Black Maps

Chapter Twenty-seven

It was a neighborhood of cops and firemen, and they knew the sound of gunshots and the smell of burning houses. They didn’t like either in their own backyards. I’d gone maybe a block, toward Hillside Avenue, when a local guy stopped me. He was still in uniform and looked done in, like he had just gotten off a long shift. His service piece was still on his hip.

I moved slowly and kept my hands in plain sight. I told him that Trautmann’s house was on fire and that there was someone in the basement, probably dead, and someone else inside or nearby, definitely armed. And I told him that if I didn’t sit down soon I was going to fall down. He seemed to recognize Trautmann’s name and did not seem shocked by the turn of events. He told me to sit on the curb. I was happy to do it. Windows and doorways all around had begun to fill with the curious, and a couple of big guys were approaching from down the block. I put my head down and thought about not puking, and tried not to shake. The snow began to cover me.

The night became a blur of flashing lights and squalling sirens. EMS arrived just behind the fire crew and three blue-and-whites. The techs shined lights in my eyes, picked the bigger splinters from my face, and dressed the wound on my head and the burns on my wrists. They said I needed X rays and returned me to the cops, who offered me a squad car to sit in. I got in back but left the door open, in case I had to throw up.

The smoke from Trautmann’s house drifted down the block and into the car and stung my eyes. I closed them and put my head back and listened to the squawks and chatter around me. From what the firemen said, the blaze had stayed mostly in the kitchen. It hadn’t taken long to control, but the room was pretty much destroyed. No one had yet found any bodies, alive or dead. At some point I dozed off.

The detectives woke me, two wrung-out looking guys in their early fifties. They made me get out of the car and show ID, then they asked me a lot of questions and got annoyed when I answered only a few of them. They put on a little theater for my benefit: one guy was Menace, the other was Earnest Concern. But they were tired, and it was a halfhearted effort, and we all knew it. They were just wrapping up, thinking about cuffing me, when Tom Neary arrived, picking his way through the crowd of vehicles, uniforms, and onlookers. Eddie Sikes and Juan Pritchard drifted in behind him. They looked like they’d been sleeping in their clothes.

They all showed ID, and Neary spoke to the detectives while Sikes, Pritchard, and I stood around. A wave of nausea and dizziness hit me while we waited, and I listed heavily to port. Sikes and Pritchard steadied me, and I sat back down in the squad car. Neary kept talking. The cops listened in silence, and eventually everyone started to nod. Then we all went to the station house. I rode with the cops; Neary and company followed. They didn’t cuff me and they didn’t search me, but there was nothing to be found now. The manila envelope was safe with Juan Pritchard, who’d tucked it deftly into the folds of his topcoat when I’d passed it to him.

The station house was small and too warm and filled with the smell of burnt coffee. We sat in a room of green painted cinderblock, in beige metal chairs at a beige metal table, and we waited. I drank a Coke and put my head down on the table. Neary shook me when the lawyers came: Mike Metz and an attractive, fortyish, black woman I didn’t know-a Brill lawyer. A couple of feds were right behind them. I didn’t recognize them, but the Brill people did.

Neary explained our operation downtown, and Sikes told them how I’d gone after Mills. I picked it up from there, telling them how I’d followed Mills to Trautmann’s place, and what had happened inside. I took them through it about ten times. I told them that I’d started the kitchen fire while melting off the plastic cuffs, and that the shooting had made it worse. I kept the part about torching the boxes to myself. And I said not a word about Nassouli or Pierro. The Brill boys sang backup as necessary. They’d gotten my cell phone calls, and when they knew where I was going they’d headed for Bellerose. Once out of Manhattan, they’d run smack into a two-hour traffic jam.

The cops asked about my client. Mike answered for me, and they didn’t ask again. After the sixth or seventh telling, the feds started to horn in with questions of their own. This ticked the cops off, and started them wondering aloud about the feds’ interest in all of this. The feds didn’t like that, and so began a major pissing contest. Somewhere in the third round, they decided we could go, with the usual warnings to stay available.

In the parking lot, I retrieved the envelope from Pritchard. Nobody asked any questions about it. Mike drove Neary and me into the city. I sat in back and put my head against the window and watched the snow come down and become a brown slurry on the road. They might have spoken to me from up front, but if they did I didn’t answer.

They took me to the St. Vincent’s ER, which would soon start awarding me frequent flyer miles. The people there checked my eyes, my reflexes, and my balance and took pictures of my head and my ribs. The attending looked at the films and told me that while I had no fractures, I did have a mild concussion. He changed the dressings on my wrists and said the scarring wouldn’t be bad. He gave me some drugs and some ointment, and he cut me loose. Mike and Neary were waiting to take me home.

“No talking,” I said.

“In the morning,” Mike said. I nodded.

“Long day,” Neary said. I nodded.

“Some nice work,” he said.

“Not nice enough.” The car pulled up in front of my building, and I went inside. It was just past midnight.

It was a sunny, breezy Wednesday morning, nearly forty degrees out, and all that was left of the snow in my neighborhood were wet streets and the brief, bright showers of melt that scattered from the buildings when the wind blew. It was ten o’clock, and I was sitting in a deep chair with my feet propped up, wearing jeans and a turtleneck, drinking coffee and watching the glittering drops fall past my window. Mike Metz had arrived thirty minutes before and Tom Neary a few minutes later. They were showered, shaved, and suited up, well groomed if not well rested. They sat at my table, drinking coffee and talking. I knew I should be paying attention, but it seemed like too much work. Finally, Neary dragged me into it.

“The MWB liquidation committee is in an uproar, and their lawyers are chomping at the bit. No big surprise. The folks at Parsons are shit-ting bricks and circling the wagons-rounding up as many lawyers of their own as they can find, and trying to figure out what their liability insurance covers. And they’re mightily pissed at Brill, for not giving them a heads-up on this. My management could give a shit, though. We’ve come out of this heroes, for having uncovered the whole thing. Truth is, they’re thanking god none of our people were involved,” he said. He turned toward me. “By the way, they think we owe you one on this. I explained that this just put you slightly less in my debt.”

“Good you’re watching out for me,” I said. “Speaking of your people, what was up with Compton? Why was she so jumpy? She was looking like our guy until Mills ran.”

“Your call scared hell out of her, but not because of anything to do with this shit,” Neary said. “She spotted the tail up by Wall Street, turned around, and walked right up to me-pissed as hell. I thought she was going to slug me. Wanted to know what the fuck was going on. I said I wanted to know the same thing. We jawed at each other for a while, and then she tells me she’s going up to Fulton Street, to see her lawyer. Seems she got this weird phone call and she thinks it’s her husband-estranged husband-harassing her again. Turns out she’s been trying to divorce the guy for nearly a year and he’s turned into a real creep. Calls her at all hours, heavy breathing, bizarre accusations, follows her around. She thought this was more of the same.”

“You tell her what was up?” I asked.

“Some of it. At first she was happy it had nothing to do with her hubby. Then she got pissed at me all over again for suspecting her. I smoothed it over some, but I’ve still got work to do there. I don’t want to lose her,” Neary said.

“And Vetter?” I asked.

“Just a slacker, out for a long coffee break, best we could tell,” Neary said. He yawned and rubbed his hands over his face.

“You hear anything from Queens?” I asked Mike.

“Not since last night. They said they’d call when they had a body or if there was any word on Trautmann, but I imagine I’m not first on their list,” he answered. He got up and filled his coffee mug. “You doing okay?” he asked. “Ready for your guests?”

“Ready enough,” I said, and it was true. The ache in my ribs had mostly subsided, as long as I didn’t move too much or too quickly. Ditto the pain from my burnt wrists. The nausea was gone, the dizziness was on the wane, and my headache had dulled and shrunk. Best of all, I didn’t feel quite as stupid as I had last night. But one night of sleep was just a down payment. I was still brutally tired, and anxious to get the parade of people in and out of here so I could get back to bed. The intercom buzzed. Neary went to the wall unit.

“They’re here,” he said.

Shelly DiPaolo was first through the door. She took off her coat and looked the place over like a realtor. She was wearing a snug black suit with a short skirt and high black pumps. Her nails and lips were plum colored. Her perfume made itself at home. She nodded her head and gave me a chilly smile.

“Nice bat cave,” she said. I nodded back.

“Help yourself to coffee,” I said.

Fred Pell was behind her. He took three unwilling steps inside and stopped, looking like he was trying to find a corner to piss in. His coat stayed on, and his hands stayed in his pockets. The closest he came to a greeting was: “I guess a trust fund comes in handy, huh?” I wasn’t any happier having him at my place than he was being here, but I was too tired to do more than ignore him. DiPaolo perched herself on one of my kitchen stools and crossed her nice legs.

“We don’t usually make house calls, except to bust people,” she said, speaking to me. “But Mr. Metz here made a good point about press interest in what happened in Queens last night, and that maybe our office didn’t want to be too directly associated with it right now. He also said you were kind of chewed up. That was an understatement. You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“That’s what happens when you get in over your head,” Pell said, with a nasty grin. I looked at him, but DiPaolo jumped in before I could speak.

“Shut up, Freddy,” she said. “You’re in the man’s house, for chrissakes.” Pell began to purple. DiPaolo cleared her throat. She looked at me again.

“The counselor and I made a deal on Monday,” she said. Christ, was it just two days ago? “I’m prepared to hold up my end of it. I want you to hold up yours. I’ve read the police report, and the report from our guys, so I know what happened last night. What you say happened, anyway.” She paused for a moment. “You kept Nassouli’s name out of it. That was part of the bargain, so you did good there. But the other part is giving us what you’ve got on this whole thing.”

“Provided it doesn’t compromise our client,” Mike interrupted. DiPaolo looked annoyed, but she nodded agreement.

“Yeah, heaven forbid. So, March, the stage is yours. Hit it.” I swallowed some coffee and began.

“We told you our theory on Monday-that somebody was running a blackmail business, using Nassouli’s personal files, targeting his former business associates. Well, we were right. It was Trautmann and Mills, in it together, until last night.

“They must’ve grabbed Nassouli’s files very early on, in the first days or weeks that Parsons was on the job, and before the Brill team came in with their document control system. That would’ve been just after Nassouli had dropped out of sight. I gather from what Trautmann said that Mills walked in on him while Trautmann was going after the files.

“Based on what I know of Trautmann, I’m surprised Mills didn’t disappear then and there. But somehow he survived that encounter, and he and Trautmann partnered up. I don’t know how he did it. Could be Mills had been going after the files, same as Trautmann was. Could be he’d already looked them over and figured out their value, to someone with the right background. Maybe he understood that he had some of the expertise, but not all of it. And when he stumbled on Trautmann maybe he saw someone who could fill in the gaps. Maybe he was able to sell Trautmann on all that before the psycho could whack him. Who knows? But one way or another, each of them saw in the other something that he needed.

“I’m not sure how they divided the labor, but I can guess. Mills was a forensic accountant. And he knew his way around finance and banking and funds transfer. I expect he would’ve analyzed the files and picked out the promising targets. Trautmann could’ve helped with that, since he’d actually known these people. Mills probably worked out the delivery instructions for the blackmail payments, so as not to trigger any suspicious activity reports. I’d guess he also took care of moving the money around, once they’d got hold of it.

“Wherever they kept their funds, I doubt it was under their own names. And from what I overheard, they had more than just offshore bank accounts. It sounded like they’d bought property, too. In which case, they’d have needed documentation-fake passports certainly, maybe bogus corporate documents too. I figure Trautmann would’ve handled that. He also took care of communicating with their victims.” DiPaolo listened quietly, still except for one foot, which turned slow circles at the end of her crossed leg. Pell fidgeted.

“The earliest score I know about was two years ago. They were in the middle of their latest one when all this happened. The cases I know of- and I don’t know them all-involved people who’d dealt with Nassouli a long time ago-ten years or more. Maybe that was by design. Sticking to people on the far side of the statute of limitations would’ve lessened the odds of running up against you guys. Or maybe they weren’t that smart. I don’t know.

“They’d had a couple of failures, but from what Trautmann said, they’d had enough successes to make it worthwhile. Between them, they’d moved the money where they wanted it, and figured out how to spend it without attracting attention. Everything was copacetic, until I came along.” I paused and drank some more coffee.

“When I showed up at MWB with Tom, it primed the pump. Mills got jumpy. When Trautmann told him I’d paid him a visit too, Mills must’ve flipped. He must’ve recognized me right away from Trautmann’s description, and gone into a panic. I’m not sure he ever came out of it. It was Mills who dimed me out to Pell. He thought it up all by himself, and it was just the kind of too-cute stunt that would occur to a smart amateur like him. I figure if he’d talked to Trautmann about it first, Bernie would’ve buried him on the spot. But you’ve got to give Mills some credit; his idea almost worked. It got you to haul us downtown and warn us off. We just put up more of a fight than he counted on.” DiPaolo was expressionless, but in the corner of my eye I saw Mike shaking his head slowly. I didn’t dwell.

“When Trautmann found out what Mills had done, he knew the clock was ticking. So things accelerated. They put the squeeze to their latest victim, to wrap him up this week, and they were packing up their shop. From what I heard, it sounded like they’d culled through the files to find the most promising prospects-I guess so they could start up again someplace else. The keepers were in the boxes. If I understood Trautmann right, he’d burned the rest.” DiPaolo laughed, short and cold.

“And we know how the boxes ended up, don’t we?” She looked at me. I looked back, blankly, and went on.

“I figure they were going to split after this last job. It could be that Trautmann was always planning to off Mills. He didn’t strike me as the partnership type, and he was definitely seeing Mills as a liability. Or maybe it was yesterday’s events-Mills’s panic and his leading me to Trautmann-that decided him. Either way, Mills was going to disappear, and so was I, once Trautmann had found out what he wanted to know.” I downed the last of my coffee. “I got lucky. Mills didn’t.”

Everyone was quiet. Neary got up and poured some coffee. Mike looked out the window. DiPaolo stretched her neck, like she was working out the kinks.

“That was nice, March. But it’s full of ‘could be,’ and ‘maybe,’ and ‘I guess,’ and ‘I figure.’ You got anything firm to back this up?” she asked.

“I’ve got a bag lady who identified Trautmann as the guy who paid her to send a fax to one of the victims. But you should probably know, she talks to Jesus-and according to her, he talks back.” Neary suppressed a snicker. DiPaolo shook her head.

“That’s it? That’s what you’ve got for me? A fucking fairy story, backed up by a schizo? That’s great,” she said. I shrugged.

“It’s what I have. It fits what happened, what I saw and what I heard. I can’t prove most of it-not the way you want it-and, yeah, there are parts I’m guessing at. But the big pieces fit.” Pell snorted derisively and looked pleased. I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t.

DiPaolo played with a ringlet of her strange blond hair. “Tell me about the fire, and those boxes. I read the reports, but I want to hear you tell it,” she said. I told her, just the way I’d told it to the cops last night. When I was done she looked at me without expression for a long time.

“The Queens arson guys are thinking maybe there was an accelerant used in the kitchen,” she said.

I nodded. “There was. Like I said, there was most of a gallon of vodka that got shot. That stuff burns.” She looked at me some more.

“Too bad for us. But pretty fucking lucky for your client, don’t you think?” she said. I didn’t respond. “What about other victims? Got any names for me?” I looked over at Mike, who was still looking out the window. I was about to speak when he broke the silence.

“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.”