Continental Attack: Murder and Mayhem in Detroit's Auto Industry

by Mike Cunningham

  "Give me your number, and I'll call you back!"

  The number been given, Guido Soncini rose, put his jacket on and walked towards the elevator bank, heading towards a block of payphones about a hundred yards away, when he suddenly realised he was being predictable, and walked straight past the booths, and further away towards a set of phones he had never used before. Dropping in the coins for the Chicago toll call, he dialled out, and heard his second cousin's son say "Guido, is that you?"

  "Dominic, it is me. Now why haul me out of the office, what have you got which is so vital?"

  "Guido, listen, I only picked it up in passing; seems they have been starting a very quiet operation to look inside the Fund at Continental, and some Chicago sidekick of that Detroit Marketing guy got hauled down to the office here, and told to lay off any enquiries that he was making, because he might scare people off before the inquiry had gotten anywhere. I was listening to Agnew's secretary, and she was telling her buddy that Agnew nearly went off like an Atlas ICBM when he heard that this guy, er, Elstein, was making enquiries about the audit, and how it wasn't right that another company should be doing the audit, if the first one was still listed as the operating auditors!"

  "Okay, Dominic, you were right to call me, and even more to think that this is important! Now I want you to do absolutely nothing; you hear, nothing. Concentrate on your job, never mind the overview that you were there for, ignore anything you might want to pass along. Just pull your head in, and keep a very low profile; you are far too vital to the Family to risk any further action, you hear!"

  "As you wish, Don Guido!"

  Chapter 19

  Ray Salvatori walked off the aircraft at the Detroit terminal, refreshed after a good, relaxed flight in first class, as he abhorred the cramped conditions in the economy section. He spotted Vince Lombardi waiting outside the Arrivals gate, and went straight over, as he had no luggage. "Morning, Vince, how's life?"

  "Hi, Ray, got a message from the boss, wants you to call him immediately you landed; says it's important!"

  Shrugging, the executive assassin walked over to a bank of payphones, swiped his card through the slide, and dialled out to the office on Battery Park. "Guido, you wanna talk, or do you wanna wait?"

  "I'll call you back in five, give me your number!"

  The two mob men waited in silence, until the phone buzzed, and Salvatori answered, "Yes, Guido, is there a problem?"

  "Ray, you know the errand you went out to survey? Well, it has achieved a sudden urgency, together with the female of the three. The black guy I want alive, but he is in some danger, so he needs to be given the option of joining us. He has shown initiative, and I respect that! There is a danger of our activities being unearthed, there is an ongoing S.E.C. investigation that I have just got wind of, and we should immediately disengage from the Selection File and all outside personnel should be eliminated. Will this produce any problems?"

  "No, Don Guido, the whole job should take about five days to set up, and clear. The authorities will concentrate on the illegal loans, and not be aware of the efforts to achieve the correct ratio in the investment area. Leave it to us, Vince can give me a hand, and Harry can call off all the outside contractors in the hospitals and Nursing homes."

  "Thank you, Ray, hope you have a pleasant stay in Detroit!"

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  The monitor which was fed by a series of probes both stuck on, and inserted into, Ken Melchek's body, had given a unchanging set of signals for almost four days. Still in intensive care, the young policeman lay, with an oxygen line into his nose, and two drips into his arms, like a statue. The operation to relieve the pressure on his spine, where one bullet had lodged, had been successful, but the other shell remained, close in to the heart, where it had come to rest after passing through the left lung and ricocheting off a rib. The surgeons had already indicated to the senior policemen that he was reluctant to attempt a second operation until Ken was more responsive to stimuli after the first operation. Brad Davis sat beside Ken's bed, with the grim paraphernalia of medical intervention all around. He had been a constant visitor, after the fortunate discovery of the double shooting by Ken's neighbour, Lee, who had come over to ask if Ken and his girl would like to go bowling, and had peered through the window after receiving no reply to his calls. The patrolman glanced at the monitor screen, and watched the slow progress of the signals, as the electronics measured respiration, blood pressure, temperature, and heartbeats in steps of one second samples. He gazed back at his partners' face, unmoving on the pillow, and made a silent oath to get the gunman, and his backers.

  Brad got to his feet, and saw, in the next cubicle, the equally still form of Claudia Crickell, with the constant presence of her mother, next to her bedside. He nodded, with the elderly black mother returning his silent greeting. He turned, and was about to walk out of the Unit, when he saw the monitor lines, on the screen above Ken's bed, change, with an increase in breathing rate, pulse and blood pressure signalled. The alarms having sounded in the I.C.U. nursing bay, the staff came on the run, but Brad was there before any. He watched as Ken's eyes flickered open, and focussed on his partners face. "Buddy, can you hear me?" Davis asked in a whisper. His wounded partner nodded. "Do you know who did this?" A negative shake was the response. "Why?"

  Ken Melchek gathered his thoughts, and whispered, "Claudia?"

  "She's in the next cubicle, still alive, but unconscious!"

  "The answer lies in the computer, Brad. The stuff which that Tynan guy copied for us from the discs, they were wrong," Ken whispered, "Claudia ran the discs, and matched them with hers; they were all over the place, they weren't the same! Were the discs and computer recovered from my apartment?"

  "No, everything was gone, just you two lying on the floor, bleeding!" Brad felt one of the medical team pulling at his sleeve, and angrily brushed it away as Ken continued; "There's something wrong with the adverts for Continental, Claudia was convinced, and it's got something to do with this guy,,,"

  "Who, Tynan?"

  "No, it's his boss, Webster, the one who took over from the Klein woman, he must have put his own spin onto the poll results which were sent to Continental! Speak to Kozcinski, but be careful, Brad, I let my guard down, and here I ended up. Keep your gun handy, partner!" Brad watched as his partner slowly closed his eyes, but it was a natural sleep he attained, and the medical team slowly relaxed as the monitor showed the improved signs on the screen, for all to see.

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  Drew Garnett sat at the Squash Club bar, breathing heavily, having just barely beaten his partner over an hour long session, and starting to pull the beer down his throat, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, to find a tall, dark-haired white man, who he had never met before, sliding onto the seat next to his. "Hi, Drew, I think we ought to talk, er, mainly about Selection techniques, I think! My name's Salvatori, Ray Salvatori. I'm an associate of Nick's Friend in New York"

  "That's Friend with a capital F?"

  "Correct, Mr. Garnett," smiled the assassin, "Shall we take our drinks over there?" he pointed to a table which stood separate from the rest, with Vince Lombardi already in possession.

  "Sure thing, er, Ray!"

  The two walked across to the table, Lombardi nodding at Ray, then shifting his legs so Drew could slide in beside the wall. Once the three had settled themselves, Salvatori spoke again, "There is a distinct possibility that our little efforts are going to be blown wide open, and we feel that it would be unfair not to warn you, and perhaps offer you an alternative!"

  "Damn, it must have been that goddam Kozcinski , nosing around. We should have hit him as well as Buddy Charles!"

  Salvatori smiled, raising a cautioning hand, "It was Kozcinski , but only indirectly. It seems someone heard a rumour about the activities which you and your friends were running with the Fund, and how much you lost. Kozcinski got to hear about the possible loss on the Stock Market, and arranged to have
a friend quietly ask around how the Fund was doing, and more importantly how the Auditors were doing! Our early warning systems, which were put in place for something entirely different, picked up that the S.E.C. in Chicago were preparing a very quiet scan of the Continental Fund, and here we are. We are going to close down the File, and we want you to join us, as you have impressed our, er, organisation with your eye for final detail." A cold smile played around Salvatori's lips as he made the final comment, watching as the black man worked out what was on offer.

  "You'd have to die, of course," said Lombardi, in his first contribution to the conversation, with a mirthless grin on his lips.

  "What Vince means, " Ray spoke quickly as the black man's eyes swivelled towards him, "what he means is that we have to arrange a body, which will be identified as you, so you would be written out of any future search! We simply find a bum, about your size, and colour of course, place him in your car, and make sure it all burns up, and then you disappear, simple!"

  Garnett's shoulders relaxed, as he realised the offer was genuine, and had previously been worked out. If the mobsters across the table from him had wanted to, they could simply have him blown away, and no-one would have been the wiser, so he became more confident. Drew Garnett's hand was put straight towards Salvatori, "I'd be honoured indeed to be associated with you, and your Organisation, Ray."

  "We gotta say 'Farewell' to your two friends first, and your little buddy in the Pensions Office; because if you get hit, they are gonna get scared, and run, and we can't have that! Can you clean the computer?"

  "No problems, since our friend Charles was taken ill, the security has been looked after by a kid, and he don't know diddly-squat; I can get it all cleaned out in a half-hour. When should I clean house?"

  "How about this evening, because we need to clear your friend Newcomb out of the way first? He's due to have an accident tomorrow morning, while he's driving to work!"

  "No problem. I can drop back in at any time, and clean the file. When do you want me ready to leave?"

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  Alex had just finished dumping all the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, and was listening to Joe talking on the phone to her brother, Sigismund. "Sigi, you must understand that what you hear is all rumour. You are right in thinking our sales are down, and the new lines just are not shifting, but the Company has no immediate plans to lay anyone off, so you gotta take things as they are. I know that all the plants are working straight time, but we are working to find out why the cars aren't moving, and hopefully we'll get back to the overtime in quick time." He listened to his caller, then replied, "Look, Sigi, when have I not been able to help? We're family, and if I hear anything, I'll be sure to do what's best, trust me! Bye, Sigi!"

  Joe glanced across at his wife, shrugged and leant back into his armchair, "Rumours are flying around the Plant like tornadoes. That was Sigi, claiming that the word was that there would be redundancies starting from the week after next. Mind you, we are still hurting from the Stiletto not taking off, but the old models are keeping us afloat, and the backlog of new vehicles is not getting any higher, so people are, of course, only too keen to start rumours flying that we are planning to close the plant, or some other stupid damn thing!"

  Alex sat beside her husband, and snuggled up to his shoulder. "Is there any chance of lay-offs, Joe?"

  "Not as far as I know, honey, and I ought to be one of the first to get the word. I will keep my ear to the ground, and keep the boys in touch."

  "Are you still going to New York, you said something about it earlier?"

  "This problem that Ken Melchek called about, he asked me to go to New York and have a talk, didn't want to say anything on the phone, but I heard he was in hospital, and the trip was cancelled. I've been so busy, I haven't had a chance to find out what he wanted, apart from telling me that Allison Klein was murdered."

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  The Grand Rapids main gate was used to seeing Drew Garnett heading in to work at all sorts of odd hours. So the guard just waved the pensions administrator through, and casually logged him in on his book. Drew parked his car close to the office entrance, locked his car and went into the block, up the stairs and along to his office. He clicked on his computer terminal, went through the passwords and then into the hard disc file list, exposing the file tree which now included the fourth level, holding the password file, and the Selection file. He deleted the big spreadsheet, which had listed all the Continental pensioners, together with their latest addresses, and then washed the remaining space on the memory, thus eliminating any trace of the original file. He deleted the last password, then switched off after logging out of the system. He than called his new associate, who was waiting for his call, and simply confirmed the deletion of the file, before taking a very few items from his desk, returning to his car, then left the plant for the last time.

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  Detective Harry Gorsen, after the young firebomber's admission that he had his working calls all taped, had completed some fast footwork with the District Attorneys office, and after some initial reluctance, the thoughts of getting the prime movers in eight killings overruled the annoyance at giving any sort of a deal to the man who had set the bombing and burnings. The D.A. had stated that immunity from prosecution would depend on getting at least a twenty-five per cent success rate with the principals in the killings. SixThree grinned, and said that he could put at least six or seven away, but he had to have a guarantee before speaking further. Once the final terms were agreed, with a representative of the Organised Crime task force present, as well as attorneys for SixThree, he gave the location of the tapes, and the detectives moved to pick up the evidence. Two hours later, the interview room was full of Law officers listening while SixThree's voice came over the speakers, confirming the contracts for killings with smiling jokes. As the second last tape was played, one detective asked, "Who's Web?"

  "He's the only one that I didn't know. Real heavy dude, that guy, one man that I didn't ever want to let down in any way. I ain't joking, I was real nervous when I was dealing with him, sorta cold eyes! Didn't get a real good look at him, his face was mainly in the shadows, but his eyes, those I caught, That was the burn that I set up on a Volkswagen!"

  The balance of the voices having been recognised, especially as they had all given their real names during the calls, the detectives were assigned their caseload, and the out-of-precinct killings were advised to the proper addresses; the only outstanding item being 'Web'. Harry Gorsen tapped the file with his pen, then decided that he had enough to do for now, but put the listing on the City-wide computer, which asked if anyone had had dealings with a perp. named 'Web', because there was confirmation of a Felony-murder rap, which could be pinned straight on to the unknowing criminal.

  -------------'---------------

  Brad Davis, who was still assigned to the Homicide file which he and Ken had started with, was idly checking the listings for parking tickets on a patrol-related matter, and, not having much joy, was about to log off the network when the information about a mysterious 'Web' who had arranged a possible 'burn' on a VW, came up on the screen; no other information available, except the the car location was a street in Queens. He punched the phone keys to get in touch with Gerson, and rapidly confirmed that all the information available was on the screen.

  "You got something, Officer Davis?"

  "Maybe! I know it's a long stroll from being an advertising whizzkid, to ordering a 'hit', but I think I'll give this a spin. He just might fit the bill when we start counting who shot my partner and his girl!"

  "Shit, when was this?"

  "About a week ago, Ken and the girl are both still in intensive care, and it was her car that was originally blown out."

  "Remember the NYPD code, always cover your ass, Officer Davis!"

  "Bye, Detective, and thanks for the kind thoughts." Brad signed off the computer, then, after gathering his thoughts to
gether, dialled out the number for the Marketing VP in Detroit. When the call was finally connected, he heard Joe say, "Kozcinski here, what can I do for you, Officer Davis?" Brad explained who his partner was, and why his visit had been postponed, saying that Ken was still in intensive care.

  "Mr. Kozcinski, would you come to New York, I think that you may well be able to help with the investigation. We have unearthed a connection between the guy who tried to burn the girl in hospital beside Ken, and some fella in the advertising agency which you use! I know it's a bit thin, but it's all we got right now!"

  "I'll be in New York tomorrow, around midday; which Precinct do you work from, Officer Davis?"

  The 95th, Mr. Kozcinski, I look forward to meeting you, Sir".

  Brad replaced the phone, and sat back, wondering if he should attack this problem head on, or should he plan to be devious. He wandered in to speak with his Lieutenant, and asked his advice.

  Francis Patrick O'Leary listened to the patrolman as he laid his problem out, then marshalled his thoughts, and answered, "The Commissioner is supposed to be buddies with this Zeno guy, one of the four partners in this advertising firm. I'll get the Commander to have a word, and see if we can't get in through the back door, as it were. Leave it with me, Officer Davis, good thinking!"

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  Ben Newcomb wheeled his car through the last suburban bends, before hitting the ramp leading to the Detroit Freeway, on his way to Grand Rapids. He accelerated, almost on auto pilot, matching his speed to the traffic on the inside lane, before sliding his car into the stream. He sat back, enjoying the sunshine through the roof, as he drove, along with many others, along the safest roads in the world, statistically speaking. Unfortunately, the gatherers and interpreters of statistical information could not allow for the fact that the brakes on Ben's car were powered through a steel hydraulic pipe, a section of which was paper thin, as the same pipe had apparently rubbed against an adjacent sharp steel bracket, through vehicle vibration, until the wall of the pipe was just about worn right through. The only thing which may have kept the brakes working was the fact that Ben always braked gently, and in good time, thus minimising pressure gradients on to the piping.