by Otho Eskin
“The man who you saw in your kitchen that night,” I say, “The man sent to kill you—his name was Domino.”
Asa nods. “I always suspected that was who it was.”
After the attack, Asa called me and asked for my help. When I arrived, Asa was shaking with terror. I saw blood on the steps. Domino must have received a serious wound in the head.
Asa and his daughter packed their few belongings and I moved them out. The next day, Asa turned himself into the NYPD. He knew there was no place to hide from Domino. I found a safe place for his daughter to live.
“Did you know Domino?” Asa asks.
“I knew the name.”
“When you did the books for the Genovese family,” I ask, “were you the one who made the payments to Domino?”
“That was me. Of course, I never used Domino’s name. I never even heard the name. He was just a numbered account at the Bank of Trinidad and Tobago.”
I know nothing about the Bank of Trinidad and Tobago, but I know what kind of bank it must be. A bank located in a country that has passed laws to protect depositors with secret bank accounts; a bank that has accounts that can be accessed only with special account numbers. A bank used by people who want to keep their financial dealings secret. Clients trying to avoid paying taxes. Clients involved with money laundering, espionage, drug trafficking.
The IRS and FBI are always trying to break in. The banks always try to keep them out.
Asa pauses and smiles wistfully. “I realized only later that the account transfer I’d made the day before was for my own murder. Ironic, don’t you think?”
“I don’t believe in irony. Can you remember any specific payments you made to Domino’s numbered account? Like the dates and maybe who the contracts were for?”
“I was never told what these contracts were for. Sometimes I could make a guess. I’d read in the papers about some killing and make a connection with the payments I’d made. There was a Jeweler named Roth with a shop on Fifty-second Street. And a soldier from the Bonanno family. I don’t remember the others.”
“Who was your contact with the mob when they wanted payments made to Domino?”
“A man named Guido Profaci. He was a longtime member of the Gambino outfit.”
“When the mob wanted to hire a hit man for a special job, do you know how they contacted him?”
“I was never involved with that side of things. I do know they always used a middle man, a sort of fixer. Even the capo had no direct contact with Domino. It was always through an intermediary.”
“Do you know the name of the fixer?”
“Not a name. But I know who the payments were sent to. I know the capo always referred to the middleman as the Greek. No name, just ‘the Greek’.”
“‘The Greek’ is good enough for me. Can you remember the access and account numbers for the Trinidad bank you used to pay Domino?”
“The access number is easy. It was ‘Suite 319.’ That was part of my office address in Manhattan.”
“And the account number?”
Asa hunches over nervously. “After all these years?”
“After all these years.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, then nods. “I’ll never forget that number. I think, on my dying day, I’ll whisper that number into some priest’s forgiving ear.”
He takes a breath and recites a series of nine numbers and letters, speaking in a steady voice, slowly, not raising his voice, but not whispering, so as not to draw the attention of the guards.
“8LM539620,” Asa says. Just once.
I have to remember the sequence perfectly from hearing it one time. One time only.
We sit across from one another in absolute silence while I chew on the numbers and letters Asa has given me. I repeat the series over and over in my head.
Then I nod to Asa to let him know I’ve got the code.
“Time’s up,” one of the guards announces. “Fifteen minutes is over.” They unlock Asa’s shackles from the floor, lift Asa to his feet, and reattach his manacles.
“Why did you want the codes for the numbered account?” Asa asks me.
“I’m going to put Domino out of business. And I’m going to find a way to put Domino’s money to some good use. All that money he’s been paid to kill people will go to benefit others. When he hears what I’ve done—and I’ll see to it that he does hear—that will make Domino go crazy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MY FIRST TASK on the morning of my arrival back in DC is to screw Domino.
As arranged, Lieutenant Bonifacio is waiting for me in the arrivals section at National Airport.
“Any problems?” he asks.
“Everything went according to plan.”
“Where to now?”
“Do you know any computer cafés? Somewhere I can use a computer to transact some business. Some place that’s out of the way.”
“You can use a computer at police headquarters.”
“Not for my kind of business.”
The computer café Bonifacio takes me to is in a rundown section of southeast Washington. I find an empty table. Bonifacio sits some distance away to give me some privacy. The presence of an armed, uniformed police officer has a depressing effect on the clientele and the café is soon empty.
I log on to one of the computers, using a fake ID, and download the Onion Router operating system. Immediately I’m in the dark Web where no one can find me or my IP address. It’s a world I feel right at home in.
From here I create a new account at the Chase Manhattan Bank in the name of F. N. U. Domino. It takes a little longer to create a charitable trust in Domino’s name and then direct that the trust be converted to a pledge. I used the name “Calvin Coolidge” for the account originator. He won’t mind. This is not a secret account. Just a normal bank account that can be traced. But because of the Onion operating system, my transaction can’t be traced back to me or my IP or to this computer as the depositor. I then complete some pointless forms regarding the pledge that no one reads. I’ve done this before and I know the drill.
I then make a series of calls, mostly to South Bend, Indiana, and after a lot of transfers and “on holds,” I reach the man I need: The Reverend Timothy Sullivan. After a few awkward moments, the Reverend Timothy Sullivan and I are friends for life. I explain what I need and, with the help of Lieutenant Bonifacio, get the fax number of the café I’m in.
End of Act 1.
A few customers come into the shop, take one look at Lieutenant Bonifacio, and decide to have their coffees elsewhere.
Now for Act 2.
I log on to the Bank of Trinidad and Tobago site and enter Domino’s password and secret account number: 8LM539620.
A voice comes on—a mellifluous baritone with a light Caribbean accent—obviously prerecorded—asking whether I wish to make a deposit to the account—press 1—or withdraw from the account—press 2. Or speak with a bank manager—press 0.
I press two and the recorded voice asks the amount I wish to withdraw.
I punched in the amount of $3,420,000 US dollars, the entirety of Domino’s secret account.
One of the few good things about dealing with computers in bank transactions is the computer never indicates surprise or shock. Or even curiosity. I expect if there had been a real person at the other end, they would have registered some reaction, at least a gulp. The computer couldn’t care less how much money’s in the account or what I do with it. All the computer does is ask me to confirm the amount.
“I say ‘three million four hundred and twenty thousand dollars,’”
“Thank you,” the nice voice says. “Transaction complete. Have a nice day.”
No real human being is ever on the other end of the line at banks with secret numbered accounts. These banks worry about the IRS or the FBI snooping and using voice-recognition software. The bank managers don’t want to know who’s depositing funds or for what purposes. They want to keep their hands clean. And th
eir customers happy.
The recorded voice asks me whether I wish to take delivery in person or have the funds transferred to another account. I punch in the account number at the Chase Bank in New York I’d established for this purpose.
I feel a sense of profound satisfaction as I log out. I’m all done. And Domino is all done, financially speaking.
“Thanks for waiting,” I say to Lieutenant Bonifacio as I close down my computer. “A fax message should be waiting for me in the manager’s office. See if it has come in.”
It’s there as I had arranged with Reverend Sullivan. It’s short, one page, and gives me what I need to shoot down Domino.
“Do you know the Northumberland Hotel in downtown Washington?” I ask Bonifacio as we leave the café.
“Of course.”
I tuck the fax into my jacket pocket. “Then let’s get out of here. I have a date with a lady.”
Cynthia Fletcher stands at the entrance to her hotel room. She holds the door only slightly ajar, a sign she does not want me to come in.
“I have questions,” I say.
“Is this really necessary? I’m packing. Getting ready to go back to New York.”
“It’s really necessary. I won’t take long.”
Grudgingly, she opens the door wider, and I step into her room—a small, modest, typical hotel room. Lying on the bed is a suitcase, half packed, and next to it lies a pile of neatly folded blouses, skirts, and a jacket.
“When we spoke last time,” I say, “you told me Vickie owned a laptop computer.”
“That’s right.”
“That laptop has disappeared.”
She shrugs.
“You had access to Vickie’s dressing room where she kept her laptop when she was at the theater. You said you put her flowers there.”
“Okay. Many people had access.”
“You could come and go in her dressing room without anyone noticing.”
“So?”
“Did you take Vickie’s laptop?”
She looks away. “Are you saying I’m a thief?”
“I’m not accusing you of being a thief. I don’t care if you picked up Vickie’s computer without permission. I just need to examine it.”
“What’s so important about that damn computer? What’s your obsession with looking at it?”
“It might include information about Vickie’s murderer.”
She looks obstinate. I figure I’m going to have to use threats. “If you refuse to give it to me, that would be obstructing a murder investigation, which is a crime.”
“Why are you so sure it was me who took it?” She holds out her arms in a pretense of being handcuffed. “Are you going to arrest me? Drag me to jail in shackles?”
“Not unless I have to.”
“Anyone could have taken that computer. Vickie never locked her dressing room. She usually left her laptop on her dressing table. I warned her about that many times, but she never listened.”
“I know you took that laptop. Please give it to me.”
“What’s on that laptop is private. That’s not for prying eyes. Not even yours.”
“I’m pretty sure someone has already looked at what’s on that laptop. I promise I’ll return it to you when I’m done.”
“There are private communications on that computer. Communications Vickie never intended for people other than me to see.”
“I’ll be very discreet. Your private relationship with Vickie won’t be made part of the official murder investigation record. But if I find something that reveals the killer, I will have to use it.”
“There are email exchanges between Vickie and me I would not want to see made public. We were often very frank, maybe too frank, in expressing our thoughts and feelings.”
“I’m not easily shocked.”
“I’m not trying to protect myself. This is for Vickie. I don’t want her name smeared in the press. Is that too much to ask?”
“When did you take the laptop?”
Her shoulders sag. She’s giving up the game.
“After Vickie was found dead; while you and your officers were doing your search, I slipped upstairs and found the laptop on her dresser.”
“Why did you take it?”
“My first instinct was just to take something that belonged to Vickie. As a kind of memento. So much of our two lives were bound up in those email exchanges. I dreaded the thought that some stranger would read her messages.”
“Have you opened the laptop and read them yet?”
“I couldn’t. It’s too painful. Maybe later.”
“Give me Vickie’s laptop.”
She stands rigid. “Why should I trust you?”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to.”
Without a word, Cynthia goes to the bed and rummages deep into her suitcase and pulls out a black laptop.
“Is there a password?”
“It’s ‘orison.’”
“Did you use your real names in your exchanges with Vickie?”
“Never. As you can see, Vickie was careless with her computer. While she was on stage, she had to leave it in her dressing room. She thought it would be safe there. Everybody else would be on stage or occupied with the production.”
“What names did you use for one another?”
Cynthia Fletcher almost looks embarrassed. “In our private correspondence, she called me Miranda.”
“What name did you use for Vickie?”
“I called her Ariel.”
She places the computer in my hands. “Please take good care of this. It’s all I have left of Vickie. All I have left of our lives.”
On returning to my house, I arm all security systems and place the laptop on my desk in what I laughingly refer to as my “study.” This is one of the few rooms in the house with no windows. Here I have privacy as well as security.
I sit at my desk, a Regency antique I bought in London a few years ago in an antique store on Jermyn Street. I’m pretty sure the owner cheated me but I’m quite fond of it. On the walls is my very private art collection. A large late-Renaissance painting of Sebastian, his body pierced with arrows, covers my wall safe—an ancient Mosler bank safe. It’s where I keep my records away from prying eyes. And stacks of cash, in various currencies, including dollars and euros, even a small stack of Chinese yuan. Here I keep my passports and identification papers of various nationalities and in various names, all with my picture. I also store here a small arsenal of weapons. The painting that hangs over the safe is so disturbing that it should discourage all but the most dedicated burglar from trying to break in.
Each piece of art represents a successful job, some of them for Cyprian Voss.
I plug in Victoria West’s computer and fire it up. The start-up screen shows an image of the three witches from Macbeth. The legend on the screen warns “STAY OUT.”
I poke around the keyboard. Someday, I tell myself, I must really learn how to use these things. For a while I get nothing except Microsoft gibberish. Then something instructs me to sign in and I type in “orison.”
Almost immediately I’m in—and I go to the email files. There I find Vickie’s extensive email correspondence. Hundreds of messages. Vickie was one of those souls who can’t bear to delete anything.
The messages begin with today’s date dozens, maybe hundreds, of incoming bewildered, condolence emails, the senders obviously having just heard of her death, unsure about what happened, what was true. What not.
I skip back through the recent emails to the date of Vickie’s death. The bulk of the messages are about theater business: schedules, contracts, publicity. Nothing to explain anything about her murder.
I realize I’m not going to find anything useful among these files. I have a sudden revelation as I remember that Cynthia Fletcher told me that Vickie often used a secret name when exchanging emails on very private matters. “Arial.” The name I always associate with her from the first night I saw her on stage. That name must have mean
t something very special to Vickie as well.
I search for the name “Ariel” and suddenly there are scores of messages to and from Ariel. All of them connected to “Miranda,” who I know is Cynthia Fletcher.
Before me stretch page after page of expressions of affection interspersed with gossip. I feel uncomfortable reading these intimacies between two women—one a woman I once loved. I feel like I’m violating them in some way and I skim over these quickly, not reading carefully … looking for what I’m not sure.
Cynthia Fletcher told me that only she and Vickie used these names and no one else knew about them. But that isn’t true. At least one other person knew the name “Ariel” and knew who it was. Garland Taylor in my interrogation of him on the night of the murder said he and Vickie were close, and he used the name “Ariel.” I know now that was a lie. Only Vickie and Cynthia Fletcher knew these names. The only way Taylor could have learned the name “Ariel” is if he’d read Vickie’s correspondence on this laptop.
Two days before the opening of Hedda Gabler, the email exchanges between Ariel and Miranda stop. I wonder why.
On a hunch, I search for emails between Vickie and Valerie Crane and find an email from Valerie saying she’s been blackballed from any New York theater production.
In her urgent reply, Vickie encourages Valerie to be strong and to keep looking for work. She asks who it was who blackballed her.
Valerie doesn’t answer that question. Instead, she tells Vickie she’s too depressed to go to auditions anymore. In her response, Vickie promises to help Valerie straighten this out as soon as she gets to New York. She’ll talk to people.
Several days seem to pass without any further exchanges. Then Vickie sends another email to Valerie asking how she’s doing and asking again who’s blackballing her.
Valerie’s message is short. “It’s hopeless, Vickie. I’m too ashamed to go to casting calls. But I need to tell somebody about something terrible that has happened to me. Please don’t repeat this to anyone. If you do, I’ll be in more trouble than I’m in already. Three weeks ago, in the middle of the run of the play, Garland Taylor invited me to his apartment to go over notes on my performance. We were halfway through the production by that time, and it was a little late to be making changes. I was uncomfortable in going, but he suggested that other members of the cast would be there, too. When I arrived at Taylor’s apartment, he was drunk. And we were alone. After a very short time, he began pawing me. To put it bluntly, Garland Taylor raped me. He said if I told anyone about this, I’d never work in theater again. I never told a soul about what happened, but Taylor thinks I did, and he’s seen to it I’m not cast in any more plays. Please keep all this to yourself.”