Outfoxed: An Andy Carpenter Mystery (9 page)

Petrone had become more insular of late, going out far less than he used to, spending most of his time at home. He once fancied himself a prominent citizen, and in fact he had donated substantial money to various charities. But ironically, as he attempted to expand his business empire, he withdrew personally from the world.

But Petrone continued to eat at Enzo’s three nights a week, every week. He sometimes varied the weeknights, for security reasons, but he could reliably be found there every Saturday night. He also varied his dinner companions: sometimes family and sometimes business associates. All Petrone’s friends fell into one of those two categories.

On this particular Saturday night, there were no members of Petrone’s family near enough to smell the garlic. He was dining privately with Joseph Russo, who was updating him on his recent successful trip to Las Vegas.

Only three other tables in the restaurant were occupied, and all by Petrone’s men. All members of the public who had called to make a reservation had been told that the place was completely booked, and there were no tables available. That was clearly not true.

There was not a single person in the world that Dominic Petrone completely trusted. It wasn’t that he assessed people and determined they were not trustworthy; it was more a philosophy of life. There was nothing to be gained by having complete faith in a person, but there was much to lose.

But Joseph Russo came closest to having Petrone’s full confidence. He had been in Petrone’s organization from the time he was a young teenager, and time and time again, he proved himself to be smart and completely reliable.

His devotion to Petrone over the years had been demonstrably total, often coming at great risk to his own health. Russo had once literally taken a bullet for his boss and later had gone to prison to protect him. Stuff like that is a rather good way to measure loyalty.

The two men had just finished their entrée and were having an after-dinner brandy when Russo’s cell phone rang. He answered it with, “Yeah?” and then did not say another word.

When he hung up, he simply said to Petrone, “Time to go.”

Petrone nodded, put down his brandy, and stood up. Two men at a nearby table stood up as well and walked with him into an office he used behind the kitchen. When they arrived there, Petrone went into the office, and the two men took up positions at the doorway.

It was exactly seven and a half minutes later that two men walked through the front door of Enzo’s, hands in their pockets. Their eyes scanned the room and registered surprise at not seeing Dominic Petrone at any of the tables.

It was the last thing their eyes registered. They each took a bullet to the chest and one to the head, before they even had a chance to get their own guns out of their pockets.

Once they hit the ground, one of Russo’s men took the guns out of the dead men’s pockets, while leaving the guns in their hands. Another called the police, to alert them to the shooting that had just taken place.

Before the police arrived, Russo received another phone call, reporting that the man who had sent the two killers to Enzo’s, Angelo Mazzi, had himself been shot and killed leaving the Bronx restaurant where he often dined.

All in all, thought Russo, it had been a very productive evening, even if they didn’t get to finish their brandy.

Vince Sanders, in typical low-key style, has a huge two-word headline on his front page: “Mob War!” Laurie is reading the paper at the kitchen table, while having breakfast with Ricky, when I come down in the morning. I can see the two words dominating the front page from across the room. It seems like an anachronism, like something out of the thirties.

“What the…” is my clever opening comment.

Laurie looks up and says, “Quite a bit of action last night.”

I walk to the table and look over her shoulder at the front page. Ricky does the same, and says, “What’s a mob war?” I don’t know why they have to teach these kids to read so fast.

“It’s when two different groups of bad men have an argument and fight,” she says.

“Is it always men?” Ricky asks.

Laurie nods. “Always.”

“What’s a ‘hedge perv’?” Ricky asks, apparently not finished checking out Vince’s high-class headlines.

Laurie hands me the paper, dropping the problem effectively in my lap. I look at it and see that Joseph Westman, a wealthy hedge fund executive, deliberately drove his car into a tree. The “perv” part comes from the fact that he was apparently about to be accused of consuming and disseminating child pornography.

“It’s not clear,” I lie. “Let me get back to you on it, Rick.”

“Is it hedges like in front of the house?”

“Most likely,” I say.

We wait until Ricky goes up to his room to keep talking about the Petrone story. I quickly read the article, after which Laurie says, “Looks like Petrone has more to worry about than your case.”

The story says that there were two separate murder attempts on heads of organized family, almost simultaneously. The attempt on Petrone failed; the one on Angelo Mazzi succeeded.

The men who tried to kill Petrone are dead, and the ones who actually killed Mazzi got away. The authorities are not commenting, if they even know, whether Petrone and Mazzi were at war with each other, or whether a third party was after them both.

A number of men have been arrested, including Tony Costa, one of Mazzi’s top lieutenants. They are being held on a variety of charges, though none of them sound too serious. Since this was most likely an interstate war, the FBI is involved, and I assume they have engineered the arrests in the hope of getting some of the arrested to talk.

Good luck with that.

This is a fairly shocking development; things like this just don’t seem to happen anymore. In recent years these people have been too busy trying to preserve their domains and stay out of jail to fight with each other.

I’m interested in this news mostly because if Petrone should be killed, then he would be less likely to kill me. And I’m always in favor of that.

I don’t dwell on it, because it is extremely unlikely that it has anything to do with my case, and that is where my focus has to be. That is why I am driving into the city to see Robby Divine.

Robby is a mind-bogglingly rich investor whom I happened to sit next to at a charity dinner a few years ago. We hit it off, and I occasionally call on him when I need insight into the club of the rich and richer. My pathetic thirty-five-million-dollar nest egg wouldn’t get me past the bouncer that stands outside that club.

Robby’s business is money; he makes huge investments in companies and often buys them outright, but not because he is particularly interested in their businesses. He is only interested in their ability to increase his wealth. It’s how he keeps score.

But he is also smart, and every one of the many media articles written about him is quick to point that out. He doesn’t make emotional decisions, but rather he thoroughly learns the intricacies of the businesses he invests in and uses that knowledge to make fortune after fortune.

He is Warren Buffett with a Chicago Cubs cap.

I bring up baseball when I walk into his office, and I mention that everyone is saying that this could be the year the Cubs break through and win their first World Series in forever.

“Don’t say anything to jinx it,” he says. “If you jinx it, I will have you killed.”

“You believe in jinxes?”

“What else can explain it? You know how long it’s been? Do you know what happened the same year that the Cubs last won it all?”

“I don’t.”

“The Montreal Wanderers won the Stanley Cup; they beat the Toronto Trolley Leaguers. William Howard Taft was elected president. The first Model T was built.”

“That was a long time ago,” I say, trying to go along.

“Really? You think so?” he asks. “You know who won the Cy Young Award that year?”

“Nope.”

“Nobody won it,” he says. “You know why nobody won it? Because Cy Young was still pitching.”

“That was really a long time ago,” I say, my only goal being to end this trip down memory lane. He’s getting worked up about it.

“How could it take so long if there is no jinx involved?” he asks. “Why else would we not have won?”

I shrug. “The Saint Louis Cardinals?”

He glares at me, then speaks with a quiet intensity. “Never mention the Saint Louis Cardinals in my presence again. They are the source of all that is evil in the world.”

I’ve always considered the Cardinals a classy organization, but I don’t mention that. Instead I nod and take out an imaginary pen and paper, pretending to write. “Source of all evil … got it.”

“Good,” he says. “Now what can I do for you this time?”

I ask him about the routers and servers that Starlight makes, and how they make trades faster than other servers.

“You mean how the thing actually works?” he asks. “What goes on inside the machines? I have no idea; doesn’t interest me.”

“I thought faster trades would be important to you.”

“Of course they are, but I just want to know that I have access to the fastest technology. I don’t need to know how that technology physically works.”

“How much faster is it?” I ask.

“A millisecond … a nanosecond … not sure what you call it, but it’s a really small amount of time.”

“Why is that a benefit?”

“You ever watch Jeopardy?” he asks, and then proceeds when I nod. “You know how sometimes they’ll show a question, and all three people will press their buzzers? But only one of them gets to answer, because that person was the fastest to buzz in?”

“Right.”

“Suppose you were one of those contestants. How big an advantage would it be to see the answer just a little faster than the two people you’re playing against? Just enough to let you buzz in faster.”

“I’d still wait until Alex Trebek read the clue.”

“That’s why you’re poor,” he says. “It would be a huge advantage. Equity trading isn’t guys on the floor running around with a piece of paper anymore. Trading is computers moving fortunes around at the speed of light. Speed is the key, and those servers are the key to the key. I don’t care how they work, as long as they work. And as long as they are working for me.”

“Boomer got adopted,” Willie says, when I pick up the phone. “That was fast,” I say.

“Yeah, it all just fell into place. Young couple, nice house, no kids … love at first sight. They have another dog that Boomer got along really well with.”

“And Sondra approved?” I ask. Willie and I both think that among the three of us, Sondra is the best judge of how good a dog home a prospective adopter represents.

“Totally. She thinks it’s the perfect home for him.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks for not pushing back on this, Willie. It really is what’s best for him.”

“Yeah, you were right. By the way, you mentioned something at that meeting the other day about Dominic Petrone,” Willie says.

“Right. His name has come up in this case. I’m not sure if it’s important yet or not.”

“You want me to talk to Joey?”

Willie is talking about Joseph Russo, Petrone’s number two man. Willie and Russo had occasion to be in prison at the same time, but under very different circumstances, a major difference being that Willie was wrongly accused and Russo was very rightly accused.

They didn’t really know each other, until one day when three fellow prisoners tried to make a name for themselves by sticking makeshift knives into Russo’s rather large belly. Willie saw it about to happen, and the sight offended his considerable sense of fair play.

Willie intervened, using all of his significant intervening skills. He put all three attackers in the hospital, earning Russo’s apparently undying gratitude in the process. We have taken advantage of their relationship a couple of times in the past, as Willie has spoken to Russo and gotten favors that have benefited us. It has helped that in those cases, Russo and Petrone’s interests, if not coinciding with ours, didn’t conflict either.

But that was then, and this is now. “Not this time, Willie,” I say. “This time I think we’re on opposite sides.”

He nods. “Okay. Just let me know.”

“I will, but I doubt it will happen.”

Willie’s question makes me realize that I should be paying more attention to Petrone’s potential involvement. All I have so far is that Denise mentioned to Brian that she had reason to believe that Gerry Wright was involved with Petrone. It scared Brian enough that he broke out of prison to protect her, or at least that’s his story.

But she could have been wrong, or she could have been right without it having anything to do with the murders. It is clearly something I need to find out about.

When I get off the phone with Willie, I go inside and call Pete Stanton. “Always a treat to hear from you,” he says.

“The pleasure is mine. Which one of your law enforcement colleagues knows the most about Dominic Petrone and his operation?”

“Why? You looking to defend the two guys who tried to kill him last night? If so, I have bad news for you. They’re dead, but maybe you can still collect a fee.”

“Any chance you can just answer the question?”

“Nobody here would be that current on it. It’s the state cops that ride herd on him.”

“So who can I talk to over there?”

He thinks for a moment. “Barry Leonard. You know him?”

“I’ve cross-examined him a couple of times, and I saw him at your birthday party,” I say.

“Right. He’s a good friend.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Can you get him to meet with me?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Continued free beer?”

“Fair enough. But why would he want to do that?”

“He doesn’t like beer?” I ask.

“Now that I think about it, he does. But not as much as he likes going to Giants games. Unfortunately, like me, it’s almost impossible to go to a game on a poor police officer’s salary. And by a game, I mean a game like this Sunday’s game against the Eagles.”

“I’m taking Ricky this Sunday.” Pete knows I have season tickets to the Giants games, and he’s always angling to get them.