The Payback Game (7 page)

Cassidy shook his head. “No. The mutt did it himself by losing control of his prick. It wasn’t Nicky’s fault.”

“Mike,” Thamel said, “guys like that never take blame for their own mistakes. He would’ve shifted the blame to Nicky.”

The men all nodded, but Hannah had her doubts. “I’m not so sure this guy’s a suspect,” she said. “I mean, if he lost his job and his trust fund, how would
he have had enough money to hire a hitman? That story broke months ago. Let me Google him and see what I can get that’s more current.” After a couple minutes, she looked up. “You can cross this dummy off.”

“Why?” Cassidy asked.

“The dickhead’s dead. Hanged himself two months before Nicky was killed.”

Boff shut down his laptop and closed the lid. “All right,” he said, “we’ve got one suspect. I’ll have a chat with Sorriano, hopefully today. If we end up scratching him off, we go back and concentrate on the dead cop. I know this was largely a waste of time, but we need to be sure Nicky wasn’t killed for a story he’d already written. Not the one he was working on.” He signaled for Alexis and handed her his credit card.

“Whoa!” Cassidy said. “Alexis, give him back that card. Frank, this is my house. You’re my guest. Put it on my tab.”

“Sure, Mr. Mike.”

Thamel checked his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the office,” he said. “It was great seeing you, Mike. And thanks for the lunch.”

After Thamel left, Boff chatted with Cassidy and the redhead for awhile before taking off, too.

Boff decided now was the time to bring his information broker, Billy Wright, into the case. He called Wright when he left the pub and asked him to see what he could dig up on Sorriano. Later in the afternoon he drove to his ex-DEA partner’s computer repair shop in Williamsburg.

In order to get himself in the proper frame of mind for dealing with
Wright, he slid a CD of Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Great Balls of Fire” into his car’s player. On the ride over, he thought about his ambivalent feelings in working with the guy.

The upside was that
Wright was a computer whiz and a master at gathering information. The downside was that the man was a maniacal conspiracy theorist. His current obsession was jet “chemtrails.” Wright was certain that the chemtrails contained harmful chemicals and biological agents the government was spraying at high altitude for a sinister purpose undisclosed to the public. Every visit to Wright’s repair shop included the latest news on chemtrails and the progress the New World Order was making in its mission to take over every government on the planet.

Boff parked a few doors down from the computer repair shop, took a deep breath, and walked to the shop. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, there was a CLOSED sign on the front door. While
Wright did indeed fix computers, he only put in two or three hours a day doing it. The rest of his time he worked in his backroom, where he had four computers and a combination printer and fax machine.

Boff waved at the surveillance camera mounted above the door and was buzzed in. The door to the
backroom was unlocked. Stepping into the inner sanctum, he noted that, as usual, the place was littered with fast food bags, donut boxes, and Styrofoam cups. The only clean spot was the immaculate L-shaped desk where the information broker was working on one of his four big computers.

Wright looked over his shoulder. “Take a seat, Frank. I’ll be right with you.”

Before sitting down, Boff opened a mini refrigerator, took out two Cokes, and set one down on Wright’s desk. Then he sat in another computer chair. After a few minutes, Wright swiveled his chair around. He was a heavy-set man in his early forties with a dark complexion, a round face, and a thick nose.

“Frank, I’ve got some scary new news about the chemtrails.”

“Tell me later.”

Ignoring that, Wright launched into his latest paranoid news bulletin. “Back in
‘95, a document entitled ‘Owning the Weather in 2025’ was submitted to the director of the Air Force.”

“I’m not interested.’

“The document was supposed to be a fictional report not intended for real-life scenarios. But in reality? It was a detailed research paper about the potential for developing aerospace technologies that could control and manipulate the weather.”

“For chrissake, Billy, spare me!”

Wright wagged a finger at him. “This is important stuff, Frank.”

“So send me an email about it. Later. My spam folder needs fattening.”

“Frank, the technologies and capabilities in that report have become a reality. They’re going to use chemtrails to seed the atmosphere and cause hurricanes and monsoons. For what purpose, you ask—”

“—I didn’t ask.”

“—to get rid of people the New World Order considers ‘useless eaters.’” Wright pointed to a table. “There’s the report over there. It’s a copy. Take it home and read it.”

“Are you done? Let’s get down to business. Did you have any luck with Sorriano?”

“Well, you didn’t give me much time, but, yeah, I found some things. This mutt’s one bad dude. The godfather of slumlords. Or at least he
was
until Nicky Doyle did the story on him. Now, instead of buying more properties, Sorriano’s being forced by the city to spend a shitload of money to renovate the worst of his tenements.”

Boff popped the lid on his Coke and took a quick sip. “What’s Sorriano’s back story?”

“About thirty years ago, he was running a small bookmaking operation for the Colombos. Then a friend of his who was a builder called and proposed they go partners in a new venture.”

“Which was?”

“Basically, they began buying tenements, sprucing them up, and selling them for a nice profit.” Wright paused to take a hit on his own Coke. “Sorriano eventually split with his partner and continued his buy-renovate-and-sell operation. He did even better on his own. Earlier this year, though, things started to unravel. One of his ratty buildings in Harlem collapsed, killing two people. But the city appears to have sat on its hands about the incident until Doyle wrote his story.”

Boff leaned forward. “What about the mob stuff? Is he connected?”

“Hard to say with any certainty. Like I said, he was a bookie for the Colombos, but that was a long time ago. There were some recent reports, though—largely unsubstantiated—that indicated Sorriano might own tenements with the Colombos as silent partners.”

“And your conclusion?”

Wright shrugged. “On short notice? I’d say this guy might’ve had motivation to kill Doyle.”

“I agree. I’m going to have to have a little chat with Mr. Sorriano.”

After draining his Coke, Boff stood up to go, crumbled the can, and tossed it on the couch into a pile of McDonald’s bags.

Wright frowned. “You know, Frank, I
do
have a waste basket.”

“Yes, you do. And the day you start using it, Billy, so will I. Thanks for the help. I’m going to have a lot of work for you on this case.”

“That’s good. I’m saving up money to buy gold to hoard. I wanna be ready when the New World Order trashes the value of the dollar and other currencies.”

“Sounds like a smart move.”

“I detect sarcasm.”

Boff headed for the door.

After leaving Wright’s shop, he called Sorriano’s office. The secretary told him
her boss was overseeing renovation of a building on Rockaway Boulevard in Brownsville. After getting the address, he drove over. The building was located on one of the uglier blocks in the city. Getting out of his car, he noticed a couple of burly white guys in loose-fitting suits leaning against a Mercedes SUV. Probably off-duty cops moonlighting as protection for Sorriano and his Mercedes. Either that, or mob guys. He walked over to them.

“Hi. I’m Frank Boff. I’m looking for Victor Sorriano. His secretary told me I could find him here.”

One guy pushed off the car and said, “I’ve gotta pat you down, pal.”

“No problem.”

After frisking Boff, the guy looked past him and waved to a man who had just exited the building being renovated.

“That’s Mr. Sorriano right now.”

Tall and thin, the slumlord was wearing a rumpled suit that looked like he’d slept in it.

“Mr. Sorriano,” the bodyguard called out, “this man
wanna talk to you. He’s clean.”

The slumlord frowned and headed over. He had the meanest pair of eyes Boff had ever seen. They were boring into him now.

“What is it you want, Mr.—?”

“Boff. Frank Boff.”

Boff stuck his hand out. Sorriano let it hang.

“I’m a very busy man, Boff. I can only spare a minute. And if you’re a reporter, this conversation is over.”

“I’m a private investigator.”

Sorriano
narrowed his eyes. “If this is about more allegations against my tenements, you’re wasting your time. I’m in the process of full compliance.”

“It’s about the murder of Nicky Doyle.”

Now Sorriano looked surprised. “Doyle? What do you think I can help you about that muckraking hack?”

“Well, for starters, Mr. Sorriano, Doyle wrote a blistering story about you which caused the city to clamp down hard on your buildings. I imagine all these renovations are costing you plenty. I’m sure you were pretty upset with Doyle about that.”

Sorriano waved it off. “Listen to me, pal, and listen good. Nicky Fucking Doyle was a bottom feeder that liked to cause trouble. I’m glad the fucker’s dead.”

Boff nodded. “I’m sure you are. I also know you have ties to the Colombo Family.”

Sorriano looked puzzled a minute, then nodded. “You think I had Doyle hit. Is that it?”

Boff spread his hands. “Given the circumstances, it’s certainly possible.”

Sorriano stepped closer to him and stuck a finger in his chest. Boff batted it away.

Sorriano poked him again. “Let me tell you something, my sleazy gumshoe friend. Nicky Doyle made my life a bit miserable for awhile, but I’m still a very wealthy man. The millions I’m shelling out to fix up the worst of my buildings is just a drop in the bucket to me. I’ll get it all back when I sell the renovated buildings for a nice profit. Doyle was nothing more than an inconvenience. And he sure as hell wasn’t worth wasting a bullet on. You got that? Pal?”

“Yes,
pal
, and I don’t buy it. Doyle had to have been more than an inconvenience. Besides the money he’s been costing you, he ruined your reputation.”

Sorriano spit out a laugh. “Are you fucking nuts? Before Doyle wrote a word about me, I was
already
considered by most people to be one of the city’s slimiest landlords.” He laughed again. “In fact, two years ago, I made
New York Magazine
’s top ten list of slumlords. Came in fourth. That pissed me off. I wanted the top spot. I
like
having people hate me. Who the hell gives a shit about them?”

“That maybe so, but—”

“—no ‘buts,’ pal.” The slumlord patted his own chest. “Victor Sorriano has done pretty well for a poor wop from a Lower East Side tenement. I’d be nuts to jeopardize all that by trying to get even with some guy who said a few nasty things about me. Get a life, Boff. Doyle could’ve written bad things about me every day of the week and twice on Sunday, and I still wouldn’t have given a fuck. That muckraker was probably pulling in two hundred grand a year, tops. I spend that kind of money just on dinners, parties, and vacations. Have I made myself clear, pal?”

Boff smiled. “
Crystal,
pal.
It was a real pleasure talking to you. Now I’ll let you get back to that ratty dump you’re working on. You have yourself a nice day.”

On the way to the gym, Boff called Cassidy.
“Mike, did you speak with Fitz about the ex?”

Yes. You got a pad and pen handy?

“Let me pull over first … Okay, go ahead.”

Stephanie O’Connor lives in
Prospect Park South at nine-seventy-two Albemarle Road. Fitz said it’s best to grab her during the day because she bartends at night. Her phone number is seven-one-eight, six-three-six, six-three-eleven. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming. So what did you dig up on Sorriano?

“He’s not our man. I’ll tell you more when I see you.”

Next he called Hannah and told her he was going to see Maloney’s ex-wife, and if she was interested in going, she should meet him at the gym.

Cullen was running on the treadmill at a swift pace when Boff walked in and took his usual place against the wall. Steven looked like he was performing another one of McAlary’s old-school conditioning drills, pounding a sledgehammer on a big truck tire.

A few minutes after he got there, Hannah walked in. “Did you talk to Sorriano?” she asked.

“Yes. We had a pleasant chat. Without going into details, he made a good case for why he didn’t kill Nicky. He was convincing to me. For now, we shelve Sorriano unless something else puts him back in play.”

The redhead took a pad and pen out of her big shoulder bag. “I want to know exactly what he said.”

“Why?”

“For when I write my story.”

Boff gave her a brief rundown of his conversation. After he was done, Hannah put her pad away and said, “He sounds more unpleasant to deal with than you.”

“You think so?” He smiled. “Let me watch Steven finish his drill and then we’ll go. I get a kick out of seeing him bust his hump.”

“I gather you’re a very caring father.”

“This has nothing to do with me being a good father. I’m just hoping he gets sick of boxing and goes back to his high school basketball team.”

“But if this is what he wants to do, why are you against it?”

“Someday, Hannah, when you have a son of your own, and he wants to get what few brains he has bashed in, we’ll revisit this conversation.”

Cullen was just finishing his run. He hustled over as Boff and Hannah were heading for the door. “Where’re you going?” he asked.

“To talk with Maloney’s ex,” Boff said.

“Give me ten minutes. I’ll go with you.”

Boff shook his head. “Sorry. I made an appointment. I don’t want to be late.”

In contrast to the ugly tenement Sorriano had been working on, Stephanie O’Connor lived in a nice three-story Victorian house with a white-washed wooden porch. The wide street had a center island filled with grass and trees. Boff had called ahead to let the ex know he was coming. After ringing the bell, he took out his wallet in case she wanted to see his private investigator’s ID.

In a few moments, an attractive woman with curly blond hair opened the front door. She was wearing a nylon sweatsuit and running shoes. After checking his ID, she let them into the foyer.

“Do you live in this whole house alone?” Hannah immediately asked.

“Oh, no. The old couple that owns it lives on the first floor and a house painter’s on the third. After the couple’s kids grew up and left the nest, they converted the top two floors into apartments.”

She led them up a highly-polished wooden staircase and into her second floor apartment. The living room was tastefully decorated, with comfortable-looking cushioned chairs and a couch set in front of an inlaid black marble coffee table. On one wall, Boff noticed framed pictures of her running in races.

“I can’t give you much time,” she said. “I want to get in a run before I head off to work.”

“We won’t keep you long,” Boff said.

“Please, sit down.”

Boff and Hannah sat on the couch.

O’Connor took a chair facing them. “First,” she said, “tell me a little more about why you
and Cassidy think Patrick was murdered and didn’t die from a heart attack.”

Boff repeated what Doyle had learned from the street informant.

O’Connor frowned. “Well, that
does
sound a bit suspicious. If Patrick was killed, do you have any idea why?”

“We have some promising leads.”

“How do you think I can help you, Mr. Boff?”

“I was hoping you could give me your ex-husband’s Social Security number and his phone number at the time of his death. I’m told you remained friends after the divorce. I’m assuming you two spoke on the phone once in a while. Also, if you have a fairly recent picture of Patrick, that’d be helpful.”

The ex thought about his request a minute. “Why do you need his Social Security and phone numbers?”

“If an associate of mine has the Social Security, it’ll be easier for him to look for Patrick’s financial records. Sometimes financial records provide important leads in an investigation.”

“And the phone number…?”

“My associate can get a hold of your ex’s phone records.”

“What does that do for you?”

“It’d be helpful if I knew who he was speaking with near the time of his death.”

O’Connor nodded. “I have his Social Security number on our last joint tax form. As for the phone, it was seven-one-eight, seven-three-five, zero-seven-one-one.”

As Boff wrote the number down on his pad, O’Connor stood up, left the room, and returned a few minutes later with a tax form and a photo. She read
the number off the form to Boff and handed the photo to him.

“That’s a picture of Patrick with his partner, Eddie Galvani. They were at a
Precinct picnic. Patrick’s the one on the left flipping hamburgers.”

“What did you think of Galvani?”

“Well…Patrick liked him a lot.”

“How about you?”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say he was fonder of Galvani than I was.”

“Why’s that?”

The ex checked her watch, then replied. “I felt Galvani played a part in our divorce.”

“How so?”

“Well, when they were in Narcotics, Galvani was always pushing Patrick to work longer hours and take more risks to advance his career. During that time, I saw less and less of my husband. That was what eventually broke up our marriage.” She glanced at her watch again. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “When you’re done with the picture, I’d like to have it back.”

“Of course.”

As they stood up, Boff said, “One last question?”

The ex frowned. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Did you sense anything was bothering Patrick in the weeks leading up to his death?”

“Not really. Once Patrick had transferred to the 71
st
, he didn’t let things get to him. It was different when he was in Narcotics. Back then, he was
always
edgy. He’d get upset over the smallest things. Now I
really
have to go. We can head out together.”

After she put the tax form down on a small table by her chair and locked her deadbolts, she led them down the hallway stairs and out to the sidewalk.

“Mr. Boff, if you find out why Patrick was killed, if indeed he was, I’d like to know.” She turned to the redhead. “Hannah, if you write anything, please leave my name out of the story.”

With that, Patrick
Maloney’s ex-wife started jogging up the street at a good clip.