by Curt Weeden
“A more logical theory is that Mr. Zeusenoerdorf murdered Benjamin,” replied Silverstein. “But if there were to be a line-up of other suspects, I would move Quia Vita to the front.”
“Would Quia Vita have actually killed Kurios in an attempt to get the computer disk?”
Silverstein raised his eyebrows. “Considering what’s at stake, anything’s possible.”
“You know, your line of reasoning points to another suspect,” I noted.
“Who might that be?”
“You.”
Silverstein jaw tightened and he straightened his slightly hunched back. I could feel what he wanted to say—that I was nothing but a low-end homeless shelter director who had the audacity to get in the face of a billionaire. But Silverstein buried his irritation behind a chuckle that told me he had high hopes that I could shake out some useful information from Miklos Zeusenoerdorf. “I’ll grant you that I want to see what’s on Le Campion’s disk,” he said, “but if that doesn’t happen, so be it. I’ll write the whole business off as an investment that didn’t work out. The disk is far more consequential to Quia Vita. It may contain information that could jeopardize its existence.”
“I know nothing about Quia Vita, Mr. Silverstein.” It was a fact I was sure he already knew. “I have no connections to the organization at all.”
“But you do have connections to Mr. Zeusenoerdorf.” Silverstein pulled out another cigar, clipped its end, and fired it up. “Perhaps you should pay him another visit. Ask him specifically about the disk. Dig as deep as you can.”
Talking to Zeus again wasn’t such a bad idea, except it would mean making another trip to Orlando. And since Doug had Twyla and me attached at the hip, that wasn’t going to happen. I said I would give the suggestion careful consideration.
“Be sure to stay in touch,” Silverstein ordered just as Abraham Arcontius appeared. After a quick handshake, I was back in the foyer of Silverstein’s mansion. Doc and Maurice were waiting for me at the front door.
“One question,” I fired at Arcontius while he was busy herding us outside. “The painting in the library. Who’s the woman?”
Arcontius’s beetle-like face told me what he really wanted to say was “none of your damn business.” But he decided to spit out an answer. “Ruth Silverstein—Mr. Silverstein’s late daughter.”
Chapter 9
“Want a historical factoid to help pass the time?” Doc Waters called out from the back of my Buick.
“All right.” Like it or not, it was trivia time.
“Arcontius was a Catholic bishop.”
“Yeah, right.” I cranked my head to catch a glimpse of the white-haired genius behind me. Doc had been relegated to my car’s rear seat for the return trip to New Brunswick, while Maurice got in front. The passenger shuffle was all about keeping Maurice’s motion-sensitive gut under control.
“I’m not talking about the worm who polishes Arthur Silverstein’s boots,” Waters clarified.
“That should make a billion Catholics feel better.”
“Somewhere around the eighth or ninth century, there was a French bishop named Arcontius. He went nose-to-nose with a mob that had some issues with the church and ended up getting clubbed to death. Because he stood up for the boys in Rome, Arcontius was made a saint.”
“Fascinating,” I said, intrigued. “The guy we just met must come from a different bloodline. Because I guarantee you—sainthood isn’t in Abraham Arcontius’s future.”
In my rearview mirror, I saw the Doc nod.
“Change of subject,” I said. “What did you and Arcontius talk about while Silverstein was marching me around his mansion?”
“Absolutely nothing. Arcontius dumped Maurice and me in a room next to the library. Never saw him again until he threw us out.”
“When Arcontius first brought us into Silverstein’s library, did you notice the painting behind Arthur’s desk?”
“The one you asked him about?”
“Yeah, the picture of Silverstein’s daughter. Know anything about her?”
Doc grinned. He knew everything. “Absolutely. It was a big story twenty, thirty years ago. His daughter was an addict who overdosed in some lower Manhattan dive. The tabloids had a field day speculating on whether it was an accident or whether she deliberately killed herself. Anyway, the kid’s death unhinged Arthur’s wife and she spent the next year or so in and out of a psych ward. You probably know the rest of the story—Mrs. Silverstein jumped off the Queensboro Bridge.”
Coupling pity with Silverstein didn’t come easy. “This is going to sound weird,” I said, “but Twyla looks like Arthur’s daughter.”
The professor laughed. “Promise to have me around when you tell Silverstein that his kid has been reincarnated as a lap dancer.”
I wanted more of Doc’s input, but my curiosity was cut short by my cell phone. It was Doug Kool returning a call I had placed earlier in the day.
“Holy Christ,” Doug said. “You nearly got your ass blown off. Talk about bad luck. Getting mixed up in a damn terrorist attack.”
“It wasn’t a terrorist attack. I think the bomb was meant for me.”
“What? Are you nuts? Don’t you watch TV, for God sakes? It was some Islamic fundamentalist idiot who blew the place up. Besides, who’d want you dead?”
“I’m trying to figure that out,” I answered. “And by the way, I don’t watch TV because I’m too busy keeping both eyes on Twyla Tharp.”
Doug went quiet for a time, probably thinking about the possibility of how an attack on me might also damage Manny Maglio’s niece. “Listen, I don’t want Twyla getting hurt, Bullet. Not a scratch. Jesus, that’s all I need is to have her banged up. And I’m not talking about the usual way she gets banged up.”
“Try not to worry too much about me,” I said sarcastically. “I called you earlier because I need a favor.”
“You’re going to squeeze me again?”
“You’re going to get squeezed as long as I have to play den mother to your big donor’s relative. You stuck me with Twyla, and my guess is you knew from the start this was going to be a long-term deal. Well, here’s a bulletin. I’m teetering on the edge of saying ‘so long’ to Manny’s niece.”
I listened to Doug take a long breath. “Don’t even think about rocking the boat. Maglio’s contribution will put the United Way over the top this year. All I’m asking is that you keep Twyla in check. You owe it to me.”
I knew enough about Doug’s business to grasp the seriousness of the situation. In his world, it was about making the numbers. If the United Way missed its annual fund-raising goal, then it would be bye-bye to the Harris & Gilbarton contract. And God forbid my friend should have to go bottom-fishing for work. He might even end up managing a homeless shelter.
“I don’t owe you anything!” I argued. “When we flew back from Orlando, we were even steven. If you want me to continue playing nursemaid, you’re going to lend your old friend a hand.”
The man who rarely lost his cool was working harder than usual to keep himself under control. “All right. What do you want?”
“Two things. First, I want a rundown on Arthur Silverstein’s daughter.”
“Ruth Silverstein? She’s ancient history.”
“Doesn’t matter. I want to know what happened to her. What really happened.”
“She was a screwed-up druggie,” said Doug. “Went over the edge and OD’d. Not a lot more to know.”
There was a hint of hesitancy in my friend’s voice. Maybe Doug was just confounded about my interest in Silverstein’s kid. Or maybe he was privy to information that wasn’t supposed to come out.
“I want the story behind the story.”
“What’s this all about, Bullet?”
“I don’t have to answer that.” Which was a good thing since I couldn’t come up with an intelligent response. It was about the way Silverstein connected with the painting in his library.
“All right, all right,” Doug gave
up. “I’ll see what I can do. So what else?”
“Quia Vita.”
“Quia Vita? What about it?”
“Let me save us both some time. Don’t start with the ‘I don’t know the organization.’ You’re wired to every nonprofit operation in New York.”
“All I know is that Quia Vita plays nothing but hardball. And the woman who runs it—”
“What woman?”
“Judith Russet. She’s a Mack truck. I’m telling you—don’t get involved.”
“I’m not looking for a one-on-one with the lady,” I said. “I’m trying to find out whether Quia Vita had a connection to Benjamin Kurios.”
“Listen, don’t go there.” Doug’s voice rose. “You’re completely over the edge. Until now, it’s been a harmless game of Clue. But you start messing with Quia Vita’s top dog and you’re up against a pit bull.”
“You want me to watch Twyla or not?”
“Jesus.”
“So what’s it going to be? Quia Vita or Manny’s niece dropped on your doorstep?”
Doug cogitated. “Quia Vita holds a meeting in Manhattan each month. Don’t ask how I know—I just do.”
“What kind of meeting?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not a group that broadcasts its agenda. If I remember right, they meet the third Friday of every month.”
“That’s tomorrow night,” I said more to myself than to Doug. “Where does this crowd get together?”
“You need to hear what I’m saying. Don’t mess with these people!”
“Where?”
Doug sighed. “Always the same place. The Grand Hyatt.”
“Midtown? At Grand Central Station?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have any idea what goes on at these meetings?”
“They’re recruiting sessions. Quia Vita rounds up pro-lifers with deep pockets from around the country and brings them to Manhattan. It’s an invitation-only deal.”
I wasn’t planning on taking the next step. It just happened. “Get me in, Doug.”
“In where?”
“The meeting tomorrow night.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Finagle a couple of invitations.”
“I won’t do that,” Doug said flatly.
“Too bad. I’ll put Twyla on the train in the morning. She should be at your office in time for lunch.”
“I can’t believe this,” Doug grunted and snorted for a time. Then he came through. “All right. There’s this Hyatt sales rep who handles the Quia Via account. I’ve thrown her some business over the years. Maybe she could open the door. I don’t know—it’s a long shot.”
“Get her to cough up a couple of invitations. Doc Waters will be coming with me.”
“What?”
“Doc has his faults, but he has a way of solving puzzles. I want him at my side.”
Doug wasted more time trying to convince me my idea was sheer insanity. I wouldn’t bend. All arrows were pointing to Quia Vita and I needed as much insight about the organization as possible. Climbing into the belly of an extremist group would be dicey, but doing nothing was more dangerous. The two men who tried and failed to exterminate me were probably regrouping. Staying ahead of their next bomb meant moving fast and taking a few necessary risks.
I dropped Doc and Maurice at the Gateway and drove to a car wash on Route 1. The seven dollar super-clean cycle and a two dollar vanilla deodorizer strip were no match for the odor Maurice had left in my Buick. A half hour later, I was back in my office and found two Post-It messages slapped on my phone.
Pick up Twylie Thorp at four thirty, call Middlesex County Admin. Office.
Call Figgy Rosenblatter
The first call was answered by Twyla’s probation officer who explained that Manny’s niece had been referred to an occupational counselor. Middlesex County was trying to find something Twyla could use to make a living other than her vagina. Apparently Twyla mentioned that she had already been offered a job at Universal Orlando, but the bureaucrats brushed that off as wishful thinking. I could have validated Twyla’s story but that would have just put her back in my custody sooner than four thirty. So, I left things the way they were and placed my second call to Yigal Rosenblatt.
“Got paint from the car that burned,” Yigal proclaimed. “I’m ready to bring it to New Jersey.”
“Yigal, this guy you know in Weehawken—”
“Morty Margolis is his name. He’s my partner’s brother-in-law. Remember?”
“I remember. The point is, it would be a waste of time for you to drive all the way from Florida to Jersey if this guy Margolis can’t or won’t give us a hand.”
“Oh, he’ll help,” Yigal insisted. “Not a waste of time.”
I pictured the drool rolling out of Yigal’s mouth. The thought of touching base with Twyla before doing business with Morty Margolis was putting a little extra buzz in the already overly stimulated lawyer.
“So, when will you be here?” I asked.
“Leaving now.”
“Now? You’re going to drive all night?”
“Be there in the morning.”
Was there any more powerful motivating force than a man’s testosterone? Nothing came to mind.
“Something else,” Yigal added.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“The guy driving the blue car that was burned—”
“Juan Perez?”
“Juan Perez was who he was. Nothing much left of him because of the fire.”
“We know all that,” I interjected. “What’s the point?”
“My uncle plays golf with a Kissimmee detective. I have connections, you know.”
“So you’ve told me. Go on.”
“Perez was from Caracas. Visiting a cousin in Orlando.”
“Caracas, Venezuela?”
“That’s where he was from. ”
“What else?”
“Venezuelan police says he’s a mercenary.”
“You mean like a gun for hire?”
“That’s what he was, is what I was told.”
I mentally translated. A South American hit man comes to the U.S., chases a van with Benjamin Kurios stuck in the back. He runs the van off the road and into a bridge abutment, gets into a fistfight with the van’s driver, and then ends up charbroiled in a one-vehicle crash. I could just hear Yigal using this cockamamie story in front of a jury. Zeus might as well place an order for his last meal now.
“What else do you know about Perez? Is he connected to any other Venezuelans in Orlando?”
Coincidence can only go so far. The two fee-for-service assassins who had tried to kill me were probably working for whomever had hired Perez. The threat level just went up a notch.
“Didn’t hear about anybody else from Venezuela,” Yigal said.
“If something else comes up about Perez, let me know,” I told Yigal.
“Okay. Will be there in the morning. Staying at the Hyatt.”
“The Hyatt? The New Brunswick Hyatt?”
“Yes, that’s where I’ll be.”
And that’s where I would be registering Twyla in about two hours. I gathered Manny’s niece had slipped Zeus’s lawyer this information.
“You can find a cheaper room on Route One.”
“Gafstein and Rosenblatt can afford a good hotel.”
“Yigal—” I began with such a moralistic tone of voice that I could almost hear Rosenblatt drifting away.
“Have to leave.” End of conversation.
I cursed Doug and spent the next hour and a half catching up on office work. Then I made the short drive to the Middlesex County administrative offices where I found Twyla standing outside with her parole officer.
“Five minutes late,” the officer said.
“Sorry.”
Twyla bounded into the car.
“You run the men’s shelter in town, right?” the officer asked.
“Yup.”
“That place is full of drunks, hop
heads, perverts, and thieves.”
I shrugged. “Can’t deny that.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I was told you’re on the up-and-up. That you wouldn’t do nothin’ to, shall we say, complicate Miss Tharp’s probation.”
I faked a smile. “Nope—I try not to complicate.”
The woman chewed on her lower lip. “I also heard you got friends in low places. But they’re not the kind of friends I want Miss Tharp associating with. Capeesh?”
“Well, let’s not call them friends. But I capeesh all the same.” I put my Buick in drive, leaving Twyla’s parole officer at the curb.
A few minutes later, we pulled up to the Hyatt Regency. I escorted Twyla to the registration desk where I ran into the hotel’s general manager, Robert Gonzales, known to most of New Brunswick as Four Putt. Since he had arrived in the city five years ago, Gonzales and I had played in a dozen charity golf outings, some of which included Manny Maglio. I learned early on how the hotel’s top executive earned his nickname.
Gonzales pulled me into a corner. “Look, Bullet, I want nothin’ to do with this.”
“With what?”
“With her.” Four Putt jerked his head at Twyla who was now the center of the universe for the hotel’s two male registration clerks. “Maglio’s people told me they needed a room and I came through. But they didn’t tell me who it was for. I don’t want nobody in the ‘business’ stayin’ here!”
I tried putting some spin on a bad situation. “It’s just for a few days.”
Four Putt wasn’t buying. “Damnit. You remember what’s across the street? Johnson & Johnson’s worldwide headquarters, is what. Those guys find out I got a hooker on board and my career’s shot.”
Actually, Four Putt’s career had been pretty much put on hold when Hyatt’s management sent him to New Brunswick. Word was that his performance had not been stellar at two previous properties.
“Why are you unloading on me?” I complained. “You played golf with the devil and for that little bit of bad judgment, you’ve got no choice but to give his niece a room and a king-sized bed.”
“His niece.” Four Putt gasped. “Jeez, I didn’t know it was his niece.”
Uh-oh. “That’s classified information you didn’t hear from me,” I said. “As a matter of fact, if word gets out that you know about the blood connection between Twyla Tharp and your golfing buddy, you’ll be teeing up in hell.”