Open season

25

Cioffi worked at Leatherton, Inc., a manufacturer of industrial parts whose name I’d always thought was better suited to a luggage-making firm. In fact, this one modest factory was one of several subsidiaries of Thomas Leatherton amp; Company of Toronto, Canada, which was their version of Westinghouse-a big deem" w›

The building reflected the stature. Covering half an industrial park recently built south of town near the interstate, it was the region’s latest statement in modern architecture, which may not have been saying much. Still, it was an eye-catcher, made of dark glass and earth-toned brick, and it did exude a sense of capitalist power and well-being.

We arrived in two squad cards. Kunkle and I were in one, Capullo and Woll in the other. I had the two patrolmen cover the front and back entrances, just in case our fat and flabby erstwhile hunchback decided to limp off into the sunset.

As it turned out, he’d already done so. From the receptionist downstairs to his secretary on the top floor, we got the same message: “I’m afraid Mr. Cioffi’s not in right now.”

His secretary was an attractive young bottle-blonde with too much eye shadow. I pointed to the closed door behind her. “Is that his?”

She looked at it doubtfully. “Yes, it is.”

I laid the court order on her desk and walked around her to the door.

“Stop. I mean, hold on a second. What is this?” She held up the warrant.

Kunkle answered for me in modulated officialese. “That’s a court order allowing us to enter this office and remove specific documents related to the case we have building against Mr. Cioffi.”

Her eyes widened. “Against Mr. Cioffi? What for?”

“Read the warrant.” She looked from us to the paper in her hand. “I think maybe I should get somebody.”

“That’s fine. We’ll be in here.” I opened the door and went inside.

What we entered was the archetypal coveted corner office. Two walls of windows, a rug soft enough to swallow our shoes, a mahogany desk, a leather sofa and two armchairs custom-made for an English men’s club. Lining the other two walls was a built-in bookcase stuffed with stereo equipment, fancy artifacts, and elegantly placed collections of leather-bound books. It did not fit the mental image I’d painted of Cioffi from his doctor’s description.

Kunkle looked around and whistled. “Jesus, if I worked here, I’d never go home.”

I pulled the walkie-talkie from my belt and called Dispatch. “Tell Brandt to secure Cioffi’s residence. He’s not at his office. If Brandt wants the court order covering the house, I’ve got it.”

“Ten-four.”

I took down several of Cioffi’s fancy books and opened them. None showed any signs of overuse. In fact, the same could have been said for the entire office.

I went over to the desk. Except for the usual executive knickknacks, it was bare. I pulled at the drawer directly in front of the chair; it was unlocked. Inside, I found a book marked “Appointments.” I checked today’s date. Nothing was scheduled.

“May I help you?”

The voice belonged tice

Kunkle took an instant dislike to him. Maybe it was the suit. “I doubt it. Who are you?”

“My name’s Arthur Pelegrino. I’m the head of Public Relations.”

Kunkle obviously was not in a handshaking mood and I was too far away. Pelegrino seemed ill at ease forgoing the formality; his hands fidgeted in front of his belt buckle. “Could you tell me what this is all about?”

I took pity on the man, crossed over, and shook his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Gunther. We have a warrant for certain documents in this room. I would also like to ask some questions of Mr. Cioffi’s secretary, if I may.”

Pelegrino smiled nervously and stepped aside, exposing the secretary fully.

“Alone would be best, actually.”

The PR man bit his upper lip and nodded. “I think I better get someone from the legal department.” He squeezed by the secretary and disappeared.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Mona.”

“You originally from the area?”

“Dummerston.”

“Been working here long?”

“A couple of years. I got the job straight out of college. I went to UVM.”

“Did Cioffi hire you, or did you just end up working for him?”

“I was assigned to him.”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s okay, I guess.”

“How would you characterize him?”

“What?”

“Is he friendly or abrupt, supportive or uncaring, easy going or tense, things like that.”

“Gee, I’ve never thought about that. I don’t really have much to do with him, really.”

“Does he work you hard?”

Her face lit up at that. “Gosh no. My boyfriend says I have the cushiest job in the world. I guess he’s right. I mostly just sit out there. I used to read a little, but they said it didn’t look good.”

“What exactly does Cioffi do?”

“He’s Vice-President of Industrial Relations.” Kunkle broke in. “What the hell does that mean?” She smiled and shrugged. “I’m not really sure. He travels a lot. I think it has something to do with conventions.”

“He goes to a lot of conventions?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t you make the travel arrangements for him?”

“No. He does all that. I answer the phone and write letters sometimes. I don’t see him a whole lot.”

There was some noise from outside, and Pelegrino reappeared with a short, fat man, also bald and also dressed in a dark suit. They looked like a cartoon together. Pelegrino introduced his companion as Mr. Kleeman, who, from his self-inflated manner, was obviously from the legal department.

Kleeman was not a hand-shaker. He grabbed the warrant from Mona and read it from front to back. He finally folded the warrant and put it in his pocket. “Have you gone through anything yet?”

“No,” I lied.

“Good. I will keep you company throughout your search and will inform you if you stray from the guidelines of this order.” Kunkle sneered at him and walked over to the desk and began opening drawers.

· · ·

We ended up with very little-his appointment books for the past several years, some specifically dated correspondence, mostly letters setting up meetings with people at various conventions, and we obtained a copy of his employment record at Leatherton. That was about it. Neither Kleeman nor Pelegrino knew much about Cioffi, despite the fact that technically, “industrial relations” came under the general public relations umbrella.

What we found at his home-another lavish spread straight out of House Beautiful — didn’t add much to the picture. He had obviously taken off. Most of his socks, shorts, shirts, etc. were missing, and we could find few personal possessions of any sort, although we did come across several conspicuously empty drawers. But there were no address books, photo albums, diaries, account books, or anything else listed in the warrant. The place looked like a high-priced hotel room after maid service. Our disappointment was palpable.

So was Tom Wilson’s. “I thought you said you had this thing wrapped up.”

“He flew the coop. It’s a temporary setback. Once we analyze all we’ve collected-or all we will collect-we’ll be able to track him. It just isn’t as convenient as we were hoping.”

Brandt stopped talking and emptied his pipe into his ashtray. There were just the three of us in Brandt’s office: Brandt, Wilson and me. I was trying to act invisible.

“I suppose you realize that at this point, there is no way this department is going to walk away unscathed. Heads will have to roll.”

Brandt raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

Wilson scowled at him. “Give me a break. The mutterings from the board were bad enough; now even the Reformer has joined in. Bellstrom’s editorial this morning questioned just about everything you people have done to date, the biggest item being your refusal to bring in extra help until it was too late.”

“I remember that topic coming up pretty early on. I recall all sorts of people not wanting to attract undue attention. Isn’t that the way you remember it, u rt as we Tom?”

“A lot has happened between then and now. You can’t deny you and your crew have been a little bull-headed about this thing.”

“What-aside from spreading the blame a little thinner-would have changed had we brought in the troops?”

“The point is you didn’t.”

Brandt shrugged. “We’ll get the guy.”

“That may not be enough.”

Brandt changed the subject-sort of. “What about the press conference?”

“What about it? It’s still on.”

“Are you going to roll heads then?”

Wilson slapped the arm of his chair and stood up. He crossed over to the window and looked out at the frozen parking lot. “Christ, I hate this. No, I’m not going to roll heads. We’re standing together, at least in public. You just tell them what you’ve got and handle questions-as agreed this morning.”

Brandt looked over at me. “What you got cooking so far?”

“A team is going over everything we grabbed at the office and home; I’ve got a blood sample being looked at by Kees in West Haven; I’m getting a warrant for all his phone records, from both office and home; we’ve lifted his fingerprints and are having them coded; and I’m having duplicates made of the photos we found in his medical file-Dr. Duquesne was a very thorough fellow. We’ve also located his dentist and are having copies made of his X-rays and charts. By the time we finish, we should have as complete a description of him as we could want. Once we spread the word-as discreetly as possible-we should be able to nail him. If nothing else, his medical problems will get him; he needs a steady supply of prednisone, and according to Duquesne, he won’t even be able to walk in a couple of years.”

Wilson flapped his arms. “A couple of years? Hallelujah. That ought to satisfy everybody. What’s this mystery man’s name, anyway?”

Brandt and I looked at each other. Wilson immediately flared. “Hold on a goddamn minute. You’re going to sit on his name? After what I’ve done for you bastards?”

Brandt laid a hand on his shoulder. “The name’s Steven Cioffi. He’s a VP at Leatherton, but we don’t want that out yet. That’s why we hesitated.”

Wilson shook off the hand, but he was calmer. “Christ. We finally get something and you don’t want to release it. What the hell is the problem?”

His narrow focus was beginning to irritate. “We only found out who this guy was a few hours ago. We got to figure out what we’re holding before we start bragging.”

“There is another reason,” Brandt added. “The way Ski Mask is stepping out front, we’re fearful of giving him anything he might take advantage of. If he gets to Cioffi ahead of us and kills him for some reason, then we-and Davis-might be stuck high and dry.”

The phone rang and Brandt picked it up. picdvantage oHe listened for a while, took some notes, thanked the caller, and turned back to us with a big smile. “Hey, just like in the movies. You wanted something to tell the press? Looks like we just located Pam Stark’s home address.” He waved the slip of notepaper in his hand. “She had given a phony to the Boston cops, but it turns out she was from Connecticut-Danbury-or at least she was born there, daughter of Henry and Eleanor Stark. They tracked her through vital records. Then-I’ll give these guys high marks-because they couldn’t find a current address, they checked the state tax records just for kicks, and sure enough, Henry and Eleanor still own some Connecticut land, and the bill is sent to Voorheesville, New York. That’s just next to Albany.”

Wilson merely shook his head and kept staring out the window. “Pam Stark’s address.” He finally muttered, “Three years too late. Christ.”

After a while he turned to face us. “What good is Pam Stark’s address?”

I answered that. “She’s the keystone to this whole thing. Judging from what he did to Susan Lucey, Ski Mask is obviously linked to Pam in some strong emotional way. And now we know Cioffi is definitely connected to her. If we can talk to her parents, they might help us bust this thing wide open. This is exactly what wasn’t done the first time around and what landed us in this mess.”

Brandt handed me the note he’d made with the New York address. “Look, Tom, Joe can follow this up right now. It’ll take him a couple of hours to drive there; we’re assessing everything we’ve collected so far. This will just add to the hopper, maybe in a big way. We’ll know before the day’s up.”

Wilson mulled it over. “All right, fine.” Then, after a pause, “Are you two absolutely positive you’ve got the right man in Cioffi? Or are we opening ourselves up to yet another lawsuit by some clown who may be just on vacation?”

Brandt and I looked at each other. This was not a question either one of us relished, but it was probably better that Wilson brought it up before the cameras started rolling.

Brandt cleared his throat. “What we have in Steven Cioffi is a man who in all probability was involved in the Pamela Stark killing.”

Wilson stared at him, his eyes widening. “That’s it? ‘In all probability’? I’m supposed to stand next to you in front of a bunch of reporters and that’s what you’re going to say?”

“If they ask me that question-and without mentioning his name.”

Wilson’s face reddened. “And how the fuck do you think that’s going to go down? They’ll eat us alive.”

“That’s all I can really tell them right now. We’ve got a circumstantial case. Had we located Cioffi, it might have been different, but right now, that’s it. Given more time to dig through what we’ve got, I’ll probably have more, like Joe said.”

Wilson seemed to have stopped breathing. He glared at both of us for a long moment after Brandt stopped speaking, and then he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Brandt smiled at me. “I think the press conference is off.”