Ray Hughes and Joel Goldenberger remained outside and watched through the one-way glass.
Cavello was already sitting there when I came in. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, his feet chained together. He was gaunter and older than when I'd seen him last, and a thin, gray growth clung to his jawline.
He'd been informed the government was here to see him, but the government was here to see him a lot. When he saw it was me he did a double take. Then came a wistful smile, as if he had just found an old friend.
"Nicky!" He tilted back his chair. "Is it a holiday or something? Who's minding the class?"
I sat down across from him, behind the protected glass, and didn't laugh. "Hi, Dom. How's the jaw?"
"Still hurts." He laughed. "Still think of you every time I brush my teeth."
Then he twisted around to the guard behind him. "You watch this guy. Last time he came to see me in jail, I had to take my meals through a straw for months." He wheezed a laugh. "This is the guy that should be in here, not me. Anyway, you're lookin' fit, Nicky. Playin' any golf? Retirement looks like it agrees with you."
"They let me come back, Dom, just for a day." I smiled thinly. "To deliver some news."
"News, huh? Good, I don't get much news in here. Jeez, Nick, they got some special downward career spiral planned out for you. You're a messenger boy now. Anyway, I'm glad you're here. I like the company. It's just that, you look a little peaked, eh? Must be that kid, huh? Tell me, how're you sleeping these days?"
I balled my fists tightly. I knew he was trying to make me react again. But this time I just let him go. "I'm going to be sleeping just fine, Dom."
"And how's that gal doing? You know, the pretty one who was on that bus. I heard she pulled through. I tried to send a little money to some kind of fund." He shrugged. "But my lawyer told me that when they heard it was from me, they sent the check back. Imagine. And for once I was just trying to do something nice. How's that for sour apples?
"Anyway, Mr. Messenger Boy, I'm doing all the talking. What kind of news you got for me? I'm all ears."
"We thought you'd want to know. The government's going to be adding two new indictments against you."
"Two more?" He sighed theatrically. "Who can keep track?"
"These you will, Dom. They're for the murders of Special Agents Manny Oliva and Ed Sinclair."
Cavello furrowed his brow. "I'm trying to think, do I know them?"
"We have the murder weapon, Dom. A couple of clammers uncovered it. After all these months, there it was, buried in the sand. Ballistics confirmed it. It's the gun that killed the two agents. You're going down for it, Dom. It's a match."
The jocular grin slowly started to fade from Cavello's face, replaced by a look of serious concern. This was a capital offense, and the murder weapon sealed it. "Clammers, huh? Imagine that. You look like you won the lottery, Pellisante. You wanna let me in on the joke?"
"The joke is I'm going to see you at trial next week, you piece of shit. And here's some other news. It's going to take place at Fort Dix army base in New Jersey. The trial will be closed to the public. Totally secure.
"The jury will be secret and sequestered on the base. This time, you won't be able to get to anyone. We've got you, Dom. U.S. Attorney Goldenberger is waiting outside with the indictments now."
It was my turn to smile. A smile I'd waited more than two years to give him. "How's that for sour apples, Dom?"
Cavello just stared back at me. He scratched his chin. "An army base, huh? Fort Dix. Isn't that where all the explosives are, Nicky boy? Could be a real blast!"
Chapter 52
RICHARD NORDESHENKO STEPPED UP to the immigration booth marked VISITORS at JFK. He pushed his passport and visa through the slot.
"Kollich." The black, heavyset immigration agent leafed through his documents. He typed in the name. "Can I ask you to please place your index finger on the pad?"
Nordeshenko complied. He wasn't worried. This time he was Estonian. His name was Stephan Kollich. Pharmaceuticals. As the agent went through his passport, he would find that the travel-weary businessman had been to the United States many times.
The past five months had been trying ones for Nordeshenko. Pavel had been sick. At first it was thought to be the flu. Then it was diagnosed as diabetes, type one. After months of treatment, they finally had it under control. Then Nordeshenko's leg began to worsen. His old Chechen wound, the shrapnel finally taking its toll. These long trips killed him. He shifted uncomfortably. He even had to wear special shoes.
Now he had to do this Cavello job all over again. And he'd done so well the first time.
"Business or pleasure, Mr. Kollich?" the immigration officer asked, double-checking the face in the documents against Nordeshenko's.
"Business is my pleasure," Nordeshenko replied. The officer smiled.
This time it promised to be messy. He would have to put himself on the line, use all the skills he had learned. He already had his plan in motion. Reichardt, the South African, was already here in New York.
Preparation was Nordeshenko's trademark-- what he had made his reputation on. And never once had he taken a job that he did not complete.
The immigration agent picked up his stamp. "How long will you be staying in the United States, Mr. Kollich?"
"Only a few days." That was the one thing he would say that was definitely not a lie.
The agent stamped his passport. He folded the documents together and pushed them back through the slot with a nod.
"Welcome to the United States, Mr. Kollich."
Chapter 53
"I'VE GOT NEWS," I said to Andie DeGrasse over the phone.
I wanted to tell her about my visit to Cavello, the new indictments. I wanted to keep the hope alive that if we'd found something on Manny and Ed after all this time, there had to be something out there on the bus explosion. At least that's how I was rationalizing it. The truth was, I'd been thinking about her a lot over the past few days. The truth was, I wanted to see her again.
"You like paella, Pellisante?" asked Andie after I'd given her my news.
"I like paella, sure," I said. On weekends with Ellen, I wasn't above rolling up my sleeves and putting dinner together myself. "In fact, I'd go to heaven for a good paella."
"Then how does tomorrow sound? Around seven? I want to hear about your meeting with Cavello blow by blow."
"Tomorrow sounds good," I said, surprised at the dinner invitation.
"And, Pellisante," Andie said, "prepare to die and go to heaven. My paella's that good."
I hung up, and couldn't stop the smile that was creeping over my face. The first one in quite some time, actually.
Chapter 54
THAT NIGHT I COULDN'T SLEEP. Part of it was Andie, I know. Part was the exhilaration of seeing Cavello out in Marion.
For so long I was sure he was going to get away with the murders of my two close friends. Today had changed all that. On the jet back from Marion I had called Manny's and Ed's wives. I told them that they would see the bastard finally put on trial for the murders of their husbands.
I was wired-- awakened! For the first time in months. I was free from the guilt and shame I'd been trapped in since the jury stepped on that bus. It's out there, I told myself, a connection to the explosion. I just had to think outside the box.
That's when it hit me. It was as if the alarm clock had gone off-- my brain a little bleary from ER reruns at 2:00 a.m. I leaped out of bed and headed into my office, unstacking one of those towers of FBI documents piled high on my desk.
You're looking in the wrong place, Nick.
The IED. The improvised explosive device. The bomb. That was the key.
I yanked out the FBI forensic report on the explosives. I pretty much had the damn thing memorized by then anyway. The van had been packed with more than thirty pounds of C-4. Enough to do the job ten times over. Getting their hands on that much plastic wasn't like shopping for dry tarp at the local hardware store. You just have
to think of it as antiterror, Nick. Not anticrime.
My C-10 buddies had gone over every turncoat and informer on the list, and couldn't scare up a lead pointing to the kind of people Cavello might normally call on for a job like this. It needed coordination much more sophisticated than anything he'd tried before. The technology had first been used by the Chechens.
Why not the Russian mob?
Somewhere in this pile, my Homeland Security contacts had given me books of known bad guys who were thought to be in the country at the time of the bombing.
So I started over again. Leafing through pages of blank faces and names. Andie claimed she'd seen a man with long blond hair under his cap, running away. So why not? What if the hit was set up by the Russian mob?
Sergei Ogilov was still the Boss of Bosses in Brighton Beach. He wasn't exactly a golfing buddy of mine-- I'd put a number of his men away, or had them deported. But he'd probably talk to me.
A long shot maybe, but sometimes they come in.
Like Dominic Cavello's gun had washed to shore.
Chapter 55
MONICA ANN ROMANO was in the middle of the best sex she'd ever had. Not that the list of her lovers was very long. It certainly wasn't. The man she'd met while having an after-work drink with friends was taking her from behind. He was very good, from her perspective anyway. Not like the boring accountants and law clerks she'd been with before, who only lasted a couple of minutes and were as nervous and inexperienced as she was.
"How's that, luv?" he said. "Is it good for you? Does it feel okay?"
"Oh, yes," Monica said, panting. Did she even have to answer? She felt herself about to come. This was the third time.
For far too long Monica had come home from work, made dinner for her sick mother, and slumped into the den with her to watch TV. She was thirty-eight years old. She knew she had put on weight and that no one really looked at her anymore. Until this chance meeting, she had pretty much given up on the idea of ever finding somebody.
And then-- Karl.
She still found it hard to believe someone so good-looking and well-traveled had come on to her. That in the crowd of attractive female lawyers and legal aides, this tall, blond European with the sexy accent had picked her out. He said he was Dutch, but she didn't really care where he came from. The only thing that mattered was where he was now, about eight inches inside her.
Karl finally rolled onto his back, breathing hard, his body slick with sweat. He reached for her hand. He pulled her close and lifted the hair away from her face. "How was that? Good for you, I hope?"
"Perfect." Monica sighed. "I'd say I'd like to volunteer you for a few friends at the office, but I don't want to share you with anyone."
"Don't want to share me?" He grinned. "You selfish little siren. You know what I say to that?"
"What?" Monica smiled. "You don't want to share me either?"
"I say this!"
All of a sudden, he dug his thumb deep into her throat. The spasm of shock and pain straightened her spine. The pain was unbearable.
Karl pulled her right off the bed. Monica's eyes were jumping out of their sockets. Stop, please, you're hurting me, she tried to say, but all that came out was an awful garbled sound. She tried to pull away from him. His grip was immovable. Why are you doing this?
"You know what I say to you, Monica?" He brushed back his long blond hair. "I say, I'm glad you liked it, Monica. All our fun and games so far. But now it's your turn to do something for me. Something a little more serious. Something . . . more pleasurable."
Chapter 56
"YOU WORK AT the federal courthouse?"
He still had his strong fingers dug into her throat. Monica could barely suck enough air into her lungs to breathe. "Yes." She managed a single word.
"Good answer." Karl nodded. He relaxed his grip a little. "You've been there awhile now, yes? I bet you know everybody. All the other fat cows? All the security personnel?" His fingers squeezed, and Monica's eyes widened, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You do know them, don't you, Monica?"
She nodded, her lungs about to explode. Yes, she knew them. She saw them every morning and afternoon. One of them, Pablo, always kidded her because she liked Mike Piazza and the Mets, and so did he.
"Good girl," Karl said again, allowing her to take a needed gulp of air. "People trust you, don't they, Monica? You never miss a day at work. You take care of your mother in your little house in Queens. It must be lonely coming home every day, making her din-din, checking her oxygen. Taking the poor woman to the doctor."
Why was he saying this? How did he know everything about her?
With his free hand, Karl reached into the drawer of the bed table and removed something. What?
A photograph! He flipped it in front of Monica's eyes. An alarm bell went off in her. It was her mother! Outside their home in Queens. Monica was helping her down the stairs in her walker. What was going on?
"Emphysema?" Karl nodded sympathetically. "Poor lady, barely able to breathe. What a shame, if she had no one to take care of her." His thumb dug into her throat again. Shock waves ran down her spine.
"What do you want from me?" Monica gagged, feeling as if her chest was about to explode.
"You work in the courthouse." His blue eyes gleamed. "I need to get something inside. This will be easy for you. As you Americans say-- a piece of cake!"
Suddenly Monica saw what this was about. What a ridiculous fool she'd been to even think he was interested in her. "I can't. There's security."
"Of course there's security." Karl smiled. He clamped his fingers on her throat again. "That's why we have you, Monica."
Chapter 57
ANDIE LOOKED NOTHING short of terrific as she opened her apartment door for me. She had on a zippered red sweater and a pair of faded jeans. Her hair was tied back in a brooch, with a few loose curls dangling down her cheeks. Her eyes were dazzling-- and looked pleased to see me. I felt the same way about her.
"Smells like I remember," I said, inhaling a whiff of shellfish with tomatoes and saffron. The paella that was going to take me to heaven.
"At least I won't have to catch you sneaking around outside," Andie said with a smile.
"How about stakeout? That sounds a little better," I said, holding out a Spanish Rioja.
"You're staking me out? Why?"
"Well, maybe that's what I'm here to talk about."
"Do tell," said Andie, batting her eyelashes and grinning.
I'm sure I just stood there for a second, recalling how she had looked to me in the jury box during the trial, with that crazy T-shirt on, before any of this happened. Our eyes had met a few times back then. I thought we were both aware of it. There had definitely been one or two averted stares.
"I have some appetizers under the broiler. Make yourself at home."
I stepped into the small, nicely decorated living room as Andie ducked back into the kitchen. She had a yellow paisley fabric couch and a coffee table with Architectural Digest and In Style on it. A creased paperback, The Other Boleyn Girl. I recognized the jazz she had on. Coltrane. I went over to the bookshelf and picked up the CD.A Love Supreme.
"Nice," I said. "I used to play a little sax. Long time ago."
"What?" she called from the kitchen. "Like in the fifties?"
I came over and took a seat at the counter. "Very funny."
She slid a platter of cheese puffs and empanadas across the counter. "Here, I went all out."
I grabbed a cheese puff with a toothpick. "Tasty." She poured me a glass of Pinot Grigio from an open bottle and sat across from me.
She had a fresh, blossomy scent--lavender or apricot or something. Whatever this was--dinner, a date, just bringing her up to speed on Cavello-- I was already enjoying it more than I thought I should.
She smiled. "So, uh, this is just a little bit awkward, isn't it?"
"I left the car running downstairs, just in case."
"In case it got weird?"
"In case I did
n't like your paella."
Andie laughed. "Bring it on," she said, and tilted her glass. "So I guess this is good news, right?"
"That's right." We clinked glasses. "Cavello is going down this time." Suddenly, talking about my meeting with the gangster didn't exactly seem like the thing to do. All we ever had between us was that awful trial. There was a lull. We both took another sip of wine. Andie smiled and let me off the hook.
"We don't have to talk about it. We can talk about your class. Or what's going on in Iraq. Or, God forbid, the Yankees."
Over dinner, I finally told her more about my meeting with Cavello. I think it made her feel good, knowing the bastard would have to account for something. And the paella was a ten, just the way I liked it.
Afterward, I helped her clean up, stacking dishes in the sink until she made me stop, insisting she'd finish the rest later. She put on a pot of coffee.
Andie's back was to me. We were talking about her acting, when I noticed a photo on the counter. Her and her son. She had her arm wrapped around his neck, smiles everywhere. Love. They looked like the happiest mother and son.
When I looked up, Andie was facing me. "Don't take offense, Nick. But why do you keep coming around here? What is it you want to say?"
I was at a loss. "I don't know."
"You want to say it hurts? I know it hurts." Her eyes were glistening now. "You want to say you wish you could've done something?"
"I don't know what I want to say, Andie. But I know I wanted to come and see you."
And I wanted to just reach out and hold her, too. I don't think I ever wanted to take someone in my arms as much as I wanted her. And I think, maybe, she wanted it, too. She was just leaning there, palms against the counter.
Finally, Andie smiled. "Car's still running, huh?"