by Nele Neuhaus
“Lloyd Connors from the US Attorney’s Office knew about it, the police commissioner, and your people.”
“And you.”
“No.” Nick shook his head. “I knew which hotel Zuckerman was brought to, but I wasn’t informed about the operation’s details.”
McDeere extinguished his cigarillo in the ashtray.
“I admit,” he said, “that we won’t be getting any accolades for how we handled this, but I firmly reject the suspicion that any of my men divulged any information.”
Both men looked at each other in silence.
“The mole,” McDeere said, “is at the US Attorney’s Office, the police, or here in city hall.”
Nick wiped his hand across his face. He wished that he could reject the accusation of having a traitor within his own ranks as resolutely as McDeere did. But he couldn’t. About fifteen of his closest staff knew about this matter—fifteen people whom he could no longer trust.
“Nick, unfortunately, there has always been corruption in the city administration,” McDeere said. “If you want, we can check your people.”
“No, no,” Nick quickly silenced him. “I have to find out another way. Maybe it’s someone from the US Attorney’s Office.”
He thought about his staff members, all of whom he had known now for many years. In the future, he’d have to suspect that anyone he spoke to could be an informer for one of his enemies. This was a terrible thought, and Nick wished that he had more influence on his people’s paychecks. Given their immense workload, their salaries were downright laughable. No wonder one of them might be open to receiving additional sources of income.
McDeere said good-bye a few minutes later. Nick sat there in a very pensive mood. In the 1960s, John Lindsay—the mayor at the time—had called New York City ungovernable. Corruption, a disastrous infrastructure, the extreme contrast between rich and poor, high unemployment in the poverty-stricken districts, and a chronic shortfall in the city’s budget all made reasonable government policies virtually impossible. Nick had never let himself be discouraged by this up to now. With much enthusiasm and a healthy dose of optimism, he vigorously tackled the problems that his predecessors had failed to resolve. He had already accomplished so much. Continued support from the majority of his constituents confirmed his actions.
Nevertheless, there were plenty of people who were displeased by his fight against crime and his strengthening of the police force. The police’s tough stance was publicly criticized time and again, and only the obvious accomplishments of his no-tolerance policy could take the wind out of his enemies’ sails. In just one and a half years, he’d managed to drastically lower the crime rate in the city, and the Mafia bogeyman had faded away thanks to his persistent crackdowns. But now three damned shots threatened the success of his work! Nick had a feeling that Zuckerman’s murder would trigger active lively debate about safety in the city. He could already see the sensational headlines: “Mafia Murder in Manhattan,” “How Safe Is the City?” People would question the effectiveness of his security policy, and all the positive things that Nick had achieved with regard to quality of life and infrastructure improvements would be forgotten. He buried his face in his hands. He was a fighter. For his entire life he’d had to fight, but he didn’t mind it. Now, the terrible suspicion of having a traitor in his own ranks deeply discouraged him.
“Mr. Harding is here, sir,” Allie announced over the speakerphone.
“Send him in,” Nick replied, “and bring us some coffee, please.”
He stood up and walked toward the police commissioner. Jerome Harding, the head of the New York Police Department, was in his late fifties. He began his career as a patrol officer in the Bronx and built himself a reputation as a tough cop. His powerful stature and striking face with a protruding chin gave him an aggressive appearance. With his tailored suit and expensive silk tie, Harding looked civilized, but underneath this facade he was still a brutal bruiser from the Bronx who didn’t forgive or forget. At the age of twenty-five, he’d joined the police academy. After that, he worked his way up to become a chief homicide detective. Ambitious as he was, he studied law by taking evening classes and applied to the US Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York, where he quickly rose through the ranks to become the head of the securities fraud department. Nick met him there and soon came to appreciate his effective work, although he didn’t particularly like him as a person. The feeling was mutual, but both men were professional enough to put their career goals above their personal aversion. Harding was known for his hot temper, but also for his perseverance. He was an energetic and merciless investigator who was never overcome by remorse. He was behind the successful criminal prosecution of an insider-trading scandal on Wall Street in the 1980s, And as the police commissioner, he’d become one of Nick’s most important partners in the fight against crime.
“Jerome,” Nick said as he extended his hand toward the red-faced man with a smile. “I’m sorry you had to come here on a Sunday morning. Thanks.”
“No problem.” Harding laughed and winked at him. “As you know, the police never sleep.”
The two men sat down at the large conference table while Allie served coffee.
“So, what’s the matter? How can I help you, Nick?”
Nick interlaced his fingers. He caught himself questioning the degree of Harding’s loyalty, but he immediately brushed his doubts aside. The man sitting in front of him was known for his uncompromising disdain for all criminals. Harding might have a few unpleasant attributes, but he wasn’t corrupt!
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the FBI’s blunder in the Zuckerman matter.”
“Yes, indeed”—Harding waved his hand in contempt—“The Feds screwed up. But you insisted that the FBI should handle Zuckerman’s protection.”
Nick ignored this pointed remark.
“How is it possible that a killer can get this close to a man being guarded by fifteen agents?”
“These idiots fell right into a classic Mafia trap!” Harding laughed maniacally. “The killer was probably among them from the very beginning, and they didn’t notice!”
“That’s exactly what gives me a headache! We’ve been in this business long enough to know that something like this should never happen!”
Harding darted a piercing glance at Nick. “What are you trying to get at?”
“The killer’s contractor knew about Zuckerman’s imminent testimony, the secret location, and the details of the entire operation. Let me make myself clear, Jerome. I’m not so much interested in catching this killer, which we probably won’t manage to do anyway. I want to know how it was possible for confidential information to be leaked so quickly, and I want to know who leaked it!”
Harding seemed to hesitate for a split second before offering his unexpected response.
“You’re taking this thing way too personally.” He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back. “The FBI has disgraced itself, but you and I have nothing to do with it.”
Nick was silent. Was Harding right? Did he take all of this too personally because Vitali had once again managed to slip through his net?
“No,” he replied, “that’s not true. This episode will bring us a lot of negative publicity. My main promise to my constituents was that I would make this city a safer place. We’ve already achieved quite a bit, but my political adversaries will use this to tear us to pieces. You know yourself that many people disapprove of the police’s hard line, and now they’ll reignite public discussion about the purpose of certain police operations.”
The smirk vanished from Harding’s face.
“You’re being too dramatic. We succeeded in convincingly shutting up those damn liberal sissies, and we’ll continue to do so.”
“So you think we shouldn’t do anything?”
Harding nodded. “Correct. Give the press some meaningless report, and point out the responsibility of the FBI and the US Attorney’s Office. Let’s wait and see. Just don’t make
any statements that could heat up this whole story in the public’s eye.”
Nick looked doubtfully at the police commissioner. Harding seemed unusually reserved. His recommendation to keep calm was completely out of character.
“I’d really like to know who provided the killer with the details,” Nick insisted.
“Jesus, Nick”—Harding impatiently clicked his tongue—“Do you really want to set off an avalanche and provoke a public discussion about corruption? That would harm you a lot more. Let the Zuckerman matter rest.”
Nick was anything but happy with the result of his meeting, and his phone calls with US Attorney John de Lancie and Governor Rhodes didn’t lift his spirits any. It seemed he was the only one bothered by the death of this key witness. Zuckerman’s testimony would have certainly stirred things up. There was a knock at the door, and Michael Page—Nick’s chief of staff—entered.
“I’ve prepared a statement for the press,” he said, handing three pages to the mayor. “We won’t leave any room for speculation.”
“Hmm.” Nick looked at the pages pensively. “Harding, de Lancie, and Governor Rhodes think that we should let this matter rest.”
“Really?” Page was surprised. “And what do you think?”
“I don’t know. I do know that there is more to this than meets the eye.”
“I can change the press release.”
“No, wait. Let me read it first.” Nick delved into the text. Soon a smile spread across his face.
“It’s brilliant, Michael,” he said after he finished. “I stand against everyone else with this statement. We have only lost a battle instead of the entire war.”
“Exactly.” His chief of staff nodded, satisfied. “Public outrage will be shifted toward the likes of Vitali and Rosenbaum. We won’t let them point the finger at us.”
Sergio Vitali sat at his desk on the eighty-sixth floor of the VITAL Building and read the paper. The cover story headline read, “Mafia Murder in Manhattan?”
Late last night, well-known real-estate speculator David Zuckerman of New York City was shot dead by an unknown perpetrator at a hotel in Midtown Manhattan. Zuckerman, 42, was charged for his involvement in questionable business deals in the mid-1980s, especially during the contract award process for the construction of the World Financial Center. He was scheduled for questioning at a hearing before the US attorney’s office investigation committee in Manhattan on Monday. In October of last year, Zuckerman was charged with at least four counts of bribery, illegal price fixing, and fraud. After Zuckerman—who owns a mansion on Long Island and a luxurious weekend house on Cape Cod—pleaded his right not to incriminate himself under the Fifth Amendment, the US attorney’s office wanted to release him due to a lack of evidence. Mayor Kostidis, who himself served as the US Attorney for the Southern District of New York for many years, ordered the reopening of procedures due to a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s innocence. The suspicions were substantiated on all counts by new evidence.
Many of the city’s construction companies are involved in this corruption scandal, first and foremost VITAL Building Corp., which was awarded the contract for the construction of both World Financial Center subsections. Its owner, Sergio Vitali, has previously been accused of bribery and illegal price fixing in connection with several construction contract awards. However, the affair involving the construction of the World Financial Center is the largest and most comprehensive case in which many well-known companies and banks have been cited for their involvement. With the help of Zuckerman’s testimony, the US attorney’s office hoped to shed light on this case and finally bring Vitali to court for “his dubious and criminal business dealings.”
“Merda,” Sergio growled, then finished the article.
The FBI still has no leads in their search for the perpetrators. At yesterday’s press conference, Truman McDeere, the head of the task force, said, “This was a cold-blooded, brutal murder that carries the Mafia’s signature. Someone quite obviously feared that Zuckerman’s testimony in front of the investigation committee could bring some inconvenient truths to light.”
“I didn’t think that the Feds would make so much noise about this,” Nelson van Mieren said, concerned. “Their failure was rather embarrassing.”
“This is not the FBI.” Sergio slapped the newspaper with a flat hand. “This article is Kostidis’s creation.”
He let out a sinister laugh.
“He thought he finally had me, and now he sees that I slipped through his fingers once again.”
“I don’t like this at all, Sergio,” the lawyer objected. “This talk about the Mafia and corruption damages your reputation. This is a godsend for the media.”
“So what? I don’t give a damn.” Sergio stood up and crumpled the newspaper. “No one will remember this in a couple of weeks. Kostidis can suspect as much as he wants, but he can’t prove anything. And he very well knows it.”
“I don’t think they will let it rest so easily this time,” Nelson replied, “because it’s an opportunity to discredit you publicly. You know yourself how sensitive this topic still is. It’ll become difficult to maintain the support of our friends if the press picks up on this. Politicians hate negative publicity.”
“But they love my money.” Sergio laughed. “I don’t give a damn whether or not they like me. I own them. I know way too much about them and their secret tax-free earnings for them to stab me in the back.”
Nelson van Mieren let out a sigh. It had taken him years of hard work to build a legal and serious facade for Sergio’s empire. Just a few negative words in the headlines and television coverage could cause a great deal of damage. And these headlines were sure to come, because the press was virtually starving for sensational stories in the summer.
“The building commissioner just called,” Nelson said.
“He’s starting to freak out,” Sergio said, sitting in his armchair again and leaning back with a sinister smile. “We gave him twenty-five thousand dollars last month! What’s he going to do? He won’t bite the hand that feeds him.”
He turned his chair to the side to behold the Empire State Building and the skyline of Midtown Manhattan.
“Look at this, Nelson,” he said, “my city at our feet! I’m the king of Manhattan. Anyone who wants to do business here must get past me first!”
He laughed, but there was an icy glint in his eyes.
“Nelson, I’m not a megalomaniac, you know that. I’ve made it here from the streets of Little Italy, and nobody helped me. I’m used to a headwind, and I’m not scared of it. Quite the contrary—I like to fight! And I like to win. I’ll win this time.”
“Kostidis will try to crucify you.”
“He’s been trying for years.” Sergio waved his hand, dismissing him. “I don’t care. I’ll stay backstage pulling the strings just like I’ve always done. Do you know what would really be bad, Nelson?”
“No, I don’t.”
“If I were in a position where I needed to hand this all over—that would be bad. But I don’t.” Sergio smiled, musing. “I could have retired a long time ago. I’ve seriously considered the idea, but…”
“But?” Nelson looked at him attentively.
“Massimo isn’t ready to lead all of this yet.” Sergio made a sweeping gesture. “And besides that, I still enjoy this game way too much.”
Nelson looked at his friend with an uneasy feeling. He had witnessed Sergio’s unstoppable rise and knew how ruthless he could be. But Sergio was wrong about one thing: he could not afford to ignore his reputation, because many of his business partners wouldn’t allow themselves to be linked with a man who was called a Mafioso in the press. Sergio’s empire—based on brutality and bloodshed—had become so mighty and powerful because he understood how to convince influential men to side with him. Assuming that nothing could shake it was a mistake. He’d made many enemies on his way to the top, and Nelson was convinced that many of these bought friends were just waiting for the moment wh
en Sergio’s empire started to rock to quickly jump ship. There were no bigger opportunists in the world than politicians.
“What’s the matter, Nelson?” Sergio asked. “Don’t tell me this newspaper scribbling scares you.”
“I think you’re taking this much too lightly,” his lawyer replied. “We can’t afford to make any mistakes that could threaten our key connections.”
“What are you trying to say?” Sergio’s ice-blue eyes seemed to pierce van Mieren. Nelson shuddered. It was inconceivable to imagine what would happen if someone who really knew something decided to get out. Vincent Levy, for example. Would he risk the reputation of his bank by publicly supporting Sergio? Never! Levy was a businessman, and he wasn’t Italian. He was a Jew. If push came to shove, he would switch sides to ensure his own survival. But it was pointless to argue with Sergio because he refused to accept any reality but his own. Nelson realized that Sergio had stopped heeding his advice a long time ago.
“Nothing,” he said, “you’re right. Chances are that no one will still be talking about this in a few days.”
Sergio smiled.
“Nelson, my old friend, you’re not going to lose your nerve on me, are you? Speculation over whether I have something to do with the Mafia is less damaging than the testimony of a man who knows facts and figures. The dust around Zuckerman will settle, and then the bootlickers from politics, justice, and the administration will return. Ancient human greed has always bound them to me.”
He stood up and stared out the window. Even if they avoided him for a while, they would never revoke their loyalty. One person who had planned on doing so was now lying stiff and cold in the morgue at the Department of Forensic Medicine. Sergio Vitali was no one to mess with.
“What about the woman?”
Sergio looked at Nelson in surprise.
“Alex?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing. What about her?”