Outfoxed

by David Rosenfelt

  We park down the street, within sight of the house. Marcus gets out, leaving me alone in the car on the very dark street. It turns out that the only thing I like less in these situations than being alone with Marcus is being alone without Marcus.

  Marcus mutters that he’ll call me, and heads for the house. He disappears in the darkness, and I can’t see him. At this point I am not having much fun.

  Maybe a dozen cars go by in the next forty-five minutes, until finally I see Winters pull up to his house. He parks in front, rather than in his garage. I don’t know where Marcus is, so I can’t say whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  Five frustrating and scary minutes go by without anything happening, or at least anything I know about. I hope Marcus is okay, even as I know Marcus is okay. He is, after all, the son of Jor-El.

  Suddenly my phone rings. I guess the first ring of a phone by definition always happens “suddenly,” but this one more so than most. It sounds so loud and shocking in my car that it feels like everyone with ten miles must hear it.

  “Hello?”

  It’s Marcus, grunting something unintelligible into the phone. It could be anything from “come here” to “call 911”; I simply cannot make it out.

  “You want me to come there?” I ask.

  “Yunh.”

  I’m going to take that as a yes, but I’m going to press him for details. “In the car?” I ask, but he’s already hung up.

  It’s decision time; I have to decide what to do. My first choice would be to go home and hide under the covers, but that’s not feasible at the moment. I do not want to walk down this dark street alone, although I have no reason to think anyone would threaten me, since there doesn’t appear to be anyone around.

  I make up my mind and drive to the house, headlights off, and park in front of it. I get out and walk to the front door, since it is open. There are a few lights on inside the house, but I don’t hear any noise.

  I go inside, not because I want to, but because I can’t figure out any alternative. I head to the room with the most light, and it turns out to be the kitchen.

  And that’s where I find them.

  Marcus and Winters are in a large open area in the center of the room. They’re not exactly sitting at the table having coffee and croissants.

  Winters is a large man, considerably larger than Marcus. I wouldn’t want to guess at his height, because he’s not standing up. He’s lying on the floor, on his back, hands spread out. On the floor next to him is a plastic bag, probably filled with the night’s take.

  Marcus is casually sitting on his chest, not straddling over him, but sitting with his legs to the side, as if he is on a bench waiting for a bus.

  Marcus sees me and gets to his feet. Winters doesn’t move or say anything, and that becomes more understandable when I see that he is unconscious. I don’t see a welt or bruise on his face; it’s possible that Marcus just scared him into oblivion.

  “Is he alive?” I ask, but Marcus doesn’t answer. Instead, he goes to the sink, and fills a glass with cold water. He walks over and pours it onto Winters’s face and head. It doesn’t jolt him into consciousness, so Marcus does it again.

  While Marcus is attempting to revive the guy, I answer a phone call from Sam. He’s searched for online information about Winters, and says he’s found four separate stories that allege he works for the Petrone “family.”

  I’ll have Laurie reconfirm this with her police sources, but I have no doubt it will turn out to be the case. I’m elated by it, because it is my first concrete proof tying Petrone to the online world, in this case running the gambling site that Bowie uses.

  When I get off the phone, Winters still hasn’t come to. Another five minutes go by, during which I’m wondering if I have a moral and legal obligation to call an ambulance. Finally I see some movement, and over the next five minutes Winters goes through various stages of grogginess until he regains coherence.

  He focuses on me, even before Marcus, and starts to get up. That doesn’t work out for him, because Marcus comes over and puts his foot on his chest, keeping him in place.

  “Who are you?” he asks me.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say, not wanting to give my name. “What were you doing tonight?”

  “None of your business.”

  Marcus must be increasing the pressure on his chest, because Winters moans and puts his hand up in a gesture of conceding. He gasps out, “Hey, man, I can’t breathe.”

  “What were you doing tonight?” I ask again, even though it didn’t get me anywhere the first time.

  “Doing my job.”

  “Assuming you like breathing, you might want to be a little more responsive,” I say. “What was the job you were doing?”

  “I was collecting and dropping stuff off.”

  “For who?”

  “My bosses.”

  “Petrone and Russo,” I say.

  “You said that, I didn’t.”

  Marcus puts some more pressure on, and Winters says, “Come on, I don’t know who’s up the damn ladder. Some guys hire me to do this. I’m a messenger boy. I mention names and they’ll kill me. You might as well kill me now.”

  “How much do messenger boys make these days?” I ask.

  “Enough.”

  “You’re starting to get on his nerves,” I say, pointing to Marcus.

  “Five grand a week.”

  “How many nights do you work?”

  “Two,” he says.

  “Five thousand dollars for two nights?”

  “Yeah. What do you guys want?”

  I pick up the plastic bag and open it. “Five thousand dollars,” I say. “A week’s pay.”

  “I can’t go back to them with less. You know what they’ll do?”

  “File a grievance? Cut off your health insurance? Not contribute to your 401(k)?”

  “What the hell are you talking about? They’ll beat the shit out of me.”

  “Then replace the money out of your own pocket,” I say. “Because here’s the deal: None of this happened. If you mention a word of it to your bosses, I will put out the word that you told us you were working for Dominic Petrone and Joseph Russo. Which will in turn affect your job security and your life.”

  Winters agrees to our terms, maybe because he understands the logic, or maybe because he wants Marcus off his chest and out of his life. Whether he’ll follow through on the agreement is anyone’s guess.

  I’ll find out soon enough. But whatever happens, I got my five thousand dollars back.

  I haven’t been to see Brian as often as I should. That’s mostly because he’s not new in his surroundings, and therefore not as freaked out about them. Most clients of mine aren’t prisoners at the time they allegedly commit their crimes. He’s a smart, levelheaded guy, and probably needs reassurance and hand-holding less than most.

  There’s probably also a psychological component to my not being there often, and it’s one I’m not proud of. I like to be able to convey some good news, some developments that can foster hope, but I really haven’t had any to offer, so I subconsciously resisted talking with him.

  “I’m glad you came,” he says, when he’s finally brought in. “I was going to call you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “That’s what I want to know. I’ve been reading about you pointing the finger at a mob guy; I assume you mean Petrone?”

  “Yes. I think he’s behind it. But I’m a long way from having the evidence to present it to a jury.”

  He shakes his head, a little sadly. “Just like Denise said. And he threatened you?”

  “He did.”

  “Be careful, Andy. He’s a dangerous guy.”

  “Really? I wasn’t aware of that. You got a pen? I’ll make a note of it.”

  He laughs. “Always glad to help.” Then, “What is Petrone doing in this? Why would he want to kill Gerry and Denise?”

  “I’ve come to ask you the same question. Petrone is somehow using the
technology your company had to make a profit. For one thing, he’s running a gambling Web site.”

  “You mean sports gambling?”

  “Yes, and casino games are possible as well. Why would he need Starlight for that?”

  Brian thinks for a few moments. “He wouldn’t. It’s just not a big deal for computers to handle. Those sites have existed for years.”

  “But not locally,” I say.

  He nods. “That’s because they would be easy to find and shut down.”

  “Would your servers make them any harder to find?”

  “Not to my knowledge; we were just about speed. Nanoseconds shouldn’t matter in gambling. But I’ve been in here three years; there could be developments I don’t know about. Did you talk to Jason Mathers?”

  “Yes, but not about this; I’m going to talk with him again. He doesn’t work at Starlight anymore. He quit when Ted Yates got the top job.”

  Brian nods his understanding. “It’s like I told you: Yates is a politician. If Mathers didn’t quit, Yates would have found a way to get rid of him. Eliminating threats.”

  “Which also happens to be Petrone’s specialty; they just use different tactics.”

  “But if Petrone was using Starlight’s servers for illegal gambling, it still makes no sense that he would murder Gerry and Denise. There is no chance Gerry would have gone to the cops with what he knew; how could he have been a threat to Petrone?”

  It’s the question I’ve been asking myself, and all I have are a couple of possible theories. “If Gerry was in bed with Petrone on the gambling site, Petrone wouldn’t have turned on him unless he didn’t need him anymore and wanted to get rid of him. Or unless Petrone was expanding into areas Gerry wanted no part of.”

  “Could be money laundering,” Brian says. “Criminals have used the Internet for that purpose before.”

  “How do they do it?”

  “I’m sure there are a lot of ways, but, for example, they set up an online auction, and then overpay for the item themselves, or maybe the item never existed. The money moves, lots of it, but it’s going from one of their pockets to the other.”

  It makes sense to me, but then the idea runs into a brick Internet wall. “But why would they need Gerry and Starlight?” I ask.

  “Andy, I just don’t know.”

  When I leave the prison, I call Jason Mathers and tell him I need to speak with him again. He’s home at his apartment in Edgewater, and tells me I can come right over.

  “I appreciate it,” I say.

  “Hey, I’ve got nothing better to do. I’m unemployed, remember?”

  “I remember,” I say. What I don’t say is that I also remember when I was unemployed, just last month. I remember it fondly.

  “Carpenter has to be taken care of,” Dominic Petrone said. He spoke in a casual tone, as if it were a minor issue, certainly not worthy of debate. Of course, very little of what Petrone said was subject to debate or disagreement.

  But this was different.

  Joseph Russo had been taking orders from Petrone literally since he was fourteen years old. He had reached a point where he occasionally could and did voice disagreement and try to reason with his boss. It didn’t happen often, and he quite rarely succeeded in persuading Petrone to reconsider his position. Usually he just backed down and went along.

  But this was different.

  “Dominic, the guy just announced to the world that we were threatening to kill him. We do it now and they’ll be all over us. We’ve got more important things to worry about now.”

  “He is a threat to us, Joseph, and we must deal with him as we deal with all threats. Down the road it may be too late; he might have learned and revealed too much.”

  “He knows nothing. And when the trial is over, he will disappear and move on to his next case. If we kill him, it will draw too much attention to us and what we’re doing.”

  “We’ve had their attention before, and yet we’re at the peak of our strength. Are you saying you can’t get this done?”

  Russo knew he could get it done. But what he also knew was that while Petrone’s name would be front and center, Russo would be in the line of legal fire. He would directly order the hit, and his fingerprints would be on it, far more than Petrone’s.

  “Of course I can get it done. I’m talking about whether we should, not whether we can. Let me think about it, Dominic. Please.”

  Petrone smiled. “There was a time, not that long ago, that you left the thinking to me, and trusted that it would be right.”

  “Nothing has changed, Dominic, you know that. I trust your judgment completely. You are the boss.”

  “Then don’t think about it,” Petrone said. “Do it.”

  Jason Mathers doesn’t seem to be pounding the pavement looking for work. He greets me at the door to his apartment wearing pretty much the same outfit he had on last time: jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. Last time it was an Arizona State sweatshirt, and this time it’s Stanford, so he’s at least working his way up the intellectual ladder.

  But his attitude is similarly casual and unstressed, the sign of a man who is enjoying the freedom that having lots and lots of money can bring. “What can I do for you this time?” he asks.

  “I just need more information about the Starlight computer servers,” I say.

  “There’s a limit on what I can tell you,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “When I left I signed a confidentiality agreement. I had to do it in order to get my payout.”

  “You got a lot of money for leaving?”

  He smiles broadly. “Ain’t this a great country?”

  I agree that the country is great, though it seems greater for Mathers than for somebody like, say, Brian Atkins. “I have reason to believe that certain people, utilizing the Starlight servers and routers, have set up a Web site to take sports bets.”

  He shakes his head. “No chance, unless they did it in the last couple of days. Otherwise I would have known about it.”

  “It’s not possible?”

  “Not possible.”

  “Hear me out,” I say. “Assume for the moment that it happened, and is happening, and for some reason you didn’t see it.”

  “Okay,” he says, clearly dubious that this hypothetical is going anywhere. “Then what?”

  “Then why would they need the Starlight machines? What would they do for them that they couldn’t have done on their own?”

  “Nothing. Anyone can set up a gambling Web site. You’re going off on a tangent that is not going to get you anywhere. It doesn’t make sense, and it didn’t happen.”

  “I saw it myself,” I say, “and I can show it to you.”

  He points to one of his computers. “Be my guest.”

  I sit down in front of the computer and type the Web address that Bowie showed me, and instantly a message comes up that the page can’t be opened, because it doesn’t exist.

  “It existed a couple of days ago,” I say. Since I promised Bowie I would keep our conversation confidential, I don’t mention his name.

  “A lot of these things are rip-offs,” Mathers says, “so they appear and disappear all the time.”

  Mathers has nothing more for me; he swears that the Starlight machines could not have been used for gambling on his watch, that he would have known about it.

  Before I leave, I say, “At some point I may need an expert tech witness to testify at trial. Would you be willing to do that?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “If it helps Brian, then I’m there.”

  I leave and call Daniel Bowie; I want to set up another meeting and see if his computer can still access the site. He doesn’t answer the phone, so I make a note to try again later.

  I turn on the news and hear about an execution-style killing in Clifton, the body having turned up in Nash Park. Before they even mention the name of the victim, I know who it is going to be … Daniel Bowie.

  The announcer says the police do not yet have a suspe
ct or a motive, but I know who is most responsible for the killing.

  I am.

  I call Sam and tell him about the disappearance of the betting site. He tries it himself when he’s on the phone with me and gets the same result. “They must have taken it down,” he says. Then, “You sure you got the address right?”

  “I’m sure. My technology ability extends to being able to copy down an address.”

  “Nothing I can do then,” he says. “It could just be down, so I’ll try it again later. Who gave you this address? I could talk to them directly.”

  “No, that’s not possible right now,” I say, leaving out the part about Daniel Bowie being the one who gave it to me, and then dying because he did.

  As soon as I hang up, I get another call, and I see that it’s Jimmy Rollins. It’s a conversation that I’m dreading, but one I should have instigated by calling him first.

  “Andy, you heard about Daniel Bowie?”

  “I did, Jimmy. I was going to call you.”

  “Am I the reason he was killed?” he asked.

  I thought he would be accusatory, and in fact he should be. But instead he’s feeling guilty himself. “No, Jimmy, you’re not.”

  “Are you?”

  “I don’t think so, but I don’t know for sure. I know that I did not tell anyone he and I talked, and no one saw me talking with him. I’m positive of that. It’s possible that he told someone that he shouldn’t have; there’s no way for me to know that.”

  “But even if he told someone, why should talking to you have gotten him killed?”

  “Jimmy, if I knew that, I’d know everything.”

  I no sooner get off that call than I get another; I think I need a switchboard operator. This time it’s Laurie, and once she tells me that she and Ricky are fine, I quickly start to bring her up to date on what has been happening, or not happening, as the case may be.

  She stops me. “Andy, I don’t have time now; you can tell me all about it when I see you.”

  “When will that be?”

  “In about four hours; I’m heading for the airport. Can you meet me?”