Codes of Betrayal (15 page)

Nick studied his uncle. He was trying so hard. As if everything in his entire world hadn’t changed. As if Nick was still the kid dazzled by Frank’s charm and ability and success. As if Frank hadn’t gotten him into something he wasn’t at all sure about.

“Listen to me, Nick. I’ve waited for more than thirty years. When they took Danny out, I wanted to kill every last one—every shit in your grandfather’s ‘family,’ starting with him. But the time wasn’t right. Peter was killed indirectly because of your grandfather’s involvement in the
bahania
trade. That punk kid of Richie’s dragged him into …”

Nick thought of his grandfather’s large blue eyes, blurred by emotion when he talked about Peter. Even if he hadn’t loved Nick’s father, he surely loved Nick’s son.

“Don’t tell me the DEA and the P.D. and the ATF and any other goddamn enforcement group hasn’t got informants. What’s the matter, you guys don’t share information? Why me?”

“Because you are who you are. You can get in real close.” Frank studied the menu for a moment, then, “So, when you gonna start in the real estate business?”

Nick pushed his plate back and drank some tepid water.

“Monday. They’re getting me a license. I’m gonna hang around the office. Get the feel of the properties. I can’t picture myself actually selling—” He slammed the glass down in exasperation. “Frank, this is getting very confusing. Papa is gonna feed information for me to pass along to Coleman. He wants
me
to get
him
any information about the DEA’s actions. How the hell am I gonna get anything to give him?”

“You’re going back to college, Nick.” Nick had attended John Jay College of Criminal Justice on and off for six years. He was just a few credits short of a degree.

“You’re gonna take Constitutional Rights and Liberties. Professor Thomas Caruso. Know him?”

Nick thought for a moment. “Yeah. I took a couple of Police Science courses with him, years ago. But—”

Frank blotted his lips and signaled their waitress, an alarmingly alert, stocky, middle-aged woman who studied their plates and bit her lip. How come these two big guys left so much food? She jotted down their order for coffee and Boston cream pie. Within moments she delivered and set the coffee and dessert before them. She looked each man in the eye. “Enjoy,” she commanded.

“It gets a little complicated, Nick, but you can work it out. Tom Caruso. He’s DEA.
Deep
undercover. Only a few people know about him.” Frank tasted the cream pie, and smiled. “He’s your man.”

“Spell it out, Frank.”

“Taste that, Nick, is that good or what? Well, you’ll bring whatever Papa Ventura gives you to Coleman. Nothing else. Remember, Ventura’s got a leak in that squad and he’ll be checking you out. Your grandfather will give you
real
information, but only stuff damaging to his enemies. As far as Coleman and his team are concerned—that’s all they get. Now, Professor Caruso, you give him
all
the information you find: names, locations, meetings, company organizations, officers, deals, whatever.
Only to Caruso.
And he’ll give you some tips to give your grandfather.”

“But, if there’s a mole in Coleman’s squad, won’t my grandfather wonder where I’m getting my stuff from? He’ll know it wasn’t from them.”

Frank shrugged. “You got a lotta connections in the department, right? So, what does that make you, a triple agent?”

“It makes me a sitting duck.”

“Not if you’re careful. And I know you,. Nick. You know how to play whatever game you gotta play.”

“Right. I’m a natural-born gambler.”

“No gamble, Nick. You’re a team player. One other thing. You and me—we won’t have any contact. Assume your phone is tapped and you’re being followed. You reach me only through Caruso. Until this is over.”

“And when will that be?”

“You gonna leave that big chunk of Boston cream? That waitress will trip us on the way out.”

Nick leveled a cold stare at his uncle and deliberately plunged his fork into the cake, stuffed it into his mouth.

“Jeez, you’re a selfish little bastard, aren’t you?”

V
ENTURA REAL ESTATE WAS
housed in a storefront on Metropolitan Avenue, just beyond the fancy Forest Hills streets. The man there was Marty Tortelli, a mid-sixties, skinny guy who chewed on an unlit cigar that smelled terrible. No one would talk into a telephone after him: ashtray breath. He wore smudged glasses that needed cleaning and updating badly. He held everything he read at arm’s length. He was out of the office more than in. He introduced Nick to Tessie Tortuga—“someone’s aunt,” Marty whispered.

Tessie was a slender woman, anywhere from mid-fifties to mid-seventies. With her dyed black hair, and carefully applied makeup, impeccable grooming, attractive clothing, and high heels, Tessie had a sparkle. She trailed a whiff of light, pleasant perfume as she showed Nick around the office.

She set him up at a steel desk in the front window, so he could gaze over Metropolitan Avenue. Across the street were a collection of taxpayers: small shops at street level, small apartments upstairs. The neighborhood was clean and orderly. No troublemakers allowed. Nick took an armload of file folders, fanned them out on his desk. There were properties recently sold, recently rented, on the market. There were client lists—potentials to buy, sell, or rent. Tessie kept the files. Anything you needed to know was in Tessie’s head, if not in her files. She scorned the computer—so call her old-fashioned.

Nick spent a week or so studying the files, concentrating on houses and apartments. There was another large section of information on industrial properties handled by Ventura Real Estate.

He was driven around Forest Hills, then Forest Hills Gardens, by Salvy Grosso, a hulking man who looked fatter than he actually was. His face was very broad and featured a solid block of black eyebrows straight across his forehead. He had the wheeze of a smoker, although he had never been one. He was a toucher—your arm, your shoulder, your sleeve. When he knew you better, he might loop an arm around you.

Salvy spoke in a soft, confidential voice, occasionally cupping his hand around his mouth, just in case someone, somewhere, was curious about what he was saying. He drove through the Gardens like a tour guide. He had grown up in Woodside, Queens, and he felt that gave him, somehow, an insider’s view. He stopped in front of a large house, mostly hidden behind bushes, trees, random plantings. Home of the first woman vice-presidential candidate. Neighbors went crazy when she was running: all the Secret Service, P.D., and media. If just for that reason, everyone was glad she lost. After all, Forest Hills Gardens was not happy with intruders. He pointed, vaguely, at what he said had been the home of a Transit Authority commissioner, “before your time, Nick.” And you couldn’t see it from here, but some older dame, a movie character actress, raised her kids here. And that actor from
NYPD Blue,
who claimed he came from hard times, he lived right in the heart of the Gardens. Some hard times.

It was a very quaint, self-contained old English Tudor village with an inn and a square and its own stop on the Long Island Railroad line. Salvy pointed out where the serial killer, Son of Sam, had murdered women on two separate occasions.

“Imagine a bum like that?” Salvy seemed to take the violation personally. “Ya know, Nick, I figured the guy to be a cop, ya know?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, he hit his targets at all hours. I figured he must have worked different tours. He turns out to be just another post office nuthead. Do they get like that on their job, or does the P.O. attract them? What?”

They visited several of the newer high-rises on Queens Boulevard, a futuristic collection of glass and steel buildings that would fit right in with any newly reconstructed section of Manhattan: all the same, without character or distinctiveness.

“When I was a kid living in Woodside, I worked for a garbage collection company. We’d pick up from restaurants, and some real nice private homes around here. Most of this section was empty lots—some parking lots for car sales agencies. Ya see the Kennedy House over there? Christ, I remember when there used to be a big mansion; with beautiful lawns and gardens, and a three-car garage in back. Must have been more than an acre. I guess the old folks died and the next in line sold out. Probably got a fortune. The developers just leveled the house. Guy I worked for, he got some of the woodwork—doors, shutters, and stained glass. He had an in with the construction guys. Shame, though, huh?”

When Nick got back to the office, Tessie, with a big smile, jingled some keys at him, then, with a jerk of her head, indicated a dark blue Cadillac parked across the street.

“Company rented it for you, Nick. Can’t have you representing us in an old station wagon.”

He checked the papers. Long-term lease. On the company. As he walked out, a shiny black Jaguar blocked his way. The window slid down and there was Laura Santalvo.

“Nick. Come for a ride with me. I have something I want you to see.”

She handled the Jag with great authority, as she did everything else. She cut across Queens Boulevard swiftly, pulled into the U-shaped driveway in front of one of the newer thirty-story co-ops Nick had seen earlier. She left the car where she had stopped. The doorman hurried to help her, bobbed his head up and down.

On the twelfth floor, Laura led him to a door at the far end of the hallway, which she opened.

“Never live next to an elevator. I don’t care how quiet they are, you can still hear them. Or feel them.”

She flipped on a series of switches that lit up a large entrance hall, a huge living room, connected to a good-sized dining room, with adjoining eat-in kitchen. She preceded him rapidly, opening a door to a dark bedroom: even with the lights the room was dim.

“Master bathroom,” she pointed out. “There’s another bedroom, a little smaller; can be a den or office or whatever. Has its own bathroom, plus there’s a small lavatory next to a closet in the entrance hall. There’s a well-stocked bar. TV built in; music system—” She stopped speaking and watched him closely.

“Very nice. Laura, you have a very nice place.”

She started to laugh. It was the hearty, honest sound that brought back childhood. She flopped sideways onto a soft beige armchair, letting her long legs dangle. Her head fell back and she pressed her hands over her mouth.

“I’m sorry, Nick. My God, didn’t Tessie tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Laura stood up, came close to him, ran her fingers lightly over his lips; puckered her lips and began to laugh again.

“Did you think I brought you up here to seduce you?”

“You wouldn’t have to …”

“This is
yours,
Nicky. Papa put you on hold over by the tennis courts because I had a customer from France over for a couple of weeks. We put him up here. He moved out two days ago. I had a cleaning service give the place a good workout. It’s all yours.”

“Like hell. I couldn’t afford …”

“Ventura Real Estate owns this place. We use it for various clients. Sometimes I have European models stay here. Sometimes there are business conventions. Papa puts people up here. He’s got a couple other apartments just like it in the building.” She walked to the floor-to-ceiling, apartment-wide windows and pushed a button that slid the drapes open.

“Not exactly the Manhattan skyline, but not bad. If you don’t like the location, there are others, all up and down the boulevard. You didn’t want a house, did you?”

Nick stood beside her and stared at the panoramic view: Forest Hills at night. Across the wide boulevard were thirty- and forty-story buildings.

“This is not exactly my style, Laura.”

She glanced at her watch just as the security phone rang. “Speaking of style.” She grabbed the phone. “Good, yes, send him up.”

She looked Nick up and down and shook her head. He was wearing a slightly shoddy sports jacket and wrinkled dark gray slacks.

“You look like a cop, Nick. We have to fix you up.” The tailor—Papa’s tailor—was a tiny man with a bald head, except for a thick white fringe around the neckline. He had heavy white brows and a thick yellowish, mustache. He arrived with a suitcase of samples; measuring tapes; pins; men’s fashion magazines.

Nick motioned Laura into the modern, glistening kitchen: it was all silky brushed steel counters and appliances.

“What the hell is this, Laura? I don’t want …” Laura leaned back and smiled. He had a good look at her; he had been so busy trying to absorb his surroundings that this was his first chance. She wore a gray, almost black pants suit and a very white shirt and shiny black flat shoes. There was a gold ornament on her lapel in the shape of a small cat. Without realizing it, he reached out and followed the curves of the cat with his fingertip, then looked at her eyes.

Nick, with all his police training, wouldn’t have been able to describe Laura accurately. It would be like trying to describe a color or the sound of a wave or the smell of rain. He could describe the oval shape of her face; the smoky quality of her dark gray eyes; her straight nose and wide mouth and thick black brows. He could describe the short-cropped hair that clung to her head, leaving her face clean and untouched. He could estimate her height and weight. He could describe everything he knew to a police sketch artist, and no one, not the best in the world, would be able to capture the essence and quality of Laura. There was something so hidden and concealed and mysterious. Even when she laughed, for a split second letting her guard down, she drew on strong inner resources. No one could ever take Laura by surprise.

She explained that his grandfather sent the tailor. After all, Nick was going to represent one of Papa’s businesses. And he wasn’t going to be spending all his time in the small Queens office. He would eventually do … well, whatever Papa Ventura wanted him to do. She shrugged; none of this had anything to do with her.

The tailor fussed and sighed; stretched and measured; slapped Nick’s arm down when he needed to be sure of sleeve length.

He showed material samples to Laura, ignoring Nick as someone who wouldn’t know anything. He flipped through some pages of magazines; a Sunday
New York Times
supplement on men’s clothing. Stopped; took a signal from Laura; marked a page.