Dying for the Past (22 page)

forty-nine

“The book is the
key to the war between the Calaprese families and the Reds.” Poor Nic stood behind his antique mahogany desk
with his grandfatherly smile directed at Bonnie Grecco. “Or I
should
say, Soviet Intelligence in Washington—well before the KGB
or the thugs operating today.”

Angel glanced over at Bonnie and noted she didn't seem surprised at Poor Nic's revelation. She and Bonnie had arrived at Nicholas' an hour ago after escaping the roadside truck stop. Angel secreted Bonnie out of the rear parking lot after she was convinced the large, black SUV was there for her. Angel drove straight to Nicholas' house.

“Spies? Vincent Calaprese was involved with Soviet spies?” Angel
asked.

“No, no, not the way you think, my dear,” Poor Nic said. “Vincent Calaprese was, shall we say, a business man who preferred to operate outside the normal restrictions of the law.”

“They were gangsters,” Bonnie said in a flat voice. “Mob. Like you, Nicholas.”

Poor Nic let his smile settle the awkwardness Bonnie's words lay between them.

Angela shot her a “you're a guest—behave” glance, then she aske
d Nicholas, “What did he have to do with Russian spies?”

“Ah, yes. You see, it was the late-thirties and the second world
war was starting to churn. German and Japanese spy networks wer
e already operating in our country. Little do many people know, but so were the Soviets—many worked through the Communist Party of the United States. Oh, the party was a legitimate group, mind you, but some were also Soviet spies and sympathizers.”

“Yes, I know the history,” Angela said. “Those were confusing times, here in the States. The Soviets and us were allies against the Axis but the Soviets were an ally in name only. We had a common
enemy—Hitler and the Japanese—and while the Soviets were aligned
with us, both our governments knew it was not a true alliance. We were destined to clash—we planned for it as did the Soviets. They developed spy networks here. Everyone's focus was on the Nazis and Japanese so they went almost undetected for years.”

Nicholas gave Angel an approving wink. “Ah, I sometimes forget you are a historian. Yes, you are correct. Those were dangerous days. Very dangerous.”

“How was Vincent involved, Nicholas?” Angela asked, glancing
over at Bonnie who looked bored and was wandering around Nicholas' den. “What does he have to do with the Soviet spy rings and what's this book have to do with either?”

“Yes, yes, the book.” Nicholas watched Bonnie for a moment before turning back to Angela. “Various entities—the other New York families—were trying to muscle Vincent out of New York. He was a smaller player so he decided to concentrate his enterprises in Washington and Baltimore—although he kept his hand in New York where he could.”

“How did he stay clear of federal scrutiny in DC?” Angel asked.
“I know some organized crime figures were reported to have worked with the FBI and intelligence in support of the war. Was Vincent one of them?”

Poor Nic nodded. “He was. Vincent was interested in the same enterprises as his New York competitors—liquor, gambling, black-market goods. But he recognized there was another service to parlay—information. He used his enterprises to collect information about the German, Japanese, and Soviet organizations—among others. His information was very valuable to the US authorities.”

“And he kept it all in his book.” Angela saw it. Vincent Calaprese turned his muscle and street organization into his own intelligence agency. “Were there Russian mobsters here then?”

“Of sorts, but not like today, my dear. There were some Russian immigrants who formed dangerous gangs and other organizations cent's Washington network was quite successful against the Nazi rings, Japanese sympathizers, and Soviet operations. His network was second to none in DC—including the FBI's. Hoover's
men relied on him for information they could not get. Imagine, the
FBI coming hat-in-hand to the Calapreses.”

Angela watched Nicholas reminiscing in the nostalgia—she heard the melancholy tone of his voice and watched his eyes seeing lif
e in past years. In the months she'd come to know him, she'd grown fond of him; a strange relationship given he was
a man cloaked in a lifetime of crime and corruption. Yet, since arriving in Winchester, he was a different man. At least, to her he was.

Angel asked, “Vincent used the information to keep the Russian gangs and others away? And keep the authorities at bay, too?”

“Yes, my dear, very good. He provided the authorities with information on the Nazi and Japanese activities, and kept the rest for his own use. If the other crime families left him alone to make a living, he would not disclose what he had collected.”

“And he kept all this in this book, right? A ledger or journal?”

“Yes. The content of the book is worth many millions today—and many lives. It holds the roots of several prominent businesses today, many of which are rooted in Soviet spy networks operating in Vincent's day. And some still operate today; at least, that's the belief. Vincent was a very influential man. His influence, back then, is still worth a fortune and power today.”

Bonnie wandered back from her tour of Nicholas' den. “He sounds a lot like you, Nicholas. Which is why I asked to see you.”

“Perhaps.” Poor Nic's eyes rested on her. “Please, tell me why you are here.”

“My life is in danger and I had nowhere else to go,” Bonnie said. “I need your help.”

“Ah, I see.” He watched her with a calm, quiet gaze. “But why and how did you come to know to ask for me? After all, you were under the FBI's protection, were you not?”

“Yes, I was.” Bonnie looked down. “Steph was trying to make a deal with them for more protection and someone killed him. They're trying to kill me, too—someone came to the hotel where the Feds had me. I barely escaped. I can't trust anyone. I need protection, Nicholas.”

“But why me?”

“The party.” Bonnie sat back in the chair beside Angela. “You were quite the talk of the party, Nicholas. Everyone said you were Angela's godfather—I'm sure they meant it in fun.”

“Of course.” Poor Nic smiled and nodded.

“And one of the women mentioned that you did much for the community—even helped solve Angela's husband's murder. She said if she were ever in trouble, you'd be the one she'd turn to.”

“Really? How interesting.” Poor Nic clasped his hands. “It seems the town has grown to accept me.” He winked at Angel. “At least, some of them have.”

Angel said, “Play him the voicemail I heard at the truck stop, Bonnie.”

She did.
“I missed you at the party, Bonnie. Soon you'll be dead, too
.” She played it a second time, and on the third, she started to cry but wiped the tears away and hardened herself. “You see, I'm in danger.”

He shrugged. “Tell me, why was Stephanos murdered?”

“I don't know.”

“You're lying.”

“What? No!”

Poor Nic's voice was flat and cold—his grandfather-smile was gone, too. “My dear, you cannot expect me to believe you do not know. Tell me the truth.”

“Bonnie?” Angela looked at her. “Tell us what you know. Please. You asked for our help. You must tell us what's going on.”

Bonnie stood and walked to the large bay window on the far side of Nicholas' den. She stood at the window staring out—the grip of a decision holding her there. “Steph discovered the history of the book several months ago. I don't know how, but he did. He also discovered its location and passed the information around
certain circles—dangerous circles. A few weeks ago, some men came to o
ur place in Washington.”

Nicholas watched her from his desk. “And who were these men?”

“He said he was making a deal with the FBI but then these men came—Russian men. Steph tried to keep it all a secret from me but I knew what was going on. They wanted proof he knew where the book was. He promised them proof at Angela's gala.”

“Bonnie? You brought the Russian mob to my gala?” Angela's voice was curt and she stood up and went to Bonnie at the window. “Did you?”

“I'm sorry,” Bonnie said, refusing to face her. “Steph demanded someone make the deal—a go-between. They were to meet outside, before the gala began, but it was raining and—”

“Who?” Angela asked. “Petya? Being a go-between got him killed?”

“I don't know.” Bonnie shook her head. “I don't. Please believe me. Steph caught me listening outside their last meeting. He was furious. He ordered me to stay out of it. He was very angry. But I think it was a façade.”

Poor Nic nodded. “Of course it was. Your husband was not angry with you, but perhaps he was afraid for you.”

“He was terrified—I could tell. But we needed the money. He'd gambled all we had to make this work. For months, he ran around trying to find the book. He needed this score. We were broke and he said the money he had was too hard to use—it would draw attention, whatever that meant.”

Angela watched Bonnie return to her chair and slump back down.
She could see the defeat in her—see her eyes begin to drain her regret of Stephanos. “Bonnie, who was Stephanos's contact? Who at the gala did he give the evidence to?”

She shook her head again and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue from her pocket. “I don't know. He wouldn't tell me, and anyway, I think they killed him before he made contact. He still had the old money after they killed him.”

“Old money?” Angela looked over at Poor Nic. “Does it make sense to you?”

It did. A smile took over Poor Nic's face and he winked. “Yes, of course. The book was more than just a list of enemy businesses and spy networks. It was also Vincent's ledger of his hidden accounts—accounts from his government benefactors.”

“Government payments?” Angela asked. “The FBI paid him for information?”

“Yes, of course, and other activities, too.” Poor Nic stood up and went to the den's story-tall double oak doors. He opened them, called out to some unseen servant for iced tea and sandwiches, and returned to his desk where he leaned against it. “Vincent was a true entrepreneur. War was coming. The FBI had been very successful against the old families in the twenties and thirties—but Vincent's had survived by knowing what your customer wanted and providing it.”

Angela's eyes lit up. “It's hard to believe our government would work with gangsters—no offense, Nicholas.”

Poor Nic laughed. “None taken. Our government has been in business with those in my former profession since both were born. It's often a tenuous relationship, but a relationship no less. Especially in wartime. When the government needed something—information, covert action—it often relied upon those who had the means and the networks and above all, the right people. After all, we're all Americans, aren't we?”

Angela shrugged. “Yes, I suppose we are. But—”

“And back then,” he went on, “patriotism trumped petty arrests and bad blood. No, my dear, those were unusual times. And Vincent Calaprese was an unusual man. They paid him very well for his services. And those services were very valuable indeed.”

Bonnie looked at him. “You know where Steph got the money? You know all about this book? You know more than Steph or I did. Do you know who killed him and who is trying to kill me?”

“No,” he said in a soft voice. “But it is over the book. Detective Braddock found ten thousand dollars on Stephanos—ten, one-thousand dollar gold certificate notes. They were in mint condition like the day they were printed.” He winked at Angel. “At least, so I am told. So, Stephanos must have found the book.”

Poor Nic's den doors opened and a beefy bodyguard carried in a tray of iced tea, sandwiches, and desserts. He set the tray on a server near the window, poured three glasses of tea, and served them. Then, without a word, he left.

Bonnie asked, “How do you know they're connected to the book
, Nicholas?”

“Those notes were from one of Vincent's stashes.” He paused and sipped his tea. “How they survived without discovery all these years I don't know. Think about it—where would those gold certificates come from if not some hidden vault of Vincent's? I don't believe in coincidences such as those, do you?”

Angela shook her head. “No, I suppose not. Bonnie, do you have
any idea where he found them?”

“Does it matter? Someone's trying to kill me—staying alive is all I care about.” She took a long sip of tea and looked up at him. She held his eyes and smiled a weak, forced smile. “You'll help me, won't you? And I understand if there is a fee for your services.”

Poor Nic moved around to the front of the desk where he stood in front of Angela and Bonnie. He leaned down and touched Bonnie's cheek, holding it in a gentle, old-fashioned sign of warmth and comfort. “Of course, my dear. And yes, there is a cost. I wish to see this book for myself. There may be information in the book that can protect me, too. I am a retired old man, but I still must protect myself. You may keep the book, but I wish to review it for a day or so.”

“Yes, of course.” Bonnie took his hand. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Of course, my dear.” Poor Nic's grandfatherly smile returned. “Please, tell me who you fear—who you believe killed Stephanos. I know you have an idea. No?”

“I don't believe anything; I know who killed him.” Bonnie's eyes were streaming. “It was Anatoly Nikolaevich Konstantinova—the biggest Russian Mob boss in the country.”

Angela's eyes went wide. “Ruth-Ann Marcos was asking about Anatoly earlier, Nicholas. You said you didn't know him, right?”