Desperate Justice
Page 18
While the two confused criminals discussed what to do, Shin sneaked in carrying an illegal, sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun, with which she proceeded to threaten and subdue Michael and Kevin who quickly dropped the ‘gun’, raised their hands and got down on their knees. Of the four young women, two of the therapists were also Korean and the frightened girls started yelling at the burglars, their customers and Shin in Korean and Shin was screaming at everyone in Korean which only added to the confusion and chaos. At this point, the three massage customers managed to quickly finish dressing so they could beat a hasty get-away before things could get any worse. Just when they thought they had made it out of this madhouse, things, in fact, did get worse. When the first man passed through the massage parlor’s front door, he was greeted with the flashing lights of numerous squad cars and at least a dozen police officers with guns drawn.
It was then the officer in charge, an MPD sergeant, made the wise decision to sweep up everybody and sort it out at the local station. The girls were charged with prostitution and the three massage customers were charged with solicitation. Shin was charged with numerous prostitution and weapons offenses and the two unemployed master criminals were both charged with multiple felonies including a very serious attempted armed robbery despite the fact they used a toy gun.
“The final disposition of this criminal comedy took place this morning,” Melinda said when she finished re-telling the tale. “The would-be burglars got nine months in jail and two years probation. The johns had been previously fined and each had their pictures on TV and in the papers which probably cured them of soliciting hookers. The four girls got fines and some minimum jail time and finally Shin Soo-Kyung made out the worst. Her business was closed down and she got sixteen months in prison for her second conviction for running a whorehouse and for having an illegal shotgun. Ya can’t make this stuff up, folks. We’ll be back following these messages.”
Later that evening, Marc and Margaret were watching the local 6:00 P.M. news while enjoying a drink and deciding where to go for dinner. After watching the interview of Marc with Gabriella, Margaret said to him, “Well, I’m actually quite impressed. You managed to keep your tongue in your mouth during the entire interview. Or, did they edit that part out?”
“Very funny,” he said while she laughed. “It was all quite businesslike and professional. I didn’t even notice her looks until you just now made an issue of it.”
“Nice try,” Margaret said. “I think I hate her, though. That beautiful head of hair she has. Most women would kill for it,” she continued referring to Gabriella’s jet black hair that looked to be made of silk and went eight inches past her shoulders.
“Didn’t notice,” Marc again said trying not to laugh.
“You are so full of it. You better be good tonight to make up for it if you want to get lucky around here, buster.”
“Let’s go get a bite and we’ll see who has to do what to get lucky. I know you too well to be worried about that.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Bruce Dolan listened patiently while the man seated in the client chair in front of his desk, the father of his next client, pleaded with him, practically begged him, to take his son’s case. The father was a senior vice president of a local mid-size medical device business and his son had been busted with twenty kilos of high-grade marijuana in his car.
Dolan was a little bored with the man and distracted by the call he had received. When John Hutton called him about finding out Kadella’s office had been bugged, Dolan knew immediately how it came to light. Conrad Hilton must have told the wrong person. Fortunately, especially for Conrad, Dolan had told Hutton that he would talk to Leo about it himself which he had not done and had no intention of doing. The question Dolan had been mulling over ever since the call was: what to do with the information?
“Okay, Jim,” Dolan said. “You know I’ll take the case and help the kid out. But if the bust was good, and I don’t know anything about it yet,” he continued as he held up a hand to stop the man’s protest. “Anyway, if I can’t get the case thrown out because the cops screwed up, this is what, his third one? He’ll have to do some jail time.”
Dolan opened one of his desk drawers and extracted a form. He put it on the blotter and began writing on it. As he filled in some blanks on the form he continued, “I’ll need fifty grand up front this time. He’s charged with serious sale weight. This isn’t some minor possession charge.” In fact, Dolan was silently sweating about the retainer. He was a little desperate for the money because of his alimony and child support obligations and was hoping the man wouldn’t balk.
“No problem,” Jim said pulling his checkbook out of his inside suit pocket. “If you could just hold this check until this afternoon so I can get some money transferred, I’d appreciate it,” he said as he continued to write the check.
“You’re going to need money for bail, too. Probably another fifty but you’ll get that back if he makes all of his court appearances.”
“I’ll kill him myself if he skips bail,” the father replied as he handed the check to Dolan. “Now what?” he asked.
“I’ll be at his first appearance at 1:00 and get bail set,” Dolan said as he stood up. “I’ll call you after that and let you know what happened. You know where to go to pay his bail. You’ve done it before. You won’t need me for that. Then I’ll get the police reports and start working on his case to see if I can get him off or minimize the damage.”
“Thanks, Bruce. I appreciate your help.”
“Let me walk you out.”
When he got back to his desk, Dolan unlocked the safe in the solid walnut credenza behind his desk. He removed an old address book, opened it to the appropriate page, found the entry he wanted and picked up his phone. He dialed the number and it was answered during the first ring.
“Conrad,” Dolan pleasantly said. “This is Bruce Dolan.”
“Um, yeah,” Conrad warily answered. “What can I do for you, Bruce?”
“We need to meet privately today,” Dolan said. He then gave the surveillance expert the name and location of a bar in St. Paul and told Conrad to meet him there at 5:00 P.M.
“I’m not sure I can make that…”
“Be there or my next call is to Leo and you won’t like the result of that conversation.”
At 5:10 that afternoon, five minutes before Conrad had set as enough time to wait before leaving, Bruce Dolan sat down across from him at their meeting place. He flagged a waitress down in the semi-crowded bar, ordered a scotch on the rocks for himself and Conrad indicated he was fine when Dolan gestured at him.
“So, Conrad,” he began while tasting his drink. “How’ve you been?”
“Okay, Bruce. What do you need?
“I know you’re recording this. Don’t bother to lie to me and try to deny it,” he quickly added when Conrad started to protest. “You’re recording this and I don’t care. You see, Conrad, you and I are about to go into business together.”
“Doing what?” he cautiously asked.
“We’re going to use some of the dirt Leo has compiled on people to make a little money of our own.”
“There’s no way I’ll pull any shit behind Leo’s back. What do you think I am, suicidal?”
“You already have. A little birdie whispered in my ear that you opened your mouth out of school and told somebody about a certain lawyer’s office getting bugged a couple months back. It got back to me but so far, Leo doesn’t know about it.”
“How do you know I did it? How do you know Leo’s burglars weren’t the ones who spilled it?”
“They’re not that stupid and I can see by the look in your eyes that you’re lying. Don’t insult me by denying it.
“Now I want two things. First a complete list of everyone Leo has audio or videotaped out at the place in East Oaks. Second, I want to know how to access his computer to download the files.”
“What makes you think I…”
“Stop, Conrad.”
“Relax, Conrad. We haven’t done anything yet. We got a lot of details to work out. We’ll go real slow. I don’t want to step on Leo’s toes any more than you do. Okay? That’s why I don’t care if you’re recording this. That way you have something on me and I have something on you. I’m going to want a copy of the recording I know you’re making. Now, you start getting together the things I want and I’ll start figuring the best way to use it.”
Dolan left and Conrad ordered another beer and sat quietly contemplating his life and his future. More specifically, what little he believed he had remaining of both. Wondering who was going to get him first, Carvelli and the cops or Dolan and Leo.
THIRTY-NINE
With Tony’s warning about Vivian’s need for protection, Steve Fallon had assigned an eight-man detail to provide round-the-clock security for her. She kept a very busy schedule, especially with her charitable fundraising activities. During the day there were always two of them on the grounds and whenever she went somewhere the two security people would ride along with her in the chauffeured Mercedes E350. Vivian accepted the concern gracefully knowing Carvelli was looking out for her and did not seem to be someone who overreacted. She put up with this for several days then decided she needed a break. Toward the end of the week, Vivian made plans for a quick, over-the-weekend trip.
Adrienne was throwing a pool party Saturday evening complete with a catered buffet. The guest list was roughly fifty to sixty of Adrienne’s friends and acquaintances and since Vivian had no desire to attend she would use the party as a good excuse to shed her security detail and have a break from it out of town.
Her Italian friend, Dante Ferraro, had called, and in case someone was listening in, by use of a cryptic conversation, informed her he had some information for her and wanted to meet. She contacted Steve Fallon and told him she was ducking her security for the weekend. Within minutes she had received a phone call from Tony Carvelli. At that point, the strong-willed matriarch part of her took over her personality and in no uncertain terms made it clear to Tony that she had personal business to attend to out of town and security at her destination would be well provided for. A chastened Carvelli apologized which caused Vivian’s guilt-meter to rise significantly at which point she apologized profusely to him for being so abrupt. The two of them spent another fifteen minutes chatting pointlessly and at the end of the phone call, Vivian hinted that she expected to return with some information regarding a certain restaurant owner they were both interested in.
Mid-afternoon on Saturday, Vivian had her luggage carried to the Mercedes and just before leaving, handed an envelope with forty one hundred dollar bills in it to Mike Fischer. Mike was a retired secret service agent and the head of her security detail. She asked him to spread the money to the other security team members who would be working Adrienne’s party.
“Keep a close eye on things for me, Mike,” she said handing him the envelope.
“This isn’t necessary, Mrs. Donahue,” he said as he reluctantly took the money. “We’re paid plenty by you as it is.”
“Nonsense, you’re hired to babysit me, not a bunch of hormonal kids. Just make sure they behave.”
“Oh, I’m sure we can manage that,” he replied as he lightly took her arm to help her into the limousine.
The chauffeur gently closed the door and Vivian opened the window for one last word. “No broken bones please,” she said to him with a smile. “I hate getting those phone calls from the parents of these spoiled brats, okay?”
“We’ll keep it to a minimum,” laughed Fischer as the car began to pull away.
About 7:00 that evening, after a smooth uneventful flight aboard the family’s Gulfstream V, Vivian felt a slight bump when the landing gear deployed as the sleek, luxury jet began its final approach into Atlantic City International Airport. A few minutes after landing, the pilot taxied the aircraft to the area reserved for private jets and pulled up next to a waiting limousine. Before the beautiful jet had even come to a complete stop, two men on the ground began removing her luggage from the cargo hold.
As she walked toward the exit door the co-pilot was opening and lowering the stairs for her, she walked past him, leaned into the cockpit and said, “Thank you, Ron. As always, a nice flight.”
“And as always, Mrs. Donahue, my pleasure,” the pilot replied looking back at her over his shoulder and smiling at the ever gracious lady. He resumed his conversation with the tower and she went back to the exit. Before leaving she patted the copilot lightly on the shoulder and thanked him as well. He smiled at her and reminded her they would have the aircraft refueled and ready to go whenever she wanted and with that, she went down the stairs and into the waiting car.
When Vivian was escorted into his suite the two old friends, Vivian and Dante Ferraro, greeted each other with a warm hug and obvious affection. This time, they were meeting at the Tropicana Hotel because Dante insisted the food was better, an opinion not shared by Vivian. He poured her favorite wine for her and the two of them made casual small talk on one of the expensive couches while the private security guard oversaw the room service waiter setting up the dining table and filling the plates with an exquisite meal of French cuisine. The waiter left, the security guard joined his partner in the hallway and the two former lovers sat down to their meal.
“I’m starving,” Dante said as he began to dig in.
“What have you been able to find out about our Mr. Balkus?” Vivian asked, sipping her wine.
“Well,” he began taking a swallow of water and wiping his mouth with the linen napkin. As he continued to eat, much more slowly now, he said, “He’s a very bad boy. He’s into gambling, prostitution, drugs and I’ve been able to find out he even owns a small bank. In some place called,” he said as he pulled a notebook from his coat pocket, put on his reading glasses, found the page he wanted and read the town’s name, “Roseville, Minnesota. Do you know it?”
“Yes, it’s a very nice suburb on the north side of St. Paul.”
“The bank’s name is the Rosewood State Bank of Minnesota. Looks to be a front for laundering money.” Dante removed his glasses and set them and the notebook on the table. “His overhead is a bit high. Probably due to the number of people on his payroll and the politicians he is supporting. Seems he is truly bipartisan giving to Republicans and Democrats alike. Although from what I’ve been able to find out, he gives exclusively to local politicians. He doesn’t seem to care about statewide or federal elections.”
“Those are very expensive and difficult to influence. Plus, he likely wouldn’t have much need of a U.S. Senator or Congressman,” Vivian said.
“True. That would be the case in his business. The troubling part is he doesn’t seem to have much of a history. I can’t find anyone who has any idea of who he is or where he came from.
“Normally, that would be a sure indication that he was in the government’s witness protection program. But a couple of things about that don’t add up.
“First, the feds will overlook some illegal behavior as long as you are feeding them good information and helping them. There’s no indication of that here and his activities are way beyond what would normally be acceptable.
“Second, we can’t find anyone who has been indicted or tried and convicted because of this guy. There’s nothing that leads back to him at all. Plus, we’ve shown his picture around to anyone and everyone and no one has a clue who is or where he came from. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Hmmm. Interesting,” Vivian said thinking out loud. “What do you think? Give me your best guess?”
“He’s in witness protection and the Feds are protecting him.” Dante shrugged. “But if that’s true, the government is giving him a very long leash. Unless they don’t know what he’s been up to.”
“What are the odds of that?”
“Pretty small. Even as incompe
tent as the government normally is, the FBI isn’t this blind.”
They continued to eat their meals in silence, at least Dante did. Vivian mostly pushed her food around on her plate while she contemplated what she had been told. Dante cleaned his plate and for a minute, watched Vivian nibble at her food and finally said, “If you’re not going to eat that, pass it over.”
Awakened from her reverie, Vivian laughed and handed her plate across the table to him. “Yes, dear. I’d hate to see you starve.”
“I hate to see an excellent meal go to waste,” he answered as he began to finish her meal.
He pushed her now empty plate away, and with a contented smile, reached into his inner coat pocket and removed two tickets. Holding them up in his right hand he placed his left elbow on the table, his chin resting in the palm of his hand slyly smiled at her and said, “Let’s forget all of this and take in a show. I have two tickets,” he continued rubbing them between his fingers, “for, are you ready for this? Beatlemania Now. It’s playing at the Trump Plaza. What do you say?”
“By all means, let’s go,” she laughed. “It’ll take us back to our youth.”
“And I’ve heard it’s actually very good,” he said while moving around the table to hold her chair as she stood up.
FORTY
Tony Carvelli stood in the doorway of the dimly lit bar. He was coming into the semi-darkness of McGrady’s Pub from the bright sunshine of a beautiful summer day. Removing his wraparound Ray Bans, he stood still for a full minute waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark saloon. Tony looked over the sparse afternoon crowd and not seeing the men he was meeting, walked across the floor and took an empty table away from the few patrons that were there.
Tony took a chair facing the door, ordered a small glass of beer and slowly sipped it while waiting for the two St. Paul detectives to arrive. A few minutes later he saw the men come through the door together and repeat what Tony had done to allow their eyes to adjust. He waited thirty seconds then waved at them. John Lucas nodded in recognition, tapped the other man on the shoulder and pointed at Tony.