by Joseph Badal
He noticed his soft-sided bag on the floor near the room door. Someone had been kind enough to retrieve it from Ramsey’s car. At least he wouldn’t have to wear the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. After he showered, shaved, and dressed in jeans and a white dress shirt, he left the room and tiptoed down the hall to the staircase. He’d descended only a few steps when a very large man in a shiny suit appeared at the bottom.
In a hoarse whisper, the man asked, “You need somethin’, sir?”
“Thank you,” O’Neil said. “I thought I might be able to get a cup of coffee.”
They walked to a sunroom where the man told O’Neil to take a seat at a small table and left him there. A second man soon appeared with a silver tray. On the tray were a folded copy of the Philadelphia Inquirer, a silver coffee service, a small bowl of fruit, and a plate of pastries. Alone again in the quiet of the room, with the morning sun peeking through the windows, O’Neil opened the newspaper and flipped through the pages. A small article on page 11 caught his eye: “Marine Found Dead.”
The article said that Gunnery Sergeant Samuel Collins, a personnel specialist at the Pentagon, had been murdered in his automobile outside his home, killed by one shot to his head. O’Neil’s breath caught in his chest. The police stated there had been no witnesses. No suspects. No motive. The article noted that a wife and five children survived Sergeant Collins.
O’Neil felt sick, as low as he’d ever felt. One shot to the head. The same MO as in the slayings of Richard Sykes, Eric Carbajal, Fred Laniewski, and five others. Dennis dropped the newspaper on the table and covered his face with his hands. He didn’t just feel sick; he felt heartsick. He recalled how shook up Collins had been when he saw him last. Now that it was too late, he realized Collins’s instincts had been better than his own. He thought about calling the D.C. police to tell them what he knew, but abandoned the thought. As he’d told David Hood, he didn’t know who to trust anymore.
Ramsey felt rested when she woke at 8 a.m. She looked around the room and shook her head. Wonder what Lieutenant Croken would say about this. She thought she’d better check in with her office as she’d been out of contact for over twenty-four hours. Croken would, at the very least, be worried by now. She suspected he’d be pissed off, too. He didn’t like it when his people dropped off his radar screen.
She reached for her purse to get her cellphone and remembered one of Bartolucci’s men had confiscated her phone. She dressed and went downstairs. One of the guards stood at the front door.
“I need to use the telephone. I haven’t checked in with my office for over twenty-four hours.”
The man pointed at a small table in the entrance foyer. “There’s a phone in the drawer. Don’t tell anyone where you’re at.”
“Detective Bureau, Rudy Anderson.”
“Anderson, it’s Jennifer Ramsey. Is Lieutenant Croken in?”
“No, not yet. Can I take a message?”
“That’s okay,” Ramsey said. “Put me into his voicemail.”
When Detective Roger Cromwell entered the Bethesda Detective Bureau offices at ten that morning, he made a beeline to the reception desk. “Anything from Ramsey?” he asked Rudy Anderson.
“Yeah, she called in about two hours ago. Left a message for the lieutenant. But he isn’t in yet.”
Cromwell crossed the room to the break room and poured himself a cup of coffee. He knew exactly what he would do by the time he reached his desk.
The voicemail system in the Detective Bureau was simple. A caller could leave a message on an individual extension. The owner of the extension could pick up his messages by dialing a common seven-digit number, waiting for a recorded message, and punching in his four-digit extension number. Then he had to enter a security code. Most of the detectives just used their extension number as their security code. It was easier to remember. Cromwell accessed the voicemail system, punched in Croken’s four-digit extension, and then held his breath as he tapped in Croken’s extension again. He let out his breath when the code worked. He scanned through Croken’s messages—eight of them—until he came to Ramsey’s message. He was surprised to learn she was in Philadelphia and had connected with David Hood. She went on to say she was convinced of Hood’s innocence, mentioned the murders of men who had served with Hood in Afghanistan, and that two more attempts on his life had occurred.
“Sonofabitch,” Cromwell said. It appeared that Hood might be innocent, after all, which made Ramsey look good and him look bad.
“That bitch!” he muttered.
What really surprised Cromwell was Ramsey’s comment about possible CIA involvement. She mentioned a name: Rolf Bishop.
Cromwell licked his lips. He needed to do something. He had to find out Ramsey’s location.
Cromwell called a contact at the telephone company and told the guy he needed a favor.
At 11:30 a.m., Dennis O’Neil, Peter and David Hood, Gino Bartolucci, and Jennifer Ramsey met around Bartolucci’s large mahogany dining table.
O’Neil rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. He stared at the sheet of paper with the names of the SLSD personnel Sam Collins had given him. He’d briefed the others about everything he’d learned about the SLSD and the deaths of the men who’d served in that unit. He also told the group about his connection to Collins and the Marine’s murder.
Gino provided information his men had acquired from Montrose Toney, which implicated Rolf Bishop. But no one had been able to come up with a motive.
“You know, we’ve talked a lot about the murdered men,” Gino said. “But, weren’t there others in the unit? I seem to recall there were four more besides David and Bishop.”
“That’s right,” O’Neil said. “But remember they were all accounted for, at least in the sense they all died years ago—according to their military records in two cases, and police and VA records in the other two cases.”
“Okay, so humor me,” Gino said. “Let’s talk about the other four who died years ago.”
It took a few minutes for David to talk about Roland Wilson, the man killed in an automobile accident, and Emile Jackson, the one who had died of cancer.
O’Neil added what he’d learned from Collins about the men’s deaths. “There was nothing suspicious about those two men’s deaths,” O’Neil said.
“Who’s next on the list?” David asked.
“Andrew King,” O’Neil answered.
“God, I can remember my conversation with Captain King as though it happened yesterday,” David said. “He went out to the U.S. Army Warehouse Complex in Kabul to try to locate a recent shipment of M-16 and M-4 rifles and ammunition. I volunteered to go, but King told me he’d take care of it. It could have been me who died that day.” He told the others in the room how King’s body had been found in a Kabul alley. He’d been shot.
They all agreed there was no way they could tie King’s death to Bishop.
The last name was Sergeant Robert Campbell’s. O’Neil related the story he’d gotten from Sam Collins. “Two kids were necking in a car near a marshy area outside New York City in 2004. Apparently, it was a warm night and the kids had their windows down. They smelled something awful outside the car and the boy stepped out to investigate and found the body.”
“You mean the body was just there by the side of the road?” Ramsey asked.
“No,” O’Neil said. “It had been stuffed into a fifty-five-gallon drum. The top had come off the drum. It had contaminated waste markings on it. The cops in New York assumed it had been an organized crime hit because of the drum and the location where it was discovered. Apparently, it was a popular way and location to dispose of bodies. But when they identified the body, they were surprised. The victim was a soldier, not a New York Family member.”
Gino’s body fairly vibrated with tension. Dennis O’Neil’s tale about Robert Campbell’s death, the discovery of the man’s body
in a fifty-five-gallon drum, and the markings on the drum set off his internal radar. He left the others and placed a call to a private cellphone number in New York City. A man answered.
“This is an old friend from Philadelphia. I need to talk to the boss.”
“Would this old friend have a name?” the man asked.
“Tell him it’s Gino.”
A second later, Gino heard Joey Cataldo’s rich baritone voice. “Come va?”
“Bene,” Gino said. “How would you feel about a visit from an old friend?”
“I am always open to visits from old friends. Especially distinguished old friends. On what day would that visit occur?”
“Tomorrow for dinner at the same place we met on my last visit.”
CHAPTER 26
It took Rolf Bishop almost a full day to calm down enough to think rationally. The two dead bodies and the note found inside the Explorer had driven him to fruitless speculation about who could have orchestrated the stunt. It had to be David Hood, he thought. But how could Hood, a small businessman, have tied him to Strong and McCoy?
On Thursday, in his office, and in a much less emotional state, he wrote a list of action items:
1. Declare Hood a clear & present danger to national security.
2. Identify all Hood associates, friends, & family.
3. Get Hood’s credit card account numbers. Try to track his movements through purchases.
4. Have the NSA trace calls to and from Hood’s phone.
5. Get police to put out APB on Hood’s vehicles.
6. Key employees at Hood’s company. Any aware of his location?
He reviewed the list and got a sinking feeling. The list was no better than some kid’s Christmas gift wish list. Action on any or all of the items on the list would raise red flags that could bring attention to him.
Bishop called in Winfred Kingston, his personal assistant, and told him he needed his help. Kingston was an earnest young man who had been at the Agency for fourteen months.
“I need you to run down some information for me,” Bishop said, “and you need to keep this confidential. It’s personal, but I think you’ll understand after you hear the whole story. Do you recall that explosion in Bethesda about two weeks ago?”
“Yes, sir,” Kingston replied. “The one that killed an entire family. They ever catch the people who did it?”
“No,” Bishop said. “The local cops have no real suspects. But you’re not quite correct. One person survived the blast. His name is David Hood. He served in one of my units in Afghanistan. He was a fine soldier . . . Army Ranger, highly decorated, tremendous potential for advancement. But he left the service after he was badly wounded. Went on to college. Anyway, Hood has vanished since his family was buried. I want you to find him. He may need my help.
“Not only must we find Hood,” Bishop continued, “but we must also try to find out who killed his family.”
Kingston looked as though he was in orgasmic ecstasy. His face was red and his eyes were wide open. He licked his lips and said, “I would be thrilled to assist, sir.”
Bishop handed the list of action items to Kingston. “I promise you, Winfred,” he said, “I won’t forget your help in this matter.”
After he left Bishop’s office, Kingston went directly to his desk and used his computer to search the database for every byte of information he could pull up on David Hood. He was a man on a mission. There was no way he would let Bishop down. For the next four hours, he captured all the mundane facts about Hood: date and place of birth; parents; Hood’s father’s stint with the Army; the deaths of Hood’s brother and mother; schools he attended; military service; jobs; Security Systems, Ltd.; foreign travel; date of marriage; children’s names and birth dates; tax returns; etc. He pulled up Peter Hood’s military file. All for nothing. Then he looked into Carmela Maria Hood’s background. He learned her maiden name. He typed “Bartolucci” into the computer.
The computer spewed data—page upon page about Gino Bartolucci. While he scrolled through the information, Winfred Kingston became very excited. Did the Director know Carmela Maria Hood was the daughter of Gino Bartolucci, a Mafia Don? He reached for his telephone.
“I just bet you could tell me all sorts of little secrets,” the thirty-eight-year-old wife of the Secretary of Defense whispered in his ear. Her Texas accent dripped with promise of things to come. When he tilted his head slightly in her direction, Bishop got a full shot of her ample freckled bosom and of the fortune in diamonds and emeralds strategically placed to accent her cleavage. The woman once again squeezed his thigh under the table.
He smiled at her; his white teeth flashed, predator-like. “But Madam, if I told you secrets, then I would have to kill you.”
The cabinet secretary’s wife tittered, glanced across the table at her much older husband deep in conversation with some senator’s wife, again placed a hand on Bishop’s leg, and whispered, “Why, Mr. Bishop, you do say the most exciting things.”
Once again amazed at the seductive nature of power and position, he was about to slip her his personal card with his private phone number, when another guest, Walter Preston, asked, “Director Bishop, do you think the Russian government will ever be able to break the stranglehold the Mafia has on their country’s economy?”
Bishop knew Preston had invested hundreds of millions of dollars in Siberian gas exploration. He understood the man’s question wasn’t casual. He also knew Preston’s partners in the gas deal were top players in the Russian Mafia, the Bratva. Preston was fishing for information, perhaps to find out if the CIA knew about his business arrangements and what the CIA might be up to in Russia.
“It would be my suggestion to anyone who wants to do business in the Russian Republic that they attempt to coexist with all centers of influence,” Bishop said.
Preston smiled, apparently pleased with the response. He looked as though he was about to say something more when Bishop’s cellphone vibrated. Bishop rose from his seat at the dining table, excused himself, walked to the hallway outside the dining room, and took the call.
“What is it, Kingston?” he demanded, irritated at the interruption.
“Mr. Bishop, I have information that could be of interest to you.”
Bishop waited for Kingston to continue.
“David Hood’s wife’s maiden name was Bartolucci. She was the daughter of Gino Bartolucci, the Philadelphia Mafia Don.”
Bishop’s heartbeat accelerated. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense. If Hood had allied with Bartolucci, then the resources available to Hood were indeed significant. “Good job, Kingston,” Bishop said. “Fax the information to my home machine.”
He returned to the dining room and apologized to his host and hostess. “Business,” he said. “I’m sure you understand.”
On the ride to his Georgetown townhome, Bishop considered his next steps. One thing was certain. He would have to eliminate Kingston. The kid could be a liability.
APRIL 24
CHAPTER 27
New York City Capo, Joey Cataldo, had been happy to hear from Gino Bartolucci. He’d always liked and respected the old Don. But the call had intrigued him, too. He sipped his Amaretto and thought again that Bartolucci wasn’t the type to socialize without some ulterior motive. To Cataldo, and to just about every Mafioso in the country, Don Bartolucci was a legend. The man had never been indicted or convicted of any crime, had amassed a fortune, and now lived off the earnings of a score of legitimate enterprises. He was a model for the modern-day capo. But while he sat in a private dining room at Il Stazione Restaurant in Manhattan and waited for the old Don to show up, he wondered again why, after so many years, Bartolucci had called him.
Cataldo was a phenomenon in his own right. He’d survived while the rest of the leaders of the old Zefferelli Family had either been killed or put away for the rest of their lives. When t
he Feds brought RICO indictments against the Zefferelli hierarchy, all they could pin on Cataldo was a racketeering conviction for bookmaking. This was such an inconsequential crime, as far as the trial judge was concerned, that Cataldo spent only thirteen months in a Federal Penitentiary. Frankie Zefferelli and several of his lieutenants received life without possibility of parole for murder, drug trafficking, prostitution, gambling, and myriad other crimes. A total of thirteen senior members of the Family were sent away. After Joey Cataldo got out of prison, he took over the organization. And in a brilliant political maneuver only one week after his release from prison, he invited the Dons from all the crime families to a summit conference in Guadalajara, Mexico.
Cataldo established himself as a visionary leader when he announced to the group he would allow each of the other families to buy into the Zefferelli Family’s Caribbean casinos—“to dip their beaks.” The acceptance of the offer by the other Dons sent a message to the entire underworld that Joey Cataldo had been accepted and anyone who challenged his authority would challenge the judgment of all of the Families. Of course, what choice did the other Capos have? Cataldo had a huge amount of information about their involvement in narcotics trafficking and had let them know how that information would remain “in a safe place” as long as they supported him.
Il Stazione Ristorante was one of Cataldo’s “legitimate” businesses. It was now one of Manhattan’s “in” places: dark and intimate, white tablecloths, Deruta ceramics on high shelves, tuxedoed waiters, one of the best wine cellars in the city. Cataldo and one of his bodyguards sat at a corner table in the back, set ten feet away from the next closest table. He swept his hands through his thick, salt-and-pepper mane of hair. He was vain about his looks and his wavy hair had always been a part of that vanity. He knew he was a handsome man—the women had let him know that even before he had power. Even as a teenage street thug, Cataldo attracted the girls. He was tall—six feet four—and still powerfully built.