Tragic (14 page)

Marlene’s second call had been to Antonia Carlotta to request an interview at her home in New Rochelle. Believing that she needed to meet the woman face-to-face before explaining that she was working for the girlfriend of a man suspected of killing her husband, she omitted mentioning her client by name.

Instead, Marlene name-dropped. She told Antonia that she was the wife of District Attorney Roger Karp and that she, in her capacity as a private attorney, was investigating a possible link to Vince Carlotta’s murder. “I’d like to talk to you about it at your home.”

Antonia had hesitated at first, and Marlene had worried that she’d ask questions Marlene preferred to answer in person. But then the young widow agreed to meet at four o’clock. It was now a little after three and Marlene was on her way when Ivgeny called back.

“Do you know of an inconsequential gangster named Marat Lvov?” he asked first off.

“No. Should I?”

“Perhaps,” Ivgeny replied. “But like I said, he is little tomatoes—”

“Small potatoes,” Marlene corrected him.

“Ah, right, small potatoes,” Ivgeny said. “This Lvov is small potatoes, but now he is also dead. His bodyguards apparently failed in their duties and Lvov was murdered last night; he and a teenaged girl were found in bed this morning by his cook. Their throats were slit, very professional job.”

“Any suspects?” Marlene asked.

“Not yet, though the rumors fly. But he did some work for the Malchek gang, a very rough group from St. Petersburg, and they have many enemies.”

“So how does this relate to Vince Carlotta?” Marlene asked, puzzled.

“I am explaining, but you American women are so impatient, you never want to hear a good Russian storytelling,” Ivgeny complained and this time they both laughed. “Anyway, as I told you earlier, your question reminded me of a conversation I had earlier with an associate about Lvov’s murder. This associate is good man, though perhaps ‘good’ is a relative term when you work for gangster, no? Anyways, he served with me in Afghanistan in 1980 and works for me now. He was in a Brighton Beach Boulevard bar a few days after the Carlotta murder and he hears this
durak,
this moron, Alexei Bebnev, bragging about shooting somebody for money. It would not be unusual to hear such boasts in this bar, and often they would be true, except this Bebnev is a nobody who wants to be a
krutoy paren,
a tough guy.”

“I’m sorry, I’m still not getting the connection, except that this Bebnev is bragging about shooting someone,” Marlene said.

“Ah yes, my impatient friend, and normally my associate would not have paid much attention, either, except that Bebnev was joined by, drum roll, please, Marat Lvov.”

“Which means?”

“It could mean nothing, but you ask, so here are my observations. One, Bebnev had friend with him, young guy, not Russian, dark hair, maybe Italian as you described. This friend is told to leave when Lvov shows up but waits across street for Bebnev to join him and give him envelope. They argued and then parted ways. Two, Bebnev is dishwasher but suddenly after murder has big bankroll, spends money like madman. Three, Lvov was scum but he would not have had anything to do with such low-class
kakashka
except to hire him for job no one else wants. Four, Lvov is
associate of Malchek gang, who rumor says are trying to establish fingergrip—”

“Toehold?”

“What? Yes, toehold, on New York docks. Rumors also say that Malcheks have friendship with Vitteli.”

“Now, that is interesting,” Marlene said. “Is there a five?”

“Yes, five is Lvov is murdered in his sleep this morning.”

“He’s a gangster,” Marlene noted. “Gangsters get murdered in their sleep all the time; one of the hazards of the job.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” Ivgeny replied drily. “But to get past bodyguards, somebody called in favor from Malcheks, then kills Lvov. That takes someone powerful or who has what Malcheks want.”

“Or maybe the Malcheks killed him for their own reasons?”

“Yes, but why?”

“I guess one reason would be to silence him because he knows about the Carlotta murder,” Marlene said. “But that’s just one scenario.”

“I did not say it was an open-and-close suitcase,” Ivgeny said. “Just my observations.”

“Open-and-shut case, the term is ‘open-and-shut case,’ ” Marlene said. “But who’s quibbling? You made your point. Can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything for the extraordinarily beautiful wife of my favorite, and very lucky, cousin.”

“Charming liar.” Marlene laughed. “But if you could find this guy, Bebnev, and maybe keep an eye on him for a bit, both myself and your favorite cousin would appreciate it. If it turns out he’s involved in this, we don’t want him disappearing before we can talk to him.”

“So what are you going to do in meantime?” Ivgeny asked.

“I’m on my way to visit the victim’s widow,” Marlene replied. “And maybe find a link between this guy Bebnev, Gnat Miller, and Frank DiMarzo and the death of her husband. Call me if anything else comes up.”

Hanging up, Marlene then called her husband and updated him on all that had transpired. “You’ve been a busy girl, the usual top-notch intuition,” he said. “My cousin’s ‘observations’ are very interesting. I hadn’t heard about the murder of Lvov, in fact never heard of the guy. Let me know if you hear something again, or need Clay’s assistance. And Marlene . . .”

“Yes, honey?”

“Be careful out there,” he said, knowing admonishing her was useless. “If Lvov was murdered because of this case, that’s a warning that the stakes have gone up.”

Marlene had agreed to be careful, but then she turned her attention back to what she was going to say to Antonia Carlotta. Since climbing in her truck and heading for the West Side Highway, she’d gone over her spiel twice before crossing the Spuyten Duyvil Bridge leading to Henry Hudson Drive, and a half-dozen more times as she continued north on the Hutchinson River Parkway. Then Ivgeny called, followed by her call to Butch, and suddenly she found herself driving down the street toward the Carlotta residence not at all sure about how this meeting would go.

The sky had been threatening to snow all day and the first few flakes were starting to fall as she got out of the car and walked up to ring the doorbell. The door opened and Marlene remembered how she’d thought Antonia was so beautiful the first time she’d seen her at the fund-raiser. The beauty was still apparent—the fine features, large brown eyes, delicate skin, long graceful neck, and model’s body. But the dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes and the unhealthy pallor spoke of sleepless nights and days spent crying.

“I’m Marlene Ciampi, we spoke on the phone.”

“Yes, of course,” Antonia said. “Please come in.”

Marlene walked into the large foyer of the house and saw that it was filled with moving boxes and crates. The walls were bare of artwork and there were no rugs on the hardwood floors.

“You’re leaving?” Marlene asked.

“
Si,
yes,” Antonia replied. “I am going to Italy to be with my family for a time. And the house is too large without Vince in it anyway. I spend too much of my days and nights wandering the halls looking for something I’ve lost but will never find.”

“I am sorry,” Marlene said. “I’ve been married for a long time, and I really have no idea what I’d do if he was suddenly gone.”

Antonia smiled slightly and inclined her head. “If you have a child, you go on. If I didn’t, I couldn’t tell you where I would be.” She pointed to a room off the foyer. “But come, let us go to my husband’s office to talk. The baby is taking a nap and voices tend to echo in an empty house.”

The two women walked into what was obviously a man’s den, done in dark wood paneling with heavy leather and wood furniture. Framed photographs of New York Yankee baseball greats hung on the walls, as well as several front pages of newspapers with headlines announcing some union victory or stance. There was a photograph of Carlotta standing with an older man who Marlene recognized as Leo Corcione. But one entire wall was covered with photographs of Antonia and their baby. The heavy cherrywood desk also bore several framed photographs of mother and child.

Antonia saw Marlene noting all the family photographs and blushed. “It’s a little embarrassing,” she said quietly as a tear rolled down a cheek. “Vince was something of a camera nut when it came to our family. I haven’t had the heart to take down these photographs yet.”

“It’s charming,” Marlene replied. “Love has a way of turning tough guys into powder puffs when it comes to their women and children. At least, it does to good men.”

“Yes.” Antonia sighed. “It does do that. Please, sit down and tell me about this possible, how did you put it, oh yes, ‘link’ to my husband’s murder.”

Marlene sat and waited for Antonia to take another seat next
to her. “I will, but first I have to confess that I didn’t tell you everything when I asked for this meeting,” she said. “I hope you’ll understand when I do.”

Antonia visibly stiffened at Marlene’s words but she nodded. “Please explain.”

“Well, let me start by saying that I’m not absolutely certain yet, which is why in part I’m here, but I may know at least one of the men involved,” Marlene said. “However, I need to tell you that I’m working as an attorney and investigator for the man’s girlfriend.”

Antonia’s eyes grew hard and dark as she stood up. “What makes you think I would want to help you?”

Having anticipated the question, Marlene answered, “Because by helping me, you may be helping solve your husband’s murder, and not just the guys hired to pull it off, but whoever may have been behind it. I’m starting with this guy, but he’s just a pawn.”

Antonia gave Marlene an appraising look and then her eyes softened and she sat back down. “Yes, my feelings exactly. Why settle for a pawn when it’s the king you want? So tell me about this girl and her boyfriend.”

For the next ten minutes, Marlene explained how she’d come to suspect that Gnat Miller and his friend Frank DiMarzo were involved in the murder of Vince Carlotta, “and some guy who spoke with an accent, possibly Russian.”

Antonia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God!”

“What is it?” Marlene asked.

“Those men who came to the house, the one who did most of the talking—the odd-looking man—he was definitely Russian,” Antonia said. “I worked quite a bit in Moscow when I was a model.”

“Odd-looking?”

“Yes. Very pale blue eyes set wide apart, very round head. Actually, you see this a lot in parts of Russia where women drink too much when they are pregnant.”

“Fetal alcohol syndrome.”

“Yes, I believe that is true,” Antonia said. “Anyway, he did almost all of the talking. He made me feel very uneasy. Vince said his hands were soft; that’s how he knew he was not a dockworker like he says.”

“Do you think you’d be able to identify him if you saw him again?”

“Oh yes. I’d never forget that face.”

“What about the other two men? Did you get a good look at them?”

Antonia pursed her lips, then shook her head. “Only one of the others got out of the car. He was not as tall as the Russian; a little stockier, dark hair, dark eyes, maybe Italiano. But he kept his face down most of the time. I couldn’t see the driver of the car, but Vince said he had ginger hair.”

“Could you describe the car?”

“Um, yes, big American sedan, older model. It had four doors. I know because the Russian fellow got into the backseat; the other two were in front.”

“What kind of condition was it in?”

“Oh, beat-up. Lots of scratches and dents. I think it was green, but hard to tell anymore. There was some gray paint on part of the trunk.”

“Anything else about the men or the car?”

“I don’t remember . . . oh, my husband wrote down the license plate number.”

“Yes, actually I believe that your husband’s attorney, Mahlon Gorman, mentioned something about that. I don’t suppose you still have the note?”

Antonia shook her head. “Mahlon is a good man, maybe the only one Vince trusted completely. But I haven’t seen the note since Vince took it off the pad that night.”

Marlene sat forward. “What pad was that?”

Antonia pointed at her husband’s desk. “Over there by the telephone, why?”

Rising from her seat, Marlene walked quickly over to the desk. She turned on the desk lamp and looked closely at the pad of sticky notes. “Do you have a pencil handy?”

Antonia, who had followed her over, gave her a puzzled look. “There should be one in the drawer.”

Opening the drawer, Marlene located a pencil and then lightly began shading the top page on the sticky-note pad.

“What are you doing . . . oh,” Antonia said as the images of several letters followed by several numbers began to emerge.

When she was finished, Marlene looked up. “You’re sure this is the pad he used to write down the license number?”

“Yes. I saw him remove the note myself.”

“And that was the last thing he wrote on that pad?”

“Yes,” Antonia said and pointed at the pad. “That is the license plate number of the car that came to our house with the three men. They were waiting when we got home that night.”

“Waiting in the driveway?”

“No, up the street, next to the elementary school. We went out for pizza, and when we reached our street and turned left to come home, they were there . . . waiting,” Antonia said. “I saw them in the headlights but not their faces; one was out of the car by the bushes.”

“I’d like you to show me where,” Marlene said. “But first I need to call Detective Clay Fulton. He works for my husband, and I’d like him to be here.”

“What about that?” Antonia said, pointing to the license plate number.

Marlene took a scrap of paper out of her purse and jotted the number down. “I’ll leave that for the police.” She then opened her cell phone and punched in a number.

“Clay? It’s Marlene,” she said. “Yeah? Same to you, good-looking. Hey, we may have got a break. I’m at the Carlotta residence in New Rochelle and . . . What? You are? Great, see you in ten.” She hung up the phone and looked at Antonia. “He’s already on his way. But let’s go have a look.”