by Joseph Badal
When Cataldo saw Bartolucci enter the front door, preceded by a powerfully-built man who Cataldo knew was the old man’s bodyguard, he stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and waited respectfully. Other than the mass of the older man’s belly—which was bigger by at least two belt sizes since Cataldo had seen him last—Bartolucci still exuded authority. While Bartolucci walked toward him, Cataldo did what most people did—he stared at the old man’s hands. They were the biggest hands Cataldo had ever seen on a man Bartolucci’s size. He thought those hands could snap a man’s neck with ease.
They exchanged greetings in Italian and embraced. After the further formality of introducing their bodyguards to one another, the two Dons took their seats at the table. The bodyguards sat at a table by the front door.
Cataldo and Bartolucci spoke cordially, even affectionately, in whispered tones. Cataldo expressed condolences about Carmela’s death and the deaths of Gino’s grandchildren. They talked about old times and joked about characters they both had known. Not a word of business was spoken during their two-hour, five-course dinner.
After the waiter brought espresso, Gino said, “Joey, I know you would do anything you could to help me find the seppia who killed my angels.”
“Of course, Don Bartolucci. You know I’d personally rip the bastard’s heart out. But naturally, I would leave that honor to you.”
“Well, maybe you can help me. I believe the man who killed Carmela and my two grandchildren was really after my son-in-law. I also think the same man killed many other people who were in Afghanistan around the time my son-in-law served there. And I believe I know who that man is. But there is one thing I can’t figure out—the reason for the murders. It’s important because I need to know if I take revenge against this guy my son-in-law will then be safe. I figure this man has something big to hide. I want to know what that is. And I want to make sure there aren’t other people working with this guy.” Gino paused. “I’ve come across some information that maybe someone here in New York can explain. I figure you can probably find out who that might be.”
“Don Bartolucci, you know I’ll do all in my power to assist you. What is this information you have?”
“It’s about a murder, Don Cataldo. I’m hopeful you can ask around, see if anyone knows something about it. You see, one of the men who served with my son-in-law in Afghanistan was killed here in New York back in 2004, just two days after the guy left Afghanistan.”
Cataldo was confused. “Don Bartolucci. You have got to know there are a lot of murders in New York. And 2004 was a long time ago.” After a beat, Cataldo added, “What would I know about such a murder?”
Bartolucci nodded. “Sure, I understand all that. I’m not saying you know anything about it.”
“Of course, Don Bartolucci. What can you tell me about this . . . incident?”
“The police never found the killer. The guy’s body was found in a fifty-five-gallon drum.”
Cataldo nodded. “Doesn’t sound like a random mugging.”
“Right!” Bartolucci said. “Even more interesting, the drum the guy was found in had a label that sounded awfully familiar: AWD. I racked my brain and tried to remember why I knew that name. And then it hits me. That was one of Frankie Zefferelli’s companies. Atlantic Waste Disposal.”
Cataldo knew there were dozens of bodies packed away in drums all over the eastern seaboard. The body Bartolucci referred to could have been dumped by any one of hundreds of wiseguys connected with any one of dozens of criminal organizations. Hell, Cataldo had disposed of three guys in the same way himself, including one around 2004.
“What is it you want me to find out?” Cataldo asked. “You know nobody’s about to step forward and admit they killed this guy.”
“All I want to know is why this guy was hit. I don’t care who killed him.”
Cataldo asked, “What was the guy’s name?”
“Robert Campbell,” Gino replied. “Master Sergeant Robert Campbell.”
Cataldo felt a sharp pain in his stomach. He hoped his expression hadn’t changed. He couldn’t believe Campbell’s name had resurfaced after so many years. Cataldo excused himself and walked into the men’s room at the back of the restaurant. He paced the floor. He could promise Bartolucci he would try to help him and then do nothing. But he knew the old man was no dummy. If Bartolucci found out he’d been lied to, he would be a dangerously unhappy man.
Cataldo wet a paper towel and pressed it to his eyes. He took a deep breath and returned to the table.
“Don Bartolucci, I gotta tell you I’m uncomfortable about this . . . matter. I don’t need to check around about this Robert Campbell.”
“Why’s that, Don Cataldo?”
“You see, I know who killed Campbell.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“Bruno Giordano and I were with Frankie Zefferelli. He told us all about this drug connection he had in Afghanistan and how it’s about to be shut down. He told us our only contact with the supplier had been this Robert Campbell and he’d suspected all along Campbell was just a messenger boy for the real brains behind the operation. Campbell thought he’d been sent to New York to pick up payment for some dope. But he was there to get whacked.”
“Did Zefferelli ever say who the guy was who sent the wire?”
“No, he never said and I don’t think he ever knew. He referred to him as “The Priest.” But I’ll tell you one thing. Whoever that guy was, he was one mean son of a bitch. I mean, he wants a guy taken out who I assume has been his partner. Whatever, Campbell gets whacked and stuffed in a drum.”
Cataldo paused to sip his coffee. “Galupo and I picked up Campbell at The Plaza Hotel. The guy just left the asshole end of the universe and comes to New York and checks in at the friggin’ Plaza.” He shrugged. “I guess I’d do the same thing if I was in his place.
“Anyway, Campbell’s like a kid at Christmas. He’s pumped about being back in the States and he can hardly wait to get his hands on the dough. The whole time in the car he kept talkin’ about buying a ranch somewhere out west . . . Arizona, New Mexico, I don’t know. We took him out to the truck yard. It’s after 6 p.m., so there ain’t no workers around. Coupla of our guys put a few rounds in him and stuffed the body into one of the fifty-five-gallon drums they got there.”
“So, this is at Zeff’s AWD?”
“Yeah, we used it a lot back then. You could set off a bomb in that joint and no one would be around to hear it. It’s ten miles way the fuck out on the island. Anyway, they put the barrel on the back of a semi-truck already loaded with dozens of other drums filled with toxic waste.
“That night, all the drums were put on a barge and dropped in the East River. The toxic waste drums got weights in them so they sink right to the bottom. Except for the drum with the body. Our guys forgot to put rocks in the drum. Coupla’ weeks later, the drum pops to the surface, floats down the river, and gets washed up in some marshy lowlands. One night, some kids out messin’ around in a car found the drum and called the cops. There was a lot of heat on Atlantic Waste Disposal because of its name being on the drum. Can you believe it? Our guys put the body in a marked drum. Frankie’s attorney finally convinced the cops somebody must have stolen one of the company’s drums. Eventually, the pressure went away. But the guys who packed the body were on the shit list for a long time.”
Gino smiled at Joey. “Thanks.”
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“Can you tell me how the heroin came in?”
Cataldo smirked. “This had to be the sweetest deal you’ve ever heard of. In fuckin’ coffins! Every gram of the stuff came in under the bodies of boys killed in Afghanistan. It was pure genius, this guy who thought it up.”
“Not so brilliant; the guy just copied what had been done back in Vietnam. The operation over there did about the same thing, except the “H” was packed inside t
he corpses to make it more difficult for dogs to sniff the stuff. Caskets got shipped to family funeral homes with government contracts.”
“Yeah, sonofabitch, almost the same thing here. After we unloaded the smack, we sent the caskets to the soldiers’ hometowns.”
“And you have no idea who that guy was?”
“Not a clue. But whether he copped the idea or not, he must have had juice, brains, and balls to pull it off today, with all the computers and shit they got today.”
“Thanks,” Bartolucci said again. “You’ve been a big help.” He stood, and Cataldo rose with him. The two men embraced.
“Joey,” Bartolucci whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Take my advice. Next time, put some bowling balls in the drum before you dump it in the river.”
Bishop’s driver pulled the car into the garage at the back of the townhouse. Bishop entered the house and hurried up the stairs to his second-floor office, flipped on the lights, and removed several sheets of paper from the fax-machine tray. The message read: David Hood’s wife was born Carmela Bartolucci. Her father, Gino Bartolucci, was one of ten crime bosses in the U.S. until his “retirement” several years ago. Supposedly, his only business activities today are legitimate. I have included a list of all of Bartolucci’s known businesses, as well as all of his known addresses.
Kingston had already told him about David Hood’s connection to Gino Bartolucci, but the information about Bartolucci’s businesses might prove valuable. Then it hit Bishop that someone must have talked to Bartolucci and told him about his involvement with the attempts on Hood’s life. Either Zeke McCoy, Rodney Strong, or Montrose Toney.
Bishop felt a sudden chill. Why had there been no attempt on his life? Although he was not an easy target, he was not an impossible one.
APRIL 25
CHAPTER 28
Bishop called Kingston at 2 a.m. His assistant was still at his CIA office.
“What else have you come up with?” Bishop asked.
“Piles of stuff on Bartolucci. You want me to fax it, sir?”
“No, bring it by my house.” Bishop gave Kingston his address and told him to drive as fast as he could. His assistant dropped the package off one hour later.
Kingston hadn’t exaggerated when he said he had piles of stuff. His package contained hundreds of pages about Bartolucci and his businesses, past and present, legitimate and illegitimate, that the FBI, Interpol, and various state and local police organizations had gathered over many years. Through the complicated web of interlocking directorates, corporations, and subsidiaries, Bartolucci had tried to hide the real ownership of his various business interests. Bishop was impressed with the extent of the man’s holdings, including an estate in Chestnut Hill.
Before he’d finished his first read of the documents, Bishop dispatched a three-man private reconnaissance team to Philadelphia. He’d used the men before because they were loyal and competent. And they owed him. They were all former Special Ops who had been thrown out of the Army after they were caught trying to smuggle some of Saddam Hussein’s gold out of Iraq. Bishop bankrolled them into their own private operation and had hired them on numerous occasions.
One man would watch the Bartolucci home in South Philadelphia. The second man would park outside Bartolucci’s Market. The third was sent to the Chestnut Hill estate. Their assignment: Locate Gino Bartolucci and follow him. Bishop was hopeful that sooner or later Bartolucci would lead him to Hood. Then Bishop could give the order that would finally resolve his problem. And this time he would see to it there were no mistakes.
Gino didn’t even try to sleep in the back seat of the Cadillac on the trip back from New York City. He was too worked up about what he’d learned from Joey Cataldo. He opted to go to his South Philadelphia home instead of the Chestnut Hill estate. His wife would be worried about him and he always slept better when they were together. He arrived home at 3 a.m. and dozed off an hour later.
Bishop’s man outside Gino’s house saw him arrive and reported to his team leader outside Bartolucci’s market. The team leader called Bishop.
“Sit on him,” Bishop ordered. “Tell me if he goes anywhere.”
Gino woke at 7:00 a.m. and felt exhausted, with a pain in his chest that felt like heartburn. By the time he’d showered, shaved, and eaten a light breakfast, it was 8:30. He was anxious to tell his guests out in Chestnut Hill what he’d learned from Cataldo.
When Gino walked out of his home, the watcher there spotted him get into a black Cadillac, joined by two other men. He radioed his two partners. The team leader in a car outside Bartolucci’s Market instructed the third member of the team to sit tight at the mansion in Chestnut Hill. Then he called Bishop on his cellphone.
“When you determine where Bartolucci’s headed, I want you to call me ASAP,” Bishop said. “Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” the team leader said. “But can you tell me what we’re dealing with here? We’re following a former Mafia chief who’s with a driver and another passenger. All three might be armed. I don’t want to walk into something blind.”
Bishop generated his calmest and coldest tone of voice. “As long as you continue in a surveillance mode, you and your men have nothing to worry about. I need you to tell me where that mobster goes and who he meets with. Do you think you can do that without questioning my instructions?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I meant no—” Bishop disconnected the man in mid-sentence.
When it became apparent the Cadillac was headed for the Bartolucci mansion, the agent dropped even farther back. He radioed a warning to the man posted outside the mansion, who slouched in his seat when he saw the Cadillac approach. After the Cadillac had gone through the gate and disappeared up the driveway, the third agent called his two teammates with a status report and waited for further instructions.
David and Peter had just finished a walk around the grounds of the Bartolucci property and saw Gino’s car roll up to the mansion. They picked up their pace to meet the car when it stopped.
“What’s up, Gino? Where’ve you been?” David asked.
Gino smiled. “Ah, the impatience of youth,” he said to Peter. “Hold your water, David. I have some interesting news. Let’s go inside and find Dennis and his long-legged partner so I only have to tell my story once.”
Gino, trailed by David and Peter, entered the dining room where Dennis O’Neil and Jennifer Ramsey were seated and asked, “You two come up with anything new?”
“Nah!” O’Neil said. “How about you?”
Gino smiled. “Well, I might have come up with a thing or two.”
David knew Gino well enough to know he loved drama. He could tell from Gino’s smile the old man knew something important. “What is it?” he asked.
Gino held up both hands. “Okay, okay. Sit back and pay attention. Because you won’t believe this.”
Gino told his story after he made it clear his source could never be identified.
David shook his head as though he wanted to deny the truth of Gino’s story. But the whole thing at last made sense.
“Colonel Rolf Bishop was not just in charge of the SLSD. He was a Quartermaster Corps officer whose MOS—military occupational specialty—was logistics. But the Quartermaster Corps does not limit its activities to supplies and materiel. It’s also responsible for handling the bodies of dead Army personnel. It’s the Army’s mortician, so to speak. This branch of the Army touched every dead American serviceman who had to be shipped back to the States. Bishop was the senior Quartermaster officer in Afghanistan. That bastard had access to every coffin. And he and Robert Campbell had worked together for years.” David shook his head. “Bishop had to be the brains behind the drug scheme.”
“But why murder the other men?” Ramsey asked.
David thought about the question for a while. “Maybe Bishop’s afraid one of us knew or suspected
what he was up to. He’s cleaning house just to be safe.”
“Nine men, including Campbell, murdered in case one of them might have known something?” O’Neil said.
“And my wife and children,” David said, his voice rough with anger.
“The sonofabitch . . . the rotten sonofabitch!” Peter growled.
“Why wait until now to kill these men?” O’Neil asked.
“Again, we can’t be sure,” Gino said. “But it could be because he had no real public exposure until the President nominated him to the CIA position. Maybe he just got paranoid. Who knows?”
“What do we do with this information?” O’Neil asked. “We have no evidence, no proof we can use to get him arrested. Toney’s confession was tortured out of him. Besides, Toney’s criminal record would raise questions about his credibility. Mr. Bartolucci, I take it your informant in New York is not about to testify he committed murder as part of a narcotics smuggling ring. And David, the connection you made between the drugs and the responsibility Bishop had for coffin shipments is nothing but circumstantial. We could try to use the news media to ruin Bishop’s reputation through hearsay and innuendo. But that wouldn’t be enough even if the media would play along, which I doubt.”
No one spoke for a long while.
“Gino, one thing is missing from the information you got in New York,” David said. “Your informant told you he bought drugs from someone in Afghanistan and how the drugs were shipped into the United States. Did he tell you how they paid for those drugs?”