DAY 3
CHAPTER 6
Louis Massarino set up Bruno in a two-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a three-story building in Brooklyn. Bruno equipped the second bedroom with a computer, printer, top-end router, TOR browser, and a proxy server. Massarino was present when all the equipment was delivered.
“Jeez, what is all this stuff?” Massarino asked as he moved around the room, serpentining his way around boxes.
“With this equipment, I’ll be able to anonymize myself. No one will have a clue where or who I am.”
“I got a feeling I’d get a headache if I asked you to explain what that means.”
“Louis, I guarantee you that any headache you ever have will be nothing compared to what my old partners are about to experience.”
After Massarino left, Bruno unpacked and set up the equipment. It took almost seven hours to get everything up and running. Seated in a wheeled chrome and leather desk chair, he cracked his knuckles and said, “No time like the present.”
The software he’d purchased, along with the equipment, allowed him to anonymously access data all over the world. By 9 p.m., he’d built a folder of twenty-four world class commercial office properties that, in toto, comprised eighteen million square feet, and were worth, in his estimation, approximately three point five billion dollars at current market value. He put each building in a separate electronic file. The files included photographs, addresses, and tenant lists he’d taken from each building’s website and from hacked files of lending institutions that had mortgage loans on the buildings.
He shifted his shoulders. He was on a roll and wanted to continue to the next step. But he hadn’t eaten since noon and he knew he had many long days ahead. He saved his data, shut down the system, and walked downstairs to the street. Seven doors down was a pizza parlor. He ordered a sausage, onion, and mushroom pizza and two bottles of beer to go. As he waited, he felt a rush of enthusiasm that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He’d already accomplished a great deal. His mind switched to the years he’d spent in California and how he’d become a pathetic, lonely man with a victim mentality. But everything had changed when he’d met Janet Jenkins. He conjured up the image of the last time he saw her. Two days ago, in St. Anne’s Shelter. Maybe Janet and I could have become more than friends, he thought. He waved away the idea with a hand, as though swatting a fly, which earned him the attention of the young man behind the counter. The kid frowned but turned away when Bruno smiled at him.
Back at the apartment, he finished half of the pizza and both bottles of beer, and then considered going back to the computer. But he suddenly felt drained. He barely had strength to undress and brush his teeth. He rolled onto the bed and fell into a deep sleep.
Sy Rosen looked forward to his Friday night rides to his Long Island mansion. Even in winter, the place was a welcome respite from the noise and bustle of the City. He usually napped on the ride from Manhattan, but there was no possibility of that happening today. His visit with the lawyer Ryan Flanagan had undermined any chance for peace. The prospect of the humiliation that would be brought on by publicity around a murder trial in California had unhinged him. The Redondo Beach D.A. had not yet filed charges against him, his partners, or the firm, but once that happened, his and the firm’s reputation would be damaged, perhaps irreparably. Flanagan was correct. Win or lose, they would all pay a very heavy price.
Rosen considered trying to bribe the D.A., but immediately discarded the idea. The man’s on a mission to get re-elected. What if he told the press that I tried to bribe him? You can never trust an ambitious politician.
The last time he’d hired someone to eliminate Pedace, things had not turned out well. Casale’s failure had created the problem he now had.
“I need to hire a pro,” he muttered. “Not some half-ass P.I.”
“Did you say something, Mr. R?” his driver asked.
“Just talking to myself, Sammy.”
Rosen patted his shirt pocket and felt the burner phone he’d bought yesterday. He’d aborted several calls he’d begun to make, always second-guessing his decision. But he built his resolve and made up his mind. He had no other choice. He pressed the button on the console by his right arm and raised the glass between him and the driver. Then he dialed a number from memory and waited. After five rings, he was about to terminate the call, when a voice answered.
“I have a job…actually two jobs for you.”
“You know what you need to do. I’ll contact you if I have any questions. What’s your timing on this?”
“Yesterday.”
He ended the connection and lowered the glass partition. “Sammy, I gotta put together something at my house that I want you to drop off for me on your way back into the City.”
“Sure, boss.”
The hum of the elevator motor startled Victoria Nguyen. Then she heard heavy footsteps on the carpeted hallway outside her Manhattan cooperative apartment. She snatched a pistol from her nightstand, padded over to her door, and looked through the peephole. A large man approached the door, then knocked.
“What do you want?” Nguyen said.
“Got a delivery from Sy Rosen.”
Nguyen opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow. “Slip it through here,” she said.
The man inserted a manila envelope through the space. She grabbed it and quickly shut the door. Then she watched through the peephole as the man backtracked down the hall.
She carried the envelope to the kitchen table and sliced it open. She dumped the contents—bundles of hundred-dollar bills and a white envelope—on the table, and stacked the currency. She knew she didn’t need to count it. Not only did it look like one hundred thousand dollars; no client would consider stiffing her. She picked up the white envelope, opened it, and removed a sheet of paper. Typewritten on the paper were two names: Salvatore Trujillo and Bruno Pedace. She frowned. The second name seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place why. There was an address and phone number next to Trujillo’s name, but none next to Pedace’s. Below the two names was a sentence: There’s a $50,000 bonus if you can finish the job within five days.
Nguyen powered up her laptop and Googled Salvatore Trujillo. “I’ll be damned,” she said, and then laughed. “The guy’s on Facebook.” She discovered Trujillo was self-employed. His company was named Lost & Found. It appeared he was in some sort of investigations business, doing computer research for clients. “Slam dunk,” Nguyen said.
When she Googled Bruno Pedace, her heart did a little flip-flop. There was a treasure trove of information about the guy, dating all the way back to his high school days. He was a genius who’d won all sorts of math and science prizes, and then went to Harvard. When she found that he’d joined Rosen, Rice & Stone after college, Nguyen felt a shiver go down her spine. Then there was an article about the SEC being interested in talking with Pedace. “What the hell is Rosen up to now?” she whispered.
She tried to dredge up in her memory why Pedace’s name seemed familiar, but it wouldn’t come.
There was a newspaper article on the Internet about Pedace being shot in Redondo Beach six months ago. The shooter was John Casale, a New York City P.I. The article went on to mention a woman named Janet Jenkins, who worked at a battered women’s shelter, had saved Pedace’s life by running her car into the hit man. “Wow,” she said breathily when the article mentioned that Jenkins had killed a home invader with a pistol and a knife shortly before she’d saved Pedace.