St. Albans Fire (16 page)

Willy was scanning the block, twisting around in his seat. “We gonna do a sit-and-wait?”

It wasn’t a complaint. Despite his hard-earned reputation for cutting corners, Willy could be a patient man, especially when he was on a scent.

“Unless you have something better,” Joe answered him. “Farber’s chances of success notwithstanding, I figured we can’t lose by at least seeing a couple of the players in motion.”

“Works for me,” Willy said, “but I think we better get off this street. Even lying low, we’ll probably get burned before the day’s out. Too many people around here learned to spot a surveillance while they were sucking mother’s milk.”

Joe pulled away from the curb.

· · ·

In the huge, crowded maze that was the Port of Newark, Gino Famolare maneuvered his eighteen-wheeler with practiced grace past towering stacks of shipping containers. A constant flow of workers and loading machinery crisscrossed before him like minnows avoiding a large fish. He was heading for the company’s main depot, coming off a week of driving, looking forward to some time off, and a whole lot more besides.

He backed into a slot alongside a fleet of similar trucks, collected his paperwork and travel kit, and swung out of the cab. He walked toward the dispatch center, exchanging greetings with other drivers along the way, and filed his trip with the woman behind the counter, also handing over the keys.

In exchange, she gave him a wad of phone messages and a check.

The check, he was expecting; one of the phone slips, he was not.

He crossed over to a pay phone mounted on the wall, knowing from the name on the slip that the use of his cell would be breaking one of this man’s cardinal rules. “Too many people sniffing the airwaves,” was how he put it. “They can still tap a line, but they have to find it to tap it.” Given the man’s reputation, Gino wasn’t going to challenge his logic. He dialed the number.

“Tito,” he said after the third ring was answered. “It’s Gino. You called?”

“Thought you should know,” Tito’s voice came back. “That trip up north? Not too clean.”

Instinctively, Gino glanced around. He was the only one on this side of the counter, and the dispatcher was back at her console, well out of earshot.

“What do you mean?”

“A kid died.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine,” Tito said, and hung up.

Gino stared at the phone. The abruptness was just Tito. It was his message that cut deep. Gino had his pride, after all, and it had just taken a direct hit.

“THAT MUST BE THE MISSUS,” WILLY SAID,
slouched in the passenger seat, his eyes at half-mast. They’d been watching the house for five hours already, moving the car from place to place to keep suspicion to a minimum, sometimes parking over half a block away. At the moment, they were situated on a side road that T-boned into Famolare’s street, not quite across from his home. An attractive woman in her mid-forties, solidly built and well tailored, had opened the front door, purse in hand, and was impatiently standing there, apparently waiting for someone who was taking their time.

The explanation appeared moments later. A young woman stepped into view in a short skirt, skintight tank top, and what looked like motorcycle boots. The green of her hair radiated in the sunshine. Despite the cold nip in the air, the girl’s midriff was bare and her light jacket open to better display her wares.

“Man,” Willy added. “I bet things get a little strained in that household.”

The body language between the two women bore him out, as the girl flounced by her mother, uttering some unheard comment, causing the latter to glare at her in speechless irritation before slamming the door.

They crossed the yard to the car in the driveway.

“Follow them or sit tight?” Willy asked.

“Sit,” Joe responded.

The car—a Lexus—backed roughly into the street, its movements reflecting the anger of its driver, and sped away to the west.

Not two minutes later, a second car pulled into the same driveway from the opposite direction.

Willy grunted, surprised. “You know that was going to happen?”

“No clue,” Joe answered, watching carefully.

A man swung out of the car, locking the doors and pocketing the keys. He was dressed in jeans and a work shirt and was carrying an overnight bag.

“That our boy?” Joe asked.

Willy glanced at the rap sheet before him. “Gino Famolare, in the flesh. Guess he just missed them.”

“I don’t think so,” Joe said quietly. “Look.”

They watched as Famolare studied the street down which his wife and daughter had just vanished, apparently checking to make sure they weren’t coming back.

“My bet,” Joe said, “is that he likes a little quiet time after coming off the road. By the bag, he may have been gone a few days.”

“Why not just head for a bar?” Willy asked. “That’s what I used to do.”

Joe laughed softly. “Yeah—that clearly worked for you.”

“Up yours.”

They settled back to wait, expecting nothing much to happen, when—twenty minutes later—the door opened again and Famolare reappeared, wearing slacks, a sports shirt and jacket, and looking freshly showered.

“Oh-oh,” Willy said, straightening up. “The boy is restless and on the prowl.”

“Could be,” Joe agreed, starting the engine.

They followed Famolare’s car onto Bloomfield Avenue heading back toward Newark’s downtown.

“Business meeting?” Joe wondered out loud.

Willy wasn’t wavering. “I could smell the cologne a block away. He’s going to see his squeeze. Maybe she’s downtown ’cause he’s a cheap bastard, or maybe they’re meeting in a hotel because she’s married to Tony Break-Your-Legs or somebody, but it’s a broad. That much I guarantee.”

They went from Bloomfield to Martin Luther King and traveled into the city’s middle, up to the scaffold-clad courthouse with its statue of Lincoln sitting on a bench out front. There they turned left onto Market, driving east.

Willy smiled. “He’s headed for the Neck. I should’ve known. Perfect.”

“Why’s that?”

“Most discreet area in the county. It’s called Down Neck ’cause of how it fits between the Passaic and the harbor, or the Ironbound ’cause it’s surrounded by railroads. Huge Portuguese population.”

“Sounds charming,” Joe commented skeptically.

“Oh, no,” Willy protested. “It’s really great. Good food, good people. They police their own in the Neck. The cops never have to worry. Damned near the safest place I know.”

“Sounds like Chinatown in New York,” Joe said.

Willy shook his head. “Way different. Chinatown, you get the tongs and the gangs—everybody scared to death. The cops don’t go in ’cause they’re afraid they’ll get killed. In the Neck, it’s just peaceful—or else. You kill your wife here, nobody calls the cops until your body’s found in the gutter. No muss, no fuss. Everybody’s happy.”

In fact, having now entered the Neck, Joe noticed the whole mood of the street change. From downtown’s feeling of a clock stopped in an era of black-and-white, Market Street in the Ironbound was almost festive. Banners were hung over the road announcing an upcoming festival, stores and shops were decorated with colorful signs, many written in a language Joe couldn’t read. And the sidewalks were full of people laughing, relaxed, and looking utterly at home.

“There he goes,” Willy said as Famolare took a right down a side street.

Joe followed him, falling farther back in the dramatically thinned traffic. He eventually pulled into a parking spot a few streets down as their quarry stopped opposite a very pleasant two-story wood-sided house.

“Ah.” Willy smirked, enjoying himself. “The advantages of separate bank accounts and a little income on the side.”

Joe was half hoping a fat man in a business suit would appear on the house’s doorstep, but unfortunately, Willy had hit it right on. As Famolare emerged from his car, a beautiful young woman with long dark hair threw open the door and came running down the steps into his arms. They kissed warmly before he draped his arm across her shoulders and escorted her back into the house.

Willy laughed. “What’re we goin’ for, boss? A quickie or some quality time? I say we grab something to eat—like you said, the man’s been on the road for days.”

· · ·

Inside the house, Peggy DeAngelis threw her arms around Gino’s neck, pushing him off balance against the closed door, and kissed him passionately, her hips grinding into his.

“God, I missed you,” she murmured between kisses.

He stayed silent, his hands coasting along the thin fabric of her dress, feeling the heat of her skin radiating beneath it. She wasn’t wearing much—just a pair of thong underwear—and as his fingertips discovered this, his own excitement began building. After receiving the news of the fatal fire in Vermont—an irritating and bothersome complication, not to mention a black mark on his reputation—he had thought of Peggy right off as the perfect antidote. Staking out his own house afterward, he’d thought his wife and kid would never leave for the latter’s weekly session with the shrink.

He pulled away long enough to savor the young woman before him, her eyes shining, her lips moist. He unbuttoned the top of her dress and buried his face between her breasts, breathing in her warmth.

Definitely the cure for a bad day.

· · ·

Jonathon Michael left the farmhouse and got into his car, rolling down the window now that the sun’s effects were taking hold. The nights were still cold, and snow was still piled against the north walls of most buildings, but there was no mistaking the feeling of spring in the air.

Michael’s car, like those of most cops, was as much office as vehicle, so he drove a mile up the road, pulled off under a tree with a view of Lake Champlain in the distance, and started reviewing his notes.

He’d been driving back and forth ever since Joe Gunther’s departure south, chasing an angle he’d thought of only out of despair.

He opened the map that he, Tim Shafer, and Gunther had consulted days ago at the state police barracks. Then, they’d unsuccessfully tried extracting an explanation from Joe’s pattern of arsons and farm sales. Now Michael felt he was seeing one slowly coming into focus.

Methodically, he filled in a Post-It note and stuck it to the map, right over the property he’d just left, recently purchased from one of the farmers that Gunther had identified among his land sales. Michael’s motivation had sprung from the primary list of buyers Joe had compiled from town clerk records. What if he hadn’t probed deeply enough? Might not individual interviews with each buyer be more revealing?

In fact, they had been.

· · ·

Wolff Properties—a loaded name for a realty firm, Michael had thought the first time he visited—was located in downtown St. Albans, on the first floor of one of the short, squat, red brick buildings facing the town’s historic Taylor Park, where a small, captured British cannon stood comically on guard, pointing—some thought tellingly—directly at the health food store.

Michael walked by the picture window filled with photographs of listed properties and entered a long, narrow room that ran straight to the back of the building, lined along one wall with a row of four desks, reminiscent of a string of abbreviated docks at a marina, each desk having a dinghy-like chair hanging off its far end for visiting customers.

“May I help you?” asked a woman sitting at the first dock. There was a young man on the phone two stations behind her who barely glanced up at his entrance—not the curiously named and smooth-talking John Samuel Gregory he’d met last time.

“I’d like to see Mr. Wolff, if he’s in.”

“And who should I say is calling?” she asked, getting up.

Michael showed her the badge he had clipped to his belt under his jacket. “My name is Jonathon Michael. He knows me.”

“Oh, my goodness”—she paused—“I hope everything’s all right.”

He gave her a reassuring smile and joked, “You haven’t robbed a bank today, have you?”

She looked startled, as if the question were serious. He quickly eased her concern. “Sorry—old joke.”

She laughed uneasily. “Right. I’ll see about Mr. Wolff.”

She was back in under a minute, gesturing to Michael to follow her into a side office, beyond which was a conference room with a large white-haired man standing over a pile of papers fanned out across a table.

“Mr. Michael, Mr. Wolff,” the woman said, retreating and closing the door behind her.

Clark Wolff crossed over to Michael with his hand extended and his best salesman’s smile. “Good to see you again. Still digging around the real estate business?”

As before, Michael noticed that Wolff spoke in an almost theatrical tone, unexpectedly soothing. “Something like that.”

Wolff offered him a seat before settling himself opposite. “How may I help this time?”

Jonathon chose his words carefully, not wanting to reveal too much too soon. “We’re looking into a situation that involves several properties south of town. In the process, I discovered your office brokered not just the Loomis farm but a few others as well, and that some of those deals were kept very much under wraps.”

Wolff’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes narrowed just a fraction. “And you think there may be some irregularity with that?”

Jonathon also maintained his poise. “If there is, now would be a good time to mention it.”

“There is not, Detective,” Wolff said firmly. “Discretion is just that, for the most part, especially so in real estate. As you can appreciate, emotions run high when properties change hands. Sometimes it’s helpful to keep a low profile.”

“Like getting someone to buy his neighbor’s land so no one will know you’re actually behind the purchase?”

Wolff agreed. “For example.”

“Why would emotions be that hot?” Jonathon asked innocently. “Surely, buying and selling property is what you do.”

Wolff crossed his legs carefully. “The realty business is a little like the stock market sometimes,” he explained slowly. “What may seem like no big deal to us can be misinterpreted by others.”

“As in the purchase of eight farms covering a relatively small area?”