The Butcher's Boy (36 page)

Sometime during the afternoon her feelings began to change. The FBI agents were coldly polite, but she could feel the weight of their resentment and contempt. And they were right. If only Brayer had let her take Palermo here, he'd still be alive. He might not be happy at first, but it really would have made no difference in the long run. The trip to Carson City had served no legitimate purpose. Something could have been arranged to keep Palermo under wraps here in Las Vegas. But now Brayer was comfortably out of sight in Washington or somewhere, and Elizabeth was still here in the Bureau office, taking the force of their resentment alone. And of course they all knew about it. Her report had 175

included the rationale for making a dash to Carson City. The ones who hadn't read it had been told. She could see it in their faces. At four o'clock Elizabeth decided she had been a fool. If Brayer filed a request for dismissal, or even so much as a negative performance evaluation, she'd demand a hearing and fight it.

He'd been the one who ordered her to handle Palermo that way, after all—a lone woman with an analyst's rating transporting a self-confessed criminal through an unpopulated area in the dark. She could have been killed too. If he filed any kind of reprimand, she thought, she'd make him regret it. By the time the hearing was over she'd have a special commendation.

At dinner Elizabeth began to wonder if she hadn't been too defensive.

Nothing had come through from Washington all day that referred to Palermo ’s murder. Maybe Brayer was taking the blame himself, leaving her out of it for the moment. She'd seen him do that before, file a report in which somebody was just named as "the agent in place" or "the field agent." That would explain why he'd been out of touch.

When she went to bed she was already feeling worried about him. He was in Washington taking the blame for the disaster, and the fact that he hadn't returned meant Washington wasn't taking it well. And Brayer couldn't be more than five years from retirement.

The next morning Elizabeth was certain of it. Brayer was taking the blame, and it was going hard. The best thing for her to do was to make as much progress as possible while he was in Washington. If she could only come up with something big enough, Washington would forget about Palermo and they'd both be all right. What she needed was another Palermo, somebody who knew the name of the silent partner in FGE and could prove the silent partner was killing people to protect himself. What she needed was Edgar Fieldston.

At the Bureau office Elizabeth pored over the field reports. Palermo had hinted that it was somebody big, and the biggest were Toscanzio and Balacontano.

“ 10:08 p.m., Wednesday, February 21. Saratoga Springs, New York : Subject Carlo Balacontano AKA Carl Bala. Subject has been secluded in his country residence since Monday, February 19. On Tuesday, February 20, he was joined by his wife, Therese Balacontano, his son Richard, and his daughterin-law, Victoria, and their four children. Subject has received visits from a number of his associates. Key to: Lamborese, Antonio; Giambini, Robert; Montano, John; Guariano, August; DeFabiani, Daniel.

“ 9:15 a.m., Thursday, February 22, Evanston, Illinois : Subject Vincent Toscanzio. Subject has been in his home for four days. Subject's family, including subject's mother, Mrs. Maria Toscanzio, have arrived during that time and have remained on the premises. Members of subject's family were observed in the backyard making a snowman on Tuesday, February 20, but have remained indoors since then, possibly due to inclement weather. Frequent visitors, all employees of Diet Clubs of America, in which subject owns a controlling interest, except for the arrival on Wednesday of Antonio Damonata AKA Tony Damon, 176

and two unidentified companions."

There was no question about what was going on, but that didn't help.

They were circling the wagons around the women and children and giving orders to their lieutenants. But that didn't solve Elizabeth ’s problem. The one she wanted was the one who'd started it, the one who had killed Veasy and the Senator and Orloff and Castiglione. Because she wasn't foolish enough to believe she'd get the other one. If he fell it would be a freak accident. But the one Elizabeth wanted was vulnerable. He'd been using FGE for something. Whatever it was had to be bad enough to take risks to keep it a secret, to kill off everyone who came near it. And whoever it was had missed the key man. As long as Edgar Fieldston was alive Elizabeth had hope.

The secretary didn't bother to knock when she came into the office with the reports. Why should she? thought Elizabeth. It's their office. I'm the interloper, the outsider they have to treat with grudging tolerance. The one they have to cooperate with who didn't cooperate with them when she had something to share.

It was the initial report on FGE's remaining papers. She scanned the inventory of records until she came to the summary. The papers weren't complete enough to prove anything yet. It would be like a problem in archaeology to figure out where the money came from and which accounts were padded. She supposed the FBI's accountants knew what to look for. Then she noticed the statement: Recommended for intensive audit: Travel. She leafed through the summary until she found the travel expenses. It was easy to see what had caught their attention. Calendar-year travel expenses were listed as $56,382.

She searched through the report for the breakdown. Most of it meant nothing to her. Orloff had gone to New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Fieldston had spent a week in Buenos Aires, then gone on for another week to Rio de Janeiro. Did they have investments in those places, she wondered? But they'd check it, of course. For one thing, they were looking for Fieldston, and it would help to know where he had contacts.

She moved down the list. The other travelers were unfamiliar to her.

Probably they were salesmen or something. The FBI would be working on that too. She moved down to the final entry and stopped. Edgar Fieldston, round-trip ticket to Nassau, Bahamas, February 16. She gasped. Round trip. Why hadn't anybody noticed? But then she remembered. Of course he'd buy a round-trip ticket. If you had a return ticket the customs people didn't worry about you.

They knew you wouldn't be stuck there when you'd spent your money. Damn!

she thought. I'm seeing what I'm looking for, not what I'm looking at. Where the hell is Brayer?

The Parthenon Motel in Cleveland had four Corinthian columns across the concrete slab in front of the office. They didn't support anything, but they looked as though they might have supported the motel's sign before it had been redone 177

in neon and the wiring had gotten too complicated. It was after ten but he had no trouble renting one of the rooms with a kitchenette. People didn't travel through Cleveland much in February, and those who did had no use for a stove and refrigerator, certainly not those for rent at the Parthenon.

He had been driving almost continuously for over forty-eight hours, and now he knew he had to sleep. He parked the car outside his room and carried his suitcase inside. Then he went back to the car for his cooler. He brought it into the kitchenette and opened it. The Blue Ice he'd bought in St. Louis was still surprisingly cold, but he took it out and put it in the freezer to prepare for tomorrow. Then he said aloud, "You too, Edgar. Got to keep fresh." When he had finished loading the freezer he rinsed out the inside of the cooler, checked the locks on the door a second time, and lay down on the bed. He fell immediately into a nervous, troubled sleep. Late in the night he found himself partially awake, reaching for the pistol in his coat pocket. He took off the coat and laid it beside him on the bed. After that he slept soundly, dreamlessly, until the maid's morning knock startled him at eleven.

When he passed Buffalo in the middle of the afternoon he thought of Maureen. He supposed she must be somewhere nearby, taking a rest and counting her money while she waited for the old man to offer her the next job.

She'd been expensive, probably not worth that kind of money, but he didn't regret what he'd paid her. She'd caught him at a time when he was in the mood to be extravagant, so she was entitled to it. That was part of the business.

He knew exactly where he was going. He'd seen the place once, when he and Eddie had been trying to fill the contract on Danny Lazaro. He'd owned a two-year-old filly named The Commodore's Pride, and Eddie had figured he'd come to Saratoga to watch her run. Eddie had been wrong, and they'd ended up watching the races and then driving around the area looking at the farms. It was a country composed of low, rolling green hills and small stands of ancient oaks and maples cordoned by the same white rail fences that lined the road.

"It's so the horses won't kill the trees," Eddie had said. "The fuckers are worse than beavers." He'd made a note to ask somebody about that who knew something about horses, but he'd forgotten about it until now. Eddie had probably made it up. Eddie had lived in big cities all his life. If he knew anything about horses it was probably from carving them up to look like prime rib.

They drove past a large farm with a low stone fence, partitioned into paddocks and pastures where tall chestnut-colored horses strolled in elegant leisure, and Eddie had said, "Know who owns that place?" He'd shrugged, and Eddie had said triumphantly, "Carlo fucking Balacontano, Esquire. That's who."

That night somebody else had collected on Danny Lazaro. They'd found him in New York in a little French restaurant on the West Side, and when Eddie read it in the papers he'd said, "No big thing. He missed a good race." Rochester and Syracuse and Utica floated by as green signs on the New York State Thruway. It was almost ten o'clock by the time he swung north on Route 87 at 178

Albany .

At eleven he saw the sign that said Saratoga Springs 15. He thought, I'll make the call by one o'clock, from Pittsburgh. I could be in Montreal by three, or New York City by four or five. It won't matter where I am, because in another day there won't be anybody looking for me. By tomorrow night they'll all know it's no longer worth the risk. Because they'll all believe the man they hoped to please is beyond doing anything for them. Whatever he offered them will be just words. And they'll be thinking about something else. Some of them will lie low and wait to see who comes to the top in the five families and inherits New York, and some won't be able to wait for that: they'll run to Toscanzio or Tony Damon to anticipate the stampede.

He turned off at Saratoga Springs and drove to the farm. Even in the dark he recognized the white rail fences and the distant buildings. At the first boundary there was a small sign that said Montpelier Farms. And then in smaller letters, Arabians and Standardbreds. He wished he'd looked at the place in the daylight. Did horses get locked up at night? Did they even run loose in February?

He drove along the fence studying what he could see of the acres beyond. There were three pastures, all empty snowdrifts and patches of frozen grass, and a smaller area near the stable that was trampled into mud. He decided that must be where they rode horses or trained them. Beyond that was a track, just like a racetrack only without a grandstand. On a knoll above the track stood the house.

That was what power meant, he thought—so much empty land around Bala's house that he had to build a road to get to it, probably had to drive to see his own horses eating his own grass. He probably didn't come here more than a few times a year. And probably not at all in February. It was too cold out there for horses, he thought, too cold even to watch them.

It was going to be more difficult than he'd thought. There were at least two or three hundred yards of empty land between the highway and the house, and most of it was covered with snow. He couldn't drive it and he couldn't afford to leave footprints. And it was cold out there: the ground would be frozen solid.

But there had to be a way. He'd come too far to give up.

He drove past the farm and thought about the problem.

There was only one way to do it, and he knew he had to accept that. But it wasn't going to be pleasant. He turned the car around and drove back into Saratoga Springs. It took him a half hour to find a store that was open. It was a supermarket that seemed at this hour to deal mainly in beer, but he found what he needed—a pair of gloves, a knitted watch cap, a package of heavy plastic trash bags, and a roll of thick adhesive tape.

He parked the car a mile down the road from the farm in a closed gas station and made his preparations. He sawed the handle of the shovel off to the length of a foot and a half, then went around to the trunk. He shook out four of his plastic trash bags and placed them one inside of the other for extra strength, then opened the cooler. "Come on, Edgar," he said, "last stop." The walk was cold, but he knew it had to be done this way. Whoever Bala had to take care of 179

his horses would be alarmed by a strange car parked close to the farm, and a car would be of no use to him now anyway.

When he reached the farm he walked along the white fence until he came to a point where another rail fence intersected it, dividing the two pastures. He was glad he'd bought the hat and gloves. He had to take off the gloves to fish out the adhesive tape. He put the shovel and gun inside one plastic bag, and taped the two bags together to form a sling, which he threw over his shoulder.

He climbed up on the fence, his feet on the bottom rail and his hands clinging to the top rail. He began to sidestep along the fence between the two pastures, moving in the direction of the farm buildings. He inched along, slowly at first, but before long he found he could make good progress by keeping as much weight as possible on his feet. The pastures were empty, but now he could see horse tracks in the snow. They must let them out sometimes during the day, he thought. He wondered how the horses felt about it.

It took him over ten minutes to reach the place where the fence intersected with the section that ran along Balacontano's private road. He stopped to rest and read his watch in the moonlight. It was already after midnight, and there was no telling how long this was going to take. If only it weren't so cold. As he approached the house, he realized something was wrong.