Once a Crooked Man (33 page)

With extreme caution he crawled out a few feet and looked down through the first dirty pane. The space below looked empty and unused but was a possible place where he might gain access to the building. Time and weather had reduced the putty that held the glass to brittle pieces that could be easily pried loose.

“I need supplies,” he muttered to himself.

On the bottom flight of the fire escape he rode down to the alley and secured the ladder with the rope. Back at his car he opened the trunk, grabbed the largest of his drill bits and put it in his pant pocket. Hanging the tire iron on his belt, he retrieved the flashlight from the glove compartment, locked the doors and sprinted back into the alley. Before he climbed up he freed the rope and coiled it over his shoulders.

Entry to the rooms was from the one corridor. Harry decided to check the last room first. Very gingerly he crawled along to the far end of the walkway. Below was an office with a series of surveillance monitors above a desk. A desk lamp illuminated a man sitting there working at a computer.

Spinning around on his stomach, Harry edged his way over to an adjoining pane of glass and peered down through a crack in the paint. The faint nasal twang of Asian music could now be heard.

Below in the dark he could make out an enormous machine. On the front control panel several LED lights showed that it was powered and ready to be switched on. Harry had no idea what it was used for.

The next two rooms had been knocked together to form one large area. One door had been removed and the entrance boarded over. The space was filled with refectory tables that were packed tightly together to create an extensive worktop. On these were nine digital projectors that sent their images to what looked like white bedsheets tacked to the walls. Interspersed between these were a series of laptop computers. Everything was connected by a forest of wires that seemed to terminate at two servers in the corner of the room.

There were two men below. In complete contrast, one was small in stature and wore a white shirt. He sat to one side doing nothing. The other man was huge and had very black hair. He was watching the code that scrolled down on one of the sheets. In his hand was a yellow lined pad where he made an occasional note.

Harry pulled himself back and sat up in the middle of the walkway. Directly below him was clearly an important part of the Bruschetti organization. One they wouldn't want to lose. Perhaps he could find a way of messing it up? But right now his assignment was to find Lizzie. The building had to be searched. The only way inside that he could see was down through the first room at the far end of the walkway.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. The wood beneath him creaked as he went back to the first skylight. Taking out the big drill bit he chipped off the putty from three sides, eased the tire iron under glass and pried it up. With it wedged he managed to get his fingers underneath the edge. But as he began to lift it up the pane started to slip as the fourth side gave way. Harry tried frantically to hold on but he had thoroughly underestimated the weight. The thick piece of glass slid from his grasp and slithered over the edge. With a loud crash it shattered on the sidewalk.

Harry prayed for a full minute. First that no one was walking below and second that the two men beneath him were hard of hearing. His prayers were answered. There were no shouts, cries or moans and nobody came out to investigate.

With the flashlight tucked into his waistband he secured one end of the rope to the ironwork and, easing his legs over the edge, slowly slid down until his feet touched the floor.

Except for a metal folding chair and an old empty filing cabinet the space was empty. Harry tried the door handle. It was not locked so he carefully opened it. It was fortuitous that he didn't open it fully as the man at the end came out of his office at that moment and went into the room with the bedsheets.

Harry heard the door close.

Now all three men were in the same room. If he could keep them there, he could do a fast search for Lizzie without interruption. Presumably all the doors had the same hardware. The metal chair would certainly be sturdy enough to act as a wedge.

Harry ran fast down the passageway and gently pushed the back of the chair under the brass knob of the door, pressing the ends of metal legs firmly into the floor boards. Tiptoeing away, he took out his flashlight and headed swiftly but cautiously down the stairs.

The floor below was an empty void. On the second floor were the dusty remains of cubicle partitions. Scattered everywhere were discarded folders and papers. The ground floor contained several large rooms, all of them clean and filled with an assortment of boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. Harry opened one up and pulled out a new CD. With overt sexual graphics it had the descriptive title of
Penetentiary Penetration.
Harry threw the disk in the box and headed for the basement.

Like the top floor, this was divided into small rooms. Directly opposite the stairs were two toilets. Harry went into the one marked
MEN
. Inside was nothing of significance until he checked the floor with the flashlight. By his left foot were four cigarette butts. When he leaned over to take a closer look he saw that each of the butts had a trace of mauve lipstick. Lizzie had been there. But how long ago? There was no sign or scratch on the tiles to give him a clue.

The fact that Lizzie was being held captive by a bunch of thugs made him angry and that produced an even stronger desire to go on the offensive. If he could chase the men upstairs out, he could use the same tactic and follow one of them. But how to do that? Best thing would be to mess up the fancy computer setup on the top floor. This was kept running by a constant flow of electricity. With so much wattage being used in an abandoned warehouse it was a wonder that Con Edison hadn't thought it strange and made inquiries.

It was only when Harry looked in the little room at the end of the passageway that the answer to that was found. A shiny thick black cable had been skillfully welded into the supply before it reached the meters. All electricity coming in was unrecorded. Harry traced the cable and saw that it ran up the side of the stairs. Cutting it would be the best way to cause mischief. But how?

Searching around, he came across two red extinguishers hanging on the wall with a fire axe in a glass-fronted case. The axe could definitely be used to cut the cable. But if he did that there was a distinct possibility he would be electrocuted. Insulation was required. And fast. It wouldn't be much longer until someone tried to get out through the door upstairs.

From one of the rooms he brought a box of nudie magazines and made two piles on either side of a section of the cable that lay flat on the floor. Smashing the glass with his elbow, he seized the axe and used it to splinter the wooden case. Taking a length of the wood, he wedged the blade between the magazines with the sharp side down and laid the board on top. Picking up the heavier of the two extinguishers he crashed it down as hard as he could on the board above the axe. The force of the blow went from the steel cylinder through the board and into the axe.

Harry was totally unprepared for what resulted from his Rube Goldberg efforts. There was a huge flash and sparks flew everywhere. A fire crackled and hissed where the blade had partially penetrated the cable. Smoke billowed up and the lights went out. Harry flung down the extinguisher and ran up the stairs.

As he headed for the front door he heard shouts and sounds of banging as the three men above found themselves in the dark with the door wedged shut.

Out in the street he flew as fast as he could to his car and drove off. It wasn't until he was three blocks away that he remembered to put on his lights. As he approached the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel several fire engines passed him going in the opposite direction.

A little while later, on the radio of the Ford Escape the 1010 WINS announcer reported a four-alarm fire at an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn that had involved the entire block. There were no reports of any fatalities or injuries.

Harry swallowed. He knew better. He had probably just killed three men.

 

60.

Walker, Martin, Pomeranz and Fisher was closed for the day. Carter crossed the deserted lobby and took the elevator up to his floor. For a while he stood by the window and looked down at the street. Below was a world in turmoil. Everything in his life had changed in less than an hour. If only he had been able to lie to Fiona, to come up with a story to explain the visit from the IRS. But now that was all wishful thinking.

In an odd way after so many years of deceit it had been a relief to come clean. His marriage was over as she was not one to forgive. Her sense of what was appropriate far outweighed any love or affection that she might still feel for him. Divorce was inevitable. Amanda and James would be devastated but were young enough to recover. Carter's future relationship with them would entirely depend on what their mother told them. Charles and Katherine Walker were another matter.

That was his private life. Professionally, he doubted anything would come from the agent's visit. It was a fact that he had established virtual companies to hide large sums of cash. But all of these had been closed up and archived ages ago. Back in the early years when he had accepted money from Sal and Max, Carter had never been told the source. If the need arose, he could plead ignorance.

But forewarned is forearmed. Now he had come to the office to find how the IRS had tied him to the Bruschettis. What was the link? Carter had a vague idea that Enzo owned a boat that he kept on the Hudson. Could that be how the Feds made the connection? Once more he opened the safe and took out several boxes, stacking them by his desk.

With his jacket off he sat down and year by year, month by month, day by day, file by file he examined every page, memo and note. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair, completely baffled.

Where else could he look? Somewhere beyond his office? Each of his closest associates and their assistants had their own systems. So did Joan Hutchins. She had sat outside his door from the day he had arrived at the firm. Carter knew that his assistant kept her records in three cabinets lined up behind her desk and the keys for these were kept in a coffee mug where she dropped them every night before she left. He retrieved them and unlocked the first cabinet, pulled out the top drawer and located the B section. There was nothing there. Fingering through to the Gs, he came across a file marked “Gazelle.” This was extremely odd.

Back in his office he laid the file on his desk and opened it up.

Inside were two sheets of paper. A certificate of registration listing the owner of the
Gazelle
as the Martinson Metal Recycling Company.

Carter turned to the second page.

This was a handwritten note written by Joan. For some reason she had penciled in the directors of the company. Salvatore and Enzo Bruschetti. Carter stood transfixed. He remembered setting up the Martinson Metal Recycling Company but had absolutely no recollection of doing anything about any boat. There was certainly no way he had ever personally arranged for it to be registered.

Perhaps Joan had opened the mail when it arrived and taken it upon herself to complete the forms. Or could he in a moment of idiocy have allowed her to do it?

Joan would be the only person to have seen this second page. There was no reason for anyone other than her to look at it. The IRS must have procured the Bruschetti name from somewhere else. But where? He needed an answer. And fast. Enzo was the obvious start
.
A call and a meeting might give him a clue.

If he was heading into their territory it would be a good idea to have a transcript of any conversations. From his desk he took out an Olympus voice recorder and slipped it into his shirt pocket. As he did, he noticed the little metal box in the drawer that contained his Beretta 3032 Tomcat. The little titanium pistol had been acquired soon after he made the acquaintance of Sal and Max. The questionable individual who had sold him the weapon for one thousand dollars in cash had given him a piece of advice.

“If you draw this little baby, you had better be prepared to kill. Otherwise leave the sucker in your pants.”

Carter took the little pistol out and held it in his hand.

What the hell, he thought.

Checking the safety, he slipped it into his pocket.

 

61

The basement below the dining room at Mazaras was once the scene of many wild parties. Now it was a cluttered, untidy maze. In their younger days the brothers had made part of it into a gaming room with a big octagonal poker table and a shiny mahogany bar with six high-backed stools. In the back wall they had a walk-in vault installed to store the cash earned from every nefarious job.

Max and Enzo grew older. Sal spent more time with his family and the space was hardly used. Storage for the restaurant became a premium. First refrigeration was moved down. Metal shelves were erected to store cans and dry goods. The poker table was piled with outdated menus, phased-out flatware and bundles of faded linens. The shiny bar surface became a dump for plastic bags full of discarded kitchen paraphernalia. Boxes were stacked everywhere and New York dust descended on them like a shroud.

Max came down the stairs and switched on the lights. Unlocking the bathroom door he found the girl seated on the toilet. One shoe lay on the floor and she was massaging her foot. She blinked and gave a sniff.

“Have you any idea what a fucking mess your friend Harry caused before he decided to jump?” Max asked, throwing the door wide.

Her answer was a meaningful moan.

“Shut up!” said Max. “Where's the money?”

“What money?” she replied, picking up her shoe.

“Harry Murphy called earlier and told us he had a suitcase of cash. Money that belonged to me. He said he wanted to give it back. Sounded like he was crazy.”

She looked puzzled. “Crazy? Harry? Money? I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. I told you. He was a ticket that's all. A chance to come here for free and have a good time.” She looked up at Max and shook her head from side to side. “I don't know nothing about Harry. I don't know nothing about any money. I don't know who you are or why you've got me locked up like this. What is it with you? Some kind of fetish keeping people in toilets? At least this one works!” To prove her point, she flushed it.