The Payback Game (23 page)

As Boff expected, Cassidy had indeed persuaded the accountant to meet with them at Bailey’s. When Boff entered the pub that night, he saw the old reporter sitting alone in a booth. He walked over and slid in on the other side of the table.

“Where’s the accountant?”

“On his way.”

“How’d you talk him into seeing us?”

“It was surprisingly easy.”
He looked over Boff’s shoulder toward the pub’s front door. “Here he comes now.”

With his back to the door, Boff didn’t want to turn around and gape at the guy, so instead, he looked at the mirror behind the bar. Stuart Hamilton appeared to be in his forties. His short hair was parted sharply at one side, and he was wearing a well-tailored, charcoal gray suit, a white pinstriped shirt, and a blue tie.

Turning back to Cassidy, Boff asked, “How do you know this is Stuart Hamilton?”

“How? Nobody comes into this bar dressed like that.”

The newcomer walked over to Cassidy, smiled, and shook his hand. “Mike, it’s great to meet you. I started reading you religiously in my twenties. I was really sorry when you retired.”

“Thanks. And so was I, but my health wasn’t quite up to the daily grind anymore. Here, sit down next to me. What’re you drinking?”

“Black Label on the rocks would be nice.”

Cassidy slid over to make room for
Hamilton. “Stuart, this is Frank Boff, the investigator I told you about.”

Hamilton
shook Boff’s hand, but avoided eye contact. Meaning, Boff thought, the accountant was probably pretty uptight about meeting with a private investigator.

“I’m assuming,”
Hamilton said, “that I can count on both of you never to reveal you talked with me.”

“That’s a given,” Cassidy said. He waved the waitress over. “Wendy, get this gentleman a Johnny Black on the rocks. I’ll take another mug. What about you, Frank?”

“Mug’s fine.”

As the waitress left to get the drinks,
Hamilton cleared his throat, then began, “I want you both to understand that I’m in a very delicate position here. The task I was performing for Mr. Doyle was strictly confidential. If my company ever found out I was talking to you, I’d lose my job. And probably my license.”

“We’re aware of that,” Cassidy assured him. “That’s why we’re grateful you agreed to meet with us. Frank and I believe that, with your help, we might be able to solve Nicky’s murder.”

“That’s the reason I’m here,” the accountant said. “As you mentioned on the phone, the timing of the murder was certainly curious. Because of the audit.”

Cassidy nodded. “Why don’t you walk us through what you were doing with the books?”

Hamilton started to speak, then waited until Wendy, who had arrived with the drinks, had set them down on the table and walked away. Boff noted that the accountant went straight for his Scotch with a somewhat shaky hand and took a good tug on it.

“It’s important you understand,”
Hamilton said, “that I’d only been on the audit for about a week and a half before Mr. Doyle was killed.”

“How much longer would you have needed?” Boff asked.

“Oh, at least another week or two before I could’ve reached a definitive conclusion.”

“What was Bassett’s reaction to you looking at the books?”

“Well, he acted friendly enough. And he sounded confident the audit would turn up nothing out of the ordinary. But I could feel the hostility coming off him. I’d say he was really uneasy about me being there. In reality, he probably had good reason to be.” He took another hit on the Scotch.

“Why’s that?” Cassidy asked.

“Well, first off, you must remember again that I was only in the preliminary stages of my audit. Still, there
were
disturbing signs.”

“Such as?”

With another hit on his Scotch, Hamilton polished off the drink. He set his empty glass down on the table. Cassidy pointed to it. “Want a refill, Stuart?”

“Yes. That’d be nice. As you can probably tell, I’m a bit uneasy about being here.”

Cassidy told Wendy to bring another Johnny Black and this time to put it in a tumbler.

Hearing that,
Hamilton let out a short laugh. “A tumbler? You probably think I’m a lush.”

“Not at all,” Cassidy replied. “In my prime, I used to drink whisky on the rocks. From a
pint
glass. Now
that’s
what I’d call a lush.”

Hamilton
smiled. “Speaking of booze, I’ve always been curious about something. Did you ever write your columns after you’d been drinking?”

Cassidy laughed. “Oh, only a few thousand times. I usually had a drink next to my typewriter. Did it show in my columns?”

“Not at all. Your writing was always clear and precise. I only asked because I’ve heard stories of how you got a lot of your scoops while drinking at cop bars, then rushed back to the
News
to write what you’d found out.”

The old reporter nodded. “Yes, I did. Truth is, I wrote better with a load on. Or maybe I just convinced myself of that. Now my doctor won’t allow me to drink anything harder than beer. Anyway…tell us about those disturbing signs you found in the books.”

“Okay. Here’s an example. In some instances, donations of five figures were made to the charity and then the identical amount was paid out to consultants.”

“Why is that troubling?” Boff asked.

“Normally it wouldn’t be. But I checked up on these consultants. None of them worked in fields where they had any expertise to offer the nonprofit. In a couple of cases, the consultants weren’t even employed. One was a housewife. Another was a retired sanitation worker.”

“Meaning,”
Boff said, “the cash these so-called consultants got was kicked right back to Bassett.”

“Well, I found no proof of that, although that’s certainly a possibility. There were also problems with some of the money Bassett paid for products. Such as a payment of
$75,000 for office furniture. With only eight people on the staff, I thought that was an excessive amount to pay for furniture.”

Cassidy nodded. “So you checked and found out that the furniture company doesn’t exist.”

“Well, technically it did,” Hamilton replied. “Although if you called the company, you always got an answering machine and messages were never returned. Later I found out that the company’s address was an empty warehouse.”

The waitress dropped off the accountant’s drink. Boff noted again that he went right at the Scotch, though this time he took a smaller sip. And his hands weren’t shaking anymore.

Stuart,” Cassidy began, “I’m assuming you knew about the camp Nicky wanted to build.”

“Yes, I did. There was a record of close to two million having been raised for it at a charity affair.”

“Was the money still there?” Boff asked.

“Technically, yes. What the books told me was most of it had been put in certificates of deposit.”

“Did you check to see if the CDs really existed?”

Hamilton
shook his head. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

“So the CDs could’ve been bogus,” Cassidy said.

“Yes. Although without further investigation, I couldn’t say either way. There were some other suspicious things, too. The most noticeable was three separate payments of one hundred thousand each in one month to a construction company that was supposed to build the camp. I saw no evidence of construction underway. On further investigation, I discovered that the construction firm had no address and was owned by a shell company.” Hamilton shrugged. “Now, that in itself doesn’t necessary prove the construction firm doesn’t exist. The contractor might’ve been using the shell to avoid taxes.
But
, added on to the other irregularities, it certainly made me suspicious.”

Three hundred thousand, Boff thought, was probably what he’d funneled to his drug dealing brother. “Based on what you’d turned up,” he said, “could you estimate how much money might’ve been siphoned off from the nonprofit?”

“Off the top of my head? A ballpark figure?” The accountant thought a minute. “Well, it could’ve been as much as seven hundred thousand. Again, I would’ve needed more time to confirm a lot of my suspicions. As you might’ve guessed, I didn’t get that time because Bassett cancelled the audit when Mr. Doyle was killed.” He hesitated, took a fast drink, and then said, “I get the feeling you guys think Bassett might’ve had Doyle killed to protect himself.”

“That’s where I’m leaning,” Boff said. “After Bassett dismissed you, did you think of going to the D.A.?”

“No. No. As I said before, what I was doing was strictly confidential. If I had found proof of criminal misdoing, my sole responsibility would’ve been to report my discovery to Mr. Doyle. Nobody else. Corporations like mine depend on trust from their clients. If I’d gone to the D.A., and it became known that I did, it would’ve caused a great deal of harm to my firm.”

Hamilton
checked his watch. “Mike, I have to get going now. My son is playing in a Rucker Park basketball tournament tonight against a team with two NBA players. I’m anxious to get home and hear how he did.”

“Gee,” said Cassidy. “If I’d known your kid was playing, I would’ve waited until tomorrow to meet with you. Sorry I made you miss the game.”

The accountant laughed. “Oh, I never go to his games.”

“Why not?”

“It makes me too nervous to watch.”

Hamilton
slugged down the last of his drink and stood up. “Mike, if it turns out that Bassett did have Mr. Doyle killed, I’d like to know. Just for my own curiosity. Take one of my cards and call me if you can.” He fished out a card from his wallet and handed it to Cassidy. “Again, gentlemen, I was never here. Thanks for the Scotch, Mike.”

The accountant walked quickly to the door without looking at anybody and was gone.

“Frank,” Cassidy said, “what he told us certainly lends credibility to your theory that Nicky was hit because of the audit and not the story he was working on about Maloney.”

“Yes. I also think Bassett was the one who had Maloney killed.”

Cassidy looked surprised at that. “Really? Why?”

“Because I believe Bassett has been the brains and money behind the Quebec Gold operation from the get-go. If Maloney posed some kind of a threat to the operation, Bassett would’ve eliminated him.”

The old reporter thought a minute about this, then said, “You’re thinking the money Bassett stole from the non-profit was used to fund the Quebec Gold operation.”

“Correct.”

“But how would Bassett be able to get involved in a drug-dealing operation, anyway?”

“How? One of Bassett’s brothers is a major
Brooklyn drug dealer. Another is a Hells Angel. A third is a mob lawyer. I believe it’s Earl’s drug-dealing brother who’s handling the Quebec Gold distribution. While having a brother in the Hells Angels is not proof of Earl’s involvement with the bikers, it certainly gives him access to them. Finally, if Maloney was killed with a spiked needle, then that means it was a sophisticated hit. A contracted one. Likely performed by a mob button. I’m sure Bassett’s brother, the mob lawyer, has plenty of contacts. Connect the dots, Mike, and you’ll see they point a finger at Earl Bassett.”

The old reporter nodded. “Yes, I guess you can make a case for that.” He finished his draft, held up his empty mug, and signaled to Wendy for another one. “You want a refill, Frank?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay, lay it out for me. Where exactly are you going with all this?”

“First, I want to nail this down with a greater degree of certainty.”

“And if you do?”

“Then the Angels are going to jail.”

“What about Galvani?”

“I have a better use for him than jail.”

Cassidy nodded. “Then that leaves Earl. What are you going to do about him?”

Boff smiled. “Let’s just say…justice will be served.”

In need of a special bug to record conversations, Boff
called Jenny’s cousin Davie Akers in Las Vegas the next morning. Akers was a former member of the New York and Vegas bomb squads. Retired now, he ran the spy shop where Boff had bought his bomb detector and various other devices while he was living in Sin City. It was only seven in the morning out west, but he knew the former bomb squad member was an early riser.

Hey
, Frank! Anybody try to blow you up lately?

“No, but I did take three in the chest.”

No shit? I gather you were wearing the Kevlar I sold you.

“At the suggestion of Pete Wallachi, I bought a newer model a few months ago. Reason I’m calling is—”

You wanted to tell me how much you missed me.

“Well, that, too. But—”

What kind of spyware are you looking for?

“I’m in need of a very small recording device. Small enough so it can be hidden on someone and not be detected by a spot frisk.”

Hold on a second. I’m driving into a Denny’s lot.

After a minute, Akers came back on line.
I’ve got just the thing for you. It’s called TinyTech37. It’s the smallest high-quality digital recorder in the world. Even though it’s about half the size of a BIC lighter, it can record up to thirty-seven hours. Besides playback, it also comes with software that allows you to upload what you’ve recorded to your computer for emailing and editing. If you tucked the device inside your shoe, for example, then unless whoever’s frisking makes you take the shoes off, it’ll go undetected
.

“Davey, are you sure this device can pick up conversation through a shoe?”

Absolutely, Frank. This little beauty has a very powerful receiver.

“What will it set me back?”

Well, it lists for $399. But for you, I’ll knock twenty-five percent off the sticker.

“Deal. Can you overnight it to me? Just add the cost of shipping to my bill.”

No problem. Let me take out a pad and write down your credit card number.

Boff took his debit card out of his wallet and read Akers the information.

Frank, I can FedEx it to you so you get it by three in the afternoon tomorrow. Or, for a few bucks more, they’ll guarantee delivery by ten-thirty in the morning.

“Ten-thirty would be great.”

You got it. So how’s Jenny doing?

“Wonderful as always. Did you enjoy her cider-braised pork roast I shipped to you to after you sent those bomb squad friends of yours out to remove the IED from under my car?”

My wife and I devoured it!

“Do you like stuffed peppers?”

Do birds sing?

“I’ll ask Jenny to make some and I’ll send it to you.”

You’re a prince.

“Not a king?”

Akers laughed.
That’s what I meant to say. Anyway, please confirm delivery when you get the device.

“Will do.”

Even though Boff felt confident that Reggie Bassett was the distributor, he called his
Brooklyn drug dealer pal to get more confirmation. “Pedro, I hear Reggie Bassett has a new business up and running. He’s selling gold.”

That’s what I’ve just been told.

“How sure are you?”

Dead sure
. Some of my sub-dealers have switched to Basset’s operation. They’re selling this Quebec Gold for him and not buying my product.

“Maybe I can change that.”

That’d be nice, Frank.

A bit later, Boff took the elevator down to the garage and then drove to Wallachi’s office on East 57
th
off 3
rd
Avenue. There, he picked up four sets of photos showing the phony raid; the delivery of the drugs to the Hells Angels by the biker in Bushwick; the contraband exchange in Massena; and the dropping off of the Quebec Gold to the Angels clubhouse. He put each set in a separate manila envelope, then called Carl Baumgartner at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office. Baumgartner had been a teammate of Boff’s on their high school basketball team in the Bronx. Despite the fact that Boff made his living working against the justice system, they had remained friends over the years.

“Let’s meet in Battery Park, Carl, same place as last time.”

When Boff arrived at the park in lower Manhattan, his pal was sitting on a bench facing the Jersey City waterfront. As usual, Baumgartner looked dead fit, even though he hated working out. The assistant D.A. only did it, he said, because he believed if he looked lean and mean, it’d make him a more attractive candidate as a crime buster when he ran for D.A.

As Boff sat on the bench, he said, “So, Carl, how’re things on the other side of the law?”

“I’m on a winning streak in court. That’s the good news.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“The D.A.’s office was infested with bedbugs. We had to call in an exterminator.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“The whole staff is bugged out, pardon the pun. Nobody wants to bring these little critters home.”

“How the hell did your office get infested?”

“There are two prevailing theories,” Baumgartner said. “One is that since our office is located in the same building as the Brooklyn Marriott, the beasties migrated from the hotel rooms. The second is that criminal suspects or visitors to our office could’ve brought them in.”

Hearing this, Boff moved his butt as far from his friend as possible.

The attorney laughed. “Afraid of catching bugs from me?”

“Let’s just say I’m big on precaution.”

“Yeah. You always were. So what brings you here, Frank?”

“I missed you.”

“I’ll bet. I’m still waiting for the dinner you promised me after the last case we worked on together.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking for who killed Nicky Doyle. Mike Cassidy hired me.”

Baumgartner looked surprised. “Why would Cassidy want a rogue investigator like you, when his buddies the cops are already looking for the guy?”

“Why? He thinks I’m better than they are.”

At this point, a skinny man in his late thirties with a tight-fitting suit walked over to the assistant D.A. “Hey, Carl,” the man said, “long time no see.”

“Hey back, Phil. How’re things in private practice?”

The guy shrugged. “Different, that’s for sure. Sometimes I miss being a crusading public defender. That being said, the feeling goes away whenever I look at my bank account balance.” The lawyer glanced at Boff. “Who’s your friend?”

The assistant D.A. lowered his voice. “I don’t know him. He’s just some guy who sat down. It’s a public bench, you know.”

Phil was staring at Boff. “You look familiar,” he said.

Boff nodded. “I get mistaken for Brad Pitt all the time.”

The lawyer laughed. “Now that you mention it, yeah, I can see the resemblance. Well, I’ll let you two conduct whatever clandestine business you were doing.”

After he was gone, Boff said, “Ashamed to be seen with me, Carl?”

“No offense, Frank, but associating with you is worse than having bedbugs for a guy who wants to make D.A. Anyway, I’m guessing you called me here because you need my help.”

“Correct.

Boff took the photos of the phony raid out of one envelope and handed them to Baumgartner, who started to flip through them, then stopped, looked up at Boff, and asked, “What exactly am I looking at here?”

“A phony drug raid conducted in your jurisdiction.” Boff leaned over and tapped a finger on one photo. “This guy’s a detective in the 71
st
. Name’s Galvani. The other two mutts with him are longshoremen on the Red Hook docks.”

With more interest, Baumgartner took his time examining each photo. When he was done he said, “These mutts are selling the drugs to the Hells Angels?”

“It’s more complicated than that. Galvani gives the Hells Angels the drugs to peddle in order to help raise money for a much bigger operation he and the bikers are working on together.”

“And what might that be?”

“The bikers have been buying high-potency marijuana called Quebec Gold.” He handed Baumgartner the photos from the exchange in Massena. “The drugs are being smuggled across the New York State border by the Montreal Hells Angels. The cop makes the pickup, as you can see, and then…” he pointed to one of the photos “…then he delivers the contraband to the bikers.”

“Frank, if they’re smuggling in this Quebec Gold,” the assistant D.A. said, “then that’s the DEA’s business, too. I assume your ex-partner Schlosberg knows about this?”

“He does. I’m going to help you, Schlosberg, and Damiano organize a raid on a Brooklyn drug dealer named Reggie Bassett who’s distributing the Quebec Gold.”

Baumgartner looked once more at the photos, then frowned. “As good as these pictures are, Frank, they won’t be enough for me to indict the Hells Angels. All we see are duffle bags being picked up in Massena and then handed over to the bikers. We can’t prove what’s in the bags.”

“True. That’s why I want you to haul Galvani in and flip him. Then I’m going to equip him with the tiniest recording device on the market. It can be concealed inside his shoe. You’re going to force Galvani to record incriminating conversations with both the longshoremen and the bikers.”

Baumgartner nodded. “So the DEA, my office, and NYPD share credit for arresting the Hells Angels, and Galvani goes into wit protection?”

“That’s correct.”

“One thing I’m not clear on here. How does Doyle’s murder fit into this?”

“I believe the guy who ordered the hit on Doyle is heavily involved in the smuggling operation.”

That perked up the attorney’s interest. “Who is he?”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

The assistant D.A. made a sour face. “What are you not telling me here?”

“Look, Carl, I’m handing you a huge case. Be satisfied with that and leave the man running the op to me.”

“Aw, Jesus Christ, Frank. Just like last time, you’re going to manipulate things so somebody ends up dead. You know what? You’re turning into friggin’ a one-man hit squad. And if you leave evidence of your crime, I’m going to have to indict you.”

“Don’t worry, Carl. I won’t be leaving fingerprints on my work. I’m much too smart for that.”

“Can I at least know this guy’s name and what his role in this operation is? You have my word I won’t use it.”

“Fine, Carl. First turn off your digital recorder.”

The assistant D.A. looked taken aback. “How could you think I’d pull a stunt like that on you after all these years of friendship?”

“Look, Carl. I’ve always trusted you. But now that you’re getting ready to run for D.A, I’m thinking you might try a backdoor play on me and take my man down in order to pad your resume.”

“Frank….”

Boff held up one hand. “It’s okay, Carl. Politics is a tough, dirty business. I don’t blame you for doing this. Guys who play nice don’t win. So, again, if you want to know who’s running the op, kill the recorder.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Baumgartner smiled, slid a hand inside his sports jacket, held it there a couple seconds,
then withdrew his hand.

“It’s off. As always, Frank, you’re way too clever for me. Okay, now who’s the guy?”

Boff told him about Earl Bassett and his brothers and Earl’s connection to the murders of Doyle and Maloney. When he was done, the assistant D.A. whistled. “Man, I’d like to get my hands on all that!”

“I’m sure you would. But you’ll make out just fine when Galvani gives you Reggie Bassett and the Hells Angels. Earl Bassett is mine.”

Baumgartner frowned. “Why, Frank? What do you have against this guy? Is this personal for you in some way?”

Boff nodded. “Earl Bassett sent a hit squad after me. Someone in a moving van shot me three times in the chest. Luckily, I was wearing Kevlar.
But
my
son
was with me and could’ve been hit. And
he
wasn’t wearing Kevlar.”

Although the attorney nodded like he understood, he didn’t look real pleased. “Okay. So when do we flip Galvani?”

“Let’s try for tomorrow. I’ll set it up.
Damiano will be along with you to badge him and read him his rights. Just play your role like I dictate it to you. I’ll do the rest.”

Baumgartner spit out a laugh. “Whatever you say,
boss
. When tomorrow do we do this?”

“Early afternoon. I’ll call you when I set the exact time.”

“What if Galvani loses it and pulls a piece on us?”

“Well, in the unlikely event he does, bring along a couple of your office investigators for added protection.”

“I guess we’ve got a deal,” Baumgartner said. “Or at least the best one I’m going to get from you.” He stood up. “Let me walk out of the park before you leave. It’s bad enough I could’ve been spotted with you on this bench. I don’t want to risk being seen leaving the park with the infamous Frank Boff.”