Jeffrey Dommer
Gianni "Jonny" Manetto, Old Country Restaurant Supply, Long Island City
Carter Jepson Jr., Coca-Cola distribution
He'd never heard of any of them. Though he was amused to speculate that one in particular surely had had a tough time growing up, with a name close enough to a serial killer's for the kids to torment him mercilessly.
The cop mind was firing on all cylinders but that wasn't enough. He needed input, research. So get to work. Nick went online and began to check out the names. Google and Facebook and LinkedIn. He also logged onto the People Finder site Freddy had told him about. Jesus, there was a lot of information. When he was on the force, it would've taken him weeks, not hours, to get all this stuff. And he was astonished too at how much people posted about themselves. One guy, JJ Steptoe, was shown proudly smoking pot in a Facebook picture. A link led to a YouTube video that showed Jepson in the Caribbean, staggering around drunk and falling into a pool. Then climbing out and puking.
As for the wife of "J," Nanci, no luck there, for any of them.
But maybe Mr. "J" was divorced from Nanci. Or Nanci was a girlfriend. There were probably ways to find out, maybe programs at the NYPD that linked people even if not married or related. If "J" had done time, there might be a record of a Nanci coming to visit him in prison.
But he didn't have access to anything like that and he sure wasn't going to ask Amelia to search for him. He was already pushing the limits there.
He skimmed the data he'd downloaded. Nick had been hoping "J" was somebody involved in law enforcement, with a knowledge of the hijacking operations back when he'd been arrested. But none of the men were law enforcement. The next best thing--somebody with underworld ties (even though he knew he'd need to be very, very careful about contacting them). That didn't pan out either, though. Jenkins had been arrested--misdemeanor and a long time ago. Two others had been the subject of civil investigations--SEC in one case, IRS in the other--but nothing came of these.
Nick sat back and sipped his lukewarm coffee. A glance at the clock. The work had taken three hours. A ton of info but nothing to show for it.
Okay. Think better. Think like a gold shield. Sure, the list could be useless and Stan Von had pulled together enough random names to buy himself an over-breaded chicken Parmesan. But it's all you got, the list, so work it. Just like the flimsiest lead on the street, the way you used to do. Turn it to something sweet.
He decided to look more carefully into the businesses the men operated or were employed by; were any of them more likely than others to have a potential connection to hijacking or receiving stolen? Von's list didn't have all of their outfits but Nick was able to find most of the others. Transportation and wholesale companies were the heart of hijacking operations but there were none of those. (Battaglia's operation was used car sales and repair.) Jackie Carter, who owned a franchise of self-storage facilities, seemed like a possibility. And Jon Perone's J&K Financial Services intrigued him; they might've lent money to any number of people involved in shady deals. And Johnson's consulting business? Who knew what they were up to?
Nick took a long slug of tepid coffee. The cup froze in midair. He set it down and sat forward, staring at the list. He laughed. Oh, man. How did I miss it? How the hell did I miss it?
He read: Jon Perone, J&K Financial, Queens.
Fi NANCI al.
"Nanci" wasn't a wife or girlfriend. It was from the name of his company. The detective's faded notes were to blame for his misreading.
Nick was suddenly filled with the thrill he remembered from his days running cases, when you had a breakthrough like this.
Okay, Mr. Perone, who exactly are you? He'd found no suggestion of any criminal activity. Perone seemed to be upstanding, a legit businessman, generous, a giver-back to the community, active in the church. Still, Nick would have to be careful. He couldn't risk linking his own name with the man's if Perone were, in fact, involved in any underworld activity. He remembered his promise to Amelia.
If there's anybody who can help me and there's any risk, or even it looks like they're connected, I'll use, you know, an intermediary to contact them, a friend...
He found his phone and called Freddy Caruthers.
CHAPTER 40
Ron Pulaski stared at the Gutierrez file sitting between him and Amelia Sachs.
He fidgeted in the chair across the table from her in their war room.
Hell. Why hadn't he checked to see if Gutierrez was still around? There was an answer to that: Mostly because he believed nobody would know or care what he was up to.
Got that one wrong, didn't I?
Hell.
"Ron. Work with me here. What's going on?"
"Have you talked to IA?"
"No. Not yet. Of course not."
But he knew that if she found he'd committed a crime, she'd report him to Internal Affairs in an instant. That was something about Amelia. She'd bend regs. But when you stepped over the razor wire of the New York Penal Code, that was a sin. Unforgivable.
And so he sat back, sighed and told her the truth. "Lincoln shouldn't quit."
She blinked, not understanding where this was going.
He could hardly blame her. "He shouldn't. It's just wrong."
"I agree. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything. Let me explain. You know what happened. He pushed the Baxter case too far."
"I know the facts. What--?"
"Let me finish. Please."
Funny about beauty, Pulaski was thinking. Amelia Sachs was no less beautiful than yesterday but now it was the beauty of ice. He looked past her out the window, unable to stand the beam of her eyes.
"I checked out the Baxter file. I've read it a thousand times, been through every word of testimony, every sentence of forensic analysis, all the detectives' notes. Over and over. I found something that didn't make sense." Pulaski sat forward, and despite the fact that his cover was blown and his mission in peril--Amelia by rights should put an end to it immediately--he felt the rush of being on a hunt that wasn't yet over. "Baxter was a criminal, yes. But he was just a rich man screwing over other rich men. At the end of the day: He was harmless. His gun was a souvenir. He didn't have bullets in it. The gunshot residue had ambiguous sources."
"I know all this, Ron."
"But you don't know about Oden."
"Who?"
"Oden. I'm not sure who he is, black, white, age, other than that he's got some connection with the crews in East New York. There was a reference to him in the notes of one of the detectives that ran the Baxter case. Baxter was tight with Oden. I talked to the detective, and he never followed up on Oden because Baxter was killed, and the case was dropped. The gang unit and Narcotics haven't heard the name. He's a mystery man. But I asked on the street and at least two people said they'd heard about him. He's connected with some new strain of drugs. Called Catch. You ever hear of it?"
She shook her head.
"Maybe he was smuggling it in from Canada or Mexico. Maybe financing. Maybe even fabricating it. I was thinking that might be the reason Baxter was killed. It wasn't a random prison fight. He was targeted because he knew too much about this stuff. Anyway, I've been working undercover... No, not sanctioned, just on my own. I told people I needed this stuff Oden was making. I was claiming my head injury was really bad." He felt he was blushing. "God'll get me for that. But I've got the scar."
"And?"
"My point was to prove to Lincoln that Baxter wasn't innocent at all. He was working with Oden, financing fabrication or importing of Catch. That maybe Baxter did use his gun. That people were dying because of the shit he was involved in." Pulaski shook his head. "And Lincoln would realize that he didn't screw up so bad--and he'd un-quit."
"Why--?"
"--didn't I tell anyone, why make up the story? What would you have said? To give it up, right? An unauthorized undercover op, using my own money to score drugs--"
"To what?"
He looked at the Gutierrez file. Stupid. Thinking: Why didn't I check it?
"I'm close, I'm really close. I paid two thousand bucks for a lead to this Oden. I've got a feeling it's going to work out."
"You know what Lincoln would say about feelings."
"Has he said anything, now he's helping on Unsub Forty, getting back to work for the NYPD?"
"No. He told me nothing's changed." She grimaced. "He's working with us mostly to make a civil case for Sandy Frommer."
Pulaski's own face remained stony. "I wish you hadn't found out about this, Amelia. But now you know. Only I'm not stopping. I'll tell you right up front. I've got to play this out. I'm not letting him retire without a fight."
"East New York, that's where this Oden hangs?"
"And Brownsville and Bed-Stuy."
"The most dangerous parts of the city."
"Gramercy Park is just as dangerous if that's where you get shot."
She smiled. "I can't talk you out of this?"
"No."
"Then I'll forget all about it on one condition. You don't agree, I'll report you and get your ass suspended for a month."
"What condition?"
"I don't want you on this alone. You go to meet Oden, I want somebody with you. Anybody you know who can back you up?"
Pulaski thought for a moment. "I've got a name in mind."
Lincoln Rhyme dialed Sachs's mobile.
No response. He'd called twice already this morning, once early--at 6 a.m. She hadn't picked up then either.
He was in the lab with Juliette Archer and Mel Cooper. The hour was early but they were already looking over the evidence chart and kicking ideas back and forth like players in a soccer game. A simile Rhyme had used coyly, given the sedentary nature of two of the participants.
Cooper said, "Got something here."
Rhyme wheeled over to him, his chair nearly colliding with Archer's.
"It's the varnish that Amelia found at one of the earlier scenes. It just came in from the bureau's database."
Braden Manufacturing, Rich-Cote.
"Took their sweet time."
Cooper continued, "Used in fine furniture making. Not for floors or general carpentry. Expensive."
"Sold in how many stores?" Archer asked.
The appropriate question.
"That's the bad news," Mel Cooper offered. "It's one of the most common varnishes on the market. I make it a hundred twenty retail locations in the area. And they sell it in bulk direct to furniture operations. Big ones and small. And--not to brighten everyone's day--they also sell it online through a half-dozen resellers."
"Write it up on the chart, would you?" a discouraged Lincoln Rhyme muttered to Archer.
Silence filled the parlor.
"I, uh."
"Oh, right," Rhyme said. "Sorry. Forgot. Mel, write it up."
The officer added the brand and manufacturer in his fine penmanship.
Archer said, "Even if there're a lot of outlets I'll start canvassing stores that sell it. See if anybody recognizes our unsub."
Rhyme said, "There's also a chance that the unsub--"
Archer continued, "--works for the store. I've thought of that. I figured I'd do some preliminary. Check out the shops and see if they have employee pictures. Their websites, Facebook, Twitter. Maybe softball teams. Charities, blood drives."
"Good." Rhyme wheeled again to the charts and examined them. He felt prodded by urgency. Now that they'd confirmed that the People's Guardian, their Unsub 40, was a serial performer, they had every reason to suspect that he would move again soon. That was often the nature of multiple criminals. Whatever motivated them, sexual pleasure or terrorist statement, lust tended to accelerate the frequency of their kills.
Until tomorrow...
There came the sound of a key in the lock, the door opening and footsteps in the front hall.
Sachs and Pulaski had arrived. Sometimes the kid was in uniform, sometimes street clothes. Today he was dressing down. Jeans and a T-shirt. Sachs looked tired. Her eyes were red and her posture slumped.
"Sorry I'm late."
"I called."
"Busy night." She walked to the charts and looked over them. "Well, where are we?"
Rhyme gave her a synopsis of the varnish, what Archer was doing--canvassing stores for customers who'd bought the substance. Sachs asked, "Anything more on the napkins?"
"Didn't hear from HQ," Mel Cooper replied.
She grimaced. "Still missing."
Rhyme too was scanning the charts.
The answer's there...
Except that it wasn't. "There's something we're missing," Rhyme snapped.
A man's voice boomed from the doorway. "Of course there is, Linc. How many times I have to tell you, you gotta look at the big picture. Do I always need to hold your goddamn hand?"
And with that, rumpled NYPD detective Lon Sellitto limped slowly into the room, assisted by a dapper cane.
CHAPTER 41
Waiting for his ride, looking at the sheets on the couch of his apartment, Nick Carelli smiled. Not to himself, an actual full-faced smile.
He'd been the gentleman last night, when Amelia was over. They'd sat together on the couch--the dining table was cluttered with Operation I'm Innocent paperwork--and eaten the curried chicken and finished the wine, down to the last bit, a good bottle he'd bought knowing she was coming over.
Sitting close to her, yes, but a gentleman. When she said, a bit woozy, that she couldn't drive home and should call a cab, he'd said, "You want the couch? Or the bed, and I'll take the couch? Don't worry. I'm not hitting on you. You just look, well, you look like you needed to fall asleep an hour ago."
"You don't mind?"
"Nope."
"Couch."
"I'll even make it up right."
He hadn't. But neither had she minded the sloppy job. In five minutes she'd been asleep. Nick had just stared at her beautiful face for two or three minutes. Maybe longer. He didn't know.
Nick now pulled the sheets off the couch, took them into the bedroom and pitched them into the laundry hamper. He got the pillowcase too, lifted it to his face and smelled it, feeling a thud in his gut at the aroma of her shampoo. He'd been going to launder this too but changed his mind and set it on the dresser.
His mobile beeped with a text. Freddy Caruthers had arrived. He rose, pulled on his jacket and left the apartment. In front of the building he jumped into his friend's SUV--an Escalade, an older one but well taken care of. He gave Freddy an address in Queens. Freddy nodded and started off. He turned this way and that, a dozen times. He wasn't using GPS. Freddy seemed to know the area cold. The guy looked tiny behind the big wheel of the Caddie, but less toady this morning, for some reason.
Nick sat back in the crinkly leather and watched the urban vista mellow as they headed east. The ambience morphed from bodega and walk-up to 7-Eleven to bungalows to larger single-families surrounded by plots of lawn grass and gardens. You didn't have to drive far in Queens to see the change.
Freddy gave him the folder. "Everything I could get on Jon Perone and his company. His contacts. Man is brilliant."
Nick read. Took some notes. Compared what Freddy'd found to what he himself had pieced together. His heart tapped solidly. Yes, this could be just what he needed.
Salvation. Another smile.
He slipped the papers into his inner jacket pocket and the two men made small talk. Freddy said he was going to take his sister's kids to the ball game this weekend.
"The Mets. They're twelve and fifteen."
"The Mets?"
"Ha. The boys. Attitude some but not with me so much. And you're fifteen without an attitude, something's way wrong."
"Remember when Peterson caught us with that p
int in the gym?"
Freddy laughed. "What'd you say to him? It was... I don't remember. But it didn't go over good."
Nick said, "He was like what the hell're you doing with booze? Don't you know it's bad for you? And I just went: 'Then why'd your wife give it to me?'"
"Jesus, that's right! What a line. He decked you, didn't he?"
"Shoved me, is all... And suspended me for a week."
They drove in silence for a few blocks, Nick relishing the memories of school. Freddy asked, "What's the story with you and Amelia? I mean, she's with that guy now, right?"
Nick shrugged. "Yeah. She's with him."
"That's kinda weird, don't you think? He's a cripple. Wait. Can you say that?"
"No, you can't say that."
"But he is, right?"
"Disabled. I looked it up. You can say disabled. They don't like handicapped either."
"Words," Freddy said. "My dad, he called blacks coloreds. Which you weren't supposed to. But now you're supposed to say 'persons of color.' Which is a lot like coloreds. So, I don't get it. You guys made a nice couple, you and Amelia."
Yeah, we did.
Nick glanced in the side-view mirror and stiffened. "Shit."
"What?" Freddy asked.
"You see that car behind us?"
"The--"
"Green, don't know. Buick, I think. No, Chevy."
"Got a look. What about it?"
"It's been making the same turns as us."
"No shit. What's that about? Nobody after me I know about."
Nick looked in the mirror again. He shook his head. "Goddamn it."
"What?"
"I think it's Kall."
"Is--"
"Vinnie Kall. That asshole detective hassling us at the Bay View with Von."
"Shit, staking out your place. That's low. I ditched the gun. They'll never find it. And you didn't do nothing. You could say you didn't know he had a piece, even if it comes up. And Von didn't give his real name. What's he's about?"
"He's a dick, that's what it's about. Just riding me maybe. Man, I don't want him to screw this up, with Perone. It's too important. It's the only way I'm going to prove I'm innocent."
He looked around. "Look, Freddy. He's got nothing on you. He doesn't know you called in that false alarm. Do me a favor."
"Sure, Nick. You got it."
He looked around. "Pull into that garage." Pointing ahead.
"Here?"
"Yeah."
Freddy spun the wheel fast. Tires squealed. It was a four-story parking garage attached to an enclosed shopping center.
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