JM01 - Black Maps (26 page)

It had come two weeks later, and it was short, just a single page. It named an amount—Bregman wouldn’t say how much—that he was to have available in a week’s time. He would receive transfer instructions then, and he would have to act on them immediately. Bregman did as he was told. A week later, in the early morning, the last fax came. It gave him four hours to wire the money to a numbered account at a bank in Luxembourg. Bregman had met the deadline, and hadn’t heard a word since.

But from then on, he’d been brooding over what had happened, and been waiting for the other shoe to drop. It had driven him nuts. A few months after making the payment, Bregman’s anger and fear had reached the boiling point. He couldn’t take it anymore; he couldn’t just sit there; he had to do something. What he did was hire himself a PI—he wouldn’t tell me who—to identify the blackmailer. Though he never said, I got the feeling that for Bregman this was the first step in some dark revenge fantasy he’d been nurturing.

Bregman had hobbled his own efforts from the start, however. He hadn’t told his investigator anything about the first two faxes, or given him any background on Nassouli or MWB, which had left the guy with nothing to go on besides the delivery instructions. After two months in Luxembourg, his investigator had mainly found out how seriously they take their banking secrecy over there. The funds had been transferred out moments after they’d come in, and the account had been closed the same day. Neither guile, nor threats, nor bribery had been sufficient to discover anything else.

Besides the story he’d had to tell, Bregman wasn’t too helpful. He had no theories on who might’ve been behind the blackmail, beyond “Gerry, the motherfucker.” And he recalled Trautmann only as “that psycho security guy.”

His fretting and whining over his wrist and groin grew louder as our conversation wore on, but the thought that his blackmailer was victimizing other people had clearly cheered Bregman up. He couldn’t keep the smile from his sour little mouth or the glint from his narrow eyes. He’d tried inexpertly but persistently to find out who my client was, and when that didn’t pan out he’d tried to bribe me. I left before I kicked him in the nuts again.

I made it through the tolls and across the bridge and, finally, to the southbound FDR Drive. It was ten o’clock when I pulled the Taurus into a garage on Seventeenth Street. I gave the guy there something extra in his tip and told him to keep the car close. I’d be leaving early tomorrow.

Bellerose is a small, working-class neighborhood at the edge of Queens, hemmed in by parkways and right up against the Nassau County line. Belmont, where the horses run, is just next door. It’s an old neighborhood, mostly Irish and Italian and German and Polish. Lots of cops, lots of firemen, lots of guys in the trades.

It’s about fifteen miles east of Manhattan, and to get there you take the Midtown Tunnel to the Long Island Expressway. You stay on the LIE, past the crowded Calvary and Mt. Zion Cemeteries, through the blighted stretches of Rego Park, past Shea Stadium and the strange relics of the ’64 World’s Fair, out to exit 30. From there you pick up the Cross Island Parkway, and take it south a few exits, past a park and a golf course and the frightening hulk of Creedmore Psychiatric, to Hillside Avenue. That’s where you get off.

It was 4:45 on Friday morning, overcast and still dark, with the temperature hovering near forty degrees, when I made the turn onto Hillside. I was in my Taurus, a thermos of coffee, a peanut butter sandwich, and a liter of water on the seat next to me, a pair of binoculars and a camera on the floor, and a Glock 30 digging into the small of my back.

I’d come to talk to Bernhard Trautmann. My story was going to be the same as the one I’d told to Al Burrows—that I was doing research for a writer interested in MWB. But I really didn’t care if Trautmann bought it or not. Given what I’d heard about the guy, I wasn’t expecting pleasant chitchat over tea and cakes. I was going to stir him up and see what happened. I’d come out here early in the hopes of getting a look at him before the stirring started.

Hillside Avenue is a gritty, commercial street. It runs east-west, with two lanes going in each direction, and a concrete strip in between and traffic lights every five paces. The buildings along it are small, low, flatroofed, and ugly. They’re faced in brick and fake stone and stuff that looks like roofing shingle, and they house a dense assortment of businesses. Mom-and-pop groceries, auto-body shops, hardware stores, diners, pizzerias, banks, pet stores, bars, and check-cashing places. Most of the storefronts were dark when I drove by, their steel security curtains still rolled down.

The residential streets run off of Hillside. The houses are a mix of one- and two-family units, 1950s-vintage, built shoulder to shoulder on tiny lots. They’re small and boxy, and they look like little motels: one or two low stories; shallow, gabled roofs; cement steps from the street to the front doors; narrow, metal-railed porches; metal-framed windows looking out on swatches of lawn no bigger than a bathmat. Some of the houses are clad in brick, others in stucco or aluminum or an odd, wood-grained plastic. Some of them have ribbons of grass along the sides; others have strips of gravel or packed dirt. Some have small garages under the main floor; others have them out back, like big tool sheds in the tiny yards. Some have no garages at all. Otherwise, they look pretty much alike.

Most of the houses on Trautmann’s street were already strung with Christmas lights, but not Trautmann’s. His place was a neat, two-story box in beige stucco. It was on a corner lot, and had a short driveway on the side, leading to a small, detached garage in back. Apart from its lack of decoration, it didn’t look too different from the rest of the houses on the block, but it had a shuttered, battened-down feel that the others didn’t. Chest-high schoolyard fencing ran around the property, and a high, thick hedge filled the narrow gap between the fence and the house. The hedge ran along the fence in the back too, and screened the little yard from view. Shades were drawn over the windows, but light bled around the edges of one upstairs.

The place next door was a clone of Trautmann’s, but in brick and without the fence or the hedge. There was a For Sale sign out front, and it looked vacant. The house behind his was another clone, with aluminum siding. It had a fenced backyard, where a hefty Rottweiler was bounding around and barking deeply.

The block was not ideal for parking and watching. There was almost no traffic at this hour, and even later in the day it wouldn’t be heavy. What there was would mainly come from the locals. Even in my bland Taurus, I was going to stick out like a sore thumb to the residents, who would know their neighbors, and their cars, by sight.

I went around the block and parked on the cross street, about forty yards off the corner, behind a van and diagonally across the intersection from Trautmann’s house. I killed my engine and cracked the windows to keep them from steaming up. His place was one of the few around with lights burning, and I hoped that meant I wouldn’t have to wait long to get a glimpse of him. As it turned out, I didn’t.

The Rottweiler’s barking became louder and more insistent, and when I looked up the street I could see why. A man was running, headed in my direction. He was going at a good pace and had a fluid, efficient stride. He passed into the cone of light cast by a streetlamp, and I could see his breath condensing in front of him. He looked like a big guy, even at this distance, maybe two inches taller than me, and lean. He swung around the corner and pulled up at Trautmann’s front stoop and checked his watch. Then he started to stretch. I picked up my binoculars.

He was wearing gray shorts and a gray sweatshirt with no sleeves, and the muscles in his broad shoulders and long arms and legs stood out like cables. His hands were like phonebooks. There was a faded tattoo of a scorpion on his right shoulder and a ropy, red scar down his left forearm. He did hamstring stretches, and then stretched his quads and his Achilles tendons. He stretched slowly and for a long time, and though he was big there was nothing awkward or abrupt in his movements. There was instead something serpentine.

His dark hair was brush-cut with some gray at the sides. His face was taut and narrow, with lots of planes and prominent bones—narrow, deep-set eyes, bony brow, small, sharp nose, high cheeks, and a thin mouth. His skin was the only thing that hinted at his fifty-three years. It was weathered and lined, as if he’d spent a lot of time in the wind or squinting at the sun. It made him look more like a cowboy in an advertisement than an ex-cop from Queens. I lowered my binoculars, picked up the camera, and took a half-dozen shots, full-face and profile.

He was doing hamstring stretches on the stairs when I realized that he was, unhurriedly and quite casually, checking out the street and the intersection—up and down and all around. I was on the shadowed side of the street and mostly hidden by the van, and the light was still pretty thin, so I didn’t think he’d seen me. But I was impressed by whatever it was in his reptile brain that had told him to look around, and cautioned by how smoothly he’d done it. He did one more set of quad stretches, climbed the stairs, and went inside.

I didn’t see him again for over an hour, during which time I drank my coffee, ate half my sandwich, and got suspicious looks from the few people who noticed me parked there. The neighborhood was waking and traffic had picked up, and I was thinking of moving to another street when a black Audi A8 backed out of Trautmann’s driveway. Trautmann was at the wheel. I waited a bit, then pulled out after him. He was headed toward Hillside.

I let a few cars get between us, and a few more when we turned onto Hillside. Working solo, it’s nearly impossible to tail anyone except a serious idiot for any length of time without being made. Trautmann was no idiot, and I knew he’d spot me sooner or later. I just wanted it to be later. There weren’t too many A8s in this neck of the woods, so I could hang well back. He drove east for a couple of miles, into Nassau County, then pulled in at a diner. I drove past. It was a twenty-four-hour spot and looked busy. There was a doughnut place across the street, also doing good business. I circled the block and pulled into its side lot. I went inside, used the bathroom, filled my thermos with coffee, and bought three chocolate doughnuts. Then I went back to my Taurus. I had a partial view of the diner from there, of the door and the cash register. I waited and tried to make my doughnuts last.

Every so often, I took a discreet look with the binoculars. I couldn’t see much—a piece of the counter, a tough-looking waitress working behind it, the cash register on a counter by the door, a big, friendly-looking, white-haired guy manning it, people entering, people paying up, people leaving. The big guy seemed to know most of the customers, and he laughed and chatted with nearly everyone who came and went.

I’d been out there long enough to finish my doughnuts and make a good dent in my coffee when, through the binoculars, I saw the big guy stiffen. His wide grin vanished and his whole face tightened, and he seemed suddenly very interested in his countertop. A second later, Trautmann strolled up to the register. He handed the big guy a check and a bill, and the big guy rang it up and gave him change. The whole time, Trautmann was Mr. Friendly—smiling, talking, laughing—but the big guy said not a word. Trautmann pocketed the change and clapped the big guy on the shoulder with one of his huge hands. The big guy flinched, and he watched Trautmann all the way out the door.

Trautmann walked across the diner lot. He was wearing a black leather field jacket over a gray shirt, well-tailored gray pants, and black cowboy boots. I took some more photos. He got into his car and pulled out, still headed east. I did the same. More businesses had opened and traffic had picked up considerably, and there were plenty of cars between us now. He stayed on Hillside through New Hyde Park and Williston Park. When he got to East Williston he turned off, onto Roslyn Road, and headed north. After two miles he turned off Roslyn Road and pulled into the parking lot of a crappy-looking mall that called itself Roslyn Meadows.

It was a meadow of cracked asphalt, surrounding a corrugated metal heap that looked like the bad marriage of two airplane hangars. There was a discount electronics store at one end of the place and a down-market department store at the other, and lots of space for rent in between. It was still early, just after eight, and the lot was mostly empty. The few cars that were there were clustered around the ends.

I kept on going when Trautmann turned in. I saw his car cross the lot and disappear behind the building. I went down Roslyn Road another quarter mile, turned around at a Burger King, and drove back to the mall. I parked near the electronics store, next to a rusting pickup, and walked around back. Trautmann’s Audi was parked about halfway down, near some dumpsters and a loading dock. There weren’t many other cars there. There wasn’t much at all besides chewed-up asphalt, a sagging metal fence, and a field of weeds beyond it. I went around to the front and went inside.

The holiday crowds hadn’t turned up at Roslyn Meadows yet, and if they did, I suspected it would be to visit the OTB parlor. Still, the mall was ready for them, and decked out in its cheesy holiday best. Styrofoam candy canes and paper garland and mangy plastic trees abounded, and even the windows of the vacant stores—and there were quite a few of these—had been hung with paper reindeer. A fountain had been drained and transformed into something that was supposed to be Santa’s workshop, though it looked more like Santa’s grimy basement. Its centerpiece was a big wooden chair where Junior could be photographed while he wailed and thrashed on Santa’s lap. Neither Santa nor the elves were in yet. Probably still sleeping it off, or maybe down at the OTB. They did have the Christmas music cranking, though—“Santa Baby,” one of my favorites. I was wearing a black sweatshirt and jeans and paddock boots, and a field jacket to cover my gun. I was overdressed for Roslyn Meadows.