The Big Scam (22 page)

“I think so.”

“Then I got shipped out here and Nick explained how ninety percent of the meaningful work in the FBI was done by ten percent of the agents. Up to that point, my time in the Bureau had been spent as part of the other ninety percent. Then he asked me which group did I want to spend the rest of my time in.”

Lansing decided this was some sort of motivational speech Vanko had devised. As he had discovered during their initial conversations, the supervisor could be very innovative. “Is that a pep talk he gives everybody reporting here?”

“I don't think so. I guess he knows who needs to hear what.”

“And you believe one-tenth of the Bureau does almost all the work?”

“Actually, I think it's more like five to seven percent. But then most people in any organization are in the fat of the curve. I'd rate the majority of agents between a fifty to sixty out of a hundred.”

“Interesting. How would you rate yourself?”

“Give or take, an eighty-five.”

“But I thought you were in that ninetieth percentile.”

“I have some people problems. So I take off five points.”

“So you see people as numbers.”

“It's just the way my mind works. By training, I'm an accountant.”

“What good does it do to turn people into numbers?”

“Isn't that what inspections are about?” Not wanting to acknowledge the statement, Lansing busied himself writing notes. Crowe smiled. “Unless someone is an eighty-seven or above, I don't bother with them. It keeps my blood pressure down.”

“I'm curious, how would you rate your supervisor?”

“He's probably the only person I don't think of in terms of numbers.”

“I won't put you on the hot seat and ask you to rate me.” Lansing gave him a wink, still trying to declare a truce.

“It's no trouble. Invariably, the only people who have winked at me were trying to bullshit me.”

SHEILA DIDN'T GET BACK TO THE OFF-SITE UNTIL
a little after six-thirty. Vanko had sent her on a photographic surveillance requested by one of the counterterrorism supervisors, thinking the distraction might be the best thing for her. He was beginning to regret involving the squad in her case. It gave weight to her questionable theories. The discovery that another of her “victims” appeared to be a runaway should have discouraged her, but through some convoluted psychological process, it had actually strengthened her resolve.

Lansing was still there, dictating the results of his interviews with Crowe and Zalenski. The second interview had been no more productive than the first. In fact, it had been the most boring so far. Even the reason for Zalenski's transfer to the squad had nearly put Lansing to sleep. The young agent had been caught supplementing his income by selling Rolex knockoffs—an inarguable violation of federal copyright and trademark laws—moving in excess of two hundred of them in just three weeks. The biggest disappointment of the interview came when Lansing asked him “off the record” if he had any of the watches left to sell. If such a purchase came to light, he could justify it as an attempt to gain Zalenski's confidence, or, if that proved too unbelievable, as an effort to gather evidence of a continuing felony as part of his larger investigation. And if he never had to explain how he came to possess the counterfeit item, well, he had always coveted the black-dialed Submariner.

But Zalenski swore the last one had been sold. Casually, Lansing asked him if he could remember when, hoping that it might have been after the OPR investigation, thereby generating a fresh criminal count to use against him, a possible crowbar to pry open the sealed, collective psyche of Vanko's squad. Zalenski couldn't remember exactly, but suggested that Lansing call the OPR agent who had interviewed him; he was the one who bought it. As the purchase was finalized, Zalenski explained, the agent slapped him on the back and told him not to worry about the investigation. A week later he found himself reporting to Nick Vanko.

Lansing watched as Sheila walked up to her desk and checked her messages before sitting down. Each day, she seemed to look a little healthier, her face a little fuller, her color not so blanched. Maybe it was just the dim light in the office, or maybe it was her being surrounded by all those hostile males, but Lansing found something unfashionably attractive about her. Her comments about not being sexually harassed enough haunted his idle thoughts, which he dismissed as no more than a temporary distraction. But still there was that confidence about her—that unwillingness to be intimidated by anything. She gave him an almost indistinguishable nod and turned away before he could respond. She packed a few things into her briefcase and signed out.

Now, the only other person left was Garrett Egan, who had inexplicably shown up that morning at the off-site, even though he had asked for time off. Lansing had watched the squad's latest addition most of the day as he tried to acclimate himself to the new surroundings. His movements were disjointed, like those of a visionless creature who navigated by echolocation, trying to orient himself by the memory of a sound given off in the past. Although desperate to make sense of his exile, he could now only feign being an FBI agent.

Egan's beeper sounded. He glanced at Lansing before dialing the phone, turning his back slightly.

Parisi answered, “That you?”

“Now's not a good time. Can I call you back?”

“Where are you at?”

Egan peeked over his shoulder at Lansing. “The office.”

“Those have to be the safest phones in the world to call from, so someone must be there.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“I'm on my way to midtown and my cell's about dead. I really need to talk to you now because I'm going to be asked some questions. If you know what I mean.”

Egan turned toward Lansing, who appeared engrossed in paperwork. “Let me call you back.”

“Soon, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Egan picked up a piece of paper and walked toward Vanko's office, pretending to read it as he went. Once inside, he shut the door. Lansing ran for the vault.

Parisi answered on the first ring. Just above a whisper, Egan said, “Are you and Baldovino ready?”

“As ready as we're going to get.”

“Then we need to rehearse his interview.” He lowered his voice even further. “There's a motel in Kearny, New Jersey, the Lamplighter. Get a room no later than seven o'clock. What kind of car you driving?”

“Why?”

“Trust, remember?”

“A black Cadillac coupe.”

“Do you know the plate number?”

“No.”

“That's all right, there won't be many Cadillacs in that place. New York tag, right?”

“Yeah.”

“After you get a room, write the room number on a small piece of paper and stick it under the windshield wiper. I'll be there no later than seven-fifteen.”

“Okay. There's one other thing, someone wants to meet you.”

“Are you nuts, Mike! If there's anyone in that room besides you and Baldovino, it'll be the last time you'll see me.” Egan suddenly realized he was shouting. “Don't do this,” he whispered.

“You're going to have to meet him sooner or later. He's the one okaying this whole thing.”

“My only concern right now is money. I don't care if it is fifty million dollars. The odds that we'll ever find this box are astronomical. If that happens, we'll talk about it then. My priority right now is to make sure this doesn't get fucked up so I wind up in prison. And that means the fewer that can testify against me, the better.” Anger raised his voice again. “In fact, you know what, I want another twenty-five thousand to go through with this. I'm risking too much on the if-come. Have it with you tomorrow night when I get there.”

“That wasn't our deal.”

“That's right. I was supposed to get you that map, and that was it. But
you
came back to me. Right now, I'm the only thing keeping this alive. And we've got a long way to go, so you should be worried about keeping me happy. What's twenty-five thousand to you guys, anyway?”

Parisi didn't like being dictated to. He also didn't like giving up another twenty-five thousand, but the alternative was calling off the deal, which meant finding another way to stall DeMiglia, and he seriously doubted that was possible. “I'll see you tomorrow night.”

Egan emerged from the office and glanced at Lansing as he left.

Lansing had heard only bits of the conversation, but had written down “Mike,” “Baldovino,” “Another 25,000 to go through with this,” and “Have it with you tomorrow night.”

He waited a few more minutes to make sure Egan was gone, and then walked back through the narrow hallways to check. His own car was the only one still there.

He went back inside to Vanko's desk and hit the redial button. Suddenly something occurred to him: caller ID. If the phone he was calling had it, it might show a call coming from the FBI. Normal Bureau policy was to block that option on all Bureau phones, but with this squad nothing could be assumed. He got his cell phone from his briefcase and dialed the mobile number. As it rang, the display said Out of Range. Good, he thought, the off-site's phones were blocked.

He took a deep breath and hit the redial button on Vanko's phone. The small display window showed the number. He copied it down and hung up before the call could go through.

On the Bureau computer, he typed the phone number into the New York office's indices. After a few seconds, the screen revealed that it came back to Michael Anthony Parisi, a
capo
with the Galante crime family. The number had been discovered by one of Vanko's agents, who had surreptitiously downloaded the call history from Baldovino's cell phone after his arrest for interstate transportation of forged instruments. The address from the telephone subscriber information had been cross-referenced to the Sons of Catania Social Club in Brooklyn, the known hangout for Parisi's crew. Lansing remembered that during their initial meeting Vanko had offered the Baldovino case as the squad's most recent, and virtually only, statistical accomplishment within the last year.

He retrieved Egan's personnel file from the vault. There was just a short memo, which in the vaguest terms documented his arrest for insider trading. He was looking at jail time or, if he could make restitution, probation and a heavy fine. So plenty of motive existed to sell out. And that's certainly what the little bit of the call he had heard sounded like.

Lansing went to Egan's phone and checked the last call. It was the same number he had called from Vanko's desk. Lansing hit the redial button. When it was answered, the connection was full of static like a failing cell phone. Lansing could hear traffic in the background.

“Mike Parisi, please.”

“Speaking.”

 

At a few minutes before nine, Lansing entered his hotel room in midtown Manhattan. He brushed his teeth and recombed his hair. He slipped off his blazer, cleaned it with a lint brush, then put it back on. After adjusting his tie in the mirror, he turned out the light and headed for the chief inspector's room.

Cal Winston double-checked the time before opening the door. Lansing stood there, his face long and tight with attempted sternness, but his boss could see some sort of repressed pleasure in his eyes. “I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but we've got a major problem.”

Born and raised in Georgia, Winston had discovered early in his career that unflappability, which as a southerner he had always taken pride in, emitted an aura of command, especially among his skittish peers. He was tall and carried an extra forty pounds evenly across his frame, suggesting that he would instinctively resolve any disorder with a frontal assault. But he had learned that if he just simply nodded at crises knowingly, most problems resolved themselves, leaving him to receive credit for his grace under fire. The simulation of leadership also convinced those around him that a lot more was going on inside his head than he let on. In fact, there wasn't.

“Come on in.” Winston's voice indicated that he would rather it wait until morning, but “major problem” was a phrase invariably granted an immediate hearing, a rule Lansing seemed aware of.

When Lansing had finished, he said, “Well, son, you weren't bullshittin', were you? This is my last inspection, too. Before I go out as an SAC. Never fails, if there's one cow pie left in the world, I'm the one meant to step in it. I suppose we should go to the ADIC and let him know.”

“With all due respect, they caught this Egan conducting insider trading, and just reassigned him. You know how this office doesn't think it has to answer to anyone. If you go to the assistant director, he might want to pull Egan in and confront him. He's going to accept another bribe tomorrow night, and we can catch him red-handed. This office is honeycombed with leaks and misdirected loyalties. Who knows, a secretary or a clerk could hear something about it, call Egan, and then where are we? I'm not even sure what I heard tonight would be admissible in court, so we'd have nothing.”

“You're right about the attitude. They really do think they make the rules. Okay, I'll go along with you and let it play out a little longer. The trick is not to be too hasty. Something like this may be as plain as the nose on your face, but if you grab him tomorrow night and he does have the money, there's a lot of stories he and whoever he's meeting could make up to cloud any guilt. And I suspect these New York juries are just as unpredictable. From what you've said, they're working on some bigger scheme anyway.” Winston rubbed his hand along his flat chin as his speech slowed. “I guess that's what we really need to try and uncover. Damn shame there's an agent involved.”

Lansing could see some cautionary, bureaucratic switch being thrown. He suspected that hesitation had long been a staple of Winston's “contemplative” leadership, and reconsideration, if given its head, would result in a retreat to the safety of inaction.

“An agent taking multiple bribes from one of the New York families for who knows what,” Lansing said. “This could wind up being huge, sir.”

“Tell me again what you heard.”

Lansing pulled out his notes. “The person called was ‘Mike,' who I've identified as Mike Parisi, a Galante family
capo.
‘Baldovino' is believed to be Manny Baldovino, an associate of the family and currently pending federal charges. Also he said, ‘I want another twenty-five thousand dollars' and ‘Have it with you tomorrow night.' ”

“So he's being paid at least fifty thousand dollars. That's an awful lot of money. Do you think it's for information?”

“That's the most likely reason. I noticed he was reading the file on the Galante family today. I browsed through it when I first went out to the off-site. There wasn't much classified information. Mostly generic, the kind of stuff you could have read in the newspaper. Certainly nothing I'd pay fifty thousand dollars for.”

After a few seconds, Winston gestured decisively. “Well, that's what we've got to try and figure out. If we can't come up with what he's being paid for, a jury will laugh at us. While we're looking into this, I should let someone back at the Bureau know what's going on, but your argument about leaks is hard to argue with. Just so you understand, this is your baby. You're the one who has to figure out what's going on. We'll call it a preliminary inquiry, so if it comes to light, you're just checking things out to see if there's any substance to it. Nothing more, understand?”