Worth Dying For (3 page)

He picked up the next folder and opened it. He looked at the photo of Special Agent Carl Stevens and laughed. Stevens looked just like Herman Munster. The resemblance was so uncanny they could have been brothers.

Stevens had been with the bureau as long as Edwards had. They were in the same graduating class, their wives were friends, and their children attended the same schools. He felt bad for Stevens when he was promoted over him but Stevens took it like a man—took it in stride. He reminded Edwards of a duck when it came to dealing with life—he just let everything roll off his back without giving it another thought. It was a trait that he had always admired about Stevens and secretly wished that he himself could let things go as easily.

Stevens was also a good friend, and he knew he could always count on him. He had chosen Stevens for this assignment because no one in the bureau, next to the Deputy Director, knew more about the Mob and its inner workings than Stevens did.

He pushed the folder aside, picked up the next one, and flipped open the cover. Arthur Janson was an odd sort, to say the least and he laughed as he looked at the picture of Artie, and the signature red and white bow tie the bespectacled little man wore. He wondered how many times Artie had been beaten up in school.

He was your typical nerd—complete with pocket protector but Artie was a good agent. He had been with the bureau for almost as long as he and Stevens and spent most of his career in counter-terrorism, with the last two years in drugs. He thought about what Ron had said earlier regarding Alice and hoped that Artie would be all right.

He picked up the last folder and glanced at Ron’s photo. The man had been through a lot in the past year and a half. He didn’t know how Ron was getting through it all and wondered how he himself would deal with the news if he were told his wife; Tess had less than a year to live. He shuddered at the thought.

Like everyone else on the team, Ron joined the bureau right after college. He started his career in Civil Rights where he worked for almost ten years before transferring to Investigative Support to become the Sr. Programmer. Besides Edwards, Ron was the only African-American on the team. If anyone could find the leak and a possible common denominator between the deaths of the bureau’s informants, it was Ron.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. He knew Tess would be waiting up for him when he got home, just as she always did. He thought about his wife for a moment and smiled. They had an anniversary coming up next month—it would be thirty-five years on the fourteenth. As far as he was concerned, Tess was the most amazing woman on the planet. She knew what the life of an active FBI agent entailed and not once had she ever made demands on his time or questioned his loyalty to the bureau. No matter how late or how long his job kept him away, she was always there waiting, always loving him. He glanced at the clock again and realized it was almost time for the meeting. He grabbed his tie off the desk and headed out the door.

###

Artie Janson stepped out of the conference room and walked briskly down the hallway. He hit the men’s bathroom door, knocking it into the wall with a bang. He jerked his cell phone off his belt and walked into the open area lined with urinals and looked around. He listened for sounds coming from the stalls. Confident he was alone; he hit the redial button and waited for the voice to answer on the other end.

“Damn it to hell, Alice! What’ve I told you about calling me on the job?” he yelled. “I don’t care what your reason is. You don’t call me at work.” He brought his foot back and kicked one of the bathroom stall doors. “Are you drunk? Of course, you are. Why I would think otherwise is beyond me. You’re going to put us in the poor house. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Alice?”

The hard expression on his face softened. “Now don’t cry. You know I hate it when you cry. I’ll be home in a couple hours. We can talk then, okay?” He slammed the lid shut on the phone and clipped it back on his belt. He looked up with a startled expression when Stevens stepped out of the last stall. “I’m sorry, Carl. I thought I was alone,” he said with a nervous laugh.
 

Stevens walked over to the sink and washed his hands. “It’s all right, Artie, no big deal,” he said as he ripped a towel off the roll.

Artie leaned against the sink and shook his head.

“Are you okay?” Stevens asked.

Artie continued to shake his head. “It’s Alice. I don’t know what to do about her.”

“What’ya mean?”

“Come on. You heard the conversation. I just don’t know how much more I can take.”

Stevens laid his hand on Artie’s shoulder, giving him an affectionate squeeze. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t think so, but thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

Artie nodded. “Just do me a favor and please keep this to yourself. I don’t want Edwards or the others knowing about my problems.”

Stevens looked at him thoughtfully. “Artie, we’ve been friends for how long—fifteen, twenty years?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Then you should know by now that I won’t say anything to anyone. Your business is just that—yours.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

Stevens opened the bathroom door. “Come on now, we don’t wanna be late.”

###

Edwards glanced around the room. His eyes stopped at the two empty seats. “Does anyone know where—” Before he could finish, the door opened and Stevens, followed by Artie, walked into the room. Edwards gave them a disapproving look. “It’s nice of you two to grace us with your presence.”

 
“Sorry, bathroom emergency,” Stevens said and sat down in the seat next to Laura. Artie took the seat opposite Rheyna.

“I assume everyone knows each other?” Edwards asked. Without waiting for an answer, he flipped off the lights. “Then let’s get down to business.”

It took several minutes for Rheyna’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. She looked at the photos up on the screen positioned near the far end of the room and felt excitement racing through her veins. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest, she was sure the others in the room could hear it. She still couldn’t believe she was sitting with her new team in the Strategic Information Operations Center command room, commonly referred to as Sigh-ock.
 

She turned her attention to the next image on screen. They were looking at a detailed outline of the Massino Crime Family tree. The tree had so many branch shoot-offs, it took up the entire length of the document. Sitting at the top of the tree was the big boss himself, Carlos Massino, followed by the name and title of every known member of his family.

Edwards cleared his throat and displayed a picture of Johnny Scala on the screen. “Until last week, Johnny Scala had been a Castrucci foot soldier.”

He used a handheld remote to bring up two more photos. The first showed a car with the trunk lid open, the second showed a close up view inside the trunk where Johnny Scala laid dead, his body curled in the fetal position, his hands tied behind his back.

“As you can see, his body was discovered in the trunk of his car in the Danco Steel parking lot.” He paused to take a drink of water. “He took a bullet to the head, and the coroner found his tongue in his pocket. Normally, we would chalk this one up to the mob cleansing one of its own. However, Mr. Scala had been one of our top informants for the past sixteen months.”

He brought up two more photos. The first looked very similar to Scala, the bullet riddled body also in the trunk of a car. The second one showed police officers pulling a body from the water. The man’s face was beyond hideous; his body was badly decomposed, bloated, and unrecognizable. “These two were also ours. Scala’s the third informant to turn up dead in the last nine months.”

Stevens shifted in his seat and turned to look at Edwards. “Maybe it’s just coincidence.”
 

“I don’t think so,” Edwards said, shaking his head.

“You think we have a leak, don’t you?” Laura asked the question everyone was thinking.
 

Edwards thought for a moment before answering. “Yes, I do. It seems like the only logical explanation.” He brought up several more photos in succession. They showed different views of a large funeral gathered outside a Catholic Church.
 

Rheyna recognized some of the faces.

“What you’re looking at is surveillance photos taken two weeks ago at the current Under Boss, Salvatore Anastasia’s funeral.” The next photo was of Carlos Massino himself. He looked regal in his grey, custom-tailored suit. He appeared to be around sixty-year’s old, give or take a few, with slicked back white hair. He had Mob written all over him, and ironically, he reminded Rheyna of her grandfather.

“The man you’re looking at is Mafia Don Carlos, head of the Massino crime family. He was a no-show at Anastasia’s funeral and that has me deeply concerned.”

“Are you worried about who the next Under Boss will be?” Rheyna asked, puzzled by his statement.

Edwards took a seat by the projector and laced his fingers on top of his head. “We’re pretty sure we know who the next Under Boss will be. I’m concerned about the backlash that’s sure to come because Massino chose not to attend the funeral.”

Rheyna shook her head. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Stevens nodded in agreement with Edwards. He turned in his seat to look at Rheyna. “According to the La Cosa Nostra code, his lack of attendance showed the ultimate disrespect toward his Under Boss, and word on the street says Massino’s right-hand man, Roberto Failla, is getting the nod for the position over Castrucci.”

Edwards looked at Rheyna. “What’s strange is that Massino gave no explanation for not being at the funeral, and from our experience, we know when a boss does not attend a funeral, he’s afraid of one or two things: the first being a fear of arrest, the second being a fear of death. Massino had neither.”
 

Stevens leaned back in his seat. “Our sources in L.A. are reporting that several members of his family, including some on the Commission, are upset and want something done about it. The same source also stated Massino is highly irritated with the rash of killings within the family, especially on Castrucci’s crew. Castrucci, on the other hand, is making matters worse by rationalizing the deaths. He says he’s keeping peace within the rank and file.”

Laura made a disgusted sound in her throat. “What a freaking joke. Killing for peace is like fucking for chastity,” she blurted out.
 

Rheyna busted out laughing, and so did everyone else in the room.

“Laura, I must admit, I’ve never heard anyone put it so elegantly,” Artie said between fits of laughter.

“I’m glad I could amuse you all, but I’m dead serious. I mean, just think about. Look at the Middle East for example, and all the senseless killings that go on there every single day. They kill in the name of peace, and every one of us in this room knows it will never happen.” Laura’s expression was stern and it brought the seriousness of it all into perspective.

“You’re right, Laura. It’ll never happen, at least not in our lifetime,” Edwards agreed. He took a sip of water and looked back at the screen. “Okay, back to the business at hand.” He brought up the next photo, showing four men standing outside Bella’s Café in downtown Los Angeles. Carlos Massino and Anthony Castrucci were standing to the left with Salvatore Anastasia and Roberto Failla to the right. They reeked of power and money, dressed in dark, tailored suits accented with flashy jewelry.

If Rheyna had to describe them, she would say that Anastasia reminded her of Fred Thompson, the actor-turned-Senator from the TV show
Law and Order
. Roberto was the total opposite: bald, short, stocky, and somewhat nerdy-looking with military-issued black-rimmed glasses.

Big Tony, however, was the dapper Don. He towered over the other men. Immaculately dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit, he was quite handsome in a rugged sort of way. All of the men looked like your average Joe’s, but appearances could be deceiving and in this case, they were deadly.