by Cathi Stoler
Helen was stunned. It all started clicking into place. Pizza Man—the drunk from the other night—was David Adams. My God. How did he find me? Then another thought made her head spin. He saw me at Laurel’s building. He knows where she lives.
Helen was sick—dizzy and nauseated. She tried to pull herself together and remain calm. “What do you want?”
“Why, I want you,” he sneered as he steadily led her away from the milling crowd. “We have lot to talk about … like your little friend. I haven’t been able to catch up with her today, so I followed you instead. You’ll help us hook up, won’t you?” He grinned in a sick parody of a little lost boy, cocking his head to one side. “You two screwed me over good. Now it’s my turn.”
Helen desperately searched for Joe as David Adams continued to propel her beyond the people and the noise of the scene in front of the restaurant. They made their way south on Crosby Street toward Broome, to a darker, more deserted part of the block. “We’re going to have fun.” He increased the pressure on her arm. “You and me, getting to know each other.”
Helen swept the street, frantically trying to spot someone, anyone who could stop this madman, but the few people they passed were wrapped up in their own business and either avoided, or didn’t notice, her pleading eyes. Adams took her farther into the darkness, away from any hope of rescue.
Helen thought about Laurel, who by now was probably with Mike, waiting for her in the restaurant. They might be beginning to wonder where she was. Would they realize something was wrong when she didn’t show? Would Laurel call for help? Adams didn’t seem to realize he’d missed out on the opportunity to grab Laurel as well. He’s focusing on me and planning to use me to get to her.
Her stomach lurched again, and Helen risked a glance at Adams. He was intent on steering her away from people, toward a building being rehabbed on the corner of Broome. She shuddered again. Was this how he trapped Anne Ellsworth? Oh, God, am I going to be next?
Chapter 48
Friday, 8:50 p.m.
Sal Santucci settled into his waiting car and started issuing orders. All Ralphie could do was say, “Yes, sir. Right away, Mr. Santucci,” to the boss’ demands to get out of there now.
Ralphie started up the engine and began to ease away from the curb, waiting for a break in traffic. Madonna. There was a murderous look on the boss’ face; Sal Santucci was ready to explode and Ralphie was right in the line of fire. It’s no wonder I’m sweating rivers.
Jesus H. Christ. It went down just like those OCU bastards said it would. What the hell did I get myself into? Forget their witness protection bullshit. Ratting out Suave Sal Santucci could mean death, or even worse.
Ralphie gulped. A vision of being thrown into the trunk of a car, his cut-off balls stuffed in his mouth, went flying through his brain. Stay calm, man. It’s gonna be all right.
It was easy to tell himself to be calm but harder to achieve. The cops had him wired up the yin-yang and he had to act normal. In the mood Suave Sal was in, if he even thought something was a little off, Ralphie could end up in the East River in a heartbeat.
He darted a look in the rearview mirror and risked a question to try and keep things sounding routine. “So, Mr. Santucci, sir, where’re we going?”
“Just drive. And, Ralphie, shut the hell up.” Sal met Ralphie’s gaze with a hard, cold stare.
Ralphie nodded. He couldn’t stop sweating. The wetness poured down his back and over his chest, seeping around that wire. He was dying to turn up the air but didn’t want to do anything that would make the boss suspicious. Jeez, I’ll probably electrocute myself wearing this fucking thing. He sweated even more.
No one would ever accuse Ralphie of being a deep thinker, but today the synapses were all firing. He went over everything that had happened to him in the last few days. The cops had turned him easy. It was either offer up the boss or go to jail for that stupid ring heist with that Park Avenue prick. It wasn’t that he was a coward. Ralphie just hated being in the can, fighting off the fags, eating that crap food, wearing an orange jumpsuit for chrissakes. He couldn’t do it again. So, here I am. Those bastards wanted me to get the boss talking, get it all on tape. Whadda they think he’s gonna do? Say, “Hey, Ralphie, let’s go have a Remy and I’ll tell you all about my plans for the family.” Stupid pricks. They should be here right now and see the look on his face. Get him talking, yeah right.
“Everything okay?” He cleared his throat and looked in the rearview mirror. “You wasn’t in the restaurant for very long.” He tried to draw his boss into a conversation like those OCU idiots told him.
Sal looked up into the mirror again and those black eyes stopped Ralphie cold. He finally understood the meaning of the expression “if looks could kill.”
He glanced away and they drove on in silence. Every few minutes he imagined Sal Santucci’s eyes drilling into the back of his head, his hand reaching for the piece he carried tonight, placing it at the base of Ralphie’s skull, then shooting him clean through the brain with one bullet.
I shoulda let them throw me in the can. At least I’d know I’d be alive tomorrow.
* * *
What is with this kid and all his questions? Was he just stunad or was it something else? Sal knew Bennie and Vic watched Ralphie whenever he was in the club. He saw the high signs between them—a raised eyebrow, the cock of a head as if to say, “Keep your eye on him.” Something about him got on their nerves. Sal’s captains were there to protect him and his interests. They’d let him know if and when there was anything he needed to take care of.
Who was it who brought the kid into the crew? Sal tried to remember. Oh yeah, it was Joey Boy Four Toes. A good pinochle player, but a big mouth. Very unfortunate, what happened to him. Sal shook his head. It was over that construction project crap in Newark with the Jersey crew about six months ago. Joey just couldn’t shut his mouth about what the family was planning to do. So they shut it for him. Permanently.
Sal sat back. He’d deal with this Ralphie chidrule later, teach him some manners, explain about boundaries. Is this kid dirty, or am I just projecting my anger, as those shrinks would say? What did Benny and Vic really know? The kid was young. Maybe he was just trying to move up, be a good soldier and score points with the boss. Not like Mateo. Tonight was the last straw and now Sal had to decide what to do about it.
Sal had an intense moment of release when he crushed that DVD into a thousand pieces. It hadn’t lasted long. This whole operation was beginning to smell. Maybe it was time to cut his losses. The Jersey consortium would give him crap if the deal went south after the assurances he gave them at the meet earlier this week. As head of the Giambello family, he had made them a lot of money in the past and he’d find a way to weather their fury. It wasn’t going to be easy, though. This ATM racket could bring in billions. He’d have a lot of making up to do.
Beads of sweat trickled down Ralphie’s neck into his collar. I guess he got the message. Sal assumed he scared the shit out of the kid and smirked with self-satisfaction. At least he’d finally shut up.
Sal smiled. He thrived on terrifying people. Fear was the best way to maintain control and keep them in line. Just look at the McCorkendale bitch. First, they’d spotted her hanging around the Three Aces in different disguises; then she got hold of the DVD. She put her nose into his business on too many fronts. Sending the Jersey limo to almost run her down, then showing up at her house, frightened her out of her mind, and no matter how brave she acted, he still got the DVD back. His scare tactics didn’t work with Mateo, though. His nephew had disobeyed his order to stay away from Laurel Imperiole. There he was at the bar with her, having a drink. He threw it right in my face. Does he think he can cut off my balls and get away with it?
Sal picked up his cell and punched in a number. “Do it,” he told the person who picked up on the other end of the line. It hurt him to have to take this route, but it was best for the family. No one challenged Sal Santucci. It was done.
&nb
sp; As he leaned forward to order Ralphie to take him to the club, he heard the screech of several sirens coming up fast behind the car. “Pull over. We’ve got company.” The flashing lights penetrated the tinted windows and cast their harsh glow over his face.
“Right away, Mr. Santucci.” Ralphie moved the big car over to the curb, shutting down the engine and jumping out quickly to stand guard.
Sal slid down the window a few inches and told Ralphie to open his door. He exited the car, straightened his jacket and cuffs, folded his hands in front of his crotch and stood, calmly waiting for the cops to make the first move.
They didn’t waste any time. “Sal Santucci, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud under the RICO Act.” It was a detective from the Organized Crime Unit, John Walter, who did the honors. Sal and he had met many times before in similar circumstances. “You know the drill.” Walter pushed him roughly toward the Mercedes. “Up against the car and spread ’em.” He patted him down and lifted his gun from the holster under his arm. “Well, well, a bonus charge.” He cuffed him. “It didn’t even ruin the line of your suit. You have the right …”
Sal tuned out the detective. He’d deal with him later. He cut his eyes to Ralphie, who stood there cuffed, but looking like a man who had nowhere to turn. He’d deal with him later, too.
Right now, there was one person on his mind. One person he’d make sure would answer for this. Her name was Helen McCorkendale.
Chapter 49
Friday, 9:05 p.m.
Joe stood on the sidewalk behind the OCU team, watching the bust go down. Once Santucci left the restaurant and destroyed the DVD, Joe had tried Helen’s cell. He wanted to tell her the team was on the move and he decided to go with them.
When she didn’t answer, he figured she couldn’t hear it ringing with all the noise from the restaurant masking the sound. Besides, he reasoned, she’d probably met up with the Imperioles by now and was playing out dinner with the birthday boy. He had tried to reach her three or four more times since, getting her voicemail each time. Now, he was worried.
Even with juggling the Imperioles, it wasn’t like Helen not to call. If she hadn’t heard from him by now, she’d be wild to know what happened. She’d figure out he had to move the car and couldn’t stand around out front. She’d get on her cell as soon as she could break away without raising any suspicion. So why hadn’t she?
Joe watched as the OCU detectives cuffed Santucci and his driver and shoved them into separate NYPD cruisers for their ride to the station. Santucci didn’t look too worried. He wouldn’t be worried. Not yet. He thought he destroyed the evidence of his latest crime—the DVD Helen stole from Matt’s apartment. Schmuck. Just wait. Suave Sal didn’t know about the other evidence.
After Helen showed Joe the video from Kuhn’s apartment and they realized they’d have to turn it over to Santucci, he thought they were done for. Wracking his brain for a way out, he recalled one of the city’s crime fighting tactics that had civil liberties proponents up in arms—video camera surveillance installed in many of the city’s parks and on high traffic streets, ostensibly to catch drug dealers and speeders. Opponents argued it was just another instance of invasion of privacy by the government.
Joe thought his buddy, Michael Block, the deputy mayor to whom he turned over a copy of the Santucci DVD, might be involved in this Big Brother operation. Joe phoned him and found he was correct. Michael oversaw the whole operation and wanted to help. For one thing, Michael knew how long the OCU and Feds had been after Suave Sal and he figured stepping up would earn him brownie points with His Honor. For another, if Michael could prove the surveillance cameras actually deterred crime, he might get those protesters off his back. Best of all, the Parks Department requested several of these cameras be set up in Madison Square Park to discourage renewed drug trafficking in the area. One was aimed at Sal Santucci, Matt Kuhn, and their cohort from the New York City Banking Commission the whole time they did their deal. If one of them looked up and saw the camera, today’s bust might not be happening. It was the hard evidence the OCU and the Feds needed and better still, from Joe’s point of view, it got Helen off the hook.
He asked Michael for, and received back, the copy of the DVD they had originally exchanged. No one had to know it ever existed.
Joe glanced over toward the police cruiser holding the Don. Look at that smug bastard. I wish I could see his face when they show him the other video. Helen would love it, too.
Damn, The convoy of vehicles pulled away. Where is that woman?
He flipped open his phone and called his team dining at Provence Sud’s. “What’s going on in there? I’ve been trying to reach Helen to tell her the sting worked and we picked up Santucci.”
“Helen’s not here,” said Paul Schwartz. “She left a few minutes before Santucci arrived.”
Joe got a sinking feeling in his stomach.
“We thought she slipped out to see you and was coming back. We’ve been keeping our eyes on the Imperioles. I think they’re still waiting for Helen to show. What do you want us to do, boss?”
“Stay put. I’m on my way.” Joe pulled over and parked in front of a hydrant. He didn’t care if he got a ticket or the car got towed. On foot, he hurried toward the restaurant and punched in Helen’s number again. Still no reply. Helen, where are you? He silently prayed he’d find her sipping a vodka with Laurel and Mike, not dead in the street somewhere.
* * *
The purse lay in the gutter, close to the curb, covered by the debris of the day’s events. The phone inside rang insistently, but no one walking past on the street heard it. After four rings, a recorded message clicked on: “This is Helen McCorkendale. Please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Chapter 50
Friday, 9:08 p.m.
Mike Imperiole might be turning fifty-five, but tonight he felt like an eight-year-old kid left off the starting lineup for the little league playoff game. It was disappointing as hell.
He and Laurel were sitting at Provence Sud’s long zinc bar waiting for Helen. Laurel twisted her hands, making small talk, and trying to avoid answering any of his questions. Mike knew something was going on, but he couldn’t get Laurel to discuss it.
Catching her restlessness, he kept alternating between looking at his watch and at the door. “I hope something didn’t happen to Helen,” he said. “It’s a little crazy out there with all the traffic.”
“I’m sure she’s fine, just running a little late.” Laurel took a sip of her vodka martini and refused to meet his eyes. Instead, she frowned down into her drink.
Mike leaned in close to his daughter, put his hand under her chin and tilted her head up until their eyes were level. “Okay, baby girl, let’s stop all this. How about you tell me what’s really going on here.” He gestured toward the two of them. “It’s just you and me for my big birthday dinner, as you can see.”
Laurel slumped down on her stool, then leaned over and placed her head on her father’s shoulder. “Oh, Dad, I hardly know where to begin.” Her voice was desolate. Over the next few minutes, Laurel filled him in on the details she and Aaron uncovered in Pennsylvania surrounding Anne Ellsworth’s death. She spoke of the connection she discovered that tied Matt to the Santucci crime family. She told him of Matt’s strange meeting with Jenna, of her own fear that he was involved in the murder that made her determined to confront him. She explained how she canceled out on everyone except him, Helen, and Matt so she could meet Matt here, and the culmination of that meeting at the bar. When she finished, she looked at her father expectantly.
Mike listened quietly, and the only outward sign of his roiling emotions showed in how tightly he gripped the glass of scotch he no longer drank. That son of a bitch. When I get my hands on him I’ll break him in two. Realizing Laurel was waiting for him to react, he struggled to stay calm and placed his drink carefully on the bar. Mike took her hand in his, brought it to his lips, and kissed it lightly. “You
know, some people are just evil. Sometimes it’s hard to tell because it doesn’t show right away. You did the right thing, baby girl. Remember that.”
Her face was distraught. “I thought so, too, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. Matt got up and walked away.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”
Mike took her hand. From her forlorn expression, the hurt and pain wasn’t for Anne Ellsworth alone. It was for herself, as well. Death and destruction all around. All because of that prick.
“He’s not walking away. The police … like you told me, Aaron … they know about his game. They’re not going to just let him go. Not if he can lead them to Sal Santucci.” That would be the spark that lit the fire to find Matt Kuhn no matter where he hid. Getting to the capo di tutti capi and bringing him down was the pot of gold at the end of that rainbow.
Mike checked his watch one more time, then glanced at the entrance, hoping to see Helen walking toward them. “Did you tell Helen what you were planning to do tonight, meeting Matt early and having it out with him on your own?” Had Helen somehow witnessed the scene at the bar and gone after Matt on her own?
“No. I knew she’d tell me to not to do it, leave it to Aaron.”
“Did she tell you if she had another case she was working on? You know, somewhere she had to go before meeting us?”
“No. She just said she’d see us here at eight thirty.”
Mike took a deep breath and rose from his bar stool. “Listen, why don’t we go outside and wait.” He looked around the overcrowded restaurant. “I could use some air and you can try Helen’s cell again.”
Laurel agreed and gathered up her things. Mike nodded at the bartender and threw a few bills on the bar to settle their tab.
As they were weaving their way to the exit, Joe Santangelo stepped into their path and came face-to-face with Mike. Joe gazed over Mike’s shoulder, searching for Helen, then back at Mike.