St. Albans Fire (18 page)

“Had enough,” Jonathon corrected him.

Wolff scowled slightly. “Whatever. The point was that we stood a better chance of keeping this to ourselves as a result, at least until it didn’t matter anymore. At some point, you have to announce what you’ve got going—all the hearings and meetings and permits and whatnot. But by that time, we were hoping to have a major chunk of what we needed, so it wouldn’t matter as much.”

“How far along are you?”

“About fifty percent of that goal—where news breaking out wouldn’t have hurt.” He surveyed the room ruefully.

“Although a wild guess tells me none of that’s going to matter much now.”

He returned to the door and held it open for his guest. “Might as well go back to where it’s more comfortable,” he said.

Jonathon walked by him, allowing Wolff to reverse his security routine—switching off the lights and dead-bolting the door.

The Realtor sighed slightly as he sat back down at the conference table. “Probably for the better.”

“What is?”

Wolff was suddenly looking older. “All my life, I’ve seen this as a good business—matching people to their dreams, building businesses where people don’t have to drive an hour to get what they need, adding vitality to communities that are fraying around the edges. It was a good feeling. Even when the tree huggers or the anti-development types called me names, I could always see the value in what I did.” He shook his head. “But not if people are going to get hurt. You’ll have to prove to me that what you’re saying is true, but I’ll do what I can to help clear the slate one way or the other.”

· · ·

“I’ll be damned,” Gunther said, folding his cell phone and slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

“Gee,” Willy snorted. “And I had you pegged for sainthood.”

“That was Michael. He’s been doing a little homework. Turns out most of those land deals I was telling you about, below St. Albans, tie into a single realty business—an ambitious old-timer and a rich flat-lander hoping to make a killing.”

Willy perked up. “For real?”

“A
financial
killing,” Joe said wearily, and then he corrected himself. “Well, maybe more, as it turns out. But here’s the kicker: When Michael asked the old guy where the younger one came from, he was told ‘down south.’ Turns out that was true Vermonter talk. He meant Newark.”

LIL FARBER WAS WEARING A PAIR OF HALF-GLASSES,
in jarring contrast to the .40-caliber handgun strapped to her waist. She looked up from the document she’d just extracted from the copier outside her office and gave the new arrivals a pensive gaze.

Her greeting was guarded. “Thought you boys had gone home.”

“Got bored. Came back,” Willy answered.

“We received some new information,” Joe explained.

“About Gino?”

Joe chose not to mention how their off-the-books surveillance had netted them Gino’s girlfriend. “No. Somebody else. From North Caldwell.”

“Ritzy neighborhood,” Farber commented. “You still talking arson? That’s not our usual turf.”

Joe waggled his hand from side to side. “It’s getting complicated. This may be the money behind the arson.”

She laughed shortly, her interest piqued. “You can take the hoods out of Newark, but when they need something done, it’s hard to fight old instincts.”

“All roads lead back to the Brick City,” Willy agreed.

Farber collected her paperwork and led the way into her office, speaking over her shoulder. “What’s the name of this new target?”

“John Samuel Gregory.”

“Ooh-la-la,” she chanted, circling her desk. “Sounds veddy posh. That real?”

Joe answered her, sitting down, “We have no reason to think otherwise.”

Farber squared up to her computer and began typing. “Okay, let’s see what we got… ”

It didn’t take her long. In a couple of minutes, she murmured, “Seems you’re right about his interest in money. No convictions, but he just ducked indictments for money laundering and tax evasion and is listed as a fellow traveler in a couple of other scams.”

“Any Mob connections?”

She hitched one shoulder, still typing. “Call them Mob contacts. Hard to say how connected he really is. Things have gotten looser than in the old days, when only southern Italian Catholics could join, but it still doesn’t look like he was Family—not even in the vague way Famolare is. That having been said, he has certainly played with players.” She looked up at them. “Wild guess has it you want a copy of this?”

“If you would,” Joe answered, adding, “You told us digging into Famolare’s business, friends, and neighbors would be like hitting concrete. The same true for Gregory?”

She sat back and smiled at them. “Nope—knock yourselves out. I like going into the Caldwells myself. Reminds me of the life I turned aside to become a caped crusader.”

“Oh?” Willy asked.

She shoved herself out of her chair and poked him in the stomach. “Gotcha.”

· · ·

There are three Caldwells, all located in Essex County’s northwest corner, North Caldwell being the fanciest. If Caldwell and West Caldwell can be described as upscale suburbia—with the attending shopping malls and restaurants to keep them functioning—North Caldwell represents the Olympian Heights, where the biggest commercial enterprise deemed appropriate is a country club. Its rolling streets are secluded and treelined, its houses palatial and generously surrounded by manicured lawns. There may have been more rarefied acreage available—nearby Upper Montclair comes to mind—but the home turf of the Gregory family hardly played second fiddle. As Lil Farber drove her car along the area’s peaceful, pampered, hilly avenues, she estimated some of the larger property taxes at $60,000 per year.

She slowed near the bottom of a large apron of greening grass, the weather down here being warm enough to have stimulated some early spring growth, and pulled over to the curb in full view of a Mount Vernon aspirant, albeit with an excess of red brick and white trim.

“Chez Gregory,” she announced, “or shall I say, Grégoire?”

“Any idea where all the money came from?” Joe asked their escort.

“Some,” she said, pulling a pad from her purse. “I dug around while I was online at the office. There’s nothing criminal about the family that we know—I guess that’s John Samuel’s specialty—but I wouldn’t swear they’re all squeaky-clean, either. In any case, the old man is Edward Cummins Gregory III, if you please. He’s listed as a venture capitalist and philanthropist. Also a major patron of the arts and a collector of Hispano-Americana, whatever that is. He makes all the shows, sits on all the boards, backs all the right causes, and is calculated to be worth about a hundred million bucks. He’s married to Jennifer Whitcomb Gregory, of Chicago, and together they’re the parents of three children, of whom John is the youngest and clearly a mistake, since at twenty-six, he’s twelve years younger than the next one in line.”

“What do the other two kids do?” Joe asked.

“Sister Susan is a thoracic surgeon, working in San Francisco; brother Frederick—five years older than Susan—heads up the family foundation and works with Dad in the venture capital business.”

Joe liked that—the eldest, the closest to the father, knowledgeable of the business, and, he hoped, less than impressed with his little brother. “Where’s he hang out?”

Farber referred back to her notes. “Lives a few streets away; works ten minutes from here, in West Caldwell.”

“You have anything else?”

She shuffled through a few more pages. “Not much. The society pages approve of the senior Gregorys—Jennifer’s kept in shape and wears a size four, Edward floats around in a yacht—they dance, they party, they pose well for photographs, but I got the impression that that’s where it stops. Phrases like ‘the very private couple’ and ‘the charming but tight-lipped Gregorys’ made me think they draw the line.”

Willy snorted from the back seat of the car. “Makes me think little Johnny was banished to Siberia with a bankroll and a Porsche and told to keep his nose clean.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Joe agreed, and asked Lil, “Did you see anything about Frederick’s social life?”

Farber pushed her lips out thoughtfully. “I didn’t check specifically, but when I ran the name Gregory, all I got was the parents.”

“Sounds like he lets Mom and Dad have the limelight,” commented Willy.

Lil glanced over at Joe. “Off to meet Prince Fred, the heir apparent?”

“Yeah.”

The office building Frederick Gregory worked in was a low-key, elegant, modern structure bordered by enough trees, reflecting pools, and stylish brick retaining walls to shield it entirely from the bustle of nearby Central Avenue. Once past the self-effacing entrance gate, all three of them felt like they’d been transported to some Connecticut estate. Perhaps typical of such places, there was only a number on the street announcing its existence, no corporate or business logo. Presumably, if you needed the services of the Gregory Foundation, you called ahead and were given directions.

They parked in a well-appointed lot peppered with a few elegant and expensive cars and walked into a lobby under the supervision of an attractive young woman with very cool eyes sitting at an imposing curving desk.

“May I help you?” she asked.

Joe took the lead, Farber having made it clear that she was there solely as a local presence.

“Yes. We were wondering if we could see Frederick Gregory. I’m afraid we don’t have an appointment.”

She gazed at him as if he’d just asked her to leap from the building’s roof. With polite incredulity, she asked, “You’re asking to make an appointment, is that correct?”

Instinctively, without Willy having made a sound or a gesture, Joe reached back a couple of inches and grabbed his colleague’s wrist, keeping his smile on the girl. “Actually, I’m hoping he might be able to see us now. It’s a matter of some importance to him—something fairly delicate, I’m afraid.”

He heard Willy sigh.

“And you are?” she asked.

“Nobody he’d recognize,” Joe answered. He’d encountered this situation before and hoped a time-honored approach might do the trick. He reached into his pocket and extracted his wallet, adding, “I don’t wish you any disrespect, but maybe this will help us all out. Can I borrow a pen?”

Clearly mystified, she complied. He scribbled a note on the back of one of his business cards, which he shielded from her, and then asked for an envelope. He slipped the card into the envelope, addressed it, and handed it to her.

“I think if you give Mr. Gregory this, he’ll make time to see us. He is in the building?”

Still holding the envelope, she studied him for a few seconds, as if running through a mental inventory of scams she’d been warned against. Finally, she picked up the phone, spoke a few quiet words, and, with a very thin smile, motioned to a couch by the window. “Have a seat, sir. This should only take a few minutes.”

They retired to their designated perch and watched as a second elegant, well-dressed woman appeared from a side door and picked up Joe’s note.

Farber leaned in close to him. “What did you write?”

“‘John may be misbehaving again,’” he told her quietly. “‘We need to talk now, if you can.’”

Farber chuckled. “‘If you can.’ Very accommodating.”

Joe smiled in response. “Don’t want to seem pushy.”

“You’re really counting on John being the black sheep, aren’t you?”

“That I am.”

Three minutes later, Joe nodded toward the side door. The same young woman as before was gesturing to them to follow her.

“Showtime,” he murmured, and nodded, smiling, at the receptionist, who merely stared at them as they crossed the lobby.

Without comment, they walked single file down a muted hallway appointed with oversize Ansel Adams prints glowing under museum lighting, until they reached an unmarked pair of double doors. These their escort opened and stood back to let them pass.

It was a boardroom, very rich, very quiet, with a very expensive mahogany table in its center and a man sitting at its far end. The doors closed behind them.

“Mr. Gregory?” Joe asked.

“Not to be rude,” the man answered, “but I’d like to see your credentials—all of you.”

They filed down the length of the table, and Lil and Joe laid their IDs before him. Willy dropped his in the man’s lap, where it pointedly lay ignored.

“Special Agent Joseph Gunther of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation and Lieutenant Lillian Farber of our own Essex County prosecutor’s office,” the man read aloud. “Sounds high-profile.” He looked at Farber. “I take it you’re the official liaison, or is there some local interest here?”

“We have an interest. Could I see your identification, too, please?” Farber said. “Can’t be too careful.”

“I hope not,” he agreed, removing a slim wallet and displaying his driver’s license. He then retrieved Willy’s battered leather badge case and slid it across the table to him, unopened. “Have a seat.”

Clearly considering some sort of response, Willy hesitated as the other two pulled out leather chairs. To Joe’s relief, he ended up simply sitting. Not that Joe took too much comfort from that. No matter how short this meeting might be, he was betting it wouldn’t conclude without Willy expressing himself somehow.

“You’re here about John Samuel?” Gregory inquired of Joe.

“We are,” Joe admitted, pursuing the thin line that had gotten them this far. “It’s kind of a courtesy call, really, not that we aren’t interested in what you can tell us about him. But he has gotten himself into some trouble, which we thought you’d like to know about before it hits the papers.”

Frederick’s expression hardened slightly—the disapproving older sibling. “What kind of trouble?”

Joe pretended to look uncomfortable, skirting the fact that he had no hard evidence yet. “Ah. That’s a little awkward. My prosecutor would have my head if I said too much. We are talking felony crimes, though. Several of them.”

Frederick’s voice was flat. “Is he under arrest?”

“Not yet.” This was actually a real concern. By speaking to John’s brother now, there was a risk that Frederick would call the little troublemaker and tell him to vanish. But Joe was working on instinct. Based on Lil’s research, he guessed that Frederick Gregory would more likely protect the family name than John himself. John’s presumed one-way ticket to the Vermont backwaters struck Joe as having been Frederick’s one show of generosity. Also, the threat of brother tipping off brother was most likely moot in any case, since Jonathon Michael’s questioning of Clark Wolff had undoubtedly reached John Samuel’s ears by now.