St. Albans Fire

Chapter 16

Lil Farber was wearing a pair of half-glasses, in jarring contrast to the.40-caliber handgun strapped to her waist. She looked up from the document she’d just extracted from the copier outside her office and gave the new arrivals a pensive gaze.

Her greeting was guarded. “Thought you boys had gone home.”

“Got bored. Came back,” Willy answered.

“We received some new information,” Joe explained.

“About Gino?”

Joe chose not to mention how their off-the-books surveillance had netted them Gino’s girlfriend. “No. Somebody else. From North Caldwell.”

“Ritzy neighborhood,” Farber commented. “You still talking arson? That’s not our usual turf.”

Joe waggled his hand from side to side. “It’s getting complicated. This may be the money behind the arson.”

She laughed shortly, her interest piqued. “You can take the hoods out of Newark, but when they need something done, it’s hard to fight old instincts.”

“All roads lead back to the Brick City,” Willy agreed.

Farber collected her paperwork and led the way into her office, speaking over her shoulder. “What’s the name of this new target?”

“John Samuel Gregory.”

“Ooh-la-la,” she chanted, circling her desk. “Sounds veddy posh. That real?”

Joe answered her, sitting down, “We have no reason to think otherwise.”

Farber squared up to her computer and began typing. “Okay, let’s see what we got… ”

It didn’t take her long. In a couple of minutes, she murmured, “Seems you’re right about his interest in money. No convictions, but he just ducked indictments for money laundering and tax evasion and is listed as a fellow traveler in a couple of other scams.”

“Any Mob connections?”

She hitched one shoulder, still typing. “Call them Mob contacts. Hard to say how connected he really is. Things have gotten looser than in the old days, when only southern Italian Catholics could join, but it still doesn’t look like he was Family-not even in the vague way Famolare is. That having been said, he has certainly played with players.” She looked up at them. “Wild guess has it you want a copy of this?”

“If you would,” Joe answered, adding, “You told us digging into Famolare’s business, friends, and neighbors would be like hitting concrete. The same true for Gregory?”

She sat back and smiled at them. “Nope-knock yourselves out. I like going into the Caldwells myself. Reminds me of the life I turned aside to become a caped crusader.”

“Oh?” Willy asked.

She shoved herself out of her chair and poked him in the stomach. “Gotcha.”

There are three Caldwells, all located in Essex County’s northwest corner, North Caldwell being the fanciest. If Caldwell and West Caldwell can be described as upscale suburbia-with the attending shopping malls and restaurants to keep them functioning-North Caldwell represents the Olympian Heights, where the biggest commercial enterprise deemed appropriate is a country club. Its rolling streets are secluded and treelined, its houses palatial and generously surrounded by manicured lawns. There may have been more rarefied acreage available-nearby Upper Montclair comes to mind-but the home turf of the Gregory family hardly played second fiddle. As Lil Farber drove her car along the area’s peaceful, pampered, hilly avenues, she estimated some of the larger property taxes at $60,000 per year.

She slowed near the bottom of a large apron of greening grass, the weather down here being warm enough to have stimulated some early spring growth, and pulled over to the curb in full view of a Mount Vernon aspirant, albeit with an excess of red brick and white trim.

“Chez Gregory,” she announced, “or shall I say, Grégoire?”

“Any idea where all the money came from?” Joe asked their escort.

“Some,” she said, pulling a pad from her purse. “I dug around while I was online at the office. There’s nothing criminal about the family that we know-I guess that’s John Samuel’s specialty-but I wouldn’t swear they’re all squeaky-clean, either. In any case, the old man is Edward Cummins Gregory III, if you please. He’s listed as a venture capitalist and philanthropist. Also a major patron of the arts and a collector of Hispano-Americana, whatever that is. He makes all the shows, sits on all the boards, backs all the right causes, and is calculated to be worth about a hundred million bucks. He’s married to Jennifer Whitcomb Gregory, of Chicago, and together they’re the parents of three children, of whom John is the youngest and clearly a mistake, since at twenty-six, he’s twelve years younger than the next one in line.”

“What do the other two kids do?” Joe asked.

“Sister Susan is a thoracic surgeon, working in San Francisco; brother Frederick-five years older than Susan-heads up the family foundation and works with Dad in the venture capital business.”

Joe liked that-the eldest, the closest to the father, knowledgeable of the business, and, he hoped, less than impressed with his little brother. “Where’s he hang out?”

Farber referred back to her notes. “Lives a few streets away; works ten minutes from here, in West Caldwell.”

“You have anything else?”

She shuffled through a few more pages. “Not much. The society pages approve of the senior Gregorys-Jennifer’s kept in shape and wears a size four, Edward floats around in a yacht-they dance, they party, they pose well for photographs, but I got the impression that that’s where it stops. Phrases like ‘the very private couple’ and ‘the charming but tight-lipped Gregorys’ made me think they draw the line.”

Willy snorted from the back seat of the car. “Makes me think little Johnny was banished to Siberia with a bankroll and a Porsche and told to keep his nose clean.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Joe agreed, and asked Lil, “Did you see anything about Frederick’s social life?”

Farber pushed her lips out thoughtfully. “I didn’t check specifically, but when I ran the name Gregory, all I got was the parents.”

“Sounds like he lets Mom and Dad have the limelight,” commented Willy.

Lil glanced over at Joe. “Off to meet Prince Fred, the heir apparent?”

“Yeah.”

The office building Frederick Gregory worked in was a low-key, elegant, modern structure bordered by enough trees, reflecting pools, and stylish brick retaining walls to shield it entirely from the bustle of nearby Central Avenue. Once past the self-effacing entrance gate, all three of them felt like they’d been transported to some Connecticut estate. Perhaps typical of such places, there was only a number on the street announcing its existence, no corporate or business logo. Presumably, if you needed the services of the Gregory Foundation, you called ahead and were given directions.

They parked in a well-appointed lot peppered with a few elegant and expensive cars and walked into a lobby under the supervision of an attractive young woman with very cool eyes sitting at an imposing curving desk.

“May I help you?” she asked.

Joe took the lead, Farber having made it clear that she was there solely as a local presence.

“Yes. We were wondering if we could see Frederick Gregory. I’m afraid we don’t have an appointment.”

She gazed at him as if he’d just asked her to leap from the building’s roof. With polite incredulity, she asked, “You’re asking to make an appointment, is that correct?”

Instinctively, without Willy having made a sound or a gesture, Joe reached back a couple of inches and grabbed his colleague’s wrist, keeping his smile on the girl. “Actually, I’m hoping he might be able to see us now. It’s a matter of some importance to him-something fairly delicate, I’m afraid.”

He heard Willy sigh.

“And you are?” she asked.

“Nobody he’d recognize,” Joe answered. He’d encountered this situation before and hoped a time-honored approach might do the trick. He reached into his pocket and extracted his wallet, adding, “I don’t wish you any disrespect, but maybe this will help us all out. Can I borrow a pen?”

Clearly mystified, she complied. He scribbled a note on the back of one of his business cards, which he shielded from her, and then asked for an envelope. He slipped the card into the envelope, addressed it, and handed it to her.

“I think if you give Mr. Gregory this, he’ll make time to see us. He is in the building?”

Still holding the envelope, she studied him for a few seconds, as if running through a mental inventory of scams she’d been warned against. Finally, she picked up the phone, spoke a few quiet words, and, with a very thin smile, motioned to a couch by the window. “Have a seat, sir. This should only take a few minutes.”

They retired to their designated perch and watched as a second elegant, well-dressed woman appeared from a side door and picked up Joe’s note.

Farber leaned in close to him. “What did you write?”

“‘John may be misbehaving again,’” he told her quietly. “‘We need to talk now, if you can.’”

Farber chuckled. “‘If you can.’ Very accommodating.”

Joe smiled in response. “Don’t want to seem pushy.”

“You’re really counting on John being the black sheep, aren’t you?”

“That I am.”

Three minutes later, Joe nodded toward the side door. The same young woman as before was gesturing to them to follow her.

“Showtime,” he murmured, and nodded, smiling, at the receptionist, who merely stared at them as they crossed the lobby.

Without comment, they walked single file down a muted hallway appointed with oversize Ansel Adams prints glowing under museum lighting, until they reached an unmarked pair of double doors. These their escort opened and stood back to let them pass.

It was a boardroom, very rich, very quiet, with a very expensive mahogany table in its center and a man sitting at its far end. The doors closed behind them.

“Mr. Gregory?” Joe asked.

“Not to be rude,” the man answered, “but I’d like to see your credentials-all of you.”

They filed down the length of the table, and Lil and Joe laid their IDs before him. Willy dropped his in the man’s lap, where it pointedly lay ignored.

“Special Agent Joseph Gunther of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation and Lieutenant Lillian Farber of our own Essex County prosecutor’s office,” the man read aloud. “Sounds high-profile.” He looked at Farber. “I take it you’re the official liaison, or is there some local interest here?”

“We have an interest. Could I see your identification, too, please?” Farber said. “Can’t be too careful.”

“I hope not,” he agreed, removing a slim wallet and displaying his driver’s license. He then retrieved Willy’s battered leather badge case and slid it across the table to him, unopened. “Have a seat.”

Clearly considering some sort of response, Willy hesitated as the other two pulled out leather chairs. To Joe’s relief, he ended up simply sitting. Not that Joe took too much comfort from that. No matter how short this meeting might be, he was betting it wouldn’t conclude without Willy expressing himself somehow.

“You’re here about John Samuel?” Gregory inquired of Joe.

“We are,” Joe admitted, pursuing the thin line that had gotten them this far. “It’s kind of a courtesy call, really, not that we aren’t interested in what you can tell us about him. But he has gotten himself into some trouble, which we thought you’d like to know about before it hits the papers.”

Frederick’s expression hardened slightly-the disapproving older sibling. “What kind of trouble?”

Joe pretended to look uncomfortable, skirting the fact that he had no hard evidence yet. “Ah. That’s a little awkward. My prosecutor would have my head if I said too much. We are talking felony crimes, though. Several of them.”

Frederick’s voice was flat. “Is he under arrest?”

“Not yet.” This was actually a real concern. By speaking to John’s brother now, there was a risk that Frederick would call the little troublemaker and tell him to vanish. But Joe was working on instinct. Based on Lil’s research, he guessed that Frederick Gregory would more likely protect the family name than John himself. John’s presumed one-way ticket to the Vermont backwaters struck Joe as having been Frederick’s one show of generosity. Also, the threat of brother tipping off brother was most likely moot in any case, since Jonathon Michael’s questioning of Clark Wolff had undoubtedly reached John Samuel’s ears by now.

“Mr. Gregory,” Joe continued, “in order to keep this as unmessy as possible, I’d like to know a few things about John. Without going into detail, we do have a strong case against him, but the faster we can wrap it up, the less the media will have to chew on. You’d be perfectly within your rights to call a lawyer or just throw us out, but I’m hoping you won’t do either.”

Frederick pursed his lips, his irritation visibly growing. “What do you want to know? Perhaps we can start there.”

“I’m guessing John was the black sheep of the family, given how you and your sister turned out. An unexpected late birth, your parents caught by surprise, John was probably overindulged on the one hand, and left to his own devices on the other.”

“You could say that,” was the terse reply.

“Too much money, too little supervision?”

“Basically,” Frederick agreed.

“What happened?”

Gregory sat farther back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Now it’s my turn to be discreet, Mr. Gunther. While I have no love for my brother, I also don’t want to give you any more than you have or need.”

“I’m not asking for incriminating details. I’m not even a cop in this state.”

Gregory pointed at Lil. “She is.”

Farber laughed. “With what they’re building against him, we don’t have to worry. He’ll be an old man before we get a shot at him. I doubt my boss will even care.”

Frederick shook his head slightly. “What a fool,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“What happened?” Joe repeated gently, grateful to Farber for playing up what they had against John.

“You’re right, of course. Spoiled, amoral, and rich to boot. John was a nightmare from the day he learned to walk. Susan and I became the firewall between him and our parents early on, until she got so sick of it, she went as far away as she could get. My mother and father, Mr. Gunther, are not incredibly equipped to deal with someone like John, so I got stuck with him.”

He rose and crossed to a window overlooking a terraced concrete fountain surrounded by low trees. “He became involved with some people down here-a shady financial deal, let’s call it-that necessitated his leaving the area.” He was speaking to the view.

“Why Vermont?” Joe asked.

Gregory turned to face them. “He went to college there a few years ago-University of Vermont. Never graduated, of course. He was thrown out before the end of sophomore year. But when I asked him where he wanted to go he chose Vermont.”

“He let you dictate terms like that?” Joe asked, surprised at the acquiescent implication.

Gregory smiled thinly. “Money played a large role. Quite a bit of it, in fact-a big enough allowance to make it worth his while. John is nothing if not self-serving.”

“Did he tell you what he was doing up there?”

“We are not pen pals.”

“That was your mistake,” Willy commented.

Gregory gave him a hard look before responding, “I don’t think so. It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“What about what got him into hot water down here?” Joe asked. “How aware of that were you?”

“Only of the end results,” he said bitterly. “And that because he came to me once they were on to him.”

“Who was?”

Gregory stared at him in silence for a slow count before finally saying, “A man named Dante Lagasso.”

Gunther glanced quickly at Farber, who just barely shook her head. The name meant nothing to her.

“I take it Lagasso was Mob-connected?” Joe asked.

“I think that’s fair to say.”

“You should’ve let them have him,” Willy said.

“Whatever his faults,” Gregory reacted icily, “he is family.”

Willy laughed harshly. “Don’t run your coat of arms up that flagpole, asshole. His faults caused the death of an innocent kid.”

Joe glared at Willy as Gregory bowed his head in shock. But while he didn’t approve of Willy’s outburst, Joe couldn’t fault his passion. As usual, in his insensitive, impolitic, trenchant way, Kunkle had spoken only the truth as he saw it. The problem being, of course, that what he saw was based solely on prejudice and speculation.

But he’d also flattened the last of Gregory’s reserve. The man looked up from Willy’s verbal blow and asked wonderingly of Gunther, “Is that true?”

It was no time to equivocate. “We believe so, yes.”

Gregory reached for the back of the chair he’d just vacated, as if to keep from falling over. “My God,” he said.

“What did you expect?” Willy asked.

Joe leaned forward slightly and fixed his colleague with a look. “Enough,” he said in a quiet, firm voice, wondering if Willy’s insistence was based on belief, or merely on having been put in his place by Gregory upon entering.

Whatever his motives, Willy recognized that he’d reached his limit. He settled back in his chair without further comment.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Gregory said tiredly, regaining his seat like an ancient arthritic. “He’s perfectly correct. We should have held John accountable long ago. Now we have only ourselves to blame. Can you tell me the details of this death? I might be able to do something to atone for what we’ve done.”

Joe was already shaking his head. “Mr. Gregory, there will be time for that later on. If and when we get there, I’ll tell you all you need to know. You and the boy’s family can work out whatever you want then. Right now I need you to be straight about John’s criminal connections here in Newark.”

Frederick Gregory gave him a hapless look. “I knew about Lagasso because I had to pay him off. I didn’t know the details and John never told me. He basically took the attitude that I owed him the favor of saving his bacon.”

“How ’bout before? This couldn’t have been the first time.”

“God, no. John was getting into trouble from before he reached high school.”

“Who did he tend to run with?”

Frederick placed his hand against his forehead, half thinking, half wishing he could forget. “Let’s see… There was one kid named Santo. I remember that because I couldn’t think of a less likely name for him. A real little monster-black leather, motorcycle boots. He was one of the worst John got involved with who caused problems.”

“What sort of problems?”

“They were teenagers. What do you think?” he asked peevishly. “Vandalisms, petty theft, drinking, getting girls pregnant… generally carrying on like the juvenile delinquents they were. I was constantly paying off the police or parents or business owners to keep it out of the papers. Santo took full advantage of that, let me tell you. If it hadn’t been for John and our running interference, little Santo would have been in Rahway a long time ago.”

“Is that where he is now?”

The reaction was a bored, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“And you don’t know his last name, either?”

Gregory sighed impatiently. Joe knew that the interview was running on fumes.

“Massi. That was it. Santo Massi. If you could dress a cockroach in black leather, that would be him.”

“Who else?”

The rich man made a face, his earlier guilt having yielded to the bother of reliving unpleasant memories. “I don’t know, Mr. Gunther. The point of all this was to make it go away. Not keep notes.”

“Both names sound Italian,” Joe persisted. “Did John hang out where there was a strong Mob influence?”

“I think he liked the allure, but then he was truly broad-minded when it came to lowlifes, because he’d go down to Irvington, too, and the docks. Blacks, Jews, Italians-it didn’t matter to John. Just as long as they were unsavory and he could rub them in our faces.”

Now it was Joe who wanted to end the interview. He stood up. “All right, Mr. Gregory. We’ll let you get back to your business. Appreciate the time.”

Gregory was startled, far more used to being the one who shut down a conversation. “Wait. What about John Samuel?”

Joe didn’t answer at first, letting the others file toward the door. His emotions had traveled quickly and variously in the short time he’d known this man, from sympathy for a philanthropist saddled with an unsolvable problem, to a growing conviction that Frederick viewed the world as a collection of troubles that could be bought off or, if not, disposed of, preferably by others.

In this case, Joe was happy to oblige. “We’ll deal with him and let you know.”