by Frank Hughes
“Are those his effects?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give them to me.” Roma took the envelope and looked from one to the other. “What were you two thinking, treating this man in this way?”
I rubbed my wrists while Briggs and Stanton wilted under his glare. Just at the point I expected them both to burst into flames, Roma turned to me and asked in a pleasant voice, “Some coffee before we get started?”
“I'm fine,” I said, not sure what was going on.
“Please join me in my office,” he said, turning. Then he stopped and turned back to look at my chagrined captors. “Alone, please.”
“Sorry, boys,” I said.
I followed Roma through an office that was a lot like the offices I’d worked in, except everyone here wore that smug, superior look that was FBI standard issue. At Customs, especially after a couple of years at the airport literally sorting through people’s shit, we had a more realistic understanding of our place in the world.
Roma's office was comfortable and well furnished, as befit his status. He rated a solid oak desk, plush carpeting, very comfortable chairs, and a combination bookcase and awards cupboard. Most of the trophies on display were for marksmanship, so I decided to mind my manners.
“Close the door and take a seat,” he said, his tone suddenly frosty.
There were two chairs fronting his desk, one of which was occupied by my overnight bag. He dropped the envelope in front of him and sat down. I took my seat, noticing he was positioned so the window backlit him, making his face unreadable. Very Bond villain; I half expected to see a cat in his lap.
While we stared at each other, I recalled a New York Magazine piece I’d read about him. Born and raised in Brooklyn, most of his childhood friends went on to become hoodlums. Strict Catholic parents and even stricter Jesuit instructors at Xavier High School kept him on the straight and narrow. Like an appreciable number of agents across all of federal law enforcement, Roma attended Fordham University in the Bronx. However, unlike the rest of us peasants, he went on a full scholarship. He graduated magna cum laude and moved on to Fordham Law. Before the ink was dry on his degree, he applied to the FBI.
His knowledge of the New York underworld got him assigned to the Organized Crime Task Force, combating the Mob in New York and New Jersey. He did the job well, but, more to his benefit, he avoided the spotlight, allowing his own superiors and the U.S. Attorney to take credit for his successes. The bad guys knew who was responsible, though. One capo took the unusual and unauthorized step of putting out a contract on him. Roma killed the two would be assassins in a legendary shootout on the docks in Red Hook. Shortly thereafter, the capo that ordered the hit washed up on the beach at Ship Bottom, New Jersey in two different suitcases.
Despite his high profile job, he remained an enigma. No one was even quite sure where he lived. Not a breath of scandal ever touched him, yet he dressed in bespoke suits and wore a gold Rolex. Conventional wisdom centered on him being a lucky bastard who had inherited money from a rich relative. My guess was that Roma was a gambler, and his casino was Wall Street, where he bet big and won big. The cash only policy was probably just a security measure.
“What can I do for you, John?” I said.
“You will address me as Director. And you can shut up and wait until I tell you to speak.”
“What, no more Mr. Nice Guy?” I pointed at the door. “What was that all about?”
“I don't explain myself to you.” He jabbed a finger at me. “Karen Schultz told you to back off.”
“Well, it was more of a-”
“She told you to back off. And that it was coming from me. That should have been enough.”
“Apparently she didn't make herself clear.”
“I remember you,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “and I know your reputation. You have a real bad attitude.”
“It's just a little one.”
“Shut up.” He held up thumb and forefinger with very little light between them. “I am this close to sticking you in a cell for the duration.”
“Duration of what? What the hell is going on?”
“You tell me. What happened up there?”
“Stuff yourself. I want a lawyer.”
He looked at me over the top of those damn glasses, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Lawyers? You think you rate a lawyer? If I say the word, you’ll be out of here in ten minutes with a black hood over your head. Next stop, McGuire Air Force Base. After that, who knows?”
“Really? We’re rendering American citizens now?” I shook my head in disgust. “What has this country come to?”
“You should talk, my friend. Besides, none of that happens unless you make it happen. I don’t care about your two corpses. This is off the record. Tell me what happened and we’re square.”
I weighed my options and found none, so I told him the whole story. When I was finished, he stared at me without moving for a long while.
“If you were being followed in Seattle,” he said, finally, “that speaks of a large organization and plenty of manpower.”
“Not necessarily. I told you there was someone on the plane.”
“Think, Craig. You flew first class. You told me yourself you used a carry on. In Seattle I bet you went straight for the rental car, and when you got back to Newark, the Air Train. If your tail was flying coach, explain how he didn’t lose you at either end.”
I was out of practice. He was right. If he was back in coach, how could he get off the plane fast enough to follow me. And back in Newark I was in the last car of the Air Train, where I would have seen him coming up the escalator. There must have been operatives in place at both ends.
“While you’re thinking about that, ask yourself how he knew what flight you were on coming back from Seattle. When did you change it?”
“The night before.”
“That means they have access to airline manifests. You’re outclassed, Craig. Whatever you’re into, there’s a big organization behind it. They knew you were looking for the boy from the start.”
“And used me as a bird dog.”
“Because they couldn’t find Roger. They left Epstein alive and under surveillance.”
“Gambling that Roger would eventually come to him for help.”
“When Boyd hired you to find his son, they figured why not see if you could kick something loose.”
I nodded. “They didn’t realize Roger was already there, hiding in plain sight, just another employee at the publishing house.”
“But when they saw him talking to you yesterday afternoon they put two and two together.
“And the hit man following me got the go ahead. They didn’t need Epstein anymore, so they shot him, too.”
“Face it, Craig. Your job is done. The boy is dead.”
“Then why not kill me? Once they had Roger and Epstein, I was expendable.”
“They did try.”
“Only when I chased them. They left me alone at the warehouse. Why not kill me if my usefulness is over. The boy might still be alive.”
“I can’t have you muddying the waters of this investigation.”
“I'm looking for missing kids.”
“You need to get right on this. Back off, or I will have you put in detention.”
“Very ethical, John. Nice to see that Jevvy training wasn't wasted.
“Who said you could call me John? It’s Director Roma.”
“Sure thing. John.”
“Look,” he said, “have you thought this through? If you do continue, and you do find the boy, you’ll lead them right to him and get him killed, just like Roger and Epstein.”
While I thought about that, he opened the folder he'd been holding earlier.
“Richard Imperatrice was your old boss at Customs, wasn’t he?”
The change of subject caught me by surprise. “At one time.”
Roma closed the file and folded his hands on top of it.
“Must have felt
odd running into him last night.”
“Odd's not the word.”
“What do you know about Verdugo Properties?”
“Imperatrice said they managed high end resorts.”
He nodded. “They build them, too. They’re part of Verdugo Industries, and he's their head of security.”
I snorted. “He's a fuck up.”
“He left Customs shortly after 9/11 and started his own firm. Verdugo was his first big client. He’s doing quite well, and the man has lots of friends in Washington. This thing is very political.”
“I could give a shit about politics.”
“I have to, and I can’t have some loose cannon running around fucking up my investigation.”
“Investigation of what?”
“How haven’t I made myself clear, Craig? I don’t answer to you.”
“Just politicians.”
He sighed and leaned forward. “I have to move delicately. Do you have any idea who the president of Verdugo Industries is?”
“No, and I don’t care.”
“You should. It’s Cory Canfield.”
“Wait. What? The Senator’s wife?”
“Exactly. Cory Canfield’s maiden name is de Verdugo. Is the picture becoming any clearer? Do you understand why I can’t have you stumbling around breaking the furniture?”
“I don't work for you, Roma.”
“You don't work for anyone anymore.”
“You think you can strong arm Raviv Peled? Talk about having friends in high places.”
He looked down at the desk. “You haven't heard,” he said, his voice soft.
“I’ve been dancing with your brain trust all night. Heard what?”
He reached behind him and picked up a copy of the New York Times.
“'Raviv Peled,” he read, “a well-known security consultant and private investigator, was found dead early this morning in the massage suite of a private Manhattan club. He had been strangled. Reliable sources close to the investigation who have requested anonymity tell the Times the body was mutilated. Peled, 67, was a former member of Mossad, the Israeli secret intelligence service. He was long rumored to have been a key figure in Operation Bayonet, the Israeli action against Palestinian terrorists following the 1972 terrorist attack at the Munich Olympics that left eleven Israeli athletes dead.”
He put the paper down where I could reach it. I picked it up slowly and read a little bit more.
“Mutilated how?” I said, hoarsely.
“Unofficially? He was castrated. His genitals placed in his mouth.”
“Who?”
“No suspects, so far. The police are leaning towards Palestinian terrorists. For his part in the post-Munich operation.”
“Not exactly their style.”
“The mutilation points to a revenge killing.”
I threw the paper back on the desk. “Well, the timing stinks.”
“How so?”
“How so?” I mimicked. “All of a sudden, now, four decades later they come to get him? These missing kids, Epstein, Roger, now Raviv. Kind of a big coincidence, isn't it? And where were his bodyguards?”
“He had one with him last night. Haven't found him yet. Or the SUV.”
I stood up. “I'll find him.”
“You're out, Craig,” he said. “Karen Schultz asked you, now I'm telling you. Back off.”
“And if I don't?”
“You won't have that choice. As of now, all your accounts are frozen. Bank, credit cards, driver's license. Your passport is invalid.”
“How am I supposed to live?”
He tossed the manila envelope across the desk. “That thousand or so dollars that mysteriously appeared in your pocket should carry you for a while.”
“Did it occur to you that if I don’t go looking for the boy they may kill me as a loose end?”
“There will be a car outside your building twenty-four hours a day.”
“Comforting. They might find me before I start to smell too bad.” I put the envelope in my bag and went to the door.
“Craig.”
I stopped and turned back to him. “What, now?”
“Raviv Peled was a friend of mine. I know what he meant to you.” He paused. “And why.”
“You don't know anything.”
“You would be surprised what I am cleared for. This is for your own good. The deck is stacked.” He paused, looked out the window for a moment before sighing and turning back to me. “I swear to you, when this is over, I'll fill you in on everything I find.”
“I don't need your fucking charity,” I said. I went out the door, slamming it behind me.
Briggs and Stanton were perched on an empty desk nearby. They stood up and closed ranks in front of me.
I was in a mood. “Who's first?” I said.
“Let him go.” It was Roma, standing in the open door of his office.
Briggs and Stanton stepped aside. I brushed past them. Roma's voice, oddly pleasant again, followed me out of the office.
“Enjoy your time off, Nick.”
17.
I took the subway uptown and walked across to the West Side. I was shaken by the news of Raviv’s death, and feeling a little perplexed, too. Roma treated me like a long lost brother in front of the staff, but I was a bum in private. I tried calling Moyshe to express my condolences, but it went right to voicemail. Not surprising, considering the agony the family must be going through, not to mention the arrangements and dealing with the press.
It’s hard to believe someone is gone, when you’ve only heard about it. That person is still alive in your mind until you’ve seen the body and the process of grieving and accepting begins. Once it did, I’d have to deal with the new hole in my life and consider the dwindling list of my friends.
I wondered who grieved for the two men I’d killed the previous day. Everyone has someone, a wife, a child. A barber. I certainly didn’t grieve for them. The process when you took the life of someone who was also trying to take yours follows a weird course. At first there is a sense of elation at having won and survived, followed by the shakiness that comes with the realization of how final it might have been for you. Eventually, if there is any civilization left in you, comes sadness. You’ve taken life away from another human being, whatever the justification. After that comes the shame no one ever seems quite able to talk about.
I stopped in the bodega across the street from my building to get a six-pack of Heineken and a roast beef hero. While I was paying, a mechanic from the auto repair shop came in and began idly poking through the candy display.
“Hey, Nick. What's shaking?”
“Absolutely nothing, Magic. You’d be surprised how well my life is going. How's with you?”
“Can't complain.” He glanced outside. “Something going down, though,” he said in a low voice.
“Really? What makes you say that?”
“Guys in suits on 28th, in a car no self-respecting person would buy for himself, sitting around, reading the paper and trying to look all casual.”
“That so?”
“Is true,” the cashier chimed in. “We selling a lot more coffee to go, I tell you.” He handed me my change and finished putting my purchases in a grocery bag. “And the day old Danish go fast today. Never happen before.”
“Cheap bastards, those FBI,” I said. I took my groceries. “Thanks for the tip, guys.”
As I crossed 28th I glanced west. Sure enough, as Roma had promised, there was a Government Issue sedan parked near Scores with what looked like three guys inside. Very stealthy. I’m sure the bad guys wouldn’t notice. Well, at least there would be someone nearby to shove me in a body bag.
I trudged up the stairs to my place, certain of what I would find. Sure enough, it had been thoroughly tossed. The day was now perfect. No warrant pinned anywhere, but with the FISA Court, who needs one?
I turned up the heat, which I'd left just high enough to keep the pipes from freezing, and dropped my bag on a cha
ir. I suppose I should have been all bent out of shape, but there was nothing left in the tank.
When I finished eating I dumped the contents of Roma’s envelope on the table. My watch, wallet, and cash were all there. I dug into my overnight bag and found my phone. There were no phone messages, which was not surprising, since almost no one had my number. In email there was the usual junk and a note from Moyshe, sent the previous evening with a PDF attached entitled ‘Verdugo’.
It was a brief overview of everything he’d learned in his Internet search. Manuel de Verdugo, Cory’s father, was a Cuban carpenter who came to Florida with his wife as part of the Mariel Boat lift in 1980. Having no criminal record, he was granted amnesty, finding employment almost immediately. He took English classes at a community college and worked construction. Within two years he had his own business.
He’d picked a great time to get into home building. The Miami area was awash in money from the exploding cocaine trade. Manuel gained expertise in large scale projects by building the sort of elaborate and gaudy mansions drug dealers found so desirable. He expanded into developing resorts, and eventually began managing them as well. Over the next two decades his tiny company grew to become a major player. Despite the growth, Manuel never took the company public.
He was dead five years now, burnt to a cinder in the crash of his corporate jet. His wife was already dead from cancer by then. As the last blood relative, Cory inherited the company and assumed the presidency, but it seemed to be an open secret in the business world that she was merely a figurehead, and some partner or group of partners actually ran the company. A Business Week article reported that despite a degree from the Warrington School of Business she spent almost no time at the office. When she did get involved, it was mainly for public relations events or parties.