not available to do algebra homework.”

  Martelli laughed. “How about high school science projects?”

  Landau motioned him away, as if to say ‘get outta here!’

  “Now,” he continued, “none of this—I say again, none of this—can be shared with your families or co-workers, though Captain Hanlon has been briefed into the program. All the others can know is that you will be working out of the area on a special assignment and will contact them infrequently, when you have time.”

  “Finally, Amanda’s driving back to Lancaster early Saturday morning. She’ll pick you both up on her way out of town. Check with her on pickup times. We’ve already made motel reservations for you west of town. We’ll also have a rental car waiting for you on the company lot. It was rented under the name US Trash and Recycling.

  “Okay? Okay. Let’s go get ‘em.”

  Thirty-eight

  The meeting broke, leaving Bishop, Whitman, Martelli, and O’Keeffe standing near the coffee. “So, guys,” asked Whitman, “waddaya think?”

  “This is going to be one helluva operation, Amanda. Sean and I are certainly up for it. And if it brings down Lupinacci and solves our murder case in the process, it’ll be worth it.”

  “These are my kind of guys, Ron,” she said, dabbing some powdered sugar off her lips with a cocktail napkin.

  “Well, you and Stan fill them in on anything I might have forgotten when you hit the road Saturday morning,” said Bishop. “Meanwhile, I’m going have to take them downstairs and escort them out because I have another meeting in ten minutes.”

  “We’ll see you Saturday morning, Amanda,” Martelli shouted over his shoulder as he and O’Keeffe followed Bishop out the door on their way to the elevators.

  Within minutes the detectives were downstairs, where they said their good-byes to Agent Bishop, retrieved their driver’s licenses and cell phones, and made their way to the curb in front of 26 Federal Plaza. There was not a taxi in sight, and when one or two did appear to drop a fare, it was immediately commandeered by someone who already had been waiting. Twenty minutes passed, and the detectives were still waiting. Neither was sure what they should do when a black-and-white pulled up and the driver rolled down his window.

  “Martelli? Lou, is that you?”

  “Rizzo? When did you transfer to the Fifth Precinct?”

  “About a year ago. You guys need a lift? I’m on break. I’d be happy to run you back to the First.”

  “Rizzo, you da man. Come on, Sean. It’s not often you get to ride in the back of a black-and-white without being cuffed!”

  Thirty-nine

  Breakfast on Saturday morning came early for the Martellis. Thanks to Stephanie, who had begun packing for Lou the afternoon before, both she and her husband were able to get to bed early and spend the night together alone. Rob and Tiffany had said their good-byes the night before at dinner, and both teens stayed the night with friends. Now, as Lou finished his second cup of coffee, they heard a knock at the front door. The time was 5 AM.

  “I’ll get it,” said Martelli, softly, getting up and kissing Stephanie on the cheek.

  It was Amanda. “Hi, Lou? All set?”

  “Sure, Amanda, but before we go, come in and meet my wife.”

  Amanda stepped into the foyer. “Good morning, Mrs. Martelli, I’m Amanda Whitman. I’ll be working with your husband for the next several weeks.”

  “Hi, Amanda. And please call me Stephanie. I hope whatever you two are doing works out well. Lou wouldn’t tell me much. Believe me, I tried to worm it out of him, but he’s tough. Just watch out for each other.”

  “You can bet on that, Stephanie.”

  With that, Martelli put on his jacket, checked his pistol, gave his wife a big hug and kiss, and, grabbing his suitcase, headed to Whitman’s car. He was halfway down the walkway from their home when Stephanie, in her bathrobe, came running after him.

  “Lou, Lou! You forgot this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s your St. Michael shield pendant, the one I got for you to keep you safe.” She held the pendant and ch
ain out to him with her right hand.

  Martelli laughed as he looked at the object in her hand. The pendant was badly dented from having stopped a bullet only a few months earlier, a bullet fired by a man intent on killing him. Stephanie believed Saint Michael the Archangel, patron saint of police officers, had saved her husband. For Martelli’s part he was willing to believe that as well and readily allowed his wife to place the pendant and chain over his head and onto his shoulders.

  “I love you, Louis Martelli. And I will pray for you every night.”

  Forty

  Martelli placed his suitcase in the trunk of Agent Whitman’s rented Chevy, then walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and eased himself into the front seat using his left hand to pull his prosthetic leg into place. Swinging the door shut, he looked over his right shoulder and waved good-bye to his wife. Take care of yourself and the children, Steph . . . I’ll be back as soon as I can, he thought.

  After he had buckled his seatbelt, Whitman handed him a thick manila envelope, then turned the key in the ignition switch, set the GPS on her windshield for O’Keeffe’s house, and pulled away from the curb. “You’ll find your driver’s licenses—auto and truck—Social Security card, business cards, pre-programmed cell phone, some cash, a credit card, and everything else you need in there, Lou. You’ll be using the name Anthony Mateo. Tony, for short. Martelli, Mateo, what the hell, it should make it easier for all of us to keep straight.”

  Martelli began distributing the various items to his wallet and pockets.

  “Your wife’s lovely, Lou.”

  “We’ve known each other— Oh, take a right here. It’ll cut off five minutes. The GPS’ll catch up.”

  Whitman took the right, and within seconds the GPS had computed a new route.

  “As I was saying, we met in high school. One of those cases of love at first sight. But it wasn’t easy for us. I got into a lot of trouble as a teenager . . . heck, even before then. With my father working odd hours as a police officer for the NYPD and my mother taking various jobs to keep food on the table, I had virtually no supervision at home, day or night. It wasn’t long before I was running numbers for local mobsters, hustling cards, working as a thimblerigger of a shell game on Broadway, picking pockets on the subway, and in general, heading for a life of crime. I probably would have ended up at Rikers, or worse, Sing Sing, if my father hadn’t marched me into the Army recruiter the day of my high school graduation and ‘helped’ me enlist.”