Sonofagun, Nguyen thought. That’s Brooklyn.
The informant said, “There was also a call to Janet Jenkins’s number that couldn’t be identified. I suspect it was from a burner phone.”
Nguyen’s heart did a little tap dance.
“Did she make the call to the 718-area code before the burner phone call came in?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Who does the 718-area code number belong to?”
“Hold on. I’ve got it right here. Ah, here it is. Robert Tennucci.”
She thanked the woman and ended the call. The conclusion she came to was that Janet Jenkins had called Pedace or a cutout who forwarded her message. Then Pedace had called her on a burner phone. At least, she hoped that was what had occurred.
Nguyen looked up the name Robert Tennucci on Google and found several news items. They all mentioned that Tennucci had a criminal record. One noted he was possibly connected to the Lucchese Family.
Salvatore Trujillo had to get out of the house. His wife’s crying was driving him crazy. Ever since her brother, Giovanni, had been killed in California, she’d been an emotional wreck. Sure, he was her only sibling, but Casale was a lowlife, he thought. How long can a person mourn the death of a man like that? After all, it’s been six months. Trujillo cursed his former brother-in-law as he went down the ten steps from his porch to the sidewalk. “Bastard,” he muttered. “Now I’ll never get paid for the work I did for him on Charles Forsythe and Bruno Pedace.”
He smacked his lips at the prospect of lunch and a couple—maybe a few—drinks at Rico’s Ristoranti. If Francesca was working today, maybe they’d be able to set a date to get together. He conjured up a picture of her in bed, her succulent body eagerly welcoming him, her jet-black hair fanned over the pillow.
A block from the restaurant, his cell phone rang. He clamped his jaws together and felt anger build in him, obliterating his vision of Francesca. “Damn her,” he barked, thinking it was his wife calling.
He glanced at the screen and didn’t recognize the number.
“Sal Trujillo,” he answered.
“Mr. Trujillo, my name is Cindy Le. I understand you specialize in doing contract research.”
“That’s right, Ms. Le. Who referred you to me?”
“John Casale. He highly recommended you.”
Maybe Johnny wasn’t such a lowlife, after all, Trujillo thought. “When did he make the referral?”
The woman asked, “Is that important?”
“No, Ms. Le. It’s just that Mr. Casale was killed earlier this year in…a car wreck.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. I hadn’t heard. I talked to Mr. Casale over a year ago. He did some investigative work for my company.”
“Yeah, it’s an awful loss. John was a good client and friend. What kind of work did you want to talk to me about?”
“Perhaps we could meet. Our company is interested in having background research performed—credit history, resume verification, Internet activity, criminal records, that sort of thing—on over fifty prospective employees.”
Trujillo’s pulse beat faster as he did the mental math on the revenue from fifty background investigations. “When would you like to meet?”
“How’s this afternoon work for you? I’m only in town for twenty-four hours and then must fly to Paris. There’s a nice little café down the street from my hotel across from Central Park. Parq Place Café. Maybe a late lunch. Say, two o’clock?”
“Perfect,” Trujillo said. “How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll recognize you. I have your picture from your website.”
After the woman hung up, Trujillo thought about taking Francesca on a trip. He’d be able to afford it after he finished Cindy Le’s assignment. Maybe to Las Vegas. Francesca always talked about wanting to see Sin City. As he drove to Rico’s, he said aloud, “No, Johnny, maybe you weren’t a lowlife after all.”
Despite only two hours sleep the night before, Bruno felt invigorated. He’d finished the files on four properties and now, at 11:30 a.m., had nearly completed the fifth. He rolled his chair away from the desk and stood. His back ached and his eyes burned, but he felt damned good about his progress. He used the landline to call a delicatessen located a couple blocks away and ordered a roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwich on rye, with extra pickles, a bag of Fritos, and a large cranberry juice. The girl who took his order told him it would be delivered in thirty minutes. Rather than go back to the computer, he called David Lander.
“Any questions?” he asked.
“No,” Lander said. “It’s all very clear, but…”
“But what?”
“I don’t understand why you need me?”
“You don’t need to understand, Mr. Lander. But it will all soon become clear. Can you finish your task?”
“No problem. I’ll probably get it done by tomorrow.”
“Good.”
CHAPTER 10
The Parq Place Café had an eclectic clientele that included out-of-town shoppers, business types, and the occasional construction worker from a nearby project. The food was good and reasonably-priced…for New York. Ninety percent of the place’s business was take-out. There were only six four-top tables.
Victoria Nguyen had taken special care to look her best for her meeting with Salvatore Trujillo. Her skirt was professionally long, but short enough to show off her legs. She knew they were her best feature. She’d taken extra time with her makeup. Her eyes were small, but exotically green. The lipstick she put on was subdued, but just bright enough to highlight the lushness of her mouth. She wanted Trujillo’s hormones to be more active than his brain.
She arrived early and, when a table in the back became available, she sat down and watched the entrance. Fifteen minutes later, she spotted Trujillo jaywalk across West 59th Street, his coat collar up against the brisk fall wind. When he entered, she waved. Trujillo weaved through the tables and stuck out his hand when he reached her.
“Ms. Le?”
“Yes,” Nguyen said as she stood and shook his hand. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”
“It’s all about customer service, Ms. Le,” he said as he shucked his overcoat, placed it on the chair to his left, and sat.
“Indeed it is, Mr. Trujillo.”
“It sounds as though you have a very busy schedule.”
She chuckled. “That’s an understatement. The company keeps me on the go. In fact, we need to make this brief.” She pointed up at the menu board on the wall behind the counter. “I think I’ll order a tuna on rye and an iced tea. How about you?”
Trujillo looked up at the menu board and said, “Actually, that sounds good.” He moved to stand and said, “I’ll take care of it.”
Nguyen put out a hand and touched his arm. “No, no, Mr. Trujillo. It’s on me.” She smiled and asked, “You take sugar in your tea?”
“One packet, please.”
She stood, walked to the counter, placed the orders, then moved down the line to the cash register. After she paid the tab with cash, she picked up their drinks and a placard on a small metal stand that indicated their order number, and moved to a condiments counter. She tossed away the plastic lids from the iced tea containers and picked up a sugar packet. As she ripped off the top of the packet, she flipped open the setting on her ring and poured crystalline contents from the ring’s recessed space under the setting into Trujillo’s tea, along with the contents of the sugar packet. Then she used a wood stick to stir the tea, and returned to the table.