“I think that comes right up to the line of attorney work-product, Ms. DiPaolo,” Mike said, and he said it so it sounded true. DiPaolo gave him a long look. I thought she was going to press the point, but I was wrong.
“You think either of those two had anything to do with Nassouli’s death?” she asked me. The question took me by surprise. DiPaolo continued. “Agent Pell has advanced the theory that Trautmann did Nassouli. A falling-out among thieves. Trautmann finds out Nassouli is about to skip, gets a little miffed at being left high and dry, and airs him out. Then, along the lines of your story, he makes for the files, trying to get something out of the deal. What do you think about that?” I was quiet for a while.
Could be it was the hectoring and the innuendo, or having Pell in my face again, right here in my own apartment. Could be I thought they should do their own damn jobs and leave me out of it. Could be I was just cranky, or something else-I don’t know. But whatever the reason, I didn’t tell DiPaolo she was full of shit. I didn’t tell her that Trautmann was still nursing a grudge against Nassouli-the kind you don’t hang on to when you’ve already had your payback-and that he’d had no idea Nassouli was dead. I shrugged.
“It’s a theory,” I said. “Ask Trautmann when you find him.” Again Pell snorted and looked happy with himself, but said nothing. DiPaolo looked at him.
“Tell him,” she said. Pell darkened. “Stop dicking around, and tell him,” she repeated.
“Okay, okay,” Pell said, and he gave me a shit-eating grin. “We could ask Bernie, but we’d be waiting a long fucking time for his answer. NYPD took him out of that basement early this morning, two big holes in his chest, clean through to the other side. Dug a nine-millimeter slug out of the wall behind him. That’s what you lost, isn’t it, a nine?” Pell chuckled nastily. “What was that line of crap you were spouting-‘the big pieces fit?’ Big pieces of shit-you don’t know who aced who, and you were in the house with them. Assuming you didn’t do him yourself.”
Mike, Neary, and I looked at each other. Neary looked surprised. Mike looked tense. It was quiet for a while, then Mike turned to DiPaolo and spoke slowly and softly.
“I’m going to take Agent Pell’s comment as facetious, Ms. DiPaolo, since any suggestion that John played a role in Trautmann’s death would require me to defend him vigorously. That would include voiding our agreement and talking openly about this case, and Gerard Nassouli, to a wide audience, including the NYPD and the press.”
DiPaolo shot an annoyed look at Pell and waved her hand. “Relax, counselor. Nobody’s making that noise. One of the guys out in Queens thought about it, but the physical evidence supports March’s story. And, believe it or not, we even put in a good word for him. Said we didn’t think he was bullshitting about the shooting.” Mike relaxed visibly.
“Mills did Trautmann,” Neary said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. Go figure.”
“Any line on him yet?” Mike asked Pell.
“Not yet. They’ve staked out his place in Brooklyn, and his parents’ house in Jersey, too. They found a little burned-up hunk of his briefcase in the kitchen, had what was left of his passport in it, and info on air charters from Miami. Turns out he was booked on a late flight there last night. He wasn’t on it, but they’re looking out for him at the airports too. They’ll find him.” I didn’t share his confidence, but I said nothing. I was still trying to get my head around Trautmann being dead, and Mills having killed him. Some part of me was relieved.
Pell turned to DiPaolo. “We done here?” he asked. She nodded, and Pell walked out, leaving the door open behind him. DiPaolo climbed down from her perch and pulled on her coat. Then she looked at all of us, but mainly at me. Her voice was just above a whisper.
“You got lucky here, you most of all, March. You fucked me on those files, and don’t think I don’t know it. But I’ve got enough agita right now; I don’t need to go chasing twenty-year-old crimes, or newer ones where the victims only testify under subpoena. And I don’t need to be dancing around with you and the counselor. You get a pass this time, but my hand to god, you’ll never get another one from me.” Then she left.
“Not a happy woman,” Neary said.
“After chasing Nassouli for three years, and having him turn up dead, she’s looking for some good news. She might’ve thought those files were going to be it-a shot in the arm to her prosecutions. That’s not going to happen, so she’s pissed. We should be very grateful that she’s got a full plate,” Mike said.
“I am,” I said. “Any bets on them finding Mills?”
“I’d think the chances are good,” Mike said, putting on his coat. “As you pointed out, he’s mostly an amateur. Trautmann handled all the heavy lifting.”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t underestimate the guy,” Neary said. “Bernie did, and look what happened to him.” He had a point. Neary slung his coat over his arm and picked up his briefcase. I called to him before he reached the door.
“Where did you tell me they found Nassouli’s body?” I asked him.
“Way out in Suffolk. A place called Cedar Point Park. It’s on the South Fork; I don’t know which town. Why?”
“Just curious,” I said. He looked at me, shook his head, and left.
“What was that about?” Mike asked.
“Nothing. You find Pierro last night?”
“Late last night. He’s in San Francisco. Ecstatic doesn’t begin to describe him. Helene should be calling you.”
“She already has. She’s coming by this afternoon to pick it up,” I said.
“You look inside?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “You want to?”
Mike looked horrified. “Look inside? I don’t even want to know it exists.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Helene wouldn’t be over for a few hours. It was time enough. I poured myself some coffee and cranked up my laptop. I got online and found a map of Long Island, then one of Suffolk County and then one of East Hampton, where I found Cedar Point Park. It was on a knob of land that jutted into Gardiner’s Bay and looked out over Shelter Island. I opened my address book and found Randy DiSilva’s number.
Randy is a small, round, mostly bald man in his middle sixties. He has a bushy gray moustache and a perpetual tan, and looks like he should be fixing dog races in Florida instead of running a small detective agency with his two sons, out in Riverhead. But he was born and bred on eastern Long Island, and he knows his way around the potato farmers and fishermen, and the old- and new-money crowds, too. I use him whenever I’ve got divorce work out there. Usually when I call, it’s a drop-everything, all-hands-on-deck kind of drill. And Randy is always happy to scramble the squadron on my behalf, and overcharge me wildly for it. But he’s thorough and fast, and in two years, neither of us has had cause to complain.
I reached him on the first try. I told him what I wanted and when I needed it. He thought about it for a couple of minutes, and then quoted me a price. It was over twice what it ought to cost-just about right from Randy; I agreed. He told me he’d call in two hours, and I knew that he would.
I went into my bedroom, and from under a pile of clothes that smelled of smoke, I pulled the manila envelope. It was creased and torn in places, but still sealed. I could feel a thick sheaf of paper in there, but its bulk came from the videocassette. I sat on the bed and opened the little metal clasp.
I can’t say I was surprised. I recognized some of the documents from Pierro’s fax. There were others I hadn’t seen before. I read through them. They all followed the same pattern. Six companies, introduced to Rick Pierro by Gerard Nassouli; six sets of faked loan applications, authored by Nassouli and Pierro; six hefty credit lines extended by French Samuelson; then a blizzard of transactions-dirty money to clean.