Legally Dead (4 page)

Michael Venturi arrived home from the “Jersey Shore” that night, after switching cars and credit cards with Iggy and retrieving his cell phone. While Scout explored the apartment, Venturi checked his hotline, used only for protected witness emergencies.

One message, a few hours old.

A familiar voice, hoarse and stressed.

“It's Gino. Where are ya? Pick up the phone, will ya? Call me at this number, right away,” he said. “I ran into a situation here. You gotta run some interference for me. It's important. They wanna serve a search warrant on my house.”

Venturi laughed. He didn't return the call.

He watched the late news instead. Local stations all led with the same story: the happy chaos and pandemonium as cash rained down on a blighted urban neighborhood.

An armored-car robbery in New Hampshire rated a brief mention late in the broadcast. No one had connected the dots. Yet. With luck, the search warrant had already been served on 1410 Belmont Street. He visualized Salvi in handcuffs, the house roped off and surrounded by crime-scene trucks.

Venturi went into his kitchen, reached for the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's black, paused, then closed the cupboard instead.

At midnight he called April Howard, said he just got home, and apologized for the hour.

“You sound terrific,” she bubbled enthusiastically. “How was the beach?”

“Cool. I need to get away more often.”

He said he'd see her soon, then checked the cable news.

Nothing yet. He relaxed in his chair, Scout curled up at his feet, and waited without regret for everything to hit the fan.

During the night Salvi left another, more desperate, message. Venturi neither picked up nor returned the call. He slept soundly for the first time in months.

In the morning, he applied a bronze coat of spray-on tan, then took Scout for a walk. The mutt was a magnet. Never had so many people, including total strangers, engaged him in friendly conversation.

He said he rescued the stray on the Jersey Shore.

“So that's where you were. I thought you were out of town,” said his neighbor, a middle-aged librarian, as they passed on the stairs. “I had a dog who looked a lot like him when I was little,” she said, baby-talking and petting the animal, who basked in the attention.

“So did I,” Venturi said. “He looked so hungry I couldn't resist feeding him. Then he followed me to my car. He didn't have a collar and looked so sad. I was afraid he'd wind up at the local pound.”

“Scout,” she said sweetly, causing the dog's ears to perk up. “How'd you come up with that?”

He shrugged, backing into his apartment.

“Nice tan,” she said with a smile.

“Thanks. It was a good couple of days,” he said truthfully.

He cooked himself and the dog a hearty breakfast. Scout liked bacon, eggs over easy, fried potatoes, and even a cinnamon muffin. They watched the morning news as they ate.

The story didn't take long to break. CNN and Fox News reported that New Hampshire police and the FBI were investigating a possible link between the armored-car heist and the big bills spilled over the Bronx.

A CNN anchor wondered aloud why robbers who pulled off a high-risk holdup would toss away the loot.

“Can this be the case of a modern-day Robin Hood?” another newscaster asked.

Not likely. The armored-car driver's condition was guarded after brain surgery. The second guard was expected to fully recover, but had suffered temporary hearing damage and was unable to remember the crime due to head injuries.

The media jumped to the conclusion that he had bravely tried to fight off the gang, killing one who was left behind by his accomplices as they fled with an estimated $1.6 million.

No wonder those bags were so heavy,
Venturi thought.

Fox News was first to report that two persons of interest, one injured, were being interviewed.

Investigators stonewalled, saying they were still piecing the facts together.

That the guard's weapon had never been fired, much less drawn, or that the persons of interest were identified by an anonymous tip went unmentioned.

Little, if any, cash had been recovered from the chaotic scene in the Bronx, making it difficult to positively link it to the robbery.

Even police and other city employees dispatched to a dozen minor accidents, a major traffic snarl, and free-for-all fights in the street had reportedly succumbed, abandoning their own cars to pursue, scoop up, and snatch fistfuls of wind-borne bills from the air.

Residents had run to fill pots, pails, and garbage bags. Eyewitness accounts described two women stuffing a baby carriage with cash. Now, however, all denied knowledge of the windfall. Those who would talk to police and reporters claimed they were in the bathroom, asleep, or somewhere else when bedlam broke out.

Hundreds of people were involved. Only one had returned any money. A small boy who handed a $50 bill to a policeman because it didn't belong to him was now an instant celebrity, slated to appear on
The Tonight Show.

The sole official complaint came from an irate motorist who reported that a hail of quarters pelted his car and damaged the finish.

Venturi sipped his coffee and acknowledged that in his enthusiasm, he had gone too far. He never should have dumped that sack of loose change off the overpass.

To kill time while waiting, he went out to stock up on dog food and Milk Bones, among other things.

When he returned an hour later, his home phone, the hotline, and the cell phone in its charger were all ringing. He checked Caller ID but didn't pick them up.

The Flemington, New Hampshire, police department was on the hotline. Salvi had obviously given them the number. The office was calling his home phone and April Howard was speed-dialing his cell. She finally gave up. It rang again minutes later. Ruth Ann.

The news was out.

He poured another cup of coffee, took a deep breath, then called the office.

His call was directed to Rich Archbold, the prosecutor, who happened to be there.

“Chief McMullen wants you in here right now,” he said tersely.

“What's up?” Venturi asked innocently. “I'll be in Wednesday.”

“Get your ass in here, ASAP.”

“Sounds important.”

“Damn right. I'll tell him you're on the way.”

Before leaving the apartment, he played an old telephone message again. The last message that Madison, his wife, had left him. She sounded young, vibrant, and alive—all the things she was and ceased to be that day.

He had never erased it. It was all he had left. Listening to it was not as acutely painful as it had been when it was new; now it felt more like the ache from a severed limb.

“Be home in a little bit. Love you, Mikey. We're boarding now. Wait till you see our loot!” Her spontaneous, happy laughter followed, joined by a familiar chuckle.

His pregnant wife and her mother. Listening to their voices together still made him smile. He held on to that smile as he walked into the storm.

Normally the genial security guard greeted Venturi by name and waved him through. Today he asked for identification, frowned as he scrutinized it, then picked up the phone.

Not a good sign. He'd been gone less than a week.

Venturi stepped off the elevator. Archbold was waiting, in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened.

The office appeared to be in crisis mode. Clearly agitated prosecutors who had used Salvi to win convictions or were prepared to have him testify in the upcoming Schoenberg trial huddled in a glass-walled conference room. “How the
hell
could this happen?” one loudly demanded, apoplectic and red-faced.

Another muttered something Venturi didn't hear and they all turned to stare at him.

April Howard did not even look up from her desk when he greeted her. Ruth Ann watched from her cubicle, her brow furrowed in an expression of concern.

“This way. Let's go.” Like a cop, Archbold steered Venturi away from his own desk toward the chief's office.

“What the hell's going on?” Venturi asked. “Who died?”

“You tell us,” Archbold said.

The chief slammed down his phone when he saw them.

“What do you know about Flemington?” he demanded.

“It's in New Hampshire,” Venturi said. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Salvi's under arrest,” he snapped.

“Why am I not surprised?” Venturi took a seat in front of the man's desk. “What for?”

“He said he tried all night to reach you on your hotline. Where have you been?”

“The Jersey Shore. Got home late last night.”

“You haven't seen the news? Read the papers?”

“I quit reading them and chilled at the beach. Your suggestion, remember?” He turned to Archbold as if for confirmation.

Fury gathered in the chief's eyes.

“He's charged with armed robbery,” Archbold said, “of an armored car, and three homicides, among other major felonies. He's through.
We're
through. Schoenberg walks. Without Salvi we have no case. And the convictions already won will be back to bite us on appeal based on his lack of credibility.”

“An armored car?” Venturi feigned surprise.

“Salvi, his nephew, and an ex-con named Joe Russo used military ordnance to take out an armored truck,” Archbold explained. “The FBI thinks it was procured from an illegal arms dealer they've been investigating in Virginia.”

“Somebody apparently broke up the robbery, then dropped a dime on Salvi.” McMullen's pale eyes glittered malevolently.

“Three murders?” Venturi asked.

“The little girls you were so worked up about and his own nephew, killed in the armored car caper. They're not sure who shot him, but they charged Salvi and the other surviving robber under the felony murder rule.”

Venturi nodded. “Makes sense.” When someone is killed during a crime, the perpetrator can be charged with homicide even if he did not pull the trigger.

“So they found the little girls?” he asked solemnly.

“One in his house, on ice, last night.” The chief's voice was cold. “The other one an hour ago.”

“Where?”

“At a nearby house for sale,” Archbold said, “unoccupied for some time. In the septic tank, in the backyard.”

“Jesus.” Venturi shook his head in disbelief.

“Why do I think you know more than we do?” The chief looked grim. “Were you there, Venturi?”

“Flemington?”

“You were hot to trot right up there last time we spoke.”

“You ordered me not to,” Venturi reminded him. “And before you try to accuse me of anything, take a look in the mirror. I always said Salvi was not a good candidate for WITSEC. Remember? He's a sick son of a bitch. Always has been, admitted to participating in nine mob hits, yet we relocate him to a small town so the government can fry a bigger fish. Would you want him next door to your wife and kids?”

“Whoever broke up the armored-car robbery may have stolen the money,” Archbold said.

“All I know is that what you're telling me,” Venturi said, “sounds like a double cross among thieves. One of them turns on his accomplices, shoots one, steals the loot, and throws the others under the bus.”

“Possible,” the chief said, “except that the loot fell out of the sky over the Bronx.”

“Is that confirmed?” Venturi frowned.

“Not yet.”

“How do they know that Salvi and Russo didn't kill the nephew, then stash the money before their arrests?”

“Then who was the tipster?” Archbold asked.

“Tipster?” Venturi shrugged. “You got me. But they must have his voice on tape. The FBI works wonders with audio.”

“So you'll take a polygraph?” The chief spat out the words.

“Hell, no,” Venturi said. “Salvi's the criminal, not me. What's the plan for damage control?”

“Too late for that now.” Archbold paced the room like a grieving mourner.

“News is already breaking about the girls' bodies being found,” McMullen said. “The media's descending on Flemington. The next big revelation will out Salvi and connect him to WITSEC. When certain politicians in Washington hear this, we're screwed. The future of the fucking program is totally screwed.”

He looked like a man about to stroke out. Venturi hoped he didn't. He'd hate like hell to have to give him CPR.

“Sorry,” he said. “This all stinks. One in four protected witnesses go back to their old bad habits or invent new ones. Look at Salvi, Sammy the Bull, and the others like them. Animals don't change their stripes. They find new prey and become somebody else's problem, while you slap each other on the back and celebrate conviction rates.”

Venturi sighed and shook his head. “I can't do this any more.” He reached for his badge case.

“Damn right you can't,” the chief blurted. “The only way you ever work in law enforcement again is over my dead body. I want your badge and gun. Now.”

Venturi handed over his government-issued weapon, which he had never used, and the badge with the silver star, then suffered the humiliation of being escorted from the building by security. Other agents, lawyers, and the office staff watched. He half-expected them to applaud.

He stepped out onto the sunlit street, no longer a deputy U.S. Marshal who helped create new lives and identities, mostly for people who deserved them the least.

He knew he'd be the scapegoat. Two days later, as the national story grew into a firestorm, the U.S. Marshals Service issued a press release announcing that the individual responsible for relocating Gino Salvi to Flemington had been fired.

Venturi made plans to leave town. They accelerated when a too-chatty woman, who identified herself as Judy Grimes, an investigative reporter at
The Washington Post,
called his unlisted home number. He said he'd get back to her, then visited his financial adviser.

An FBI agent with a degree in accounting, Jim Dance had retired from the bureau and parlayed his expertise into a successful Manhattan practice. He and Venturi had worked together on a number of cases in the past and were friends.

Dance's office was impressive, plush carpets, dark leather and mahogany furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the East River. Framed degrees and awards were displayed on the walls. And his blond, younger second wife and baby smiled from a silver picture frame on his desk.

“Michael, Michael. How are you?” His greeting was heartfelt, his handshake strong.

“You've heard, I'm sure.”

Dance nodded.

“It's not about to get better. I'm out of here. Probably won't be back.”

“Sorry.” Dance shook his head somberly. “Their loss. You were their best and brightest.”

“Couldn't be happier to be unemployed,” Venturi said. “The job was a mistake from the start.”

“How can I help you?”

“All I want now is distance between me, this city, and that agency.”

Dance nodded. “Can't say I blame you for that.”

“I'll let you know when and where I decide to settle.”

“I guess you'll want to transfer your portfolio.” Dance picked up his fountain pen.

“Why? You've done a great job.”

Dance looked pleased, then chuckled. “So you
have
been checking your statements. I hear from you so rarely, I often wonder if you even open them. Need to cash out some investments now?”

Venturi shook his head. “You know how I feel, Jim.”

He had never touched a dime of his $19 million wrongful-death settlement for the loss of his wife and their unborn child. He considered it blood money and put it out of his mind after investing it.

“I have some savings. I'm all right for now. I'll find something to do.”

Dance looked troubled. “You haven't been active in trading, or taken advantage of any of your assets.”

“I'm not comfortable doing that.”

“What about charity?” Dance asked thoughtfully. “Overnight I can put together a list of worthy causes you might support in Madison's name.”

“I'll give it some thought later, sometime in the future. I have too many other things to think about right now.”

“Well, keep it in mind. Call me any time, day or night, if you need anything. And for God's sake, stay in touch. Let me know where you land, so I can forward your statements. Here, take my cell phone number.” He scrawled it on his business card and pushed it across the desk. “I can always transfer the money to you or your new financial adviser.”

“I know you take good care of everything,” Venturi said, getting to his feet. “I'll be seeing you.”

“I wish you well, my friend.” The two men embraced.

“Take care of yourself, Michael.” Dance stepped back and gazed like a concerned father into his eyes. “Remember. You're still young, only thirty-eight. Despite the past, your future still lies ahead. It's just up to you to find it, enjoy it, and be happy again.”

Dance saw him out of the office and watched him walk away.

Venturi's steps felt light. He was happy as hell to be free of his job and on his way out of town. If a Senate investigating committee began issuing subpoenas, he wouldn't make it easy for them. He'd simply get lost, no forwarding address.

He'd arranged too many fresh starts for undeserving people. Considering his own role in the New Hampshire tragedy, he probably didn't deserve a new life, either. But he thought about what Jim Dance said and decided he'd do the best he could.