Boff tore off the page on his note pad with the Social Security and phone numbers O’Connor had given him. He handed it to his ex-DEA partner, and told him Maloney’s full name.
“How soon do you need this done?”
“As quickly as possible.”
Hannah stepped into the conversation. “I’ve got a question, too,” she said. “How much can you find out about somebody with just those numbers?”
“Just about anything and everything.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Tell me your Social Security number and I’ll give you a quick demonstration.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I don’t know you well enough to trust you with my Social Security number.”
“Boff trusts me.”
“Another good reason not to give you my number.”
Wright looked amused. “Let me ask you something, then,” he said. “The first time you went to see your physician, did you have to put your Social Security number down on a form?”
“Yes, but….”
“But you trust physicians.” Wright looked at Boff. “Frank, how much do you trust doctors?”
“About as far as I can throw them. Hannah, the four lowest life forms on earth are lawyers, doctors, FBI agents, and priests. In that order.”
Wright grinned and looked back at the redhead. “Do you have a bank account?”
“Sure.”
“Banks require your Social Security number before they let you open an account. So do credit card companies.”
“Yes, but—”
“—but you trust banks and credit card companies?”
“Well…uh…no, not exactly. I just didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Actually, you did, but I don’t have time to go into that now. Let me get to work on this rush job Frank just handed me.”
Chapter 13
The next day Wallachi called Boff to tell him he had set up a meeting for him with the op in his company who had been a cop in the 71st Precinct. With time to kill before the meeting, Boff suggested they have lunch again at Nathan’s. Before heading there, he picked up Cullen and Hannah. When they arrived at the restaurant, Boff’s friend was already there, drinking coffee at a table.
As they took their seats, Wallachi said, “Manny’s coming, too. But he’s late.”
“Par for the course,” Boff said. He turned to Hannah. “Manny is Wallachi’s, uh, apprentice. More or less.”
Wallachi made a face. “Frank, you’re not going to rag on Manny and ruin my lunch, are you?”
“I’ll try not to, but you know he brings out the worst in me.”
Wallachi shook his head and looked at Cullen. “How’s the shoulder, Danny?”
“I’m almost ready to spar.”
Then, turning to Hannah, the investigator said, “And you are…?”
“Hannah Riley. I cover crime and the courts for the Brooklyn Eagle.”
“She’s a protégé of Cassidy’s,” Boff added.
Wallachi nodded. “So…when Cassidy hired Frank, you came with the deal? Is that it?”
“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” she said. “Uncle Mike thinks Boff can help me on this case. And vice versa.”
Wallachi took a quick sip of coffee. “So…how do you like working with the Big Boffer?”
“I don’t. But he’s a necessary evil.”
Boff’s stomach was growling so he cut off the chit-chat. “Pete, let’s go order.”
After they had gotten their food and sat back down to eat, Manny Lipinski showed up carrying a big camera bag slung over one shoulder. He was a muscular guy in his mid-thirties who considered himself a crack op. Crack up was more like it, Boff thought.
“You’re late,” Wallachi said.
Manny pulled over a chair from another table and sat down. “Sorry. I had to—”
“Never give me excuses,” Wallachi said. “How many times do I have to tell you that before it sinks into your thick skull? Either you’re on time, or you’re not. Okay, go order something.”
As Manny headed for the counter, Boff noted that the crack op was wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt. The last time Boff had been forced to work with Manny, he’d showed up for surveillance looking like a stockbroker in a charcoal gray suit, a powder blue shirt, a yellow tie, and a shiny, silver tie clip. Boff had ridden him hard about how stupid it was for an investigator to dress so noticeably, especially on surveillance.
The crack op returned to the table a few minutes later with a hot dog, fries, and a king-sized soda. Looking like he’s just noticed Hannah for the first time, he put on his best smile and smoothest voice. “Hi, Gorgeous. I’m Manny Lipinski. I’m one of Pete’s top operatives.”
“Hannah Riley,” she said in a voice well south of interested.
Manny caught his boss frowning at him.
“Top operatives?” Wallachi repeated.
Manny made a face. “Well, Pete, I like to think of myself as one of your top people because you take me wherever you go.”
“The only reason I do that,” his boss said, “as you well know, is because you’re a work in progress and need to be trained.”
Shrugging that off, Manny turned his attention back to Hannah. “Are you Cullen’s girlfriend?”
“Not a chance.”
“So, like, do you have a boyfriend?” When she shook her head, he plowed on. “Then, you know, maybe, like, you and I could have, like, dinner some time.”
The redhead rolled her eyes. “Aw, Jesus Christ, you guys! Am I wearing a fucking sign that says Hit On Me?”
“Looking like you do,” Manny replied with another smile, “you don’t need a sign.”
At this point, Wallachi put his Philly cheese steak down and wagged a finger at his crack op. “Manny, do I have to remind you again to keep Wally One-Eye in your goddamn pants?”
Hannah blinked and looked around. “Who’s Wally One-Eye?”
Wallachi was about to tell her that Wally One-Eye was what Manny called his dick when the crack op leaned forward and said, “Pete, don’t say it.”
Wallachi picked up his sandwich again. “If you promise to behave.”
“You’ve got my word.”
“For what that’s worth,” Boff chipped in. Then he changed the subject. “Pete, what time are we going to meet with the ex-cop from the 71st?”
Wallachi checked his watch. “He’s winding up surveillance for me now at a warehouse loading dock in Crown Heights. I told him to meet us at a Dunkin’ Donuts that I know of near the warehouse. We’ve got forty-five more minutes.”
“Starting tomorrow,” Boff said, “I want to begin surveillance on Galvani.”
“No problem.”
Hannah looked at Boff. “Why do you want to follow Galvani around?”
“I’d like to see what he does when he’s off duty.”
“Because…?”
“It might give us some insight into him and his habits. Help us determine if he knows more about the Maloney murder than he’s told us.”
“You think he lied?”
“I have no idea. But bear in mind, Galvani spent five years in Narcotics. And narcs are trained to lie.”
“I’m coming along,” she said.
Cullen looked up from his salad. “Me, too.”
At which Wallachi made a face. “Five people on surveillance? Boy, that’ll make us real hard to spot.”
“Pete,” Boff said, “we won’t be tailing Galvani close enough for him to see us. Manny’s going to attach a GPS tracker to his car at the first place he stops at.” He looked at Manny. “You do know how to do that, don’t you?”
Manny made a face. “Duh! I’m surprised you didn’t ask me if I knew what a GPS tracker is.”
Boff smiled. “The thought did cross my mind.”
Wallachi’s investigator, Al Chapin, was waiting for them at a table in the Dunkin’ Donuts on Bedford Avenue. He was in his fifties with a round face, a double chin, and a pencil-thin
mustache. A camera case sat on the floor beside his chair.
After Wallachi introduced Chapin to the others, they ordered coffees and brought them to the table.
“So how’d the surveillance go?” Wallachi asked.
“There’s stealing going on for sure,” Chapin replied. “I took plenty of photos. Looks like the owners have a serious problem.”
“Good job. Write up your report and deliver it with the photos to the client tomorrow.”
“Will do.” Chapin turned to Boff. “Pete said you wanted to talk to me. What can I do for you?”
Boff took a quick sip on his coffee. “For starters, how long did you know Patrick Maloney and Eddie Galvani?”
Chapin took a moment before answering. “Both of them transferred into my precinct from Narcotics three years ago. I worked with them for two years before I retired from the force.” He paused and ran a finger along the rim of his cup for no apparent reason.
Boff got the impression the guy felt uncomfortable talking about fellow cops. “Al, how well did you know them?”
“Other than ‘choir practice,’ I—”
Hannah leaned forward. “What’s choir practice?”
“It’s what we called the time we spent after a shift drinking with other cops. Now, as I was saying, I didn’t really hang with them other than choir practice. I’m married, they were single. My wife likes to have me around when I’m not working.”
“What’d you think of them as cops?” Boff asked.
Chapin shrugged. “They closed a higher share of cases than most. Everybody seemed to like and respect them. Including the captain.”
“You ever notice these guys do anything out of line?”
“Uh, no, Mr. Boff, no, I didn’t. They did things by the book. Well, as much as any cop can do and still make collars. I seem to recall them getting a couple of commendations.”
Boff paused a moment so it wouldn’t seem like he was hammering the guy with questions. “Can you venture a guess as to why someone would’ve wanted to kill Maloney?”
Chapin shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind. Generally, if a cop gets killed, it’s in the line of duty. Vendettas are pretty rare.”
“Is it possible,” Boff continued, “that Maloney was involved in some kind of criminal activity off the job?”
“Well, sure…uh, that’s certainly possible. But the majority of the bad apples on the force are in Narcotics, Vice, or Patrol.”
“And did they ever say anything about why they transferred in from Narcotics?”
“They didn’t have to, Mr. Boff. Undercover work is the most dangerous detail on the force. The burnout rate is high. These guys did five years undercover. A lot more than the average.”
Boff sipped his coffee before asking another question. “Did you ever catch either one of them in a lie? Or witness them cutting corners that were borderline rule violations?”
Chapin shrugged. “I dunno. I mean, not that I noticed. But, listen, Mr. Boff, every cop lies once in awhile and sometimes we—they—f lirt with rule infractions. The job is way too tough if you have to be a textbook cop.”
“One last thing,” Boff said. “Do you remember what shift Galvani was on?”
“Day. Although that could’ve changed.”
“When did Galvani generally knock off?”
“As I recall, he worked the eight-to-four.” Chapin finished his coffee and turned to his boss. “Pete, I gotta get going. The wife’s waiting for me.”
“Go ahead. And, again, nice job on the surveillance.”
“Thanks.” The op stood up, started to leave, then stopped and turned back. “I don’t know if this will have any bearing on your investigation, Mr. Boff. But one thing you should be aware of is that Narcotics is a cowboy culture where anything goes in the so-called war on drugs. Narcs are expected to make around sixty percent of their collars for felonies. Because of that pressure, they’ve been known to plant drugs on blameless people just to meet their arrest quotas.” Chapin shrugged. “Did these two guys do that? I don’t really know. But since they did work in Narcotics, I guess I couldn’t rule out them doing something illegal.”
“Thanks for the insight,” Boff said. “I know it was hard for you to talk about fellow cops.”
Chapin smiled. “You noticed, huh?”
“Yeah. I appreciate your willingness to help me.”
“No problem.” Looking relieved to be leaving, Chapin walked off.
Wallachi looked at Boff. “Did any of that help you?” he asked.
Boff shrugged. “No, not all that much. Let’s see what surveillance turns up.”
Chapter 14
The next day Boff was getting ready to head over to the gym when his information broker called.
Frank, here’s what I have on Maloney. The guy lived a little above his means, but not enough to raise a red flag. The only spikes in his spending came when he went on vacation.
“Where’d he go?”
This past year? To Puerto Rico and South Beach. The island is not that expensive, and in Miami he took a moderately-priced room that wasn’t close to the action.
“I assume he didn’t buy a new car or an expensive TV this year.”
That’s correct.
“What about his phone?”
His calls were all fairly routine. Except for several he made to various phone booths in Red Hook. I found that curious.
“Me, too. Good work.”
When Wallachi showed up with his crack op, Boff, Hannah, and Cullen were already waiting for them on the sidewalk outside the gym. Wallachi’s choice of wheels was a late model Crown Victoria with black walls, a former cop car. Boff got in the front, the others piled in back.
“Pete,” he asked, tapping the dashboard, “how long have you had this old buggy?”
“Six, seven years. A Crown Vic’s like a tank. It guzzles gas about as fast as you eat junk food, but the upside is that it’s rock solid, rides very well, and…” he glanced at the back seat, “is big enough to accommodate five people on surveillance.”
“Two of whom,” Cullen muttered as he looked at Manny and Hannah, “do nothing but gripe all the time.”
The first day’s stakeout was uneventful. After Galvani knocked off work, he came out of the precinct with a well-built Hispanic guy around his age. He and the Hispanic got in separate cars, headed off in the same direction, parked near a bar on Kingston Avenue that wasn’t far from the precinct, and walked inside. The surveillance team followed.
“That guy’s probably Galvani’s new partner,” Boff said.
Wallachi gave Manny two instructions. One, walk past the front window of the bar to see if Galvani and the other cop are meeting with someone. Two, attach a GPS tracking device under the rear of Galvani’s car, an old model red Mustang.
When Manny returned to the Crown Vic, he said, “They’re alone at the bar drinking beer and eating pretzels.”
“Use your BlackBerry, Manny,” Boff said. “Go online to a GPS tracking site called AccuTracking.” He spelled it for the crack op, then handed him a credit card to pay for the one-time activation fee of $59.95. He also instructed Manny to sign up for the fifteen-second update plan, which cost an additional $49.95 a month. It was pricey, but he planned to cancel the plan as soon as this case was over.
An hour later, Galvani and the Hispanic guy left the bar, shook hands, and went their separate ways. Wallachi was starting to pull out into traffic to track the cop, when Boff restrained one hand.
“Pete, let Galvani get at least a block head start. Even if we lose sight of him, it won’t matter. The tracking service will display a map on Manny’s BlackBerry that gives fifteen-second updates on the Mustang’s location, including the street and time he was there.”
After Galvani went for a haircut, he stopped at a small video store, came out carrying a bag, hit a Pathmark, then drove straight home to his apartment in a three-story limestone row house on a nice stretch of Brooklyn Avenue in Crown Heights.
W
allachi parked down the street from the building. “Frank, it looks like he’s going to eat, watch a movie, and call it a night.”
Boff nodded. “I agree. But let’s wait until nine before we split.”
Galvani didn’t come out again.
The next day, when they parked near the precinct, Wallachi sent Manny on a food run in case the surveillance ran long. An hour later, Galvani left the precinct by himself, hit a bar, ran some errands, and went home. Unlike the night before, he left his apartment at eight and walked a couple blocks to a neighborhood pub. Wallachi sent Manny inside.
The crack op returned ten minutes later. “He’s with some babe,” he reported. “They smooched a few times, and he held her hand while they waited for their food.”
Hannah leaned toward Boff. “Is surveillance always this boring?”
“Most of the time, yeah. Pete and I are used to this. I can’t speak for Manny or Cullen, though.”
“It sucks,” the crack op said.
Cullen nodded. “It sure does.”
“So far,” the redhead said, “the only thing we’ve learned about this cop is he seems to lead a fairly normal life off duty. How many more days do we have to follow him?”
“Oh, maybe five or six,” Boff replied. “Then, if it turns out he’s your average cop, we can stand down. For now, try to be patient. When surveillance yields something important, you’ll find it’s worth the wait.”
She took out her iPhone and made a call. “Hi, Uncle Mike … I’m with Boff, another investigator, and two horny young studs doing boring surveillance on Galvani. What’re you doing? … How was lunch? … Sounds better than what I ate. I had a crummy sandwich of Velveeta cheese and tomato on white bread. I told the guy who went out for sandwiches I wanted cheddar on whole wheat, but apparently he’s a bit mentally challenged.”
Manny poked her in the side. “Hey, that’s not nice! Next time you make the friggin’ sandwich run.”
She ignored him and talked a couple more minutes to Cassidy, then handed the phone over the front seat to Boff. “He wants to talk to you.”
The Payback Game Page 8