My name was once again splashed across newspapers and television news programs for a couple of days as car enthusiasts across the country cheered the recovery of the Ferrari, even though few of them would ever see it. A number of news people called in an effort to get an interview, but I had no interest in publicity and didn't return the calls. The people in the insurance industry who needed my services would find a way to contact me without any help from the media.
After sending the final report off to Schiller, I debated about what to do next. I needed to get going on my private investigation, now more than ever, but I decided to take a preliminary look at the two cases Brigman had assigned me. I suppose I was being driven by a sense of guilt. I had gone from near poverty and obscurity to wealth and some degree of celebrity. I had established a multimillion dollar business from a piece of street trash and had just made a major score. I was closing cold cases for the FBI when I could have been using the gizmo for making more money while depriving criminals of the fruits of their illegal behavior and contributing fully half of everything I earned to the government in taxes. But I still felt an unshakable obligation to 'give back' more.
The first case file I read was a missing child investigation. Three-year-old Amanda Matthews, last seen playing in her home's fenced backyard, had simply disappeared. When the local police failed to find any sign of the girl in the immediate area around her home, they ruled it a probable kidnapping.
I had to choose between starting work on the Delcona surveillance and working the missing child case, so I flipped a coin. The missing child case won. I loaded up my printer with paper and it began spitting out pages from the case file.
Using the gizmo, I tagged the young Matthews girl playing in her yard on the day of her disappearance. Then I jumped ahead to the present. I half expected to see an unmarked grave but instead was greeted by the sight of the now seven-year-old girl sitting in a classroom full of similarly aged kids. I was happy to see that the girl hadn't been killed by the kidnapper.
Since I hadn't read through the file yet, I was unaware of the facts. Perhaps the kidnapping had been perpetrated by a family member who had lost custody rights, or someone who desperately wanted a child of their own. Whichever, the case was suddenly less imperative. I still intended to solve it and hopefully return the young girl to her legal guardians as soon as possible, but this case wasn't like the serial killer case where I'd feared he might start up again.
After debating the issue with myself for a while, I decided to go against the coin flip. I would start working the Delcona issue, and work on the child abduction case when I needed a break from watching mob thugs brutalize innocents or even lower echelon criminals.
I hadn't yet formulated a plan for how I was going to deal with Delcona, but whichever path I chose, I still needed to perform a lot of background investigation. I had to know his habits as well as I knew my own before I took any action. I had to know how he would react in the face of personal danger. If he learned I was coming, would he ignore the danger to his person and rely on his bodyguards? Or would he, as in the 'The Godfather' story, 'go to the mattresses?'
I began by tagging Delcona during his last time in a courtroom and traveled back to his birth. After verifying that the man known as Damiano Orsino Delcona was the same person as the baby of the same name, I began watching him as he grew up. I knew my 'stakeout from home' was going to be a time-consuming effort, and I intended to skip as much 'dead air' time as I could by using the simple jump-ahead tricks I had learned. But I knew of no tricks that would give me what I needed in mere days.
~ ~ ~
I watched enough of Delcona's early life to see that he was frequently abused by a father who had been in and out of prison since he was himself a minor. By the time Delcona was eight, he was following in his father's criminal footsteps. He began by running simple errands for the local mobsters and eventually graduated to running numbers and delivering drugs. At night, his gang of future prison fodder broke into cars, stores, and homes, stealing anything they could carry away.
It would be easy to feel sorry for a young boy dragged into a life of crime, but Delcona went willingly. Perhaps it was the brutal treatment at the hands of his father that made him receptive to a life of crime himself, but that was immaterial. I knew him to be a criminal and murderer, and I had no intention of forgiving his crimes because he'd had a hard life when he was young.
~ ~ ~
Once Delcona reached his teens, I had trouble skipping over any part of his life where he wasn't sleeping. It seemed like every minute was devoted to crime. He was a lot smarter than his father. As he rose through the ranks he was always able to avoid arrest and incarceration. Sometimes he had others handle the crimes while he supervised from a distance, and other times witnesses simply disappeared without a trace. As I watched his life of crime, I made copious notes.
After a week of watching Delcona's life, my eyes were bloodshot and I was using eye drops several times a day. While applying the drops one day, I had a sudden inspiration. I had never been able to find a way to hear what was going on during the scenes I watched, and I also hadn't been able to hook the gizmo to a video recorder. But I had never tried to take a picture of the gizmo display. I suddenly felt like such an idiot. If I could see what was going on, a camera should be able to see as well.
After I finished berating myself, I realized that I could never show the images to anyone because they would prove the existence of my gizmo. So even if I could video the event, I could never use it effectively. Still, I wanted to try to record the images.
Using my smartphone, I aimed it at the gizmo and started recording. After about twenty seconds I stopped and played it back. The image was perfect. I still couldn't hear anything from the event, but I could see everything. And because the gizmo could be manipulated to record anything from any angle, the pictures provided the ultimate in unusable 'evidence.' But I would have the images for my own records without using the gizmo to refresh my memory while preparing my final reports.
Although the smartphone image was good, I wanted the best, so I sealed my office and headed to an electronics shop in midtown that sold professional recording equipment.
When I arrived back home, I set up the new wall-mount arm that would hold the camera. I could leave the camera right on the arm, then swing it out of the way when I wasn't using it. It would be a lot more convenient than a standard camera tripod. Using the log of Delcona's crimes, I returned to several that I wanted to record. After reviewing the crime from a number of angles, I selected the best shot, checked the camera for alignment and focus, and started filming. It took me a full day to record everything important I had witnessed so far since I'd begun the investigation, but I had some of the most damning evidence anyone could ask for. And as they do at football games, I could shoot the scene from different angles and have my own version of instant replay so there was no question about the call.
From that point on, whenever Delcona took a personal hand in anything, I recorded it. I was sure he would have convicted himself a dozen times over by what he said in meetings with other mobsters, but visual imagery was all I could get.
~ ~
As I crawled into bed after a long day of filming criminals at work, Mia awoke and smiled dreamily up at me. "Finished at last, darling?" she asked.
"For tonight. I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer."
"I don't understand how you can do so much work from your home. I thought policemen had to be out watching for crime or something."
"I do most of my work on the computer. It's more effective and more comfortable."
"We haven't made love in three days. When do you make time for that?"
I thought for a minute before saying, "I'm declaring tomorrow a work holiday. We'll do something together during the day and then spend the evening in bed."
"Oh, darling, I wish I could. I have an appointment to look at some antique chairs with the decorator tomorrow."
"Okay. H
ow about the day after?"
"I can cancel my two appointments."
"Okay, you cancel your appointments and we'll spend the entire day together."
"Where will we go?"
"Anywhere you want."
* * *
Chapter Nine
The weather for my impromptu holiday with Mia was perfect. Mild temperatures beneath a clear blue sky set the stage as we started with a ride north, crossing into the Bronx, then north on the Bronx River Parkway to the Sprain Brook Parkway, which became the Taconic State Parkway up by Yonkers. We exited at Route 202 and drove west through Peekskill, then crossed the Hudson River on the Bear Mountain Bridge. Turning north again, we drove up Route 9W until Old State Road in Fort Montgomery and turned off for Highland Falls.
We entered the West Point Military Academy grounds through the South Gate. I'd heard that at one time a person could just drive onto the Academy grounds after slowing down, but these days people had to stop and explain their visit. As always at official government checkpoints, my FBI ID helped get us through without any delay. We parked and then walked around the beautiful post as cadets hurried about their business.
The Hudson Valley was alive with history. It was difficult to travel anywhere without seeing references to the American Revolution. There were preserved battlefields, important crossroads, river crossing locations, and various homesteads once used for military headquarters.
After touring West Point, we headed north along Old Storm King highway. I stopped the car at a rest area that overlooked the Hudson from a cliff wall with an almost vertical drop. As we stood there, a private plane following the river south passed our promontory position. The plane had significant elevation above the river but was lower than where we stood at a low stone wall intended to keep visitors from venturing too close to the edge of the precipice or cars from driving over the cliff.
Turning south again after driving through the Village of Cornwall-on-Hudson and then the Village of Cornwall, I drove south on Route 9W. We used the Tappen Zee Bridge to traverse the Hudson River. An hour later we were back home. It had been a wonderful and incredibly relaxing day, and our next big decision was whether to go out for dinner or spend the evening in other activities. The 'other' activities won out.
By the time we fell asleep, we were both physically exhausted. It had been a day to remember, and I promised Mia that from then on I wouldn't work on Saturdays or Sundays unless I was out of town. She promised she wouldn't schedule any time with decorators or workmen on weekends, but the apartment was nearing completion anyway. She had done an incredible job, and it was no longer the empty shell of my pre-Mia days. Thanks to her efforts, it had taken on a look of elegance while maintaining the warmth of a home.
Over the following weeks, I continued recording Delcona's criminal past. It was difficult to imagine that one man could be responsible for so much pain, misery, and death and not be a Third World dictator. I finally reached the time when Morris was interrogated in one of Delcona's warehouses. His hands were tied behind the wooden chair where he sat and his ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. His face was masked in fear. Gone was the smug I-am-a-scientist-and-better-than-you look that had always annoyed me so much. Morris was filled with fear, and rightly so. He may have still held some hope he would survive, but I couldn't fairly judge that. I already knew his fate.
It was impossible to know for sure since I had no audio, but it appeared that Morris hadn't contacted Delcona personally. Rather, I believed that someone Morris called had passed the information on to the mob boss. Whatever information was passed along, it was persuasive enough for Delcona to have Morris kidnapped and brought to the warehouse. If Morris had been in touch with Delcona, a kidnapping and brutal assault to gain information would not have been necessary.
I knew lip-reading wasn't a hundred percent accurate, but I wished I was at least modestly proficient in that skill at the moment. I'd heard that back in 2007 someone had produced a computer system able to transcribe a silent movie of Adolf Hitler by using advanced facial movement techniques, but I hadn't heard anything about it since. I knew the FBI used all sorts of facial recognition systems but relied on professional lip-readers for the most accurate speech translation results. I decided to look into it now that I could film events. It was complicated because people moved their heads while they talked, but as evidenced by my gizmo, computers were getting more sophisticated every day.
Over the course of several hours, I watched as Morris's face was slowly and methodically beaten to a bloody pulp by the thug named Diz. Between blows, Delcona would ask questions. If he got an answer he approved of, he'd ask another. If he didn't get an answer he approved of, he nodded to Diz, who then grinned and punished Morris's face.
I would have preferred not to watch the pummeling, but I had no choice. I had to see everything. Perhaps knowing that Morris was going to die made it a little easier on me, because I knew his pain was a thing of the past. It was a bit like the days when I had first starting using the gizmo. I had managed to watch the death, mutilation, and suffering on ancient battlefields and during natural events only by telling myself that the people involved were long dead, and their suffering was in the past.
When the grilling was apparently over, Diz stepped behind Morris's chair and used a piece of thick nylon rope to strangle the helpless man. Diz grinned manically with a kind of light in his eyes as Morris fought with a sudden burst of energy to fill his lungs one last time. When he finally stopped struggling and slumped over, Diz tied the rope tightly about Morris's neck. The other three thugs and Diz's pudgy pal just stood about watching, smiling, or laughing at the death struggle. I knew my fate would have been the same if Billy hadn't acted when he did.
My recording equipment captured every second of the event, with high-resolution images of all participants. Since justice had already been dispensed for two of the participants in the deaths of Morris and Billy, a criminal justice system that had repeatedly failed to protect the public from these two animals wouldn't get another chance to err on the side of caution and possible doubt about their guilt. And I wouldn't make the same mistake either when it came time for the others to pay the piper.
~ ~ ~
I'd heard so many times how easy it was to get a handgun if you needed, but it wasn't so easy if a person didn't travel in the right circles. I couldn't use either my service weapon or my backup for what I was planning. I needed a 'clean' handgun. By that, I meant one that had never been used in the commission of a crime, was not stolen, and was not traceable back to me. Preferably, it would be one that had never even been registered. I didn't want to involve an innocent party in my private little war.
I couldn't access the FBI information system to search for illegal gun traffickers because there would be a record of my search. So I did what billions of other people do every single day and searched the internet using a standard search engine. The search for recent arrests in gun trafficking in New York City turned up what I needed in a second. A large bust had recently occurred of a gang that was bringing weapons from a state that didn't have the ultra stringent handguns laws of New York.
In NYC, only law enforcement personnel and criminals generally carried handguns. The few exceptions were private security forces personnel or people who had been able to justify their need to be armed after undergoing a tedious and expensive process. And of course, diplomats. NYC was home to the United Nations Headquarters, and there were literally no restrictions on what diplomats could do.
Unless an armed criminal was unfortunate enough to try robbing a cop, another criminal, or a diplomat, the pickings were generally pretty easy. It had been estimated that perhaps only one civilian in ten thousand had made the decision to ignore the politicians and carry a concealed handgun they could use to protect themselves. The rest were more afraid of being caught with a weapon than they were of being robbed, because the imposed penalties for having the nerve to protect oneself and one's loved ones with a handgun could
be stiffer than drug possession or committing robbery. Criminals like Diz and Pudgy rarely worried with the odds that much in their favor. They'd just gotten careless when they attacked me.
Once I had the names and arrest information of the gun traffickers as provided by the news article, I tagged them and then hopped back a few weeks so I could watch everyone they'd had contact with. It took a few days of hopping around, but I eventually found three people to whom they had sold weapons in the past and who were buying them to stock their own small armory from which they resold the weapons and ammunition. I watched the three individuals carefully for several days and decided which one I would approach. The decision was based both on the assortment of weapons the gun seller had available for sale and the ease of access to the gun seller himself.
~ ~ ~
"Freeze," I shouted, from behind the safety of a large steel garbage dumpster. The seller of illegal guns was walking through a front lot that led to a dilapidated garage with large wooden doors hanging drunkenly on ancient hinges. Over the doorway was a sign that advertised car repair services, but a large, rusty hasp and lock holding the doors closed indicated the garage might no longer be performing repairs to vehicles. It was after midnight and almost black as pitch in the shadows created by the three-story buildings that bordered the lot. If the gun dealer hadn't been wearing a light tan-colored leather jacket and hat, I might not have been able to see him.
The seller froze for a second, then started to turn his head to see who was behind him.
"I said freeze," I shouted. "You looking to get shot?"
"Waz this bout?"
"Raise your hands above your head— slowly. I know you're armed, so there'd better not be anything in your hands as you raise them."
Vengeance Is Personal (A Colton James Novel, Book 2) Page 11