“Listen up,” he says. “Somebody—probably a goombah—took my wife and kids; no offense to you Luigi, Modesto, and Alphonso. It’s just that the operation looks like and smells like a mafia caper all the way through. The main reason I think that is because the guineas have been poking their noses into BK business for the better part of the last ten years. Maybe they think I’ve gone soft because I got some legit businesses in my portfolio. Whatever, I need you to shake the five families’ tree and see what falls out. Alphonso, you take some of the guys and pick up a couple of the big-shot Genoveses. Luigi and Modesto, get your set out on the street and let’s see what you can find out about Dominic Lanza and his Colombos and the Bonnanos. Atticus, you and “Dreadful” bring in a couple of Luccheses; and I’ll take a coupla the men behind us and Hector and see what we can learn from the Gambinos. Take your pickups out to the Trenton machine mill factory and make them comfortable on those nice chairs with no bottoms. We’ll have discussions with them; and, like the cops say, whoever cops a plea first gets the deal. I’m telling you this: we are not leaving that empty old warehouse without answers.”
The call comes at midnight just after Damien falls into a deep and dreamless sleep at the end of a very long day. He is alone in his very comfortable king-size bed in Hamilton Heights, and not happy to be disturbed.
“What?” Damien asks.
“This is you-know-who. And you know the drill. We can’t keep your brats or your wife much longer. They’re safe for now, but either we get our money or they’re dead in a month. You do exactly the same thing your unfortunate wife did for the kids. We get the bearer bonds, and you get your family back intact. This is the plan—take notes….”
The voice gives Damien the details of wiring funds to Deutsche Bank Bonn, then to Finansbank Istanbul.
“Call the same cell number your wife did once you get back to the states. Simple.”
The caller clicks off before Damien can respond. He is infuriated and curses for half an hour until he was so exhausted that he fell asleep holding his phone. No one—until now—has ever gotten the best of him. Now, he is being robbed, insulted, and made to play the buffoon; and there is nothing he can do about it.
Once he awakens in the morning, he works at being more rational. After all, he reasons, he will still be rich and the insurance will pay out the whole fifty million. He will have his wife and two daughters back, and—with adjustments—life will return to where it had been before the abductions. He will have to institute security measures that would rival Fort Knox, but he can afford it. There is one abiding knowledge that will keep him going. He will never stop his search for the kidnappers, no matter how long it takes. And then….
His men get busy the day Damien gives the orders. They coordinate their strikes, and, by the end of the third day, seven men—one from each mafia family; a representative from the New Conquistadores, the Puerto Rican syndicate that now controls Spanish Harlem; and one from the Hells Angels—are sitting naked in the vacant factory on extremely uncomfortable wicker chairs with the bottoms cut out. Their wrists were bound to the arms of the chairs, and their ankles to the chair legs. None of them has seen their captors or heard a voice. By Damien’s strict orders, his men dressed all in black—including gloves and ski masks whenever they are in the echoing room with the prisoners. For three days, they sit there writhing in pain, hunger, and thirst with no explanation as to why they are being so treated.
Then, for two days, each man is subjected to a barrage of questions about who in their criminal organization is responsible for the abductions of Damien “The Kiss” Markee’s wife and children. Perhaps most chilling realization for the prisoners is the fact that Damien’s name is openly mentioned. They know that they will never be allowed to report back to their bosses. After the weakening and debilitating period of lack of sustenance, they are fed whole wheat mush and skim milk three meals a day to keep them alive and able to talk. Each man is informed over and over that he will be freed only if he is the first one to divulge what “The Kiss” wants to know. They also learn that “The Kiss” himself will be coming soon, and then the questioning will become serious.
Damien takes his corporate jet to Frankfurt and a limousine to Bonn where he meets with Herr Derrick von Krankenheiser in the Deutsche Bank. The transaction is as smooth and simple as a German machine. Like Desireé, he meets with Bey Erbey Kızılkaya at the Finansbank Istanbul and leaves the bank with a box containing twenty-five million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds in ten thousand dollar denominations, all in Turkish lira. Unlike Desireé, as soon as the transaction is complete, Damien receives a text message on his iPhone from the insurance company telling him that the company has completed its obligation, and he no longer has insurance. Damien takes two zolpidem sleeping tablets and sleeps like the dead on the plane back to New York so that he can be alert when he goes to New Jersey to complete the work started by his men.
All but one of the men being questioned tell Damien and Hector “Ice-man” Aguilara that their respective bosses are the ones responsible for the kidnapping just to get the torture over with. That only further frustrates Damien. Only Antony De Fiore—Dominic Lanza’s man from the Colombo family—resists to the end, refusing to incriminate his boss.
Hector points out to Damien, “Maybe Antony is telling the truth. And maybe, too, the rest are lying to get over the pain.”
Damien slaps Hector across the face and calls him “a stupid wetback.”
He is no longer able to be rational. He knows that one of the crime syndicates is responsible and probably Dominic Lanza.
No one has ever slapped or humiliated the “Ice Man” before and lived. Hector keeps silent.
Damien knows he has made a mistake. But “The Kiss” cannot apologize.
“Look, Hector,” he says, “take care of all of these pieces of trash. I give you a hundred K for each, and you can be on your way back to LA.”
Hector only nods.
Damien writes a check and leaves him to his work.
Hector knows he is no match for “The Kiss” in a straight up fight. But he has an advantage over the boss of bosses of the Black Knights at this point. He is still rational, calm, and able to act in his own best interests.
As soon as Damien leaves, Hector unties every man, gets him some real food, and brings tubs of water, soap, and a pile of towels; so, they can clean up. They put their clothes back on, bewildered as to what is happening. Hector piles them all into the van and delivers them to Terzaghi Wine and Dine on Hicks Street in Red Hook—the quasi-official headquarters of Don Dominic Lanza, capo di tutti capo of the Colombo family.
Hector says to Antony De Fiore, “Take ‘em all inside and tell Don Dominic what went on. You don’t need to say nothing about me. I’ll know if you do.”
The weak men limp into the diner, and Hector drives to the nearest bank and cashes his check from Damien before catching a flight to LAX.
Chapter Fourteen
Damien curses a red streak for ten minutes before composing himself sufficiently to make the call.
He dials the burner cell number given him by the kidnappers, and as soon as he hears a response, he says, “I got the bonds. Now what?”
“No nice hello? And I thought we were getting alone so well. Heavy sigh. Well, never mind. Here’s what you do: at four o’clock tomorrow morning, you go alone—hear me, alone—with the box of bonds and set them in a black suitcase you’ll find sitting on a shelf in Herman’s Emporium on 108th in SoHa. Know the place?”
“Yeah.”
“The suit case in question is the third from the left on the first shelf as you face the wall where all the luggage is displayed. To help you be sure, there will be a small red ribbon tied to the handle of the correct bag. We’ll be watching, so no funny business. Your wife and little girls’ lives depend on you being a good little boy in all of this.”
“Are they going to be waiting for me in the store?”
“Nope. You get them back in a week
after we have a chance to prove the bonds are genuine. That requires a trip abroad. You understand, right? Once we have our money, we’ll give you a call and tell you where to pick them up. I guarantee that they are all right and have not been harmed. They’ll stay that way unless the bonds are forgeries or have that bank robbery powder in the box or some other hinky business. Understand all that, boss of bosses?”
Damien fumes, but he struggles to keep his voice civil, “Yeah,” he says and snarls to himself.
At four-fifteen the same afternoon, NYPD Sergeant Detective Mary Margaret MacLeese and Detective First Grade Martin Redworth get the call to investigate a van the units find in a vacant lot in South Harlem. It fits the description of one that the human trafficking unit they head up has been seeking. When they arrive on the scene, they find that it is not their van, but it is of serious interest nonetheless. The rear compartment of the van is covered with blood—copious amounts of blood, some of it not yet coagulated. The blood spatter is so plentiful that it cannot be accurately identified as to arterial or venous or how it got there exactly. The detectives send samples for DNA identification and two days later learn that there is no match in any data bank known to law enforcement.
MacLeese has a hunch.
“Check a sample against blood banks. Go back a year.”
That proves to be fruitful, if not entirely definitive. The lab reports finding heavy traces of CPDA-1.
MacLeese calls the head of the lab, “What is CPDA-1?” she asks.
“It’s the blood bank anticoagulant-preservative citratephosphate-adenine—the newest and best version.”
“Can you do a rush job and run the DNA against fairly recent blood bank data bases—starting with about a month ago?”
“That’s good detecting, Sergeant. The preservative benefit is only good for about thirty-five days; so, I had my lab rats check back that far.”
“And?”
“And, we got a hit. It belongs to one Andy Lusesky.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have an address or anything else we can go on, would you?”
“We have an address. It’s phony, just like the name. Sorry, Mary Margaret, but it looks like a bust.”
“I’ll do some checking,” she says.
For some reason, somewhere in the back of her mind, the name rings a faint bell—more like a tinkle. She puts the name into the missing persons data file. She gets a hit, again more of a partial hit. Andrew Michael Lusesky is connected to a kidnapping that took place about two weeks ago. That information was placed in the data bank only yesterday, which is weird. Another weird thing is that Lusesky does not exist; the name is an obvious fake. That brings the van and its contents to the level of importance. What is important is that the kidnapping involves the daughters of one of the biggest mob leaders in Harlem, Damien Markee, she learns. Mary Margaret decides it is time for some more detecting; so, she and her partner Martin pay a visit to South Harlem.
They learn from an RCI [Registered Confidential Informant] that Markee, the head of the Black Knights, has a sort of old-style quasi-official headquarters in the East Harlem Men’s Club on 133rd Street two doors away from a derelict plant on Riverside Drive in Spanish Harlem. The two detectives drive out of 1PP [1 Police Plaza] the next morning and pull up in front of the men’s club.
They are met at the entrance by two very large, very black, men, who are obviously packing, probably illegally. The two NYPD detectives open their cred-packs and show the guards their badges and IDs. One of the security men steps inside for a moment then returns and shows them in.
Damien Markee is sitting at a table surrounded by six large unfriendly African-American men.
“What can I do for you, Detectives?” he asks politely.
“It is more what we can do for you,” Sergeant MacLeese says. “We have news for you about the kidnapping of your children, the kidnapping you didn’t report.”
She gives him a look that is just short of demanding. She lets him have the opportunity to explain. He does not respond.
“What we have is a van full of blood.”
That gets Markee’s attention, “Whose? My little girls’? My wife’s?”
“Is your wife missing, too, sir?”
“All three of them. So, tell me about the blood, please.”
Now, the bravado and steely face is gone.
“It is the blood of a man known as Andrew Michael Lusesky. Do you know him?”
Damien answers despite his reluctance to reveal too much, “Not really. I never met the man. But, on the day my daughters were kidnapped, one of their security guards got sick; and Lusesky substituted. He and the other two guards disappeared at the same time.”
“There is something a bit off about that blood we found, Mr. Markee. It was not fresh. We found traces of an anticoagulant used in blood bands mixed in it. We think it is a plant—a phony crime scene—but for the life of us, we don’t know why. And have your wife and daughters been returned?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you pay a ransom, Sir?”
There is a long pregnant pause.
“Yeah … twice?”
“How much?”
Another pause. Damien Markee is angry.
“Fifty mil.”
“As in millions?”
“You heard me right. I’ve been had.”
That is the most difficult statement Markee has ever made. He fights back tears that are struggling to drizzle down his cheeks.
“I know this is tough, Mr. Markee, but are you expecting them to be delivered to you sometime soon?”
“Supposed to be about a week.”
“Okay if we set up a police investigation and give you some help? You’ll have to tell us everything you know. It would probably be best to work out of your home, not here.”
“I avoided the police because I thought it would keep my family safe. I’ve been a fool. I know that now. Sure, I’d appreciate the help from law enforcement. I have to tell you that I have been working with McGee & Associates, Investigations. Ever hear of them?”
“We know McGee well. And we respect him. My bet is that he told you not to pay the ransom, right?”
“You got that right, too.”
“What’s your address? We’ll set up as soon as we can get back to 1PP and make the arrangements.”
“West 143rd Street between Amsterdam Avenue and Convent Avenue, in Hamilton Heights—the Hamilton Grange neighborhood.”
“Nice area. Go home, Mr. Markee. Don’t do anything until we get set up. There’s still hope; so, don’t blow it.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m in your hands.”
Damien takes care of business in the men’s club before leaving for home. He does not need a detective to tell him all he needs to know. Lusesky’s blood was planted in the van. That only became known two days ago according to the detectives. It had to have been an inside job—probably one of his own pet cops. His money, his daughters, his wife are all gone. He is a sucker—fifty million dollars’ worth. The only way this makes sense is that Desireé is behind it all. She has been trying to get away from him for more than two years. This was her way out. She was too scared of him to file for divorce; and besides, they have a prenup that says she won’t get a dime if she initiates the divorce proceedings. This Lusesky guy—whoever he really is—is in on it. Maybe the other guards as well. Damien does not expect to see Lusesky again, but he knows that Lydia Fairchild and Chet Nichols from the New York Protection Service are bonded, and they will one day be accessible to him. He will get the truth out of them—maybe even get good info about where his money has gone and where his daughters and his treacherous wife are. He will live for that day. No one plays Damien “The Kiss” Markee for a fool.
He drives his Mercedes north towards Hamilton Heights so focused that he is hardly aware of the streets or the traffic. As soon as he turns onto Lexington Avenue, two black SUVs block him at the intersection—one in front and one behind. A man in black showing nothing but his ey
es walks up to the driver’s side and points a sawed-off shotgun at Damien’s head. Damien puts his hands palms up on the driving wheel.
The man in black tries the door, which is locked. He removes a glass cutter hanging from his shoulder and cuts a ten-inch circle of glass from the window. The muzzle of the shotgun stares Damien in the face. He sits frozen. The man with the gun unlocks the door and pulls it open.
“Out,” he orders.
Damien is sure this can be worked out. He has been in worse situations before. Most of the time the solution is money; sometimes it is persuasion; and Damien Markee has lots of persuasion behind him in the form of several thousand Black Knights. He is calm. This will pass.
He gets out and leaves his car stopped in the right lane at one of the busiest intersections in the city. The gunman opens the back door to one of the SUVs, and Damien slides in and sits down. The last thing he sees before the hood covers his head is the face of Don Dominic Lanza, capo di tutti capo of the Colombos. The man is not smiling. Damien is handcuffed.
“Did you really think you could abduct half a dozen made men from the five families and no one would know about it or get back to you, Damien? For what it’s worth, nobody in la cosa nostra had anything to do with the kidnapping of your wife and children. You are a fool.”
Two days later:
Lydia Fairchild and Chet Nichols step out of a nondescript van on the corner of Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard and 125th Street. They are dazed from drugs and cannot recall how they got there. Otherwise, they are unharmed. They wonder about their fellow guard from the New York Protection Service, Andy Lusesky; but they do not know a thing about what happened to him. They presume the kidnappers killed him.
The Boss’s Daughters Page 9