The Big Scam (32 page)

At breakfast, Winston gratefully accepted Lansing's offer to take the lion's share of blame and noticed that a new indifference settled over Lansing as he offered to “fall on this grenade.” Winston found himself admiring such a senseless act of bravura and chalked it up to the shortsightedness of youthful heroics.

 

At exactly 10:00 a.m. Lansing and Winston entered the office of the assistant director in charge of New York.

Beck Logan ran his hand through his already disheveled hair, a warning that what little patience he had left was highly flammable. “Without the headquarters bullshit, I want to know how this happened.”

Lansing described how the whole situation had been predicated on an overheard conversation between Egan and Mike Parisi. Although Winston had arranged for the Newark surveillance teams, Lansing said the rest of it was his idea. And then he explained how everything had come to a head the night before when he had heard Egan conspiring with the Galante family underboss, Danny DeMiglia, on the telephone.

Logan burst out laughing. Lansing's first impulse was to ask what was so funny, but he had to act penitent, as if he deserved each hammer blow of the ADIC's wrath.

Logan said, “After being told they didn't trust him, Egan left that club last night and saw that he was being followed by men he assumed were DeMiglia's. He was already worried that somebody was going to be murdered to provide a body. But it wasn't the mob following him, it was you. That was enough to convince him to go to his lawyer, and the attorney had enough sense to see that Egan would never survive his involvement with the mob. When we set our plan in motion, we also figured it was DeMiglia's men and decided to use it to our advantage. We told Egan to act exactly as if DeMiglia were calling the shots. We even had him make the call to DeMiglia from Vanko's office because he had called from there in the past and they knew the lines were secure. He had to go to the off-site because we thought the bad guys were following him and would report to DeMiglia where he was, making him that much more credible. If he hadn't made the call from there, you wouldn't have been able to overhear the call setting up DeMiglia and wouldn't have blundered into the arrest. Your surveillance caused him to go to the only place you could overhear him. You've done this to yourself.”

Lansing lowered his eyes. “I can't argue with anything you've said, sir.”

“The one thing you haven't told me is why you didn't come to me when you first discovered all this. Did you feel you couldn't trust me?”

“To be completely honest, we were afraid of leaks. New York can be very contrary.”

“You're damn right it is. That's the first thing you've said that's been worth hearing. You could have blown the entire case. We weren't ready to spring the arrest until we knew for sure that there was a body in the trunk. You are extremely lucky there was.”

“I understand that now.”

Logan sensed Lansing was being a little too contrite and leaned back in his chair as though trying a new angle of perception. “I'm curious. Now that you know the facts, do you feel you made the right decision?”

“If you're asking me if I'd do it again…yes, I believe I would.”

“Your shamelessness is frightening. The reason I find it so disturbing is that I know just how far someone with your disregard for propriety will go in this organization.”

It was all Charles Lansing could do not to smile.

WHEN MIKE PARISI CAME THROUGH THE LOCKUP
door, T. H. Crowe and Dick Zalenski were waiting for him. He offered them his wrists. Crowe said, “That won't be necessary.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Personally, I'd like to see you try to run.”

In the car, Parisi asked, “Which jail are you taking me to?”

When neither of the agents answered, Parisi understood he wasn't supposed to ask any more questions.

Forty-five minutes later, Crowe pulled up to an anonymous single-story brick building.

Parisi asked, “Where are we?”

“At a restaurant. There's somebody inside you need to talk to.”

Zalenski steered him toward the heavy oak door. Inside, an attractive woman in her fifties approached them. Her hair was honey blond, expensively highlighted and wound into a meticulous French twist. She smiled with an elegant patience. “Right this way, gentlemen.”

Parisi couldn't help but notice the restaurant's unusual layout. The tables were grouped in clusters, isolated by curved walls. Those groupings formed an even larger circle, at the center of which was a jazz combo with a woman at the piano. She was dark, her race unidentifiably mixed. Her voice rose like liquid smoke, dusky, narcotic.

They were led to a semiprivate section with its own bar. The bartender placed two paper napkins in front of them. “Gentlemen?”

“What'll you have, Mike?” Zalenski asked.

Parisi surprised himself by ordering scotch and took out his recently returned money clip. “Everything's taken care of,” the agent said. Parisi held his glass up in appreciation and tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar for a tip. He surveyed the room. Off to the side was a large table he hadn't noticed when they walked up to the bar. Half a dozen men sat around it; one of them had something wrong with his face. The others seemed to defer to him. The man gave Parisi a single nod of acknowledgment. Manny had told him about the supervisor that night at the hotel and how his face was disfigured. So this was the man he had been brought to meet. The question was why. The possibilities were not promising.

He ordered another scotch. He took a small sip and made his way over to the table. “Have a seat,” Vanko offered.

Parisi slid into the chair next to him. “I've got to hand it to you, I was up most of the night trying to figure out which part of this thing was real and which wasn't.”

“If I were smart, I'd let you keep wondering.”

“It's not really that hard picking out the smart people in the room.”

“Actually not all that smart. I didn't have a clue until Egan left the After Hours last night. Not that it matters when we found out what. By the time Washington gets through spinning it, everyone will think we planned the whole thing.”

“It wouldn't take much to convince me, and I was there,” Parisi said. “But one of the things I can't figure out was the map. Was it real?”

“That was a question I had too, so I had it flown back to the lab this morning. It's a forgery, a very good one.”

“What about the expert? He's been used by the family for years.”

“Experts make their living by telling lawyers what they need to hear.”

“So there's no treasure.”

“Not that you'll find with that map.”

“Then what about that little rectangle we saw on the charts?”

“It could be anything. If the map were real, it might be worth pursuing, but it's fairly unlikely that a forged map is going to lead to mythical treasure.”

“So Manny's father got beat?”

“We all got beat.”

“And just to be clear, the state police arresting us last night, that was your doing?”

“If it had been the FBI, DeMiglia might have become suspicious. And we needed to get you out of the way so he'd have to come up with a body.”

Parisi shook his head appreciatively. “You were pretty quick on your feet.”

“When you find out one of your agents has turned, you'd better be,” Vanko said. “We were already looking at DeMiglia hard for the judge's disappearance and had installed the GPS in his car, so the rest of it didn't take that much work.”

“How'd you know he'd bring the judge's body?”

“We didn't. But we knew he wanted you out of the way. So when Egan called about you being arrested, we had him tell DeMiglia that you weren't going to prison, and if he really did want to get rid of you, he'd have to figure out something himself. Like I said, we couldn't be sure he'd use the judge's body to frame you, but we thought we'd plant the seed anyway.”

“How'd you know he wanted to get rid of me?”

“I'm going to leave that unanswered. A little paranoia can be useful when trying to get someone to see my side of things.”

“So DeMiglia really was trying to frame me. Or is that part of your paranoia tactic?”

Vanko leaned over and took something out of his briefcase. It was a plastic bag with four cigarette butts in it. “Recognize these?”

Parisi examined the bag. “That's my brand.”

“Not only your brand, they're covered with your DNA. From the After Hours. DeMiglia's driver had them on him. They were going into the ground with the judge. Then all it would have taken was an anonymous tip, a court order for your DNA, and so long, Mike. You'd be out of the way permanently, and he'd be off the hook for the Ferris murder.”

“I'm getting the impression you think I'm in the wrong business.”

Vanko smiled. “Hey, it's organized crime—somebody's got to do it. I'd rather it be you than someone who makes public officials disappear. I don't need to go through this again.”

“Maybe I'm hearing what I want to hear, but it sounds like I'm not going to prison.”

“The probable cause for last night's arrest wouldn't stand up at trial. And as far as the whole thing with Egan, it's not something we'd like to have aired in open court. Besides, if you and he hadn't come up with that Mafia graveyard idea, we wouldn't have gotten DeMiglia. Think of it as reluctant appreciation on our part.”

Parisi drained his glass and rattled the ice cubes as if trying to shake out the uncertainty of the argument he was about to make. “Does this mean you think I owe you?”

Vanko shrugged. “What I think is that you're basically an honorable guy.”

“I'm not going to be your snitch.”

“I know. But I also know if I really need something in the future—something as important as finding out who murdered a judge—you'll do the right thing.”

“Don't bet on it.”

“I believe I already have.”

“So you're going to take care of Manny's case?”

“Manny helped solve a serial murder.” Vanko tapped a finger on his lip. “But I have a feeling you already know something about that. Besides, what's not to like about Manny?”

Parisi stood up and offered his hand. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

As Parisi was leaving, several more members of the squad came in. A couple of waiters set down trays of hors d'oeuvres that no one seemed to have ordered. Straker started telling one of his stories, more off-color than usual. Snow noticed that because of the celebratory air of the evening, certain details were growing with the size of the audience.

Abby, the squad secretary, walked in and signaled Nick that she needed to talk to him alone. He drained his beer and wandered toward the bar. “Nick—,” she said.

He held up his hand. “Let's get a drink before you start telling whatever it is that's making your face so long.” Vanko handed her a glass of wine and said, “Fire away.”

“I think you're about to get some bad news. The SAC called as I was leaving. When I told him you weren't there, he asked if Snow was around. I told him no. He said you should give him a call.”

“Okay.”

“I do have some good news. There was a certain somebody who called looking for you.”

“Sheila?”

“How many friends do you think you've got?”

“Did you tell her we were coming here?”

“You did instruct me to let everybody on the squad know.”

“Well, with her case breaking all over the TV, I thought she might be hard to run down.”

“Yeah, maybe now you two can get on with things.”

“What things?”

“You and her. You know,
thangs.”

“What do you know about that?”

“I know something when I see it. You
were
working on her case? And I hear stuff, like sharing a chair at Hattie's.”

Vanko laughed. “You black women think you know all about men.”

“If I knew anything about men, I'd never go near one. But I'd have to be blind not to see it in you.”

“Do you see it in her?”

“Now
you
must be blind.”

“Can you stick around for a while?”

“I'm finishing this glass of wine and going home to the relative safety of my kids. Besides, I've seen this act before. You putting this bunch in a room with free liquor; you're going to need someone sober enough in the morning to post bail.”

“I'd better go call the SAC.”

When Vanko came back ten minutes later, he told Snow he needed to talk to him.

“I take it this isn't about a promotion.”

Vanko smiled unhappily. “You've come a long way being able to read people, Howard.”

“So it
is
bad news.”

“I just talked to the SAC. The Bureau called. You're to be offered a chance to resign.”

“Or be fired.”

“Or be fired.”

Vanko waited for him to say something. Finally he did. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I'd like to be the one to tell everybody. And since we're rarely all in the same place, would you mind if I put a little dent in the festivities?”

“I think they'd like to hear it first from you.”

They walked back to the table. Vanko said, “Everybody, Howard has something to tell you.”

Everyone could see how serious Snow looked. The color went out of Straker's face. “Let me give you the bottom line first. Tomorrow I will be resigning. The Bureau has given me that option. It's not what I want but when it comes from Washington, when is it ever what we want. Please do not feel sorry for me. I've been an FBI agent for four years. No matter what I accomplish after this, it will be the standard by which I judge the rest of my life. To know all of you, to work with you…in a way, I'm glad that I screwed up that search warrant and was sent to this squad and made part of that amazing resolve you have when the chips are really down. And I'd like to thank Jack Straker, a guy who is much too cool to be hanging around with the likes of me. There's one other person I have to thank, Nick Vanko. No one knows better than you, Nick, that I'm not perfect. But I am better than I would ever have been without working for you. We all are indebted to you for that.”

Everyone held up their drinks and took solemn, contemplative sips. It was a sequence of events that was not unexpected, or unprecedented. One by one, they came up and shook Snow's hand.

Vanko sat down next to Brad Kenyon. “I made a call back to someone I know at headquarters this afternoon. Your old supervisor will be getting orders back to Washington within a couple of weeks. Our stock is pretty high with the front office right now, so if you want to go back to working art thefts, it'll just take one quick phone call.”

“If you don't mind, I'd like to stay here for a while. After all this, art theft seems a little too civilized.”

“Well, this hasn't been exactly a typical week, so it might get boring. But I think I can guarantee it'll never get civilized.”

“What's going to happen to Garrett?”

“Fortunately for him, when he figured out he was in over his head with DeMiglia, his lawyer negotiated a no-charge deal in return for his cooperation on the whole graveyard scam.”

“I'm surprised the Bureau went for that.”

“They have a tendency to listen only to the loudest headline. Today that turned out to be the solution to the Judge Ferris murder. Besides, he still has the insider trading charges to deal with.”

“Are you going to get any heat over the money spent on the seismic imaging?”

“When the oil people found out what happened, they were nice enough to give us a discount rate, I guess because they had been scammed too. The fifty thousand Egan got from Parisi and turned over to us will pay the majority of it. And the rest—well, we would have spent a lot more trying to get DeMiglia.”

“And we're all a little bit wiser.”