King Con (36 page)

“Yep, that’s the idea.” She got to her feet and moved to the door. Then she turned, “Oh, yeah, there was something else…. I’m not supposed to know this, but I have a few friends in Justice and, since I have more than a passing interest in you and your family, I cashed a few chits.”

Joe stood waiting.

“According to the FBI surveillance, your brother was down in Nassau last night. He took four or five million dollars out of your SARTOF Bank. Got it out of the dead-drop you’ve got down there. You might sweep that bank if you get a chance. It’s got more bugs than a flea circus.”

“And just what, exactly, is a dead-drop?”

“Call the lizard you’ve got running that French laundry. … Ask him if your big brother didn’t just rob you of millions yesterday.” She took the rest of the photos and dropped them into the chair. “Some of these others aren’t bad either, but basically, they’re the same shot.”
And she turned and walked out of the office, past Bruce Stang and the other man, through the door and over to the elevator, her heart pounding and adrenaline flowing. She knew she had sunk her hook deep.

Before she hit the lobby, Joe Rina had Tony Vacca on the phone at the SARTOF Merchant Bank of Nassau.

“I’m gettin’ word that my brother Tommy’s been down there,” Joe said softly.

“Uh … how? Who told you?” Tony Vacca said, and then he fell silent. The sub-Atlantic phone cable crackled.

“I’m gonna say this once,” Joe said, slowly and without anger, to the bank President he had hand-picked and put down there at a quarter-million dollars a year. “I want t’know … was my brother, Tommy, down mere? Simple question: yes or no?”

“Yeah, Joe, he was here.”

“Did he remove any money from the dead-drop?” Joe asked.

“Uh, Joe, you know I’m loyal t’you … you know that?”

“Tony, I’m asking this once more, for the last time! Did Tommy take any money out of the dead-drop?”

“Yes.”

“How much did he take?”

“Five million dollars,” Tony Vacca said.

“And if I could inquire, why did you see fit to give it to him?” Joe asked reasonably.

“Uh, well, Joe … you know Tommy….”

“Okay, I know Tommy. But I’m wondering why you gave it to him. I gave you strict instructions… that money is never to leave the dead-drop until it’s been washed, and then only by my instructions. So, why did you give Tommy the money?”

“Joe, he threatened me. He said he’d kill me with a hammer, said he could do it so it would take three hours
for me to die. I’ve heard the stories. I was scared.”

“I see. And so you gave him my money, because you were scared?”

“He said it was his money too.”

“So you gave him
our
money, but you didn’t even call me and tell me.”

“He said if I told you he’d kill me, Joe. What’m I supposed t’do? You know how Tommy can get.”

“You’re fired. Put Carlo in charge and pack up and get out. I ever see you again, you’re gonna need medical attention. Good-bye.” And he hung up the phone as Bruce Stang brought in the pictures that Arnold Buzini had just faxed up from the Sabre Bay Club. Buzini had already moved the pictures of Beano and Duffy off the Deadwood Players’ Board and had put them into the Tat Cheaters’ Book in the Security room.

Joe held the black-and-white fax of Duffy and Beano up next to the pictures that Victoria had just left. They were the same two men. He could read the newspaper headline and he knew that Congress had cut back Defense funding just a couple of days ago. That meant the pictures were current. He looked up at Bruce Stang.

“So, what the hell is Tommy doing?” Joe said softly. “Looks like he’s hanging with this guy I beat up, and who stole a million from us at Sabre Bay. Then he forced Tony Vacca to give him five million of my money and not tell me. What’s he doing?”

The pungent question hung in the room like the painful smell of death.

Bruce shrugged. “You know Tommy,” he said weakly.

“Everybody’s always telling me I know Tommy. Well, y’know something…? Maybe I don’t know Tommy at all.”

W
HEN VICTORIA LEFT THE PASTA PALACE IN ATLANTIC
City, she was being observed by two FBI Agents in a gray sedan. The lead man was Stan Kellerman. He was five months from retirement with over forty in. He’d seen it all… but the thing he hated most was when “one of ours” turned bad. He had his binoculars up as Victoria hailed a passing cab.

Seated beside Stan Kellerman was Sheila Ward. She was in her rookie year at the Eye. She and Stan had nothing in common, from their opinions about the job to the music they listened to or the movies they liked. She had been hoping to get some experienced training from Stan, but he was a miserable son-of-a-bitch who barely ever spoke to her unless he was ordering her to do something.

“Get Greg on Tac Two,” he barked. “See if he got her.”

Sheila picked up the mike. “This is Red Dog to Lazy Boy. Did you pick up the female target in there?”

“Roger that.”

The FBI Electronic Surveillance Team had cut into the Rina office video security and had been using Joe Rina’s own security system to watch him. They had an E.S.T. man in the basement watching three pirate TV
monitors. Tommy and Joe Rina had been priority targets since the blown state trial. The FBI had been startled when Victoria Hart, the Prosecutor who screwed up the case, walked into the Pasta Palace and showed up in Joe Rina’s office suite on the video monitors. Unfortunately, they didn’t have a way to see inside Joe’s office because he would never allow a security camera to be placed there, but they had the hall camera that showed her going to his office, carrying a folder, and then they saw Joe hurry in carrying his coat. Ten minutes later the cameras showed Victoria leaving without the folder, a very strange and troubling occurrence.

Stan reached over and snatched the mike away from Sheila, who gritted her teeth in anger but said nothing.

“Whatta you think, Greg?”

“I don’t know. You tell me what the Prosecutor who was trying this shithead is doing paying him a visit and leaving off a package. I think we got runny poo here.”

“Me too. I’m on her. Let’s see what happens.”

They followed Victoria to the Atlantic City Airport and watched as she went to the United counter and bought a ticket. After she left they edged to the front of an angry line of customers and badged the agent. They found out that Victoria was on the next direct flight to San Francisco. It was scheduled to leave in an hour.

It was then that Stan Kellerman called Gil Green’s office and found out that the D.A. was in Albuquerque, at a law enforcement conference. Stan was Federal and Gil was State, but Vicky Hart worked for Gil, so Stan stayed jurdisdictionally in bounds by making the call. They got through to Gil’s hotel room and caught the colorless D.A. just as he got back from a round of golf. After they filled him in on what was happening, Gil Green remained silent, his mind weighing the potential downside possibilities.

“What do you want us to do?” Stan asked. “I can’t
leave Atlantic City without a district transfer approval, but we could have some guys pick her up on the other end. We’ve got her flight number. We can fax an I.D. photo to the agents out there. They can pick her up in San Francisco and run a tail.”

“Hang on a minute,” Gil said, and he put the phone against his chest and tried to analyze the situation: It was hard for him to believe that Victoria Hart had gone sour, but then he would have bet a year’s salary that she wouldn’t have gone on TV and accused him of job malfeasance either. Maybe that on-air threat against Joe Rina wasn’t as stupid as he’d originally thought. If you had just given up your own witness to a mob hit, what better way to cover your tracks than to attack Rina publicly? Technically, Victoria still worked for his office. That could be politically embarrassing. He had finally maneuvered his way onto the “short list” for Lieutenant Governor. A scandal in his office would be devastating, unless somehow he could make it look like he had orchestrated the investigation to uproot the corruption. Then he could go wide with it. Play it out in front. He could already hear himself reading the press conference copy:
“This is not about politics, it’s about clean government.
” There could be great TV exposure here if he could control the spin.

He put the phone back to his ear and cleared his throat. “Okay, put a tail on her in California and keep me posted. If she does anything illegal, pick her up and notify my office immediately. And thanks for putting me aboard.”

“You got it.”

Victoria boarded the United Airlines flight. Stan and Sheila watched her all the way onto the aircraft, then Stan put on a UA flight attendant’s jacket and walked down the passenger ramp and onto the plane with a clipboard to see if she was seated with any K.A.’s. She was
alone, no one in the seat next to her. He checked the passenger manifest and walked back out to the gate.

“Any Known Associates aboard?” Sheila asked.

Stan didn’t even look at her. He just grunted and Sheila clenched her teeth again. The guy was truly pissing her off.

Beano Bates met Victoria at the airport in San Francisco. Another FBI surveillance team watched as they kissed. Victoria and Beano held hands as they headed out of the airport. The two suits followed at a discreet distance.

The lead man was Grady Hunt. He was short and compact with a flat top and flat face. His nickname in the Eye was Hammerhead, and it fit him. Walking next to him was Denny Denniston. He was tall and fair and usually dressed in light-colored suits with pastel shirts. He was soft spoken, but also had a violent temper, which had earned him the nickname Vanilla Surprise.

“You make the guy?” Grady asked, as they followed Beano and Victoria through the terminal.

“Looks kinda familiar. I think I know him from somewhere. Maybe a local pinch report.”

Since Victoria had no checked luggage, they moved right out of the terminal into the parking area. Grady and Denniston had their car parked at the curb in the red zone and they eased it up near the exit of visitor parking and waited. A few minutes later, the targets drove out in a yellow Caprice. Grady put his sedan in gear and followed.

“I seen this guy somewhere. Maybe on the wall, downtown. I think we got a posting on him,” Denniston said, racking his memory.

Then Grady snapped his fingers. “He’s not on the wall, he’s on the list!” Grady said. “Bumbo … somebody.”

“Beano Bates,” Denniston corrected him. “He’s a Ten Most Wanted. Fuck me.” Denniston had been in the Eye for ten years and had never even seen a Ten Most Wanted fugitive. “No wonder I recognized him. I get this asshole’s picture in the mail once a month.” He smiled at Grady. “Whatta you wanna do?”

“This is supposed to be a Watch and Report Surveillance. We better call it in.”

When they called New Jersey and talked to Stan Kellerman, he put them on hold and contacted Gil Green in Albuquerque.

“Tricky Vicky ain’t so tricky, is she?” Stan said limerickly, after filling Gil in.

“She’s consorting with a known felon. She’s guilty of half-a-dozen Class-B felonies, maybe one Class-A beef. This could be big; I’m on my way to you.” Gil was already adding up the political points.

“What do you want my team in Frisco to do?” Stan asked.

“Something more is going on here. I want to find all the edges before I pounce. Wait till Victoria is alone and pick her up. Take her to the Federal Building. Stay on Bates, but don’t arrest him. I’ll be on the next flight.”

Grady Hunt and Denny Denniston were on point and followed Beano and Victoria to a small but neat two-story motel next to the Golden Gate Marina. Within five minutes they had the Marina Motel staked out with five back-up units. Everybody was “jacked and flaked.”

They watched as Beano drove out alone at three-thirty in the yellow Caprice. He turned right and headed down toward Market Street; two units followed him and then the rest moved in on the the motel room.

Victoria was in room 22 and they hit the door without warning. “Freeze, FBI!” Grady Hunt screamed as he pinned himself against the inside wall, his 9mm Beretta
cupped in his hand, his heart lunging, his finger on the four-ounce trigger. Denniston took a shooting stance from a cover-fire position outside. Both agents held Victoria in their sights.

“On the floor. Now!” Grady shouted as Victoria, who was unpacking her overnight case, looked up, startled.

“What are you doing?” she stammered.

“On your face. Now!”

She kneeled down, and before she touched the floor, Grady landed on her and cuffed her quickly and brutally. They pulled her up and out of the room, jammed her into the back of the plainclothes sedan, and pulled away, smoking tire rubber as they left.

The whole apprehension took less man three minutes.

The Federal Building downtown on Flower Street was like Federal Buildings everywhere: Hand-me-down furniture squatted in overcrowded case rooms, with fly-specked windows that looked out onto brick walls, and coffee-stained Styrofoam cups filled with cigarette butts floating filter-deep in sludge.

Victoria had been put in a holding cell with a oneway mirror. She sat there alone for an hour, wondering what the hell to do. Obviously she had stumbled into a surveillance trap, but she didn’t know how much they knew. She hoped she could bluff her way out. She’d been a prosecutor for five years, so she knew that there were basically two reasons why cops cool out a suspect like this: Guilty arrestees, when left alone, often would relax and even go to sleep, because once caught, they were prepared for the worst and gave up to it. Only the innocent would fidget and pace, because they knew they were innocent and they tended to panic. She knew that on the other side of her one-way mirror she was being closely observed, so she spoke out loud to the hidden mike she knew was somewhere in the room: “I know this routine, guys. I pulled this cool-out a hundred times
myself. I’m not gonna take a nap, so can we get on with it?” When nobody came, she contemplated the other reason cops held somebody like this. It was usually because they were waiting for the principal interrogator to show up.