Swimming with Sharks (27 page)

“You won’t believe it,” he said, “but one of those thugs is the son of Vitali, that real-estate tycoon from Manhattan.”

“Oh really?” Finnegan grinned coldly. “That’s the icing on the cake.”

He pushed impatiently through the waiting press crowd without addressing any of their questions. In the basement near the holding cells, he ran into Patrick Peters.

“What happened to Tommy is terrible,” he said to Finnegan compassionately. “They took him to Fordham.”

“At least one of those bastards bit the dust.”

“Yes,” Peters nodded, “I heard. Shot to the head.”

“But it was too late. He’d already shot Tommy.”

Peters gave Finnegan a sympathetic look and then patted him on the shoulder.

“I think it would be better if you call it a day now, Marv.”

“No, I’m not leaving until I see what happens with Tommy,” Finnegan objected. “I’m all right, Pat.”

Peters nodded. “It seems that you caught a big fish. We might actually be able to get to one of the guys pulling the strings.”

“I already heard. Vitali’s son,” Finnegan replied.

“You should inform the mayor. That’ll interest him.”

“I believe that’s Captain Tremell’s decision,” Peters said. “He’s on his way here.”

Finnegan put his jacket on the coat rack and walked over to the holding cells where the five arrested men were locked up. Lieutenant Peters walked upstairs to the police station to report the details to Captain Tremell, the commanding officer of the Forty-First Precinct.

“Where’s Vitali Junior?” Finnegan asked the officer on duty. The latter briefly looked at his colleague’s determined face and nodded toward the door directly across from his desk. “I’m getting myself a cup of coffee,” he said.

Cesare Vitali looked at the three officers across the interrogation room with a taunting sneer, intending to appear self-confident. But Finnegan saw the fear in his dark eyes. Just one look was enough to tell him that this guy was high. He obviously didn’t smoke crack or shoot heroin like the poor kids; he snorted coke. Mendoza and Soames positioned themselves in front of the door.

“I want to make a phone call!” the young man demanded.

“Not now,” Finnegan countered calmly.

“I have the right to make a phone call.”

“You have bullshit.”

Finnegan hated these greasy wops, these spoiled rich kids with their expensive leather jackets, shiny gel in their hair, and flashy cars, who came to this part of town to cause trouble.

“Hey, cop. I want to call my lawyer,” Cesare Vitali said and leaned back casually.

Finnegan also hated being called
cop
.

“Get up when I’m speaking to you, you stupid spaghetti jerk-off.” Cesare looked over to the other two officers, and then he grinned.

“Kiss my ass, cop.”

This was exactly what Finnegan was waiting for. With one quick step, he stood in front of the kid and grabbed him by his jacket. The fact that this little arrogant bastard had shot Tommy enraged him. Finnegan slapped him so hard that he fell to the ground.

“What did you just say?” he asked in a friendly voice. He calmly pulled out his baton and smacked it into his palm.

“When my father finds out how you’re treating me in here, your days as a cop are over,” Cesare said with naked fear his eyes.

“I’m shaking now,” he said loudly, his eyes widening as he pretended to be afraid. “I want to know what you were doing in my neighborhood, you little wop rat!”

“I won’t say a word without my lawyer.” Cesare crossed his arms with a defiant expression on his face. With a quick swing of his arm, Finnegan bashed the baton on the boy’s shoulder. Cesare cried out, writhing in pain. Finnegan kept hitting him until he whimpered and begged for mercy.

“Rat,” he said calmly, “you better spit it out now. Otherwise, it’ll be unpleasant for you.”

Tears ran down Cesare’s face. His self-confidence seemed swept away.

“Look who’s crying now!” Finnegan taunted him. “Are you a girl or something?”

Fury flared in Cesare’s eyes for a moment, but his fear was building.

“I’m not saying a word. You’re in big trouble now.”

“What for, if I may ask?” Finnegan’s voice was smooth as silk.

“You hit me!”

“What?” Finnegan turned to his colleagues and they just grinned. “He claims that I’ve hit him! Jimmy, Freddie—what do you say about that?”

“Do you know what the dudes Marv has beaten look like?” Mendoza grinned. Cesare looked at him stunned, but then he understood. These cops weren’t witnesses on his side. His cocaine high had gone away in one swoop. No one would believe him that a police officer had abused him. In front of a jury, he wouldn’t have much credibility as a criminal who was caught in the act. Threatening him with his father was also completely pointless. Cesare knew that his father would explode with anger when he found out he’d been arrested. He had screwed it all up once again. He’d let himself get caught, but this time he was really in deep shit. He’d end up in jail, and his father would show no interest in helping him.

“You goddamn wops shot my partner,” Finnegan said in a cold voice. “We don’t like people who shoot at us.”

He rolled up his sleeves, and Cesare looked around in panic. There was no way out. The other two cops at the door turned their backs on him.

“Are you going to open your fucking mouth now,” Finnegan hissed, “or are you one of those Mafia scumbags who choose to die instead of saying anything?”

His baton bashed down, and Cesare felt his nose breaking and lips busting. He was in the worst nightmare of his life; he was in such a panic that he pissed his pants.

“I don’t know!” he whined. “Please! I really don’t know anything!”

“Funny, I still have a feeling that you’re lying to me. I hate it when people lie to me.”

The blows rained down on him again. They hit him everywhere, and Cesare could taste blood. He could hardly speak anymore, and he spit out a tooth. Finnegan raised his baton again.

“No! Please, no more! I’ll tell you everything I know!” Cesare hid his face under his arms.

“There you go,” Finnegan said with a grin. “You could’ve had it much easier. So, go ahead and tell me.”

Dr. Martin Sutton’s private clinic was located a few miles outside Southampton on Long Island; its expansive grounds were surrounded by head-high hedgerows. Dr. Sutton had been a world-renowned surgeon when he worked at the famous Mount Sinai Hospital on the Upper East Side. A scandal resulting from a patient’s death during a high-risk abortion had ended his career. Only his good political connections prevented him from being barred from the National Medical Association and losing his medical license. He bought a mansion on Long Island and converted it into a private clinic where he made a name for himself as a cosmetic surgeon. The world’s most beautiful women were among his patients. They appreciated the clinic’s first-class reputation and its discretion.

Dr. Sutton had helped his old friend Sergio Vitali a few times before, stitching up wounded men shot in gunfights with the police or other gangs. Sutton never forgot what Vitali had done for him during the terrible abortion scandal. At a time when everyone had turned their backs on the once-celebrated star surgeon, Vitali stood by his side and pulled strings for him. Dr. Sutton owed it solely to this man that he could still practice medicine.

When Nelson van Mieren jolted the doctor out of his sleep at one in the morning, he immediately headed over to the clinic, not asking what had happened. If Vitali wanted to tell him, fine; if he didn’t, then Martin Sutton wouldn’t ask. He told the doctor on duty to prepare the operating room. According to van Mieren’s account, Vitali appeared to be badly
wounded. It was two thirty when he arrived, and he had already lost a lot of blood. Sergio Vitali was as tough as coffin nails; not a single moan came out as Dr. Sutton examined the gunshot wound. The nurse prepared a blood transfusion while Sutton took an X-ray of Sergio’s shoulder.

“I need to operate immediately,” he decided.

“I have a very important meeting tomorrow morning,” Sergio said. His lips were dry as paper. He felt drowsy, powerless. At first, he didn’t think that the injury was that bad, but the wound wouldn’t stop bleeding. The freezing chill that had spread through his body was the worst thing.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Sutton shook his head. “The bullet has ruptured an artery. It’ll be a few days before you’re back on your feet again.”

“Blood pressure one twenty over sixty-five,” the nurse said.

“We start operating when the diastolic reaches eighty,” Sutton said, changing a bag of blood plasma. “Call Dr. Johnson. Tell him to prepare anesthesia for surgery.”

The nurse nodded and left the room. Dr. Sutton was concerned that the blood was seeping out through the shoulder wound almost as quickly as fresh blood was being infused. He couldn’t wait much longer. Vitali would bleed to death if he did. The anesthesiologist entered the room, and the two doctors worked together to prepare Sergio for the operation.

Nelson van Mieren called Massimo at the warehouse office in Brooklyn.

“You should let your mother know, Massimo,” the lawyer said, trying to disguise his concern. “It doesn’t look good.”

“Things were bad here, too,” Massimo countered. “Cesare was arrested in the Bronx after setting fire to a building with some of Silvio’s people.”

Van Mieren felt an chill come over him. What a disastrous day this was! He’d had a bad premonition after the incident at the port, but Sergio only mocked him when he voiced his fears. This time, his boss was
wrong. Ortega had lashed out with a determined act of vengeance. It was clear to Nelson that the Colombian was behind this attempt on Sergio’s life. And to make matters worse, Cesare had been arrested! That was the last thing that they needed now. Nelson could already see the headlines.

Maybe Sergio is right and I’m really getting old,
the lawyer thought wearily.
I don’t have the nerve I had twenty years ago.

He longed for his house in the country, his wife, his children, and his grandchildren. What was he still doing here? After all, Sergio didn’t even listen to him anymore.

“I won’t call Mama just yet,” Massimo decided, “but you should go to the Bronx to get Cesare out before he risks his neck with careless talk.”

“They’ll set a very high bail,” Nelson reminded him.

“It doesn’t matter. Get moving right now, Nelson,” Massimo said. “I’ll send Silvio with enough money. Cesare needs to disappear before he does something even more foolish.”

“All right. I’ll leave Luca here.”

“How’s my father doing?”

“They’re operating right now. The bullet ruptured an artery. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“He’ll make it. Papa is tough.”

Nelson noticed that Massimo’s voice was similar to his father’s in these situations. He appeared to have everything under control. Still, as long as Sergio was out of action, nothing else should happen.