Scores

by Blutrich, Michael D. ;

  Kennedy looked at me quizzically. “Michael, why did you just say that about being Kenneth Cole?”

  “It’s an inside joke at our firm,” I said, and went on to tell him the whole Robert Morgenthau story. He laughed mightily and that broke the ice between us forever.

  It was now 1989, seven years after the firm first opened its doors. Shortly after Andrew and Lucille mutually decided to end their engagement, they both announced their intentions to withdraw from the firm.

  In short order, Andrew took the helm at a nonprofit organization, and Lucille joined the firm of an old friend whom she would eventually marry. I moved from my office to Andrew’s office and, to my relief, there were no body parts left behind in his desk.

  It had been a long road from the day I’d been wooed into the Cuomo fold. I really couldn’t complain; it’d been an amazing run and I still had my very own Park Avenue law firm to show for my efforts. We’d amassed an impressive clientele including banks, entertainment personalities, and real estate moguls.

  But I would be lying if I didn’t admit that, late some nights, when I’m alone and introspective, I wonder what would’ve happened if Andrew and Lucille had married or if Andrew had remained as my partner. I honestly believe my life would have been very different. But some matters are just out of our personal control, and such thoughts are mere meaningless flights of fantasy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Madness Continues to Grow

  JULY 8, 1996—THREE PARK AVENUE

  Footsteps interrupted my wistful musings. Andrew and Daniel were returning, accompanied by a young man who obviously represented the landlord. The stranger walked directly to the miniature door in question and vigorously shook the lock. “I’ve never seen this lock before, and I have no idea why it’s there now.”

  “Well, let’s just break it off. We’ll pay for the expense,” I promised.

  The representative took a moment. “No. Let’s all come back at eight-thirty tomorrow morning and I’ll have my boss and a locksmith here.”

  “And what if there’s some funny business overnight?” Andrew chimed in.

  “Impossible. I’ll lock the door to the entire floor and leave instructions for it be left undisturbed until morning.”

  The air of imminent revolt in our group melted and, as the stranger led the way, we all sheepishly followed.

  The next morning, I arrived to find Pearlstein, Daniel, and two other men sitting in Andrew’s office. I recognized the duo as two of the police detectives who’d investigated the Scores double homicide.

  “Like I was saying,” one of the detectives said, “we checked with state law enforcement and with the US Attorney’s Office log. You weren’t bugged by the government; we think it’s private.”

  I was immensely relieved at his words. After spending the night convincing myself it could only be the government, it was the best news I could possibly have received. With renewed hope for a less disastrous future, I felt newly empowered and suggested the entire gathering adjourn to the top floor.

  “Let’s go, the landlord said he’d meet us in five minutes,” Andrew broke in.

  After arriving, we all stared at the Alice-in-Wonderland door. There was neither lock, nor hinge, as both had been miraculously removed.

  Andrew turned to the landlord. “Your man gave us his personal guarantee no one would be allowed near this door overnight.”

  “And I have no idea who put a lock on that door or who removed it,” the landlord returned.

  Frustrated into a near rage, I turned the doorknob and walked through the now-accessible portal. The door led to a small outdoor terrace that was completely empty except for two wooden crates piled one atop the other.

  “Look at this,” I called out, and we gathered around the remains of a Sony box that once contained a dish suitable for transmitting images.

  Daniel looked around and eventually posited, “They ran the wire out onto the terrace and into this transmitting dish. No way to trace the culprits, and the images could have been sent anywhere, to the next building or to Russia.”

  “We were fools not to bust down the door last night, and I don’t believe for one minute you don’t know what’s going on,” I replied angrily.

  The landlord looked back and sighed. “You’re wrong. I have no idea what all this is about. Are you sure you don’t know?”

  In the days and weeks that followed, Pearlstein and I participated in numerous meetings about our mysterious vanishing spy. The one uniform conclusion to emerge from these meetings was that no one could agree on anything. Eventually, I accepted that we might never discover who’d bugged us, and I began to face each day with less trepidation. And then one morning, sitting at my desk, I noticed what appeared to be a layer of thin, crushed white debris atop one of the many piles of paper. I brushed the substance away and, as I followed its path to the carpet, noticed even more of the same substance on the floor.

  Gulping down my anxiety, I walked to the suspicious spot and peered directly above the small pile of unknown origin. After a few squinting moments, I spied a small hole drilled in the ceiling above.

  “Casey!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  When she appeared, I said, “Call Daniel, the spy guy. Tell him to get up here right now.”

  I sat down and prayed I was mistaken. In about an hour, Andrew and Daniel arrived within moments of each other. I showed them the piles of white residue on the desk and carpet, and the tiny hole in the ceiling.

  Daniel popped his head into the ceiling and yelled to us below, “They’ve been back.”

  He jumped off the desk supporting him and walked to the corner of the office where he’d discovered the first video camera. He again accessed the ceiling and his head disappeared. Within moments, he jumped down.

  “The equipment this time is much more sophisticated, no wires to the top floor. The camera itself is transmitting.”

  Andrew and I just stared at each other.

  In his Westchester office in a small building rented by the federal government, FBI Special Agent Paul Roman stared at the computer screen atop his desk and watched in mounting horror as Daniel’s face loomed into view.

  Roman stood up and threw his empty soda can against the wall.

  “Shit!” the agent shouted. Then he reached for his phone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  No More Secrets

  FOUR MONTHS LATER: NOVEMBER 27, 1996,

  7:45 AM—NEW YORK CITY

  The bedroom was dark and silent, drapes drawn purposely to ensure exclusion of the beckoning sunlight. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and having anticipated an unusually slow time at the office, I’d spent a late night with my friend Mark Pastore, exploring sexual haunts in Manhattan’s underbelly, searching for newly arrived talent from Montreal and beyond.

  Morning sleep and dreams were always deepest and most satisfying for me, and this particular morning gave no hint it would be otherwise. At eight thirty, the alarm would ring out and by nine thirty, I would be at my desk, a six-block drive from my condominium. Friends scolded me for refusing to walk the short trek from East Thirty-Seventh Street to work and back for badly-needed exercise, but I’d ignored their well-meaning reprimands in deference to convenience.

  In violation of the patterned norm, I suddenly found myself sitting up in bed, arrow straight, amid an inexplicable rush of panic. Fighting to clear the cobwebs and hone in upon the source of my distress, I slowly discerned a hard, unfriendly banging at the front door. There was a pause. Seconds later, the rhythmic pounding repeated with increased persistence.

  Still feeling the effects of adrenaline battering my system, I slowly waddled down the hallway, from bedroom to front door, and cautiously peered through the security peephole. I was already formulating a smart-ass remark to hurl at the inconsiderate, noisy intruder. Looking out to the common area, I was stunned stupid. I actually recoiled my head in disbelief and looked through the tiny hole again hoping to change the landscape. But to no
avail—there were still at least ten men poised outside my door wearing blue plastic windbreakers and holding a black metal battering ram between them. FBI. Trying to get my mind around the incomprehensible assembly perched on the doorstep, I stepped back and tried to regain my slipping equilibrium.

  Concluding I was about to be arrested, wearing only an oversized T-shirt and boxer briefs, I quietly retreated from the door and ran to the den. Seizing the phone, I dialed Andrew’s home number and, after several rings, an obviously groggy Keri, Andrew’s live-in fiancée and a Scores employee, answered.

  “Who the fuck is calling so early?”

  “Keri, it’s Blutrich. I have a major problem, put Andrew on.”

  “He’s sleeping, call back later.”

  “I can’t call back later. I need him now!”

  I heard a few choice words muttered under her breath, but Andrew quickly came on the line. “What’s wrong?”

  “Andrew, I’ve only got a few seconds. There are a shitload of FBI in my hall with a battering ram and I’m about to be arrested. I don’t know if they’re on their way to you, but call the lawyers.”

  The noise at the front door was now fully demanding. Not knowing what else to do, I disconnected from Andrew and walked back to the front entrance. I took a deep breath, cursed myself for not being better prepared, and opened the door.

  “Are you Michael Blutrich?”

  “I am.”

  “Good morning. I’m Special Agent Dan Butchko with the FBI and I have a search warrant for these premises. Please stand aside and let us do what we have to do.”

  As I acceded to the terse instructions, a wave of pure relief poured over me. Just a search warrant, I cheered to myself.

  “Do you mind if I get dressed?” I asked Butchko.

  “Not right now. Just sit down in the living room, allow us to secure the premises, and then you can get dressed and place calls to anyone you want.”

  The agents quickly divided into groups. Carrying three or four cash counting machines, the first group set up shop in my home office for Scores, to the left of the kitchen. A second small group entered the bedroom, and the final group joined Butchko in the living room.

  “Do you have any weapons in the apartment?” Butchko asked.

  “I do. A shotgun in my bedroom closet.”

  The agent looked almost gleeful. He turned to one of his confederates and barked, “Get me a shotgun out of the bedroom closet.”

  Moments later, the dispatched agent returned and handed a long brown leather-and-fabric case containing my weapon to his superior. “Mr. Blutrich, New York City requires permits for legal possession of shotguns; I don’t suppose you happen to have one?”

  “I surely do. It’s in my wallet. Shall I get it?”

  The disappointment on Butchko’s face was undeniable.

  In short order, I was permitted to dress and make a handful of phone calls. I called my Florida lawyer, Sandy Weinberg, and secured a promise that an attorney from his firm’s New York office would be right over. Finally, I left a message for Andrew advising that the FBI had only served a search warrant.

  Waiting for the attorney to arrive, I sat down in the living room next to two middle-aged agents. The older one looked at me and smiled sheepishly. “This apartment has the most fantastic view of Manhattan I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks. I’m told it’s the highest residence in the city; that’s really the reason I took the place.”

  Before I could respond further, Butchko interrupted, and I noticed with some disconcertion he was holding a detailed, hand-drawn schematic of the apartment. “Mr. Blutrich, we know about your safe in the bedroom and I’m requesting you open it. We can do it ourselves, but it would probably destroy the lock.”

  “There’s absolutely nothing in my safe.”

  Butchko and his underlings all smirked in reaction. “Well, we have reliable information to the contrary.”

  Although my visage remained stoic, my mind was silently churning. Who drew that fucking map? And what information is this guy talking about? Who the hell has been talking to the FBI? Dammit, we have a mole!

  I agreed to open the safe. I walked into the bedroom, opened the closet door, and turned to the four agents crowding behind me. “You think I have cash in here? That’s why you brought the counting machines? Oh that’s rich, you guys really need better informants.”

  “Please just open the safe,” Butchko spit back, but he wasn’t looking quite as cocky as he had moments before.

  I kneeled down, turned the tumbler several times, and pulled the safe door open. A completely empty chamber was revealed.

  “Shit,” escaped from the mouth of one of the agents, followed by a sharp rebuking stare from Butchko.

  Within what seemed like seconds, more than half the agents departed, taking the counting machines and battering ram with them. As the group was passing through the front door, Yolanda, my housekeeper of long family tenure, and a well-dressed gentleman in his thirties appeared in the foyer. As I tried desperately to calm the near-hysterical Yolanda, the man introduced himself as Larry Noyer, an attorney with Weinberg’s firm in New York. My newly arrived counsel and I quickly conferred in a vacant corner of the living room.

  At Noyer’s recommendation, I left and headed to my law office. Knowing there were no drugs, cash, or other illegal items to be discovered, I was anxious to get away, clear my head, and learn what other government mischief was underway.

  Keri paced nervously outside their bathroom, waiting for Andrew to finish a shower. “They’re arresting Michael,” he shouted as he turned on the water. The phone immediately rang again and renewed Keri’s anxiety as she picked up the receiver.

  “Michael?”

  “No, Keri, it’s Gary at Scores. Is Andrew there?”

  “He’s here but he’s washing his ass. Any message?”

  “Just tell him the FBI is all over the club. He needs to get us a lawyer right away.”

  Waiting as long as her nerves permitted, Keri ran into the bathroom and relayed Gary’s message. Andrew quickly dried himself, dressed, and headed to the front door.

  “Where are you going?” Keri screamed after him, finally surrendering to the pressure and beginning to cry.

  “Probably to jail,” he answered.

  When Andrew arrived at the club, there were several blue-and-white NYPD police cars parked in front. Yellow crime scene sticker tape blocked the sidewalk and uniformed officers were moving pedestrian traffic along. As he approached the front door, one of the uniforms tried to halt his progress. Andrew shouted, “I’m the owner,” and the officer shrugged and let him pass. Finding the club’s entrance bolted, he started knocking. From within, a tall, muscular man in his thirties, wearing a blue FBI windbreaker, approached and cracked the door. Andrew tried to walk past him, but the agent barred the way.

  The man looked tense. “Sir, my name is William Ready, a special agent with the FBI. We’re here on official business.” Although Ready knew the answer from months of surveillance, he added, “Who are you, sir?”

  “I’m Andrew Pearlstein, one of the owners.”

  “Mr. Pearlstein, our paperwork indicates you are not one of the owners.”

  “Well, your paperwork is wrong, but let’s say I’m the manager and I demand to come in.”

  “I’m sorry, my orders are to only admit the owner once our search has begun. You can come back after we leave.” Ready, without another word, firmly closed the door and turned the dead bolt. He walked back into the heart of the club and out of Pearlstein’s field of view.

  As he was deciding what to do next, Gary Goldman, the club’s manager, appeared out of the darkened interior. “What do you want me to do, Andrew?”

  “What are they up to in there?”

  “They came running in with cash counting machines like we had a million dollars in here. They got fucked up when it turned out we only had a few thousand bucks. Now they’re going through the desks and the file cabinets, but there�
��s nothing in there except employment records.”

  “Just stay and watch them. They’ll figure out soon enough they’re just wasting time.”

  I arrived at the law firm to FBI agents rifling through the place. Our bookkeeper met me in the hall looking hopelessly frazzled. “They were here when I got here, Michael. There’s some guy, Phil Arengo, or something like that, he’s the one giving orders.”

  After offering words of encouragement to the frightened staff, I located Arengo, noticing he was holding and referring to another hand-drawn map containing extraordinary details of my office. I demanded and quickly received a copy of their search warrant and, with nothing else to do, I sat down in the library to read the document.

  At first, the list of targeted items made absolutely no sense to me. The warrant, limited to the law firm, allowed seizure of evidence of loan-sharking or gambling, legal documents relating to Scores, cash, and check records. Toward the end of the warrant, almost as an afterthought, was a list of documents related to what I recognized as a whole other set of potential legal problems.

  I sat back. There was apparently more than one investigation going on, but one thing was now undeniable—the endgame was finally afoot.

  Pearlstein arrived about fifteen minutes later. He entered the library and sat down. “I thought you were in jail.”

  “Nope. Just a search warrant. Did they come to your place?”

  “Not that I know of, but they hit the club too.”

  “Wait a minute,” I stuttered. “If you thought I was in jail, why aren’t you working on getting me out?”

  “I referred it to the lawyers.”

  I frowned, shaking my head. “Nice to know. I’ll remember that if you’re ever in custody. By the way, what’s happening on your side of the office?”

  “They’re seizing every single box in storage marked as Scores property.”