“We’re here to talk to James and Randall Torrance, the owners,” I said, sipping my coffee. “And whichever Donatello is in charge of security today.”
Pen poised above his pocket notebook, Pete grinned. “Like the Ninja Turtle.”
“Funny you should put it that way.” Glad Bobby wasn’t here to bemoan the decline of culture indicated by naming a mutant reptile after a Renaissance sculptor, I took out my own notebook. “Donatello Protective Services, DPS, is owned and operated by four brothers, all in their forties. Two are ex-Special Forces, one an ex-cop, one a former intelligence officer.”
“Even better!” He laughed. “Four brothers, like the Turtles. They came out in comic books when I was in college. Before the cartoon companies and toymakers got to them, the Turtles were so gritty and the art so noir, it blew our minds. In my dorm some guys would fire up a joint before reading a new comic book out loud and passing both around.”
“You too?”
“I’ll take the fifth. But they were just what an Asian kid pushed into science needed.”
“You told me you were no good in science.”
“Good enough to get accepted, but not good enough to graduate and get a job. I told my dad that, but a scientist needs proof. So I gave it to him and switched to criminal justice.” He set down his pen and popped the last piece of croissant into his mouth, washing it down with the last of his coffee. “The Turtles. Haven’t thought about them in a long time. Silly idea, we said back then, even as we laughed at the stories. The rat, the sewers. Why would turtles need masks? But in serious moments we all wished the idea had been ours.”
“You could’ve been on a yacht in the Mediterranean but for the idea that got away.”
Pete patted his lips with his paper napkin. “Okay, tell me about these Ninja Turtles.”
“More like the Apostles,” I said. “Two sets of twins named Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, though Luke and John, called Jack, were born two years before Matt and Mark. Matt, by the way, is the one I met. Their father was an executive and their mother a secretary for Torrance Brockhurst, the multinational holding company founded in Manhattan fifty years ago by two sons of WASP privilege, James K. Torrance and A. Randall Brockhurst. Unmarried, Randy Brockhurst died suddenly twenty-five years in. His sole heir was his sister Charmaine, wife of James and best friend of Serafina Donatello, nee Lucci. The Brockhursts were Episcopalian but Charmaine went to a Catholic high school, where she met Serafina.”
“So it’s a husband-and-wife family business, with good friends on the payroll.”
“Yes but when Charmaine died a dozen years later, her husband became the principal stockholder. He set up a second headquarters in Buffalo when he tried to buy the Bills. His son Randall, an only child, became second-in-command.” I swallowed the last of my now cold coffee. “The good friends part is right though. It seems James underwrote the expansion of DPS with grants. It began as his private security unit after the senior Donatellos died and became its own company when Torrance settled here after his shot at the NFL failed. DPS operates only in Rochester, Buffalo, and Cleveland and has thrived. It’s safe to say none of that would have happened without James, who gets no return—except loyalty.”
“Generosity with intent,” Pete said.
“He’s a generous man. He established the Charmaine Torrance Foundation, which has an office suite in the hotel. CTF supports cancer research, scholarship funds, suicide prevention, various hospitals and clinics, business development initiatives.”
“Everything on the up and up?”
“You mean, is he using it to pay his bills?” I shook my head. “James is the principal donor but leaves everything to a major league board of directors. Over the last few years his private giving has taken a soft liberal turn—anti-poverty groups, early childhood education, minority student scholarships, women’s shelters, arts groups.”
Pete grinned. “He must have met a woman who thinks those things are important.”
“Maybe, but I didn’t dig that deep. This was a quick assessment before our meeting with him.” I looked at my notebook again. “Okay, Torrance Brockhurst corporate HQ is still in Manhattan. James has worked out of the Buffalo office the last ten years and now says he’s retired, except for overseeing Torrance Towers.”
“That’s a nice retirement hobby.”
“He still travels to New York once a month on a small company jet hangared near the airport. When the hotel opened seven years ago, he took the North Tower penthouse for himself, leaving all other day-to-day corporate duties to Randall.”
“Tell me about Randall.”
I shrugged. “NYU. Columbia Law. Joined Torrance Brockhurst as a corporate counsel. Mid-forties, a quiet divorce, two daughters in Brooklyn with his ex, both in college. A luxury high rise condo here on West Ferry and another place in Manhattan. A sometime playboy too low key for gossip columns. Good son. Good businessman but not as outgoing as his father. Maybe worth three hundred mil on his own.”
“But his pop is a member of the Billionaires’ Club.”
“Mid-level, the two-to-four range, along with the late Damon Cathcart.”
Pete’s expression told me the name had rung a bell but he was uncertain which one.
“Cathcart Pharmaceuticals. Damon was James’s best friend at Yale,” I said. “It was Damon who brought James to Buffalo. They were partnering on the Bills deal when Damon died. His son William heads a nationwide broadcast group headquartered here. His mother Catherine is a principal backer of the non-profit sponsoring the conference.”
“WNCZ. That’s where I heard the name. Z-TV.” Pete jotted another note and pressed his lips together in thought. “Not bad for a quick background check. You dig deep enough to notice anything suspicious, delicious, or scandalous?”
“Not enough to hang a theory on. Charmaine and Randy lost a baby brother to SIDS. She got a couple speeding tickets and had a DUI settled quietly. But her clinical depression and fondness for vodka were both well documented. The nearest she came to scandal is dying at sixty from an accidental mix of alcohol and medication.”
“Suicide? You did say he donated to suicide prevention.”
I nodded. “She was home alone and left no note. Whatever her history, the M.E. had no basis to make a definitive call.” I turned to another page. “Her brother’s sudden death was never fully explained in the press. They used words like stricken, which could mean anything from a heart attack or long-term cancer to drug overdose or suicide. His obituary called him a confirmed bachelor, sometimes code for gay back then but that could mean anything too.”
“Including he had parents like mine,” Pete said. “No woman was good enough.”
“You should have dated only softball players.” I paused to let Pete smile. “Serafina and Albert Donatello led quiet, traditional lives marked by hard work, strong Catholic faith, and enough income to live in a big house and educate four sons. Ten months before he filed for divorce, Jack Donatello became an employee of DPS—a salaried CEO rather than a co-owner, thus avoiding a settlement that might have given his ex a stake in the business. Matt and Mark manage Buffalo. Luke runs Rochester, and a cousin named Simon, Cleveland. Jack oversees the company and divides his time among all three cities. He set up a profit-sharing agreement after his divorce.” I flipped to another page. “Matt and Randall were friends at NYU, maybe because their mothers were close. Since joining the company, Randall’s had occasional disagreements with James over the direction Torrance Brockhurst should take but nothing dramatic enough to cause more than a few lines in a news item or a corporate report.” I closed my notebook.
Pete thought for a moment. “What sort of disagreements?”
“The biggest had to do with gambling. This hotel was under construction when state law was changed to allow Vegas-style casinos in addition to Seneca Nation gaming. Randall pushed for a casino but his father nixed it because Seneca Creek is in walking distance.”
“Also, like every other hotel arou
nd here, this place has a shuttle bus to take its guests there.”
“Gotta get gamblers on walkers or in wheelchairs to the slots,” I said. “But if James dies and the Seneca agreement ever goes away, expect the shops and suites in the center building to give way to an in-house casino designed to enhance the convention experience.”
Pete laughed. “I went to a law enforcement conference in Atlantic City once. The breakout sessions were so small the speaker could whisper and reach the back row. A lot of people were at the slots and tables.” He looked at his notes. “What about the Cathcarts?”
“Damon died of cancer before the opioid crisis. Unlike the Sacklers, William got out of the drug business before the media could tie anything to his family. Once he started to run old TV shows on local-focused stations all over the country, he thrived.”
“Is William Cathcart close to the Torrances?”
“I don’t think so. I couldn’t find any bad blood between them. They just move in different circles.”
“All good old squeaky clean rich-as-fuck American Dreamers,” Pete said.
“Yep.” I looked past his shoulder. “Some of them are coming this way.”
Walking abreast, four men headed toward us. Two summer-weight suits, one gray and one khaki-colored, were flanked by black blazers. James Torrance was in the khaki, Randall in the gray. Matt Donatello was beside Randall, leaving a trimmer, bearded version of himself beside James. When they reached us, James stepped in front of his son to form a lopsided wedge as his hand came up.
“Good morning, Mr. Rimes!” He pumped my hand hard. “Good to see you again!”
“Good to see you too, Mr. Torrance.” I introduced Pete as a retired detective now working for Driftglass. Then Randall introduced Matt’s brother Mark, the bodyguard I had seen only through frosted glass during the APP meeting. We shook hands all around. Having been a cop, Matt asked Pete a few throw-away questions about his police experience. Mark, an ex-SEAL with gray threads in his close-cut beard, studied me with the focused intensity of one soldier who recognized another. James said he hoped breakfast had been to my liking.
“Delicious,” I said.
“Good. So, where would you like to start?”
“First a floor plan of the entire complex,” I said. “Preferably digital so I can blow it up on a computer to study it in detail.”
The Torrances exchanged a look. James turned back to me and nodded.
I opened the notebook in my left hand and flipped to a page near the end. “I’ve already checked public entrances and exits and elevator banks in each tower and the central building. I need to see all the employee entrances, truck docks, freight elevators, non-public corridors, breakout meeting rooms, the banquet hall and the kitchen that serves it. I need to inspect the convention hall, all the ways in and out. The suite where Ms. Wingard will stay. It’ll need opaque curtains and must be in your south tower, high enough to make a ground shot impossible and facing the river to minimize locations for a sniper’s nest.”
“Where’s he gonna shoot from, the Skyway?” Randall said. “A pedestrian is going to walk to the top of an elevated highway and shoot at a hotel with cars whizzing by?”
“There are enough places around here for a man who knows what he’s doing,” Mark said. His eyes were the same blue as his brother’s but icier. His gray-threaded black beard underscored the calm authority of his voice. He was someone who had seen and done enough to erase all doubt about his expertise in violence. “Empty factories, other Cobblestone buildings, even the Skyway if he stages a breakdown, has a high-powered rifle, and tinted windows.” He tugged his beard in thought. “A two-man team heading into downtown. The driver turns on flashers and pulls over. The shooter in back gets off a silenced shot. Then the driver turns off his flashers and zips away. Two minutes, tops.”
“He wouldn’t have time to aim,” Randall said.
“He wouldn’t have to if he just wanted to shoot a window to fuck with you.” Mark shrugged. “If he had a spotter with a smartphone on the ground, setting up a target…”
“It’s good business to hire people who know what you don’t and can do what you can’t,” James Torrance said, perhaps to his son, perhaps to us. “If Mark says it can be done, I believe it can be done. So we’ll take steps to prevent it. Anything else?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to select and reserve Ms. Wingard’s suite today, also to guarantee it will be vacant for two days before she checks in so my team can prepare it.”
“Prepare it how?” Matt asked.
“By installing equipment. Small cameras in the corridor paired with laptops so we can monitor who’s outside the door. Our communications equipment so we can remain in contact with each other at all times. Everything we’re using has adhesive backing that won’t damage walls or moldings. Also, we’ll need to rearrange furniture in the suite, except the beds, of course.”
“You need two days for that?” James said. “You do understand this is a business. We could let you have it for the conference rate.”
“It takes time to set up and test a base of operations—battery checks, power supplies, blue tooth connectivity, transmission range, dry runs.” I didn’t tell him we would sweep the room for bugs and traces of explosive materials. “But we can do it in one day if we get the conference rate, and I pay my contractors a little more.” I had asked for two days in the hope settling on one would feel like a compromise, but I knew paying contractors was something he understood.
“All right. Is that it?”
“I’d like to see all three roofs. The center building and both towers.”
Randall shook his head and laughed. “I’ve read about the kind of people threatening this woman. They write their Fs backward and have to be reminded to brush their teeth. Your hi-tech toys should be enough to stop them.”
“Randall,” James said.
“I don’t think they have helicopters, Pop.”
“You don’t need a helicopter if you have a key,” I said.
“I promise you, nobody will have keys but us,” Matt said.
I looked at Mark. “I bet you could get to the roof without a key, couldn’t you?”
Fighting a smile, he nodded.
“Then I’d like to see all three roofs and I’d like a guarantee of roof access when we prep the suite. I’ll put a couple of micro-cams up there too.”
“We already have CCTV cameras up top,” Matt said.
“They won’t be part of our system, and we won’t be part of yours.”
Matt frowned. “Won’t you be communicating with us the whole time?”
“Certainly. But my equipment is custom-made, designed to be overlooked by the person who might spray paint over yours. It’s already compatible with my other hardware. After our client checks out, everything will be packed up and removed in a couple of hours.”
No one spoke for a time, but three of the four men looked at each other as if having a telepathic conversation. Then, his back to me, James cocked his head and whispered something I could not hear. Randall offered a faint scowl as he shrugged. Matt looked from father to son and nodded twice. Mark remained still, hands behind his back, eyes tracking movement in the lobby. Pete was to my left, a step back, a sliver in my peripheral vision. A few more seconds passed. James turned to me and let out a breath. “Impressive, Mr. Rimes. Thorough.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He looked from one Donatello brother to the other. “As I’ve already suggested, you should consider hiring this man.”
Matt looked me up and down. “Something tells me he does just fine on his own.”
“In any case, Randall has several meetings in New York today,” James said to me. “He and Matt must get to the airport soon if they’re going to make their scheduled departure. A canceled private take-off can mean hours for another chance. As for me, I have to prepare for a business dinner with Chinese hotel investors.” He turned to Mark. “I’ll leave the guided tour to you then. Be sure these g
entlemen have whatever they need. When you’re finished, take them over to Charmaine’s Table and tell Muriel their lunch is on me. Then get yourself some rest. Tonight’s dinner will probably be a long one.”
“Of course, Mr. Torrance.”
After another round of handshakes and the departure of Matt and the Torrances, Mark remained expressionless as he asked about my time in Iraq.
“You checked me out,” I said, unsurprised. “So you know I was an MP in a combat zone before I was CID. Different from JSOC in Afghanistan, I’ll bet. Were you SEAL Team Six?”
“They don’t call it that anymore,” he said, smiling. “That nickname is stuck in the popular imagination.”
“What was your squadron, assault or intelligence?”
“If I were part of any of it, I wouldn’t be at liberty to say so.”
“Your body language and posture tell a lot more than you think,” I said. “Must be why Mr. Torrance has so much faith in you.”
“So what makes him say we ought to hire you?”
“He’s a good judge of character?”
Loosening up enough to laugh, Mark pumped my hand once, hard, and thanked me for my service as I thanked him for his.
He took Pete and me on an uneventful walk-through of every area I asked to inspect. He answered questions directly, pointed out details we missed, and let us take all the time we needed to chart the particulars of the convention hall. Afterward, he led us to the surveillance room. It had a bank of CCTV monitors connected to the camera bubbles I had noticed in various parts of the hotel. Overseen by two men in DPS blazers, the monitor screens held images that shifted every few seconds as the surveillance software cycled through the public areas and the parking ramp. Next, we went to the hotel manager’s office. A thin, balding, man named Shawcross listened to our requirements and led us to a vacant suite on the seventeenth floor. When I agreed this suite would meet our needs, he blocked in the dates on his iPad. Finally, before leaving us with the hostess at Charmaine’s Table, a lavish steakhouse on the ground floor of the North Tower, Mark took us to the DPS office and loaded a Torrance Towers floor plan into a flash drive, which he handed to me.
Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3) Page 11