ColdScheme (19 page)

“We’ve established that she was missing no longer than
thirty, forty minutes before her disappearance was noticed and a search
started. We found her at seven o’clock in the morning, when the first shift
arrived at the laundry. Of course, by then security had reviewed the last
night’s tapes and we knew where to look.” He finished with that sigh I felt was
driven by frustration rather than sorrow or concern.

We left with every piece of paper that had ever made it into
Patricia’s file, no mention of court order necessary. Patterson made the offer
before Field and Ken had a chance to raise the subject.

As we headed for the car, I could hear the shrill cries of
gulls, fighting over scraps of food that slithered in the crevices of vast
stretches of crumbling concrete. Daniel Kane’s parting words rose like a
sorcerer’s chant in my memory. “Certainly, Detective. But would it be safe?”

Did we endanger Patricia’s life, indeed, shorten it, with
our first visit to Mongrove? I consoled myself with the reminder that the
criminals were winding down their Baltimore operations and the trail of victims
was a byproduct. It was a logical conclusion, objective, but its mercenary
sub-tone bothered me.

Field drove to the office and we spent an hour, raining
instructions and giving helpful hints to Agent Gould. The distance from
Washington must have awakened a little rebel in her because today, she wore
jeans—and a well-starched, impeccably ironed pale blue gentleman’s shirt with
gold cufflinks. I thought that the little navy blue bowtie was a nice diplomatic
touch. When we entered, her marine-blue, boxy jacket was slung over the back of
her chair but she hurriedly put it on when her boss appeared.

I gave her all the good work I’d done on the Washington
armored car service and managed not to look relieved when I stacked three fat
folders in front of her.

“Creeslow closed down its operations in Baltimore two months
ago,” I told her. “It might be a good idea to check all eleven Washington
outfits for their length of time in operation. All might be longtime Washington
operators but there’s such a thing as absorbing your competition, accepting new
partners—amalgamating. One of those places might have recently expanded to
absorb Creeslow, though they would not have kept the name.”

“I will check the business registry database,” she replied,
glancing at her boss for approval and confirmation.

She received both and for a moment her studious expression
softened. Her eyes didn’t just measure her boss but stroked him. I wondered
whether Inspector Weston was aware of this tender adoration, no matter how
subtle and infrequent it was. His colleague liked her boss—a lot—and not just
as a boss.

“There.” I smacked my hand on top of the file stack. “It’s
not in any particular order but everything I’ve pulled off the internet and got
over the phone, is in there. The connection is the limos that are provided to
ferry the customers in privacy, luxury and with discretion.”

“Why discretion?” Her eyes glazed over with a hard
impersonal sheen. I knew she resented the sound my hand had made on the stack.
I’d shot down her tender moment.

“The function that the customer would be driven to would not
be the kind he would advertise or discuss with anyone, except perhaps his
closest friends. The second victim, Jeffries, volunteered as a drug-testing
subject at pharmacological laboratories. He was well paid for a weekend of
blood testing and filling out endless questionnaires. But it’s not the sort of
thing you would boast about. Other than his friend, Amato, no one at his work
knew what he did on the weekends. Ask those places whether they keep a record
of purposes for which they rent or use their limos. The name of a business or a
customer would be nice to have too.”

She didn’t like taking instructions from me. Her pen flew
angrily across the sheet of paper as she made notes.

“We’re going to see Kim’s family.” I nodded at Field who
said he would tackle Patricia’s files with Agent Mattis’ help.

“What do you think is the connection there? How did they get
to Kim?” he asked in a tone that put me not just on his level but damn well in
his lap. Agent Gould’s pen performed a forceful slash on the paper—an
exclamation mark at the end of her notes.

“Brick worked for Creeslow. He was a sitting duck. Jeffries
liked the fringe benefits offered to lab rats. Kim was a college grad with a
Master’s degree and a dull bank job—though I’m sure that’s not how he saw it.
There had to be a piece of cheese just right for him.”

“Everyone has a vice?” Field asked, tipping his eyebrows.

“You never miss if you target human nature.”

He thought about this for a long time then said, “There’s a
lot of raw human nature hiding underneath the polished exterior of Washington’s
politicians.”

“As far as these people are concerned, Washington is the
biggest cheese factory there is and they already have the right trap.”

“Dinner tonight?” His voice vibrated after me. I didn’t turn
around. I didn’t want to see the gloom-box with the navy blue bowtie.

Speaking over my shoulder, I answered, “You can help my
housekeeper cook it and feed my kid if I’m not home by six.”

* * * * *

“It looks the same, Ken,” I said, for the umpteenth time,
watching my partner circle his Malibu in our parking lot. He was not convinced.
After another five minutes of reassuring him that his car looked as good as it
had before a dead body landed on it, we headed west, for Violetville, for our
appointment with Felix Kim’s parents.

Violent, uncontrolled grief can be frightening but also
purging and liberating. Once the rage and outpouring of emotions run their
gamut, there is settling, spiritual reconciliation and eventually a heavy peace
that with time, grows lighter.

Samuel and Celia Kim were holding their grief inside. The
pressure from keeping something so violent and painful caged had to be enormous
and yet they greeted us with subdued politeness and cordiality. Their reserve
had to have roots in their Oriental heritage and their strength in their family
and friends who had gathered to offer support.

The sprawling bungalow was teeming with visitors when we
were invited to step inside. Black was the predominant color of attire but the
children were allowed to wear their party best. I apologized for intruding on
their private commemorative gathering. They assured me with incredible calm
that they understood and were ready to answer our questions. As we passed
through the kitchen, on our way to the library in the rear of the house, I saw
a black lacquer bowl on the table, filled with glossy, flaming red envelopes
embossed with gold Chinese characters. When we left we each carried one in our
pockets—a ceremonial envelope with a silver coin inside. It was an ancient
custom, part of a Chinese wake, though the services had been conducted in the
Roman Catholic faith.

It was difficult to ask questions meant to discover their dead
son’s vices but once again, they were incredibly understanding—and sensitive.
Felix had a younger sister, still in college, working toward a degree in
accounting. He was the male in the family and much hope had rested on his
shoulders when it came to continuing the family name. It was a traditional
outlook, parochial but I couldn’t fault them for it. He was a good son and made
them proud all his life. Perhaps that’s why they saw no harm in his passion for
gambling. It was not a destructive vice that made a huge dent in his wallet but
from what they told us—once again with astonishing frankness and clarity—it was
a commanding habit. He worked hard at the bank and when he amassed overtime, he
would take it off and enjoy a junket to Atlantic City.

“Let’s see if Endless Tours is still in business,” Ken said
as we left the somber house of grief.

“You drive and I’ll be your navigator,” I told him.

An hour later, we were lost but only because my partner
couldn’t tell the difference between tollway, highway, Interstate and freeway
symbols, though he was pretty good recognizing the numbers. Once we sorted out
our feelings and decided to compromise in terms of where to lay the blame, we
took the first exit and found ourselves in Overlea. Ten minutes later, we parked
in front of the Endless Tours travel bureau, on a surprisingly quiet business
street.

“Would you like to book a tour?” the eager young girl with
cherry-red hair and clothes held together by large silver safety pins, inquired
in a lilting but definitely hungry tone of voice when we explained our purpose.
She must have flunked her high school course in listening skills. We’d spent
ten minutes, speaking good English but didn’t seem to get our point across.

“No tours.” Ken placed his large hand down on her desk,
leaning so close I thought the teenager would feel threatened. I was getting
old. Or my feelings were maturing faster than I would have liked. She was
delighted with such close proximity of male flesh, sterilized with industrial
strength aftershave. For a moment, it looked to me as if she were going to
squeal with joy, wrap her hands around his neck and kiss him. I was about to
warn him, when he straightened up, hand still planted on her desk, fingers
tapping. “Just explain to us—please—everything that is included in your tours
to Atlantic City.”

“We’re running a special to the Ocean City,” she said, in
her best Kelly Bundy voice.

Ken capitulated. “Do you have a brochure that explains what
is involved in the Atlantic City casino tour?”

“Braa-sure?” She recoiled as if the impact of that alien
word pushed her back, hard.

“Colorful piece of paper with lots of words on it,
describing what the customer can expect to enjoy if he buys one of your
pre-packaged gambling tours to Atlantic City.” I hoped that I had not used my
entire supply of simple words and analogies.

“Lots of fun,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. I decided
to try word association.

“Drinking?”

“Hey, like for sure.”

“Lots of drinking?” I bravely lengthened the sentence.

“Like you’re kidding me? Sure.”

“Gambling?”

“Real heavy.”

“Car?”

“Nah. They get driven there in a limo. They got to get their
own car when they get there but why would you?”

“No idea.” I didn’t want to spoil this good rapport. “Limo
from here to there?”

“Yeah, like real stretch.”

““Limo picks up here?”

“Sure.”

“Many customers take the limo?”

“Nah. Real special.”

“One customer, one limo, one trip?” I was really pushing it.

“Well yeah, like dahhh.”

“Limo’s name?”

“George, real cute but no flex.”

“I meant limo company’s name.”

“Herman something.”

“Any other company before that?”

“Creepy slaw.”

“No more Creepy slaw?”

“Nah. Busted.”

“You sure?”

“Like dahhh? Phone disconnected.”

“When?”

“March.”

“You sure?”

“Lady, it was my birthday. Like yeah, real sure.”

“Got Herman in March?”

“Yep.”

“Cute driver?”

She smiled. I felt sorry for the chauffeur.

“Customer list?” I became daring.

“Like no way. I’d get busted.”

I was tempted to flash my badge and saw it had also occurred
to Ken but this gem of a customer rep would have probably missed the significance
of a police officer’s ID.

“Your boss?”

“Banging someone’s wife.”

“His name?”

“Lucifer.”

“Really?” I thought she was paraphrasing again since she
could not possibly be capable of such a metaphor.

“Yeah. Lucifer Bassiano.”

“His address?”

“His wife’s home.”

“Her address then.”

She gave it to us. We left and found a coffee shop, amusing
the counter clerk by ordering a tray of six large coffees—for the two of us.
Then we headed for the Bassiano residence.

Nancy Bassiano was nine months pregnant and about to
deliver. I prayed it wouldn’t happen right at our feet as we stood on the
doorstep of her large, comfortable suburban-style bungalow. She used to perform
the job at her husband’s travel agency that now sat on the shoulders of the
teenager from Fogsville High. Business must have thrived when she worked there.
She rattled off the names of the Creeslow Limo service customer rep, the names
of the three chauffeurs they used and their address—Hellenic Plaza in Brooklyn
Park. Endless Tours had employed them for more than three years, without
complaints. She was surprised to find that one day their telephone number was
disconnected. She thought a service as reliable as theirs should have looked
after its customers with more consideration and informed them that they were
closing down their Baltimore operations, given them time to arrange for another
limo service. She gave us her email address and in return, we gave her our
business cards. She promised to email us a list of customers who had booked
tours for Atlantic City and were driven there in Creeslow limos. We left her
with the impression that we were checking things out as a result of Creeslow
bankruptcy.

Just as we were about to leave, Ken asked whether she knew
what kind of “extras” the limo service might have provided for its good
customers.

“I never thought it was proper,” she sighed, not alarmed by
the subject. “Luke thought it was enterprising but I didn’t like it. They never
charged us extra for it but now and then, for a particular customer, they would
send a lady in the backseat. All their vehicles had tinted windows but I’d
catch a glimpse of a sleek foot wearing high heels and ankle bracelets. I don’t
think it increased our business. Most of our steady customers are also steady
gamblers. That sort of thing goes with gambling, I suppose.”

“Would you by any chance remember a customer Felix Kim?” Ken
asked boldly.