Sasha, another longtime operative of Avery’s, would handle Corbett. She knew the streets of New York better than most cops in the NYPD. Getting out to Long Island was a piece of cake. She would employ the services of Wings Air, an outfit whose helicopter pilot she knew, intimately. He never questioned Sasha about her work. It was his understanding that she was a photographer for a very high-end private detective agency, the identity of whose clients was confidential. Which, for the most part, had the virtue of being true. Of course, Sasha never mentioned the parts of her activity that would be considered illegal.
Avery would take Steinwood on himself. He tapped out the information and instructions he had on the three men, or “subjects.” Each operative would tail her subject for a week and would report to Avery every day. Avery would send their reports, as well as his own, to Charles, who would then share them with the sisters.
Day one was upon them. Dressed like a bike messenger, Sasha waited on the pristine sidewalk in front of Corbett’s apartment building. It was one of the very few sidewalks in the city that was clear of all debris, especially dog poop. There were CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR DOG signs everywhere. Most New Yorkers referred to the statute requiring people to clean up after their pooches as the pooper scooper law. She could never understand why someone would want to walk six or seven dogs at a time—which was not uncommon in the posh neighborhood Corbett lived in. Who in their right mind would want to carry that much dog poop on a hot summer day? It was a question she had once asked her friend Carlos, who had been walking dogs for years.
“You get paid by the walk. If there are dogs who get along, I walk as many of them as I can. I can clear six or seven hundred dollars a day,” he’d told her.
She’d shrugged. People in this part of town spared no expense on anything, and dog walkers were in high demand. Still, carrying bags of poop was not her idea of a good way to make a living. She also thought that having dogs in New York City wasn’t fair to the dogs. They needed a yard. A place to run. Not to walk on sidewalks along busy streets, with cars honking, sirens blasting. People were selfish. Sasha was glad her interaction with most of them was from a safe distance.
She pulled her phone out one more time to get a good look at the man she was going to track. Five feet ten inches, medium build, neatly cut brownish hair, impeccable suit, Brooks Brothers trench coat. It looked like rain. She quickly spotted the well-dressed man leaving his apartment building and waited to see if he was going to hail a cab or get in a private car. Neither. He started walking south on Madison Avenue. She’d let him get a block ahead before she began pedaling the bike. His pace began to slow as he neared the Bottega Veneta boutique. He stopped and glanced in the window, then back at his watch, and moved on. Sasha could only imagine the thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise sitting on display. She knew she was going to draw attention to herself if she kept riding her bike like she needed training wheels, so she opted to get off the bike and walk it partway down the street.
Corbett stopped and peeked at the window of the restaurant. He did not do it to see if his lunch date was waiting but to get one more good look at himself. Satisfied with his appearance, he swung the heavy door open and entered. Sasha anticipated that this was going to be a long lunch.
Gerardo, the owner of San Pietro, greeted Corbett in a manner that puffed up his already inflated ego. “Buongiorno, Dr. Corbett! So nice to see you! Your guest is already waiting. Follow me.” Manolo, the maître d’, gave Corbett a modest nod and bow. Yes, Corbett loved the attention. It was going to bode well for his financial prospects.
Gerardo motioned to the table as the guest half stood to shake Corbett’s hand.
“I see Gerardo has taken care of the wine. I called ahead to have him choose something I thought would be to your liking.”
“It’s quite nice.” The man twirled the red Sangiovese liquid in the balloon glass. “You seem to be very popular here.”
“I try to come here once a week when I’m not out on the island.” People in the know understood that “the island” embedded in the phrase “on the island” was Long Island, not Fire Island or Coney Island. Exactly where on the island was usually noted in the next sentence. “In Sag Harbor.” God forbid someone thought he lived in Hempstead, where the school system was rife with complaints about misappropriations and where the charges of police corruption had resulted in the chief of police being fired. Of course, his own business was as corrupt as anything that happened in Hempstead. But his corruption swindled only the rich and took private money, not the taxes everyone had to pay. Nor was any violence involved.
“Been out there for a golf outing a few times.” The man’s name was Leffert, as in one of the biggest tobacco families in the country. Because the market for cigarettes was in decline, tobacco companies were investigating new sources of revenue. The CBD business was a natural for them. “Lovely restaurant, too, by the way.” Leffert glanced around the room and recognized the CEO of TD Ameritrade and the CFO of Home Depot. A gathering of the rich and powerful.
Gerardo returned with a glass for Corbett and poured from the $275 bottle of wine. “One of my favorites.” Corbett lifted the glass and inspected its contents, swirled it in his mouth, and gave Gerardo a thumbs-up.
Trying to break the ice, Corbett engaged in some informal conversation. Sports mostly. Safe subject, for the most part. Manolo approached the table and began to recite the specials for the day, beginning with appetizers, then moving on to entrées. There had to be a dozen specials, all of which Manolo could articulate from memory. And if you missed any of the scrumptious dishes, he would go over the list again, this time in reverse order. That performance in itself was worth the money it cost to dine there. You could tell this was Manolo’s passion. Corbett wondered what his own passion was, besides having prestige and money. After Manolo completed his presentation, he handed them menus, bowed, and returned to his station near the entrance.
“What do you recommend?” Leffert asked, displaying his Southern drawl.
“I usually start with the burrata with prosciutto and figs, then the fettuccine with shaved truffles.” It was noted as “market price” on the menu, which meant very expensive.
Leffert perused the menu and motioned for Manolo to return to the table. “Can you fix me a veal chop? Rare?”
Manolo nodded and turned to Corbett.
“I’ll have my usual.”
Then, turning back to Leffert, Manolo said, “Signore, would you care to start with an appetizer?”
“Caesar salad, please.”
“Grazie mille.” Once again, Manolo gave a short bow and moved away from the table.
Corbett wondered if he should start the conversation, but Leffert was already there. He lowered his voice and leaned in slightly. “Tell me about this property you have in mind for a grow house.”
Corbett almost choked on his expensive Brunello wine. He had not been expecting that question at the beginning of the conversation.
“Ah, yes. As I mentioned in our previous discussion, I became aware of Leffert Industries expanding into the CBD business. I have a very large piece of property in Michigan, not far from the border with Canada. The building is over thirty-six thousand square feet and could easily be converted into a grow house.”