He continued his scan, going right to left, and spotted another healthy-looking guy a few feet away from Beach Boy. This guy was short, dark-skinned, and powerfully-built. Both men seemed zeroed in on the arrivals corridor. Caniglia didn’t need to see their IDs to know they were cops. He removed his cell from his inside jacket pocket and hit speed dial number 1.
“Yeah?” Louis Massarino said.
“There’s heat at the airport. They look like California types.”
After a few seconds, Massarino said, “I bet they followed the woman because they think she’ll lead them to Bruno.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“As soon as you find Ms. Jenkins, take her to the car. Once you’re certain they’re tailing you, take the Jackie Robinson Parkway to the end. Go right on Fulton Street, then left on Bedford. After Bedford, take an immediate right on Pacific.”
“Ya got it, boss.”
Bruno handed another flash drive to Dave Lander. “The spreadsheet on that drive has final numbers. Can you finish everything tonight?”
“The sooner the better,” Lander said.
Bruno shot the man a sympathetic look. “What you’re doing will wipe out your gambling markers. You look like a smart guy. You ought to think about not getting in deep again.”
Lander nodded. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told myself to stop.” He shook his head.
“You ever sign up for a program? You know, counseling.”
“No.” A sour expression came onto his face. “Those programs cost a fortune.”
“If I gave you the money for counseling, would you do it?”
Lander’s jaw dropped. “Why would you—?”
“Answer my question.”
“Yeah, I would.”
“If this all goes well, I’ll make it happen.”
Lander looked at Bruno as though he’d just stepped off a spaceship. He nodded several times and said, “Thank you.”
Rosales and Andrews watched a burly man in a dark suit approach Janet, take her suitcase from her hand, and then lead her outside the terminal. After they stood by the curb for a couple minutes, a black Cadillac Escalade pulled beside them and the man and Janet got into the vehicle. Rosales and Andrews raced to the taxi queue forty yards to the right. Rosales flashed his badge and jumped the queue. To the accompaniment of a chorus of shouts and curses, they got into the first cab in line. Rosales yelled, “Follow that Escalade.”
The driver looked back at the two men and grinned. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, we’re not kidding.”
“How much?”
“How much what?” Rosales shouted.
“How much over the meter will you pay?” the driver asked.
“Fifty dollars,” Rosales said.
“Make it a ‘C’ note.”
Rosales blew out a loud breath and muttered, “Sonofabitch.” Then he told the driver, “Okay.”
“And you cover any speeding tickets I might get.”
“Okay, okay,” Rosales shouted. “Just get going.”
The driver turned forward and chuckled as he dropped the shifter into drive and roared away.
Janet leaned her head against the corner of the seat in the back of the Escalade and closed her eyes. She hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane and now couldn’t keep her eyes open. The movement of the SUV was comforting and she soon drifted off.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when something woke her. She pressed her hands against her eyes and said, “Did you say something?”
“Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Jenkins,” Silvio said as he turned in the front passenger seat and looked at Janet. “I was on the phone with Mr. Massarino.”
Janet noticed that the driver kept looking in his mirrors. “Is there something wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing to worry about. I think there are a couple guys in a cab following us.”
Janet twisted in her seat and looked out through the rear window. “Who are they?”
A man’s voice came over the Bluetooth speaker, startling Janet. “Ms. Jenkins, this is Louis Massarino. We don’t know for sure who they are. Maybe police. But, as Silvio just told you, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Silvio then said, “Boss, I’ll be at the end of the Jackie Robinson Parkway in about five minutes.”
“Good,” Massarino said.
The driver exited the parkway and made the turns Caniglia told him to make. When he was fifty yards down Pacific, Caniglia spotted the trailing cab turn onto the street behind them. He’d gone almost to the end of the first block, where Pacific crossed Franklin, when he saw two cars pull away from the curb behind him and abruptly stop, forming a barricade in the middle of Pacific. The harsh noise of screeching tires and a car horn sounded.
“What’s happening, Silvio?” Massarino asked.
“All’s good, boss.”
“I’ll see you here.”
The driver turned left onto Franklin and finger-tapped the top of the steering wheel as he whistled and made his way through the streets of Brooklyn.
CHAPTER 16
Wayne Summers had been with Rosen, Rice & Stone for seven years, having joined the firm right out of Wharton Business School. He’d worked his way up to Chief of Acquisitions in the firm’s real estate department and had just bought a two-million-dollar co-op apartment unit on Central Park East, and was considering the purchase of a weekend/summer place on the Jersey shore. His salary was three hundred thousand dollars a year, but his bonus had averaged two million dollars over the past two years. He’d already calculated the amount of his bonus for this year if the deal brought to him by Joseph Campbell at Sunrise Casualty Insurance closed.
“Seventy-two million dollars in fees and discount points,” he muttered as he walked to the elevator lobby on the seventh floor. “Ten percent bonus on seventy-two million dollars in fees. Holy shit!” But what if I can negotiate the discount to, say, three percent, instead of two percent? He thought, as he tallied the numbers in his head. “Holy shit!”
The ride to the twenty-third floor seemed to last forever. He mumbled to himself the pitch he would make to Richard Stone. He thought he had it nailed when he stepped out of the car and forced himself to stand straight, shoulders back. Breathing deeply, he stopped in front of the receptionist at the entrance to the executive suites and announced himself.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Summers,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Stone will be right with you.”
Right with you turned out to be twenty-five minutes. By the time Stone’s secretary came out to get him, Summers was bathed in sweat and had to pee so badly he’d paced the floor for the past five minutes. As she led him toward the double doors to the executive suites, he peeled off and raced into a restroom. He was in such a rush that he dribbled on the front of his pants and splashed water from the sink on his suit jacket. When he tried to dry his pants and jacket with a paper towel, bits of paper lint stuck to the dark blue material. “Oh no,” he groaned. He checked his hair in the mirror and told himself to calm down. He knew Richard Stone wanted his employees to always appear to be under control. He tightened the knot in his tie, buttoned his suit jacket, and tried to hand-brush away, with limited success, paper towel bits that clung to his suit. “Here goes,” he muttered. File in hand, he walked back out to the hallway.