by Nancy Holder
And maybe she was getting a little woozy from bleeding a lot.
* * *
“I’m sorry about the phone.” Nico was weepy. And tired, scared, out of his element. Cat understood. “Miss Smith told me not to use it.”
“You need to listen to us. We’re trying to protect you,” said “Miss Jones.” “There are people after you.”
Cat just didn’t know who they were. It was getting to the point where the bad guys were going to have to take a number.
She and Tess drove back into the city using standard maneuvers to throw off a tail and avoid being boxed in on the road. As far as they could tell, no one was following them. She also knew Tess needed medical attention. Not immediately, but sooner would be better than later.
He sniffled. “I wish I’d never agreed to any of this. I mean, I’m a musician. I’m not some cop or anything like that.”
“Wait.” She was so intent on what he’d just said that she almost took her foot off the gas. “You’re a musician. Is that how you met Ms. McEvers?”
“Yeah. She used to come around to the clubs with this dorky guy. He couldn’t play for shit.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t even remember. I tried to stay away from him because I was afraid she’d try to get me to play with him in return for helping Joey. She and I talked a lot about music but he would be all weird. He was very anti-social.”
So he didn’t connect Claudia with Angelo DeMarco. Despite her death, the kidnapping itself was still out of the media. That in itself spoke of the power of Tony DeMarco.
“Do you… record?” she asked.
“I’ve had some studio time. But it’s really expensive. Do you play?”
“I played flute until my music teacher paid me to quit.” A little white lie that made him smile and like her, which was the point. “What’s the name of the studio?”
“Well, there was one called Deodato, and one called Maple.”
Maple. A crackle of excitement charged through her like lightning. She remembered that name from their investigation into Angelo’s financials. So, she had two hits so far: he, Claudia, and Angelo had seen each other at clubs and he had a recording studio in common with Angelo.
“Do you think you could make a list of the names of the clubs for me? We want to figure out exactly how Claudia died.”
He punched his thigh a couple of times. “But you already know. Those scumbags murdered her!”
“You watch TV, right? We need proof.”
“Okay. There’s Black, Soundlandia and Mania, Freak, Karmarama…”
“Can you write them down? I’ll get you a pen and some paper at the motel.”
“Yeah. Oh, Turntable.”
When she had pulled up to the safe house, heard the shots, and saved Tess, her adrenaline spike had been off the charts. Now it spiked again. They were getting closer to making some connections, and she was becoming convinced that Robertson and Gonzales had a hand in Angelo’s kidnapping. If she could get solid proof that would stick to them like glue, she could get them held on suspicion. If they were the brains, then the kidnapping scheme would fall apart. Their underlings wouldn’t know what to do. However, at that point, whoever had Angelo might panic and kill him. Or they might have orders to kill him if things went south.
There were no guarantees that they would spare him even if Robertson and Gonzales continued to operate and his father paid the ransom. Kidnappers were brutal people.
A call came in. Her usual M.O. was to put it on car speaker but Nico would hear it. She glanced at caller ID: It was Tony DeMarco. Never in a million years had she anticipated that he would call her directly.
Composing herself, she put her phone to her ear. “Yeah,” she said tersely.
“Detective Chandler, do you know who this is?”
“Yes.”
“Can you speak freely?”
“No.”
Nico looked over at her. She told herself there was no way he could have seen her caller ID screen but a wary expression crept across his face.
“Make it so you can.”
“Hold on,” she said.
Nico was looking scared. She gave him a headshake to let him know the call had nothing to do with him.
She swung into the parking lot of a seedy motel. Tess and J.T. were directly behind her.
“Give me one second,” she said to DeMarco.
“I want you to hunker down in your seat so no one can see you,” she told Nico as she grabbed her purse, opened her door and climbed out. He did as she asked and she gave him a nod. J.T. was out like a shot. Cat held up a hand.
“I have a call I have to take,” she said to J.T., who looked surprised and backed off as she put some space between herself and the rest of their convoy.
“Good girl,” DeMarco said.
“I am not your girl,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“Okay, here’s the deal. I did something stupid. This morning at dawn. I know it was stupid and I don’t want to waste time with you telling me that.”
Cat was listening hard. She said, “You made the drop without telling Robertson and Gonzales.” Much less NYPD.
“Bingo. And no results.”
“And you still haven’t told Robertson and Gonzales.”
“I knew you were a smart girl. Lady.”
“Detective,” she filled in. “You haven’t told them because you no longer trust them.”
“I never trusted them. I never trust anybody.”
“Yet you called me.” She didn’t give him a chance to speak. “You can’t bribe me. You can’t control me. If you want my help you have to let me do my job. And I have to talk to my partner.”
“Okay. We’ll see where that takes us. So, yeah, I did a drop. I have a way out of my building that no one else knows about. They thought I was in my bedroom sleeping. So I left and I did it. And… nothing.”
“What has changed with Robertson and Gonzales?”
I think they’re in on it. When the amount got bumped without warning, I wondered if they were engineering a better payday for themselves, know what I mean?”
“The same thing occurred to us,” Cat said. “I’ll talk to my partner. I’ll get back to you in five minutes.”
“I’ll give you my private number.”
“You could just call me from it so I can capture it,” she suggested.
“I need to get to it. Just write it down.”
“Okay.” She fished in her purse and pulled out a pen and a notepad. She clicked the pen, registering that it wasn’t one of hers. She must have picked it up somewhere. “Go ahead.”
He rattled off a number. She read it back to him. Then he cut off the call without warning. Cat put the notepad back and clicked the pen to retract the tip, glancing idly at it to see whose pen she’d taken. It had been personalized.
30 YEARS DAVID WHITESIDE! HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!
It bore the Con Edison logo. Cat wondered where she’d picked it up. Something tugged at her brain.
As she walked back toward the cars, J.T. gave her a wave. He had a phone in his hand.
“Burner phone,” he said meaningfully.
Vincent.
J.T. crossed over to her and together they walked a short distance away from her car. Very short. She was getting worried about leaving Nico out in the lot so long; she pulled out her gun and kept it down as she connected. Her ear was immediately flooded with headbanger music that was so loud she felt as if it blasted through her brain and exited through her other ear.
“Cat,” Vincent yelled. “Can you hear me?”
“Barely,” she said. “I was expecting surf music. Aren’t you at Turntable?”
“I was. Guess what was at Turntable.”
She crossed her fingers. “Angelo DeMarco.”
“The most disgustingly sweet sundaes you have ever had. They’re made out of popcorn balls, maraschino cherries, and coconut. And other things.”
“Yes!” Cat cried.
“What?” J.T. said. “What’s happening?”
She held up her hand to ask for quiet. “And?”
“One of the waiters finished his shift at Turntable and came here to play a couple sets. He’s actually a pretty fair bass guitarist. Then he placed a call to a music studio to complain about an overcharge.”
She crossed her fingers. “Called Maple?”
“Good sleuthing,” he said. “Why do you know that name?”
“Angelo booked studio time there. And so did Nico Palmieri. So maybe that’s how the kidnappers put their plan together—they were originally going after the cook to get him to courier drugs for them. Then they decided to move on to Angelo.”
“Makes sense.” He paused. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
She licked her lips. “We’re fine here.”
“Catherine, I can tell when you’re lying.”
J.T. cleared his throat. She’d been so concentrated on what Vincent had been saying that she’d actually forgotten J.T. was there. Not a smooth move for a cop. He was gesturing for the phone and she told Vincent to hold on.
As she handed the phone to J.T., she said, “Remember to speak in code.”
“Got it.” J.T. took the phone. “Vincent, get over here. Tess has been shot and she needs urgent medical care.”
“J.T.,” Cat said.
“Here.” J.T. handed the phone back to Cat.
“There’s been shooting?” Vincent said. “Were you not going to mention that to me?”
“I was going to get to it.” She flashed J.T. an exasperated look. He folded his arms over his chest and raised his chin defiantly. “There was shooting. Tess got grazed. Accent on flesh wound. She’s functional and alert. They got away.”
“How did they find you?”
“We think it was because Nico used his cell phone, but we aren’t sure.”
“Tess flattened it,” J.T. said to Cat. “The phone.”
“Where are you? I’ll come check on Tess.”
Cat gave Vincent the address, asked him to be careful getting there, and disconnected. J.T. headed back to his car. Cat jogged alongside him.
He scowled at her. “Were you even going to mention to my friend the doctor that my girlfriend was wounded in a firefight?”
“Of course I was.”
“Next week?”
Catherine let him vent as they returned to the cars. She put her coat over her weapon and she went inside the motel to the desk, requesting an upstairs room “away from the street”—in other words, out of sight—trying not to wince when the desk clerk informed her that she would have to pay for a full hour whether or not she “needed” that much time. She told him he wanted it for the entire night and he scowled.
“This isn’t a sting, is it? Are you a cop? Are you going to arrest all my customers just for having a good time?”
“What? No,” she said. He hesitated, and she pulled out three twenties, even though the room rate was significantly less. “I just need a place to land.”
He took the twenties as if they were dipped in acid, put a twenty in the register and slipped the other two into his pocket. Then he gave her a key and said, “I’m trusting you.”
You’re trusting my money, she thought.
She and J.T. moved the cars around to the back of the building. She pulled her car right up to the stairway; Tess herded Nico and J.T. up to the first floor and hustled everyone inside.
She told Tess about the call and Tess’s reaction mirrored hers—relief that they might be out from under Robertson and Gonzales’s thumbs, anxiety that if they went that route, they had to go off the books again. As for getting cozy with DeMarco, that didn’t bother her much, either, so at least they were agreed on that. They had their principles, and DeMarco wasn’t going to be able to buy them.
Then she showed Tess the pen and Tess’s mouth dropped open. She took it from Cat and clicked it on and off, on and off, until Cat’s mouth dropped open too.
“Do you think this is one of Bailey Hart’s pens?” Cat said.
“When he fell backwards, and all his pens and stuff fell on the floor, I might have scooped this one into your purse,” Tess said. “So what’s he doing with a pen from an anniversary party for this David Whiteside at ConEd?”
“That name is really familiar,” Cat mused.
Tess’s eyes widened. ”Wait. I saw him on TV at J.T.’s. David Whiteside is high up in the Electric Operations divisions of ConEd. He was being interviewed about the blackout and he kept saying that his team would figure out what had gone wrong.”
Cat took up the thread. “Bailey Hart’s alarm system went to hell during the blackout and there was all this programming to make it go off later. Which might mean that he knew the blackout was coming because he was in contact with David Whiteside.”
Cat clicked the pen. “I’ll bet you anything that David Whiteside is gone. And that we’ll never see Bailey Hart again.”
“Alpha niner correcto,” Tess said, grinning, and they both went into the motel room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
2 A.M.
After Vincent tended to Tess’s wound, they left the fleabag motel. At his suggestion they took Tess and Nico to his houseboat; then he went to J.T.’s to meet up with him and Cat just as Tony DeMarco showed up. Vincent still wasn’t convinced they should be doing this and there was cold comfort in the fact that no one else was certain it was a good idea, including Tony DeMarco. They were all just one big happy circle of uneasiness. But Vincent had danced with the devil before, and he was sure he would again.
“This is nice,” Tony DeMarco said as his two bodyguards inspected J.T.’s home. He was bending over petting Mr. Boston White Sox, who was a pretty cute cat, Vincent had to admit. “What happened to the wall?”
Catherine also looked at the large, jagged hole that Vincent had made when he had lost his temper. Of course, she didn’t know that he had done it, and he couldn’t cop to it while the crime lord was there.
“I hit it with my baseball bat during the blackout. There used to be a wall sconce over there.” J.T. pointed to the other chunk that had been taken out near the front door—the one that he had actually done. It was good of J.T. to cover for Vincent, but he knew he should tell Catherine the truth at some point, and he would.
“If you ever want a job as a bodyguard, you just let me know,” DeMarco said. Vincent could tell by DeMarco’s heartbeat that he wasn’t kidding.
Robertson and Gonzales had been very unhappy that DeMarco had informed them he was going “out” for a while and refused to tell them where. He agreed to remain in contact via cell phone. Then he and his bodyguards drove all over the city to shake any tail they might have put on him. Without his knowledge, Cat had asked Vincent to trail after DeMarco as well to make sure that he wasn’t being followed by the Feebs.
“Tell me again how they were able to contact you directly,” Cat said.
He shook his head, not to refuse, but in apparent disbelief. “Email. Sent straight to me from Angelo’s laptop, which is in his room.”
“It could have been programmed to send at a specific time,” J.T. said. “If I had access to it…”
“Let’s focus on this,” DeMarco said.
“Okay,” J.T. said, “let’s see what we can do.”
DeMarco took a seat beside J.T. at computer command central. Cat was bent over his shoulder, and Vincent stood beside her. One of the bodyguards was holding Mr. Boston White Sox, who was purring.
The crime lord handed J.T. a flash drive and J.T. plugged it into his computer.
Against the orders he had received from the kidnappers, DeMarco had dared to place a camera in a tree in order to record the drop. As the recording began to play, they were looking at a jogging figure from the back—sweats beneath a heavy jacket, gloves, hat. The figure slowed and walked toward an empty park bench that seemed to float on a snowdrift. Then he turned his face toward the camera, and it was obvious to Vincent that it was DeMarco.<
br />
The bench was already clear of snow and he sat down as if to rest. With his shoe, he dug a hole in the snow. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, pulled a small brown paper bag from his pocket, and buried it.
“You can’t fit a million and a half dollars into a bag that small,” Cat said.
“It’s jewelry,” DeMarco bit off. “Worth a million and a half.”
Vincent watched Catherine think that over. She said, “You need to describe it. If they try to fence it, we could get a bust.”
“Family heirlooms,” DeMarco said. “A cameo from Sicily, which is the least valuable monetarily, but it means the world to me. Then they told me to put loose diamonds I had in a locket. Also very sentimental.” “The diamonds or the locket?” Catherine asked.
“It’s cloisonné, enamel, you know? Of the Madonna and Child. Very religious. My great-great grandmother’s. I gave them to Hallie, but only to wear. They’ll go to Angelo’s wife someday. If he…” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “If he gets married.”
The man’s sorrow was genuine. He was terrified for his son.
Then he added, “That’s why I think Robertson and Gonzales may be in on it. They saw Hallie wearing both those pieces. And a guy like me always has loose diamonds around, you know what I mean?” He wiped his eyes. “She’s not my most successful marriage. She’s kind of a lush, actually. A drinker.”
“She’s scared,” Catherine told him frankly. “She knows she’s in over her head and she doesn’t know what to do.”
There was a beat. Then he said, “Did she tell you that?” “Not in words,” Catherine replied. “You may want to have a talk with her.”
“Maybe I could buy her out.” Then he raised a hand. “Okay. Here it comes.”
They kept watching. For a moment the frame showed nothing. Then a shadow in the left-hand corner announced the approach of another individual. A man came into view. He was wearing a jacket with “Mets” across the back and a ball cap. As he sat on the bench, he kept his head down. Catherine groaned in frustration.