Hades (32 page)

31

Reggie was superb from the moment she walked in the door. She took in the scene in the living room, strode past the three men, saw the body in the kitchen, said nothing about it, came back into the living room. Assessing the situation flawlessly, she touched Justin on the back, let her hand linger there for just a moment—it’s all she had to do to let him know she understood what had happened and what he’d done. She made Roger sit in the easy chair and found a blanket in which to wrap him. She also poured him a stiff scotch. She did the same for Jonathan; but when she saw that he was alert and lucid, she asked him if he was up to talking, and he was. He told her, clinically and completely, what had happened. She touched his hand, knowing human contact was important sometimes, could be more comforting than any words, and had him sit down, too.

She called the East End Harbor police station, got Gary Jenkins. She identified herself and told him to get over to Justin’s house immediately. Gary was surprised to hear her voice, started to ask questions, but she cut him off, told him that with his boss on suspension, this was his decision to make, and only his, so he’d better make it fast. He arrived in five minutes.

Things were wrapped up quickly.

An ambulance took the body to the Southampton Hospital morgue, and Reggie arranged for fingerprinting to take place as soon as the body arrived there. She tried to get Justin into the same ambulance, but he wouldn’t budge, didn’t respond at all to her gentle urging other than to shake his head once, and she didn’t press him. One of the orderlies took a look at him, said, “I think you should listen to her, sir—you don’t look too good,” but Reggie shooed him away and said she’d get him there on her own.

Officer Jenkins called the station and, after clearing things with Reggie, he and Mike Haversham cleaned up Justin’s kitchen, putting everything back in place and even mopping the floor. Haversham got violently ill when trying to clean off the front burner—he realized almost immediately what he was trying to scrape off—but Gary Jenkins took a deep breath and did the job. When he was done, he too had to rush into the bathroom.

When they were finished with the kitchen, they also straightened up the living room. Justin just sat on the couch, saying nothing. His breathing had slowed down, but it was still coming in short gasps, and when he took in too deep a breath, he winced in pain. Jonathan, too, sat quietly; he appeared calm and in control, more concerned about his son than anyone or anything else. He, too, had made one quick attempt to get Justin to go to Southampton in the ambulance, but Reggie also waved him off and he stopped pushing.

Reggie spent fifteen or twenty minutes talking quietly to Roger. She talked to him about the shock of violence and how he was right to have been afraid. She spoke soothingly and calmly, and gradually he came around. His alertness returned and he finally looked at her and said, “Thank you, I’m fine now. I just never thought . . . I never saw anything like . . . I didn’t know . . .”

“It’s all right,” she told him. “No one should know about things like that. No one should see things like that.”

When the house was straightened up and everything was back in order, she went over to Justin. She took his hand and said, “I want to take you to the hospital now. I know you’re fine, but you have some wounds that have to be looked at. I’ll call ahead so you won’t have to wait, but you need to go and we should go now. Okay?”

He nodded. She helped him stand and took him out to her car. She asked Jonathan and Roger to wait at the house, asked both young cops to wait with them. She said she thought they’d be back in a couple of hours.

In the fifteen-minute ride to the hospital, she told him she’d reported everything that happened to Zach Fletcher. She said Agent Fletcher was concerned about Justin’s health, said that any conversation could wait until he was up to it. He nodded. In the car she asked him if he had any idea why this had happened. He didn’t answer. Didn’t nod or shake his head. He made no response at all.

It turned out that her two-hour estimate was off—they were back in East End Harbor in a little over an hour. Justin took twelve stitches in his cheek and four stitches to close a small gash over his left eye. He did have a broken rib, and the doctor in the emergency room wrapped him in a bandage that left him feeling mummified. Burn ointment was lathered on his hand and that was wrapped also. He was given a solid dose of painkillers and told to take them whenever he needed them. Justin didn’t speak much during his treatment. He answered the doctors’ questions with one- or two-word answers, and Reggie made it clear that the doctors were not to ask too many questions.

When they arrived back at Justin’s house, both Justin and Reggie were surprised to find out it wasn’t yet 8 p.m.

“I think the plane should take you both back tonight,” she said to Jonathan Westwood. “I called the pilot from the hospital. He’s waiting at the airport. Gary or Mike can take you.”

They were all surprised when Justin said, “We’re going with them.”

She turned to him and said, “Jay, that’s not a good idea.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. And if you don’t want to go, that’s fine. But I’m going up there now.” She said nothing, simply tilted her head—that was the way she asked the question—and he said, “I think I’m beginning to understand what’s going on. And if I’m right, we need to see Lenny Rube. In person. I don’t think he’ll be taking my calls.”

Jonathan started to argue, to say that they could all go up the next morning, but Justin waved him off. Looking at Reggie, he said, “We can see him and come straight back. But we need to see him tonight.”

She looked at Jonathan and shrugged.

Ten minutes later they were on their way to the East Hampton Airport.

The airplane ride was short and relatively quiet. Roger had recovered enough to go over some of the fine points of the various stock deals he’d uncovered. Talking about it seemed to help him regain his strength. Reggie was hearing most of this for the first time, but she caught on quickly—asked a few questions for clarification, mostly kept quiet and absorbed what she was listening to.

When they landed in Providence and were disembarking, Jonathan handed the pilot a thousand dollars and asked him how long he could wait to take Justin and Reggie back that night. The pilot said, “As long as you’d like, Mr. Westwood.”

On the ground, Justin touched his father on the shoulder, said, “I’m sorry you had to see that tonight. I’m sorry you had to be there. I would never have put you in danger like that if I had known.”

Jonathan only said, “Thank you for saving our lives.” And then: “I love you.”

They smiled at each other. When Roger shook Justin’s hand he, too, said, “Thank you.” Then he did his best to grin and said, “I’m hittin’ your dad up for one major bonus.”

Jonathan had arranged for two cars. One for him and Roger. One for Justin and Reggie. Justin and Reggie’s car took them about thirty minutes from the airport, into an area of Providence called College Hill. It was a clean, suburban-looking neighborhood with expensive, colonial-style houses.

“Looks like a place where wealthy businessmen should live,” Reggie said as the car pulled into a gated driveway.

“They do,” Justin said solemnly. “You’re about to meet one of the wealthiest.”

“How do you know where he lives?” Reggie asked.

“Every cop in Rhode Island knows where Lenny Rube lives,” he said. “They’ve all been here for dinner.”

The driver stopped at the intercom before the gate and dialed up to the house. When a man’s voice at the other end said, “Who is it?” Justin leaned over and said his name. There was a fairly long silence, then a woman’s voice said, “We’re having a dinner party, Mr. Westwood. I’m afraid this isn’t a good time. We’re just starting our dessert.”

“Is this Mrs. Rubenelli?” he asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“Ask your husband if he’d rather talk to me in private right now or if he’d like me to drag him out of your dinner party by his hair and arrest him in front of all your guests.”

There was another silence. Then the gate slowly began to open. The car drove up the long driveway, dropped them off in front of the house, and Justin asked the driver to please wait. He said they wouldn’t be long.

They were ushered into the Rubenelli house—the parlor was nearly as big as Justin’s house in East End—and asked to wait in a den off to the right. As they were led to the smaller room, they could make out the dining room and a large table with perhaps twelve guests seated around it. There was lots of laughter and good cheer emanating from the room. Justin was willing to wait exactly five minutes before going into the dining room and putting a damper on all the fun. But with thirty seconds to go, Leonardo Rubenelli joined them in the den.

“You were always a rude bastard,” Lenny Rube said. He looked at Justin and said, “Jesus Christ. What the hell happened to you?” Justin didn’t bother to respond. Lenny Rube raised his eyes, a look that
said,
Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it,
then he saw Reggie and said, “Excuse me. Leonard Rubenelli.” He extended his hand, and she shook it.

“Agent Regina Bokkenheuser,” she said. “FBI.”

“What do you want?” Lenny Rube said.

It was Justin who answered. “I want Bruno.”

“What, you don’t know how to get in touch with him?”

“He seems to be out of touch at the moment.”

Lenny said nothing for a minute, as if he was pondering the request, then he said, “You know, I never liked the fact that you and Bruno were so friendly. It’s always made me uncomfortable. Other people, too.”

“I wouldn’t overestimate our friendship so much if I were you, Len. This isn’t a social occasion. I want you to tell him to talk to me.”

“I’ll tell him when I see him. That it? That’s what’s so pressing? Can I go back to my guests now?”

“Not yet,” Justin said. “You might want to sit down for this.”

Rubenelli waited long enough to convey that it was his choice whether or not he was going to stay, but when the decision was made, he sat in a large, overstuffed chair with a multicolored, flower-patterned, quilted fabric. Justin began to talk. He told the Mafia boss almost all of the financial details he’d learned from Roger, down to the profits that Rubenelli’s various red-named companies had been making—as well as their recent losses. He explained as much as he needed to about Evan Harmon’s shorting scheme and financial sleight-of-hand artistry.

Rubenelli said nothing until Justin was finished. Then he pulled a pack of cigarettes from a drawer. To Reggie he said, “You mind if I smoke?” She shook her head and he said, “My wife, she don’t like me to smoke in the house. But I think I need one—you know what I mean?” He offered one to Reggie and Justin; they each declined. “You always were a good cop,” he said to Justin. He lit up, took a quick drag. “It’s why you’re so unpopular.”

“I’ll take that as a way of saying you’re not disputing what I just told you.”

“Take it however the fuck you want.” Rubenelli took a deep drag. “I’m seventy years old and I smoked my whole life. Since I was ten. Probably live to be a hundred. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“Not that much,” Justin said.

“So what do you want from me?” Rubenelli asked.

“We want you to fill in some gaps.”

“And I’m doin’ this just out of the goodness of my heart?”

“You’re doing it because I can make a really good case that you’re responsible for the deaths of Evan Harmon, Ronald LaSalle, and Wanda Chinkle. It’s good enough to take to court, and right now I’d say it’s at least fifty-fifty it’s winnable. And if that happens, you’ll be smoking behind bars for those last thirty years of yours.”

“What’s stoppin’ you from making your case?”

“I think there’s something bigger going on.”

Rubenelli smirked. “What, you’re sayin’ I’m innocent?”

“You’re the least innocent guy I’ve ever met, Len. I’m just saying I’m not convinced you’re guilty. At least of these murders. But if we release this information, and tie you to everything I know we can tie you to, everybody else is going to think you’re guilty as hell. Of a whole bunch of things.”

“Ask,” Rubenelli said.

“You met with Evan Harmon and Ronald LaSalle down in Palm Beach at the Rockworth and Williams hedge fund conference.”

“Yeah. I have a house down there. Right on the water. I use it in the winter. Bunch of snobs, you know, but you can’t beat the fuckin’ weather in January.”

“How’d you hook up with them?” Reggie asked.

“You’re not gonna believe me.”

“Try us.”

“Bruno. He was usin’ LaSalle as a broker.”

“As a legit broker?” Justin asked.

Lenny Rube laughed. “Totally legit. Bruno got interested in the market. He started to play around. LaSalle made him some dough. A lotta dough, if you wanna know the truth. So he came to me and said I oughtta check this guy out.”

“Len,” Justin said, “you’re telling me that you were using Ron LaSalle as your personal, legit broker to play the stock market?”

“How much of this conversation is off the record?” Rubenelli asked.

“Unless I’m wrong and you ordered these hits, it’s all off the record. I wish you nothing but success with your moneymaking schemes.”

“Off the record, it started legit. As kind of a test. Then we went to him and said we wanted to invest some—uh—corporate funds. We wanted him to be a kind of funds-to-funds guy.”

“Funds to funds?” Justin said. “What are you, going to business school?”

“Hey, scumbag,” Rubenelli said. “A lotta what we do’s legit now. And we gotta play it legit. And it wasn’t just my dough, our dough. We got a few . . . outside investors.”

“Other families?”

“I’m talkin’ to you about my business. I don’t have to bring in other people’s business. I’m just sayin’ my investors got money to invest and we got people to look out for and we’re like anybody else—we like to hire good people to watch over our money.”

“So LaSalle started investing your money in various hedge funds?”

“Yeah. Until . . . well . . . he kinda figured out we weren’t interested in dealin’, you know, a hundred percent on the up-and-up. I mean, we were makin’ dough, but we decided we weren’t makin’ enough dough.”