Trump Tower (4 page)

“No fasteners, and the copper went away. Don't you believe me? I'm telling you, there's nothing.”

“I also saw airplane parts.”

“Way out of our league.”

“Big money in that shit.”

“Big downside because we could never cover it.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe someday when we grow up and get really rich. You get any sleep?”

“Not a lot.”

“Go take a nap . . .”

“Y'all coming with me?”

“One of us has to work for a living.”

“I'll take a shower and . . .”

She turned toward the big corner study they used as their office.

“What's that?”

“What's what?”

“That bruise on your back?”

“Nothing,” she said. “While you were away, I was screwing some convict and he got a little rough.”

“Yeah,” David laughed. “It's that sauna thing in the shower. Got me the other day, too. Why would they put it right where you can bang into it?”

“Bang, bang,” she showed him the victory sign and went inside.

A
lthough Belasco's office was just off the Resident's Lobby, his staff of six worked out of a small suite of offices on the southwest corner of the twenty-fourth floor.

“Brenda?” He pointed to the heavyset, middle-aged woman who was in charge of Residents' Services. “Please. Go.”

“The Advanis return tomorrow after five months away,” she began her weekly report.

Eight people were sitting around the table that took up most of the tiny conference room, where Brenda's four avocado plants took up most of the rest of the floor space, and glass walls looked out onto one of the few open balconies in the Tower.

There were Belasco, his staff, and Antonia Lawrence.

Brenda continued through a short list of matters that concerned the residents and ended with, “Shannon will be coming back after maternity leave.
Her temp replacement, Gilbert, will be leaving. He's a nice young man and asked to be considered if a post opens up. Will you sign off on a gift?”

“Of course,” Belasco said. “Invite him to choose three shirts and ties from the boss' collection in the atrium. Is there a Mrs. Gilbert?”

Brenda said, “No.”

“Then . . . his mother. Let him choose something for her.” He turned to Brenda's sister-in-law, Harriet, who was in charge of Commercial Services. “Please. Go.”

She read through her list, noting that Scarpe Pietrasanta, the designer Italian women's shoe company on the nineteenth floor, had missed their rent payment and that no one had responded to the follow-up.

“We told you that the guy died,” Brenda reminded Belasco.

“Yes. Under the circumstances . . .”

“That's no excuse,” Antonia cut in.

Belasco was surprised. “What?”

The twenty-nine-year-old assistant to the director of operations for the Trump Organization—who thought of herself as a Minnie Driver look-alike, except she was shorter and heavier than the dark-haired actress—had been attending these meetings for several months at her own request. “The lease belongs to a business. The business is still there. The rent is due on the first.”

Harriet suggested, “Death isn't quite the same as the check's in the mail.”

Antonia wasn't having it. “If you must, send flowers and a sympathy card. But this is about business. We don't do family problems.”

“We don't do family problems?” Belasco repeated in amazement. “Actually . . . yes we do.”

“Why?” Antonia shot back.

“Because compassion is always the right thing to do.” He pointed to the human resources supervisor known to everyone as Little Sam. “Please. Go.”

“It's bad business,” she said. “Can you imagine the signal that sends . . .”

Belasco answered sharply, “I know exactly what signal it sends. And that is precisely the signal that I want to send.” He turned back to Little Sam, “Please excuse the interruption. Go.”

Little Sam hesitated until he was sure that Antonia wasn't going to interrupt again. “The Carlos Vela matter. I got with the lawyers again yesterday. They reiterated that theft is a de facto firing offense.”

“Except,” Belasco said, “we don't know if there was a theft. Or, if there was, we don't know that Mr. Vela had anything to do with it.”

“He was the only one with opportunity,” Bill Riordan pointed out. The ex-NYPD detective headed up the Tower's security team. “If it quacks like a duck . . .”

“There are two maids in the apartment,” Belasco reminded Riordan. “And she has a chef.”

“They've been cleared.”

“By who?”

“First by me. Then by the police. It's Vela.”

Belasco argued, “But Mr. Vela says he's innocent.”

“Guilty people don't just say they're innocent, they swear to God they are.”

“The police said they're not going to charge him.”

“Yet.”

“It's he-said-she-said.”

“Not to a cop.” Riordan leaned forward to explain, “Means, motive, and opportunity. He had the means. Put it in a bag, and walk out the service door. The motive is money. He was working in the apartment so he had the opportunity. Unfortunately, I can't talk to him without his union representative and lawyer present. But how much more do you need? Means . . . motive . . . opportunity. It's all right there.”

“What about logic?”

“Logic?”

“Yes, logic,” Belasco said. “Mr. Vela worked here for five years, and there has never been a problem. He's a carpenter. A maintenance guy. He's always had the means and the opportunity to steal anything he wanted, whenever he wanted . . .”

“But now, this time,” Riordan noted, “he had a motive.”

“What motive?”

“Pick one from the usual menu. Debt. Drugs. Gambling. Wife problems. Girlfriend problems. Boyfriend problems. Family problems. Want more?”

“I want something that makes sense,” Belasco insisted. “I'd be willing to bet that there are tens of million dollars in cash hidden all over the Tower. I suspect there are more safes in this building than there are residents. If Mr. Vela was going to steal something, why wouldn't he go for Mrs. Essenbach's cash? Look under the bed? In the back of a desk drawer? In a shoebox in the closet? He had plenty of time, but the police said nothing in the apartment was disturbed.”

“He looked,” Riordan said, “couldn't find anything, and was careful enough not to make it appear as if he looked.”

“Then how about her jewelry?”

“He couldn't find any.”

“Come on . . . that woman puts on jewelry to brush her teeth. If he couldn't find any, it's because he wasn't looking.”

“I'm not buying it,” Riordan said.

“There are two maids and a chef working in the apartment. If he was crawling
around searching through her things, wouldn't they have asked him what he was doing?”

“The chef was off, the first maid was out, and the second one says she was too busy to babysit a maintenance guy.”

“Did he know that the chef was off and that the other maid was out? It's a big apartment. He didn't know who else might be there, so why not take something that's easy, that's right there, that fits into his pockets? She's got silver and gold all over the place. You saw her apartment. The woman owns six Fabergé eggs, including one of the great Easter eggs. If Mr. Vela stole that, he could afford to move into the Tower. She also has a couple of hundred gold snuffboxes. He could have walked away with a handful of snuffboxes, and she might not have realized they were missing for months.”

“Vela comes from the projects. What does he know from Fabergé eggs and snuffboxes?”

“What does he know from a vicuna coat?”

“He knows he can wear it or pawn it.”

“Wear it? Where? To his local bodega?” Belasco shook his head. “And how do you pawn a vicuna coat? Who would want it, anyway?”

Riordan sneered, “Ever been to the NBA?”

“You're out of line,” Belasco said.

Riordan held up two hands. “Excuse me for stating the obvious.”

“The question is moot,” Antonia cut in. “The fact is that Mrs. Essenbach went to DJT and said she wanted the man fired.”

“You mean, Mr. Trump,” Belasco said.

Ignoring him, she went on. “DJT has told us, repeatedly, anyone who's been accused, or even suspected, of a crime jeopardizes the trust of the residents vis-à-vis the entire staff. Residents talk.”

“So do the staff,” Belasco said. “What does it say to them if we fire someone unjustly?”

“Bill's absolutely right.” She looked at the former detective. “Means, motive, and opportunity? I'll bet in the old days you would have already had a confession.”

He nodded, “Give me a few minutes alone with Vela . . .”

“Unfortunately,” Belasco said, “we've got no budget for rubber hoses.”

The others laughed.

Riordan didn't. “I could always borrow one.”

Antonia didn't laugh, either. “If you don't want to fire him, I will.”

“To begin with,” Belasco pointed out, “you don't have the power to hire or fire anyone.”

“My boss does.”

“But you don't. And he won't because I am dealing with this.”

“I'll be sure to let him know how you feel.”

“I invite you to do that,” he said. “What's more, you asked to be at these meetings as an observer. I agreed. As an observer.” He pointed to “Big Sam,” the building engineer who oversaw all of the maintenance functions. “Please. Go.”

The man nodded. “Boiler one is up again. But I've got three guys off sick this week, so we're a little backed up. And if Vela's gone permanently . . .”

“I understand,” Belasco said. “I'll let you know as soon as a final decision is made. If Mr. Vela is not coming back, you'll be authorized to hire someone in his place.” Now he turned to Riordan, “Did you see that we've added Tommy Seasons to the Chapman List?”

“I've forwarded his name and photo to everyone.”

“Tommy Seasons?” Antonia asked. “The actor? What's he done?”

Belasco told her, “He's been banned from the Tower at the request of a tenant.”

“Which tenant?”

“That's unimportant,” he said, then looked at the others. “Anyone else?”

Antonia was determined to find out. “I haven't seen anything about this coming across my boss' desk. Does DJT know?”

“You mean, does Mr. Trump know?” He answered her sternly, “At the moment this is a matter for my tenant, for Riordan and his staff, and for me. It will be noted in my weekly report to Mr. Trump. That report gets copied to the director of operations. So, yes, Mr. Trump will be informed of this and, yes, your boss will also be informed. Anything else?”

“Is the tenant's name some sort of national secret?”

“The tenant's name,” he repeated, “is unimportant.”

She looked away, not hiding her annoyance with Belasco's tone.

“Anything else? If not, thank you.” He stood up, so did everyone else, and they all left the room.

Except Antonia.

She sat where she was, mumbling to one of the avocado plants.

B
ELASCO ASKED
Brenda to ring Mrs. Essenbach to say that he would like to stop up.

While he was waiting at her desk, Riordan whispered in his ear, “If I was a cynic, I'd say El Bitcho is after your job.”

He looked at Riordan, “You . . . a cynic?”

“I'd hate to be the boyfriend . . . if there is a boyfriend. Get my drift?” He patted Belasco on the back and walked away.

“No problem,” Brenda said, hanging up. “Mrs. Essenbach said to tell you, Monsieur Belasco is always welcome, any time.” She made a face. “Lucky you.”

“Thank you.” Heading out of the offices, he walked past the bank of elevators that serviced the ten floors of offices, turned right, and went down the long hall to the residents' elevators.

Twenty-four is the only floor in Trump Tower where you can cross to either set of elevators.

Riordan was waiting for an elevator.

“What I can't figure out,” he said to Belasco, “is how the hell she got her job.”

“Antonia? Her grandfather was one of Fred Trump's earliest backers,” Belasco explained. “So grandpa phoned the boss and said, ‘I stood by your old man, now my granddaughter is looking for a job.' The boss is a loyal guy and hired her.”