by Baby Grand
"Does she need a diaper?" Joey asked.
"I thought she did, but no."
Leo poked his head in. "Everything all right in here?" he asked.
"Yep," Joey said, proudly placing the bowl of grapes on the dining room table.
"Okay, just checking." Leo winked at Jamie and turned on his heel, leaving the glass door open.
Jamie placed Charlotte on the floor, watching as she ambled over to the coffee table, plucked one of the cut grapes out of the bowl, and shoved it into her mouth with her dirty hands.
"Ewww, gross." Jamie grabbed a paper towel from the kitchen and wet it under cold water. When she returned, Joey was staring at the computer screen. Her panic was instant.
"What's the matter?" she said.
"I don't know, something weird," Joey said. The glass doors opened and in walked Leo, Tony, and Benny. "The computer screen froze."
Shit! Jamie prayed she was able to log out of Facebook successfully before the computer crashed.
"What the fuck you doin', Joey?" Tony asked, taking one of the cut grapes and plopping it into his mouth, much to Charlotte's dismay. She covered the bowl with her hands.
"It crashed," Joey said. "I think we're going to have to restart."
"You better not have broken that thing, Tony," Benny said. "Bailino will fuckin' freak."
"I didn't break it," Tony said and then looked at Joey. "Did I?"
"I don't think so." Within a few minutes, Joey had the machine up and running and all new windows appeared, much to Jamie's relief.
"You'll have to log yourself back into Facebook, Ton," Joey said.
"Shit, I was playing Texas Hold 'em. I better not have fuckin' lost my chips."
"You lost more than that a long time ago," Leo said, sitting on the couch and cracking open a beer. He looked at Jamie and smiled. "So, Dimples, what should we do now?"
Chapter 26
The general visitors' room at the Stanton correctional facility looked like a school lunchroom, with its long bench tables; windows inlaid with wire mesh; dirty, cracked tiled floors; and creaky fans lining the ceiling overhead, blowing back down little more than an odor of sweat. Gino's memory of that room, the memory of his mother's, and later his wife's, touch on his arm, of their earnest belief that Gino was, at heart, a good boy, faded as he entered the death-row visitors room, a cramped four-by-four space with nothing but a bench situated below a narrow safety-glass window. With hands and feet shackled, Gino shuffled over and took his appointed seat.
On the other side of the glass, Don Bailino held up a piece of paper. On it was a drawing, colored with crayons, of a stick-figured man and a stick-figured little girl standing outside a house in a green field. In purple crayon, scrawled at the top was, "Me and Pop-Pop."
"From Gina," Bailino said with a smile. His voice was tinny coming from the small speaker in the corner of the room.
Gino nodded. He had never seen his great-granddaughter, who had been named for him. And, very probably, never would.
"You all right?" Bailino asked.
Gino nodded again, his eyes on the drawing on Bailino's lap.
"All is all right here too," Bailino said. It wasn't worth bothering Gino with the details of the second abduction and the fact that three-and-a-half grown men couldn't take care of one infant. He looked at the security camera overhead.
Gino reached into his pocket to take out a cigarette he didn't have. He fumbled with the flap of his shirt fabric as he too eyed the camera focused on him.
"Fuckin' Potsie, what a goof," Gino said, the steely look returning to his eyes.
Bailino nodded.
Years ago, when he had first come to Stanton and was a relatively young man, Gino had been told by the medical staff that he was entering early-stage dementia because he was prone to sudden outbursts of gibberish. Although his brain scans were clean, the episodes appeared to become more frequent over the years, and soon Gino developed the reputation of a poor old man who was progressively losing his marbles. The prison psychologist had other ideas, of course. Because Gino's outbursts occurred particularly with visiting family and friends, she wrote in his report: "Gino is unable to deal with the horrific nature of his crimes and face his loved ones. Therefore, his conscious self-subverts, or hides, which most commonly manifests as disorganized speech or thinking with significant social dysfunction." The psychologist requested a meeting with Bailino in 2004 to explain her diagnosis and ask that Bailino remain calm during these periods of disorientation. Bailino said he would do all that he could to make Gino comfortable.
Bailino smiled at the memory, at the way the psychologist, a kid barely out of school, spoke to him in that rehearsed maternal, calm voice that always got on his nerves. He even let her put her hand on his as a show of sympathy. As he watched her walk out the door in her tight navy-blue suit, he couldn't help but smile. With all her years of training and those expensive little pieces of paper hanging on her office wall, Ms. Psychologist failed to deduce that Gino Cataldi's mind was far from disorganized. Rather, it was icy sharp, and his ramblings a cover for a lifetime of covert operations taking place right under the nose of New York's finest.
As a young marine in World War II, Gino served in the Pacific Theater with a group of young Navajo men who had been enlisted to help the United States strengthen military communications, since Japanese intelligence experts were breaking every code that US forces devised. These young men, many of them boys who had never been off their reservations before, would become known as the Navajo Code Talkers and create the only unbroken code in modern military history, saving thousands of lives and helping to end the Second World War. For many years after the war, their code was considered a military secret too important to divulge; however, it finally was declassified in 1968, about the same time Gino had been pinched for his first homicide.
Using the basic tenets of the Navajo code, Gino devised a way to communicate clandestinely with family and colleagues, while living in the fishbowl that was the New York State Department of Correctional Services. The secret language had baffled law enforcement, who had begun to suspect that Gino was using code to manage his illegal operations, particularly after several known enemies of his had turned up in the Hudson in 1975, but they could never be sure. And because Gino had gotten into the habit of talking nonsense in areas other than the visitors' room—in his cell, in the weight room, in the yard—he managed to throw police detectives off his scent.
As with the Navajo code, Gino's language wasn't complicated at all, but actually very simple: Gino used old neighborhood slang, or terms that were derivatives of neighborhood slang, for related words. For example, the word for killed was upstate, or any variation of the word, such as up or state, since the old gang, back in the Brooklyn days of Gino and Bailino's father, referred to anything north of the New York City border as The Kills—Fishkill, Peekskill, etc. Cops were blue, and mothers were white. Ex-cons were striped. Words that didn't have an associated term, such as people's names, were spelled out or abbreviated using slang words that represented letters of the alphabet, excluding curse words, articles, and pronouns. Therefore, if Gino said, "Fuckin' Potsie, what a goof," he was asking about Phillip Grand—Potsie and goof represented the initials in play, P. G. After many years, Gino and Bailino had developed a succinct and thorough shorthand.
"And the blue?" Gino asked.
Bailino shook his head no.
Gino nodded. "It's time."
Bailino nodded.
There was an awkward pause. Business was done. Under normal circumstances, these kinds of visitations were full of emotional outbursts, the kissing lips of family members or lovers separated by wire-mesh glass, but the two men simply sat and stared. Gino glanced at the guard behind him and returned his gaze to Bailino. "You're looking healthy today."
Bailino lifted his shoulders in uncertainty. "Am I?" he asked, looking down at his clothing and then at Gino's. At Stanton, death-row inmates were distinguished from other inmates by their orang
e T-shirts; their pants were the same blue-colored trousers.
"No, it's in your face," Gino said. "Something's different."
Bailino folded the drawing and put it in his pocket. "ToniAnne wants to come."
"No!" Gino said. "I told you this last week."
"I know, but she keeps asking. I told her that I would mention it again."
"I can't... see her now, Donny," Gino said, his eyes focusing on a speck of dirt on the corner of the glass window. He reached out and scraped it with his fingernail. "How's Joey?"
"Good, good. Picked him up in the City yesterday. Enjoying his spring break. You know he got accepted to MIT?" Bailino said with pride.
"No shit. Fucking $60,000 a year. And for what?"
"It's a good school, Jeen. The kid's bright."
"So are you, and you didn't go to some fancy-pants school. Kid should be going into the military. Knock some sense into him."
Bailino hesitated. This was a sore subject for him. Although he was the first to admit that most college-educated adults were no smarter or more successful than anyone else, especially nowadays when a witty Twitter profile could land someone a book deal, he had pressured ToniAnne to have Joey apply to MIT and a few Ivy-League schools. The kid had an IQ of 150 and needed to be around people like himself, not the slobs he was hanging around with now.
"I respectfully disagree," Bailino said with a laugh.
"We're so polite today." Gino gave a slight chuckle himself. "Did you get the Earl?"
Bailino shook his head. Gino had slipped back into code and was asking about the name of the executioner. The state of New York used private citizens as its executioners, paying them a paltry $150 per execution, but their identities remained anonymous. Last week, Don had tried to find out who the state was using, but couldn't. He wasn't sure how much time it would buy them—if any—to knock off the guy, or girl, the morning of the execution. Still, it had never been tried and was an interesting alternate plan. He had to give Gino credit.
Gino tilted his head so that his left ear nearly met his left shoulder, and Bailino thought he could hear Gino's neck crack through the thick glass.
"Do you have everything you need?" Bailino said.
"Yes, everything I could ever want."
"Good. Then I need something done for me."
"Really? I'll have to check my calendar and get back to you."
"You know what I mean," Bailino said. He held up three fingers.
"Yeah, I know," Gino said, knowing Bailino was referring to the $3 million he was promised for organizing this little scheme.
"And, of course, there's the other thing."
Curiosity getting the better of him, the prison guard stationed behind Gino leaned in, waiting for the words, but they never came. They didn't have to. For Gino, the message was loud and clear. Don Bailino wanted what he'd always wanted. Out.
Chapter 27
Although it made sense that he would be shaken up, given the events of the past twenty-four hours, Phillip Grand felt the need to appear calm before the mansion's front security guard, as if looking nervous would give away his meeting with Bailino.
"Hey, Barry," he said as nonchalantly as he could, as the gates opened for his limousine.
"You okay, Governor?" Barry asked.
"Yes, yes, fine, thank you." Phillip forced a smile, and as Henry pulled the car up the driveway, the governor eyed his security guard, who was eating a large sandwich inside the small gate booth, with suspicion. Arthur had been their day security guard for Phillip's first term, but had expressed interest in moving to the nightshift when the previous night guard decided to retire. Apparently, Arthur's wife had had enough of domesticity and decided to go back to work after their youngest went into full-day kindergarten, and Arthur felt strongly, as Phillip did, that at least one parent should be home when the kids stepped off the school bus. Phillip was happy to oblige the request, and Barry was hired not long afterward to take Arthur's shift. In the short time Barry had been with the Grands, he had been reprimanded twice for drinking on the job and once for sleeping. Phillip had wanted to let him go three months ago, but Katherine insisted he stay, not because she had any real affinity for him, but because she was carefully watching the number of minorities they had on staff in order to, as she said, "keep the NAACP and their ilk" off their backs. Barry satisfied two minority categories: He was black and he was gay. Plus, he walked with a slight limp that didn't affect his job performance, but was enough to classify him as disabled in the eyes of the government. In terms of appeasing the AFL-CIO, Barry was the holy grail.
Phillip's cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. It was his mother. Crap.
"Hi, Mother."
"Phillip, was I supposed to meet you at the diner today? Didn't you remember that I was taking a trip with the girls this week to Buffalo to see Aunt June?"
"Yes, I remembered."
"Then why were you there?"
In so many ways, Albany, the capital city of one of the biggest states in the union, was like a small town. "How did you know I was there?"
"Jason Seegert... you know, Edna's son, had stopped in to pick up a pie and saw you sitting alone at the counter."
"No, no, I did remember," Phillip said. "I just wanted to grab a bite to eat. How are you, Mother?"
"Oh, I'm fine. Picked up a pretty little sweater at the outlets here although the prices don't seem much lower than at a regular store."
"That's nice," Phillip said. He hated keeping anything from his mother, with whom, despite a few contentious years when he was a teenager, he had a relatively good relationship. But there was no reason to alarm her yet. "Listen, I've got to go, governor stuff... I love you."
"Love back, Phillip." That was the closest his mother came to saying I love you. "Aunt June says hello. And tell Charlotte that Grandma will see her this weekend."
"This weekend?"
"Yes, you haven't forgotten, have you?"
"No, no... I, um..."
His mother breathed a heavy sigh of annoyance. "For the tulip festival. Check your calendar, dear. I'm sure it's on there. And remember to give that housekeeper, nanny, whatever she is, the afternoon off. I don't need her hovering around."
"Her name is Rosalia, Mother."
"Whatever."
"Have a good day, Mother."
Phillip stuck his phone in his pocket and ran his fingers through his hair. The feeling that time was running out overcame him, and even after Henry opened his door, he stayed inside the car to gain his composure.
"Sir?" Henry's face looked concerned.
Henry Jackson, named after his great-grandfather, three kids, married for twenty-seven years, hired three days after the beginning of Phillip's second term. Everything Phillip knew about Henry filled his mind. But what didn't he know? Someone had to be Bailino's inside man. As good as Bailino was, he needed access, someone to guarantee that he could get in and out of the mansion undetected. Was it Henry? Or Barry?
"Yes, Henry, thank you." Phillip stepped out of the car and was instantly reminded of one of those horror films where all the villagers turn into zombies and stare. The groundskeepers, normally quite reticent no matter what time of day, instead were alert and chatty, but they all stopped what they were doing when Governor Grand walked toward the mansion. Mario, the gardener, who was tending the rose bushes along the main walkway, took off his cap and placed it by his heart.
Mario Lopez, twenty-seven years old, single, conscientious worker, helped Katherine into the house that day last fall when her briefcase flopped open and her paperwork spilled out.
Glen, the head groundskeeper, stopped mowing and bowed his head. Glen Scheuer, thirty-two, majored in accounting at SUNY Albany, but fell in love with flowers while working part time at Gretchen's Greenhouse and switched his major to business. Opened up his own landscaping firm seven years ago.
He eyed them all distrustfully.
"Governor." Det. Matrick was standing just outside the front door to the
mansion. He nodded as Phillip came up the front steps. "Did you have a good drive?"
Phillip thought he could sense irony in the detective's voice, but he just nodded and walked inside. Katherine was sitting in the main dining room at the head of the long wooden table, a historic furnishing that still featured the parallel etchings at its head made by Franklin Roosevelt's wheelchair. Her laptop was open, and Phillip could see she was working on an Excel document.
"Why were you at the diner?" Katherine asked without looking up when Phillip walked in.
Phillip sighed. He didn't know why he even bothered trying to be so secretive. "I needed air."
"The air here isn't to your liking."
"Jesus, Katherine, after what's happened, is it that unusual I needed to get away from you? I mean... here?"
Katherine was quiet.
"Have you heard anything?" Phillip asked.
She shook her head. "Have you?"
The thought of lying to Katherine again within the span of a few hours made Phillip feel more than deceitful—it made him feel practically unfaithful. Eventually, he was going to have to tell her, but before he could say anything, Katherine's cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID.
"Hello, Mara," she said into the phone, glaring at Phillip. "What? I can't understand... TMZ what?" Katherine frowned.
"What is it?" the governor asked.
Mrs. Grand threw the phone on the table and typed TMZ.com into her browser. A large photo of Charlotte Grand, credited to an anonymous source, appeared on the Web site's homepage. The photo looked like it had been taken at the Veterans Day parade in November: Charlotte, who was being held in Phillip's arms, was dressed in red, white, and blue and waving a small flag. Beside the photo, a screaming headline read: "Grand Larceny? NY Gov's Daughter Goes Missing."
"Son of a bitch!" Katherine said. She and Phillip inched closer to the computer screen.
"According to an Albany police report—obtained by TMZ—Charlotte Grand went missing on the afternoon of April 10, 2012. Police at this time have no leads, but have questioned the mansion family and staff."