Codes Of Betrayal Part 18

"C'mon over and see me."

In less than half an hour, they sat across from each other in Caruso's office. Caruso shook his head.

"Grosso doesn't mean a thing to me. He said he was working locally. Did you check with your uncle Frank?"

"Just you."

Nick didn't identify himself when Frank picked up his home phone. "Mr. O'Hara, I'm with Robinson a.s.sociated Travel, and you've just won a free vacation-"

Frank slammed the phone down; within fifteen minutes, as expected, O'Hara called Nick at Tom Caruso's office. He listened, shook his head. "Never heard of the guy. Look, I'm gonna move around a little. Check things out. Get back to you."

Everyone who has ever worked as a cop suspects every telephone he uses to be bugged. Move around, leave cryptic messages, prearranged signals. For nearly an hour, Inspector Frank O'Hara's command post was a series of phone booths both inside and outside a large, suburban mall, filled with umbrella-carrying shoppers.

Finally Frank got back to him. "Called four main sources; guys who would know. One guy who knows everyone listed or not listed in the numbered file of informers. I got the best possible information, Nick. The guy was just a lowlife off the street when he went to work for your cousin. He was sent out to give you a song and dance, to see what you'd do. Listen, did anyone see you pick up Grosso?"

No one had. Nick was the last one out of the office. He'd been alone for about an hour and a half.

"Good. Good. That'll account for the time since he laid this on you." Frank's voice was low and serious. "It's that s.h.i.t of a cousin of yours, Nick. Richie is playing his I'm gonna getcha' games. Grosso's not on any confidential agenda. His street record is for two-bit stuff-three-card monte and s.h.i.t like that. He was a very bad pickpocket-got caught on the subway when he dropped the mark's wallet and hunched down collecting the money. A dummy. He's no informant."

Nick licked his lips. "Ya sure, Frank? Ya gotta be sure. The guy really was scared."

"Probably afraid he couldn't pull it off. Tomorrow, they'll all be laughin' and smackin' him on the back. Nick, get on the horn and call your cousin Richie. Anyone seen when Grosso left the office?"

"No. He left before me."

"Tell him it happened, like, ten minutes ago. Ya thought you should let him know."

Nick remembered Salvy's face; the trembling hands and dry lips. "Jesus, Frank ..."

"Jesus, Nick. You know your crud of a cousin. He thinks he's laying another trap for you. Go on. Do the right thing. Hey, and keep in touch, okay?"

He waved good-bye to Caruso, who nodded. Frank would know, right?

Nick drove back to Queens and called Richie at his home in Ma.s.sapequa. He repeated as much verbatim as he could remember, and with each word he felt surer of himself. Richie was playing again. He knew it. Richie didn't bl.u.s.ter and yell and curse. He just very quietly said, "Thanks for callin', Nick. Ya done the right thing. Ya done the right thing."

Nick stared at the phone, and for the second time since he'd last seen her he dialed Laura's number. He had no idea what he would say to her, what he wanted to say to her.

He just knew that he missed her. A lot.

CHAPTER 38.

IT WAS A QUIET day at Ventura Real Estate. Nick checked records of industrial holdings: current rentals, pending rentals, bills collected and bills due. Tessie pounded at her typewriter, then announced she had an appointment down the street to get her hair done and to get some new look for her nails. For months, Tessie had been experimenting with long, clawlike fake nails, decorated with paste-on objects resembling-to Nick-broken gla.s.s. To those in the know, Tessie told him, they looked just like the real thing. The only problem was breakage: typing was tough with these fingers. Nick teased her: Wouldn't the computer be easier on her? She made a face.

Salvy Grosso hadn't shown up, but then he worked on his own irregular schedule. In the early afternoon, a young couple in their twenties introduced themselves as "Augie the Butcher's" son and prospective daughter-in-law. You know Augie, he's known the family for years. Nick sat with them, went through lists of houses-moderate, ya know, like cheap but it don't look cheap. There were some houses toward Metropolitan Avenue, unattached, one-family. Nice tree-lined streets. Unless they might be interested in an attached, more into the central part of the residential area of Forest Hills. He drove them around for a while. It was refreshing to see an honest reaction to such extraordinarily inflated prices. They seemed discouraged and somewhat bereft when they returned to the office.

Nick knew that some properties were kept at a good low price for "special people"-family-recommended, kids who needed a break on a first house. He cheered them up with the suggestion that he might-might-have something for them. Something he couldn't talk about right now. Nick winked.

"It might be exactly what you're looking for. In your price range. Good area ... your father, he's Augie the Butcher over in Woodside?"

These two looked like the kind of nice kids who could use a favor. He would run it through the files; check it out. Nick had seen other young buyers fall into "wonderful deals." He told them to call him in a day or two.

As he watched the kids cross the street to their car, he felt a surge of pleasure. They walked arm-in-arm, the boy opened the door for the girl, kissed her, went around to the driver's side.

It'd been a long time since he'd seen something resembling innocence. Of course, he could be wrong.

He'd been thinking about Laura. Should he call again? When the phone rang, for a split second, he thought it was her. It was his grandfather.

"Nicholas, you come out to my house. I need to speak with you. You gonna leave now?"

All the way out to Westbury, Nick felt a cold inevitability deep inside his gut.

CHAPTER 39.

RICHIE VENTURA STOOD NEAR his grandfather's fireplace, ignoring the nearly symmetrical flames that threw little heat into the room. He watched Nick refuse an offered drink, watched as his grandfather led him to the ma.s.sive desk, picked up an envelope, and shook out the collection of Polaroids.

Nick took them one at a time as they were handed to him. The first photos were of Salvy Grosso, looking bewildered as he faced the camera. Then his face seemed to sink into itself, his eyes narrowing with fear, then terror, then horror, escalating with each photograph. The final photos showed Grosso's corpse. The wire cut deeply into his neck; surprisingly, there seemed to be little blood. The bullet hole in his forehead, small, blackened, seemed almost gratuitous. Further doc.u.menting the disposal of Salvy Grosso, there were additional snaps of his corpse being fitted into a plastic garbage bag, which was then stuffed into a trunk of a car. Obviously others were present, but only their shoetips showed in the photographs.

Nick could feel the blood drain from his face; his brain felt depleted. Finally, he looked into his grandfather's deep blue eyes, which had been watching him intently.

Papa Ventura then handed him about four or five more Polaroids. Vinny Tucci had met the same fate as his uncle.

Before Nick could say a word, his grandfather took the photographs from his hand, gestured with them to Richie, who carefully placed them in the flaming fireplace, one at a time.

Realizing he was speaking, but feeling remote from his own words, Nick asked, "Why Vinny? Why the kid?"

His grandfather shrugged. A gesture conveying, offhandedly, why not?

"Because we couldn't take a chance. Let me tell you, Nick. For a long time, we didn't trust Salvy. Sometimes you get a feeling. It wasn't just the money-you know he'd been skimming, right? It was that certain pieces of information had been getting into the wrong places. What he told you last night was the final proof."

"Papa, I didn't really think-I thought he was just ..."

Nick shook his head, covered his eyes. His grandfather handed him a double shot of Scotch. "Drink this. I know what you thought." He glared at Richie, who shrugged. "No, your cousin wasn't testing you-no more of that c.r.a.p, right, Richie? Nick, this doesn't happen very often anymore with us. Not like in the old days. But what was done last night, to both of them, was absolute necessity."

"Was that Richie's decision?"

His grandfather's face stiffened; his voice was hard and his tone was ice. "Anything like this is my decision. You got that?"

Nick nodded. He flashed for one split second: Anything like this is my decision.

"It's just that ... I worked with the guy, Papa. I figured him for the nervous type. Christ, could he have been this bad?"

As though answering a challenger, Nicholas Ventura said softly, "Obviously. Or else this would not have taken place." Then, seeing the distress on his grandson's face, he placed a hand on his arm, then embraced him and pulled back.

"Nicky, Nicky. Let it go. You weren't responsible for this. Salvy was. Forget about it. He was nothin'. He was street sc.u.m, garbage. He could have loused up a multi-billion-dollar deal with his scared little rat mouth. And his nephew was no better-snoopin' around, gettin' into things. Wouldn't have taken him long to make trouble himself. Now, no problem, okay?"

Nick shook his head slowly from side to side and shrugged. He glanced at Richie, who watched the flames consume the last of the photos. Richie turned and stared at Nick with a strange, small smile pulling at his lips. His eyes weren't smiling.

"Okay, Papa."

His grandfather suddenly changed. He let everything unpleasant leave him. He approached his desk, picked up a piece of paper, and handed it to Nick. "Hey, I got a phone call, you seen Augie the Butcher's kid today, right?"

Nick no longer wasted energy wondering how his grandfather got his information. "Nice kids."

His grandfather nodded. "Good, good. So, okay, you give 'em a call-you got that property on Ingram Street, right, the attached right in the middle of the block. What you do, you rent it to them for a while. Keep the payments low, let them get on their feet. Then, we give 'em a decent price. Augie's good for it, but let the kids take care of things for themselves for a while, okay?"

"Okay."

His grandfather led him to the hallway, stopped at the heavy, ornately carved mahogany door. He glanced around, then told Nick, "Within the week, Nick. The big one. I want you to know fully why I want this so much. I'm an old man-I need to rest, but I wanna know I done some good in this world. The money this whole thing can generate for me-without me so much as touchin' a gram of that s.h.i.t-I can build companies, factories. I can leave some good behind me in ways that the straight-arrow suits only dream about. And won't have to make all kindsa deals with the government crooks. It's what they do, in Washington, all over. Everything, anything for personal gain. I'm gonna make a contribution." He nudged Nick with his elbow. "Something special will be set aside for Peter's dream, Nick. Animal shelters. The kid would be happy. It will make me happy."

His grandfather's face was benign; his blue eyes narrowed to match his easy smile. He had a self-satisfied expression. All his life's work would be accomplished and on balance. He would finish his life as a good and honorable man.

CHAPTER 40.

WITHOUT PLANNING IT, NICK O'Hara drove from Westbury, Long Island, upstate to Spring Valley. He drove past the house Kathy had recently sold, without a glance. Headed a mile up the road to Frank O'Hara's home.

He saw Frank's Oldsmobile pulled up in the driveway; saw lights on inside the house. He parked in front of the house, strode to the front door, and pounded with his clenched fist. His aunt Mary, book in hand, opened the door, stunned. Before she could say one word, Frank shouldered her aside.

"It's okay, Mary. Go back inside."

He looked around, checking the street for prowling cars; finally grabbed Nick's arm and pulled him around to the back of the house. Half of the double garage had been equipped with Frank's woodworking equipment; pieces of furniture in various stages of repair or construction were strewn about. Frank didn't put on any lights and he moved Nick away from the window.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doin' here, Nick?"

Nick's jaw tightened. He raised his chin, and, staring into Frank's eyes, realized for the first time in his life that he was slightly taller than his uncle. Slightly larger.

"You checked him out, right? n.o.body knew him? It was all a game, a trick of my cousin's? You know what happened, don't you?"

Frank had been told about the double murder; the two bullet-riddled bodies found in a parked car in Brooklyn. Had been told the ident.i.ties.

"Nick, I swear to Christ. No one acknowledged the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Maybe he was some old-timer's snitch, some guy who played it close to the vest."

"Who'd you talk to, Frank? You knew Salvy Grosso had to be deep under. f.u.c.k it, Frank, he was right inside the family, every day. How could no one have heard of him?"

Frank earnestly studied his nephew; his face softened. He shook his head. "Look. If it's any consolation, the guy was a dirtbag. Street sc.u.m. He'd sell his own mother and kids if it would do him some good. He was one of the lowest of the low, Nick ..."

"How do you know, Frank, if you'd never heard of him?"

Frank shook his head. "No, Nicky. I only heard about him after his body was found. And Vinny Tucci? He was at the wrong place, wrong time, but he was considered a loose cannon. Sooner or later, he'd have ended up the way he did last night. One thing you gotta believe, Nick. If I'd a found out Salvy was a snitch, I'd have told you." When Nick turned his head away, an expression of disgust and anger pulling at his features, Frank said, "Listen to me. I tried, believe me or not. But I will tell you this. One way or another, he was a threat to your life, Nick. It was you or him, simple as that."

"Simple as that? Christ Almighty. Know something, Frank? All the things you've said about Salvy are the same things my grandfather said. And Vinny was nothing. Sc.u.m. A dirtbag of no value. He told me, forgeddabout it. Good guy and bad guy-you both said the same thing."

"You took a stupid chance comin' up here, Nick."

"Right. I won't do it again. Good-bye, Frank."

Nick drove back to Forest Hills, his mind a total blank. He purposely sang along with the radio. He didn't want to think about anything. At all.

Back home, he made himself a cup of instant coffee, drank a little, poured the rest down the drain. He stared out the window without seeing what was before him. Salvy had been so totally discardable; not worth a second thought. Vinny? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nick could see, feel, smell Salvy's terror. The Polaroids were imprinted on his brain, the last conscious moments of the man's life; the second of his awful death.

G.o.d, he needed to talk to someone. He needed to be ... heard. He dug in a desk drawer, found his telephone notebook. With an index finger, he punched out Kathy's number-hit a wrong b.u.t.ton. Stopped. Thought about a long time ago. He would come home from some a.s.signment, agitated, worried, concerned, disillusioned, filled with conflicting emotions. He had talked, sometimes for hours, and she would listen. The process would be renewing, cleansing. He had needed her presence, her cool, clean, uncomplicated certainty that he would be okay.

On the second try, she picked it up on the first ring. Her cheerful greeting changed; her voice changed. "Nick? Well, this is a surprise."

"How are you, Kath? I've been thinking about you. I ..."

"I'm about to go to bed, Nick. I've had a long day and I'm very tired. Outside of that, I'm fine, okay?"

He was unnerved by the desperation in his own voice. "Kath, I'm in trouble. Big trouble. I've got to talk to someone. I've got to talk to you."

She broke a long silence abruptly. "You were right the first time. You've got to talk to someone. Not me, Nick. You and I, we haven't talked, really talked in years. There is nothing I could possibly say to you, about anything."

"Kathy, I need you. Kathy." He stopped speaking. When she didn't answer, he said quietly, "I thought maybe, as old friends, I could discuss something with you. You could give me another perspective or ..."

There was a new, quick impatience in her tone, her words revealing more of her early Bostonian clip than he'd heard in years. "Too late, Nick. We haven't been friends in years." She hesitated; then with obvious determination, she said, "Nick, whatever it is, I'm sure you'll work it out. You always do. With or without me. I ... I wish you nothing but the best, Nick. I have nothing more to say to you, to discuss with you. I don't want to hear from you, Nick."

She hung up without another word. He held the receiver in his hand for a moment.

In the past, he could always turn to Frank. But the Frank O'Hara he had grown up idolizing, loving, and respecting was gone. In his place was a cold-blooded, ruthless man. No excuses; no apologies.

He punched out Laura's number, but disconnected before the first ring. He couldn't expect anything from her. He had no right.

Nick flopped on the sofa; played with the remote control, flipping from channel to channel. A cop show: big case, heavy investigation, solution within the given hour. Coupla guys got clipped, but hey, so what? They probably weren't worth anything. He wondered what their obits would read, their memorials.

There was no reason in the world why he had any right to reach out, to expect any kind of help, concern, understanding, but somehow he had known all along that eventually he would call Eddie Manganaro.