On the Street Where You Die (Stanley Bentworth mysteries Book 1) (6 page)

His gun collection was prominently displayed in walnut cabinets with glass doors on two walls. It looked like he had at least one of every kind of handgun, rifle, and shotgun. I spotted an Uzi, an AK-47, an M-16 and two Thompson submachine guns.

“Those pieces fully automatic?”
I asked, pointing at the assault weapons.

“They are,” he said.
Silly of me to ask.

“Now,” he said, “what do you have to report?”

“First,” I said, “This is what I know about you.”

I recited all the facts we’d learned about Buford’s past from the
U.S.
Marshals Service website. Buford sat quietly during the recitation.

When I finished he said, “Why did you need to learn all that?”

“You need to know how easy it can be to find out that kind of
shit,
is why. You’re trying to stay out of sight and incognito, and an eighteen-year-old boy with orange hair learns everything there is to know about you in less than an hour. You don’t think somebody else can do the same thing?”

“I see. About that murder rap, Stan, just so you know. The
vic
was a drug dealer. He was peddling his shit in my neighborhood in Philly. My daughter was one of his best customers. He didn’t respond to conventional forms of persuasion, so I took a different tack. Problem solved. After that no one would sell to her. Got her into rehab, and she cleaned up.”

“Did you do the deed yourself?”

“I took the fall. I’m telling you this just so you know that hits were not in my job description. The family had other resources for that.”

“Understood,” I said, relieved. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about more than a broken arm or two if Buford and I ever had a falling out.
Which I fully intended to avoid.

“What did you learn about my shake-down artist?” Buford said.

I took the note from my pocket and handed it to him.

“Name, address, phone number.
Do you know him?”

“Mario Vitole. No. It sounds like he could be one of the boys, but I never heard that name.”

“Out of town, maybe? Brought in to bring you down?”

“Not with blackmail. The family doesn’t do it that way.”

“You think he could be one of the feds?”

“Don’t know. But I’ll know soon enough. Or it won’t matter.”

“Wouldn’t you rather go in armed with more knowledge?” I said.

“I’ll be armed.”

“But it’s better to know what you’re up against. Let’s see what Rodney can come up with.”

I pulled out my cell, put it on speaker and called Rodney.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“The Cheap Peeper Emporium.”

“Jesus, kid.
Don’t get a sore wrist. You got your laptop with you?”

“Always.”

“Can you get into the Marshals server again?”

“Yep.
I’ll have to get near a wi-fi router. There’s a McDonald’s near here. You see, without a signal—”

“Just do it. Go in there, and see what you can find out about Mario Vitole. See if the feds have anything on him. Call me when you have something.”

“And if I can’t find anything?”

“Call me either way.”

Buford fidgeted in his easy chair. He downed the drink, and Ramon was there right away with a refill. That guy was always there when you needed him, Johnny-on-the-spot.

“He knows my limit,” Buford said. “When I reach it, he stops bringing more.”

“What if you insist?”

“Then he brings more.” He took a sip of the new drink. “Why don’t I go see this Vitole hump right now? I can probably straighten things out with a few well-chosen words. His main defense is that I’m not supposed to know who he is.”

“Wouldn’t you like to get your twenty grand back?”

“Sure. How would I do that?”

“Rodney.”

“Jesus, is there anything that kid can’t do?”

“He can’t get money that isn’t there. You go shoving Vitole around and he’ll pull all the cash out of the account. Wait till we get the dough. Then you can let him know he’s been busted.”

“In more ways than one.”

Buford had a look in his eye that I had not often seen in a man. Not an adversary to be reckoned with.

“Okay,” he said. “We can wait. But not long.”

My cell phone rang. Rodney was calling.

“Uncle Stanley, I have what you need.”

“What’d you get?” I asked.

“Mario Vitole is a retired U.S. Marshal. His last duty station was the witness protection program in the
New York
corridor. He retired about a year ago.”

“Vitole is a retired fed,” I said to Buford. “He had access to your files when you were active. Now he’s shaking you down I suppose to supplement his pension.”

“Dirty rotten son of a bitch.”

That’s what I would have said.

“Might you know him by another name?” is what I did say.

“No. We didn’t use nicknames. I knew my handlers by their real names, and they knew mine.”

I spoke into the phone again.

“Great job, Rodney.”

“That’s not all, Uncle Stanley. I’m hacked into that OnlinePay account. What do you want me to do with it?”

“What’s the balance?”

“About fifty grand.”

I whistled. Vitole must have been shaking down other well-heeled protected witnesses. Or selling antiques on ebay.

“Stand by again.” I turned again to Buford. “You want your twenty grand back?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Got an offshore account somewhere that the feds can’t see?”

“Of course.”

“Get me the account numbers.”

Buford got up and went to his desk, a huge mahogany behemoth with ornate carvings and inlays and not much clutter.

I said to Rodney, “I’m getting you a bank routing number and the client’s account number. I want you to transfer twenty grand from Vitole’s account into the client’s account.”

“Can do.
I can get it all if you want. Put it in your account?”

I must admit I was tempted. “No.
Just the twenty grand.”

The feds might not know about Buford’s account in
Grand Cayman
, or wherever, but my bank was in town with my name on file.

Buford returned with a slip of paper.

“Here they are.”

I read the numbers to Rodney. I waited while his fingers did their tap dance on the laptop keyboard.

Then he said, “It’s done.”

“Great work, Rodney. I’ll try to get you a bonus.
Maybe a new shirt.”

We hung up, and I said to Buford, “You got your twenty grand back, you got the name of the shakedown artist, and you know where he is. What else can I do for you?”

“I’m impressed. How did you get the twenty grand?”

“Rodney got it.”

“Won’t there be a trace to who got it and where it went?”

“Only if the guy complains.
And Rodney doesn’t leave a clean trail in cyberspace. What’s the asshole going to tell the cops, anyway? ‘I blackmailed a guy, and he hacked my account and took the money back’?”

“Good point.”

Buford handed me an envelope.

“There’s ten grand in there.”

He sure knew how to get a guy’s attention.

“That puts you on retainer for a month, weekends off,” he said. “I don’t have anything for you to do right now, but something will come up. I want you standing by while I get to Mr. Vitole before he realizes we got to him.”

I put the envelope in my jacket pocket.
Ten grand.
Willa would be ecstatic.

“Have you considered turning Vitole in to the feds and letting them handle it?”

“I have not. I do my own housecleaning.”

“How about if I go talk to him?
Explain what we have on him and that we’ll rat him out to his former employer if he doesn’t back down. I think him knowing that we know should be enough.”

“What if he doesn’t go for it?”

“Then do it your way.”

“Let Mr. Bentworth try, Daddy,” Missy said. She was standing in the doorway. She must have heard everything. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Or you can send
Sanford
to do it.”

“Who’s
Sanford
?” I asked Buford.

“Sometimes he’s my lawyer.”

Sometimes?
How can you be a part-time lawyer? What do you do the rest of the time? Repossess pacemakers?

“Well, ask him. Whatever you do might have legal consequences. I don’t want Rodney and me on anybody’s accessories list.
Before or after the fact.”

“A pragmatist,” Buford said.

“Every time,” I said.

“I hate pragmatists,” he said. “Okay, make a call on him. Let me know how it turns out.”

Missy nodded her approval of our plan.

Chapter 6
 

I enjoyed a pleasant drive on a thoroughfare to the south, going across the river and under the Interstate. It was lunch time. I stopped at a fast food drive-through and got a burger and fries. With the hangover gone, the thought of all that grease and gristle didn’t bother me. I got back on the road and ate while I drove.

Mario Vitole’s house was a rambler in a suburban subdivision. Nothing fancy, but nice. A new Buick was parked in the carport, and the lawn was well-tended. A cute but tacky sign on the lawn announced to the world that the house was the dwelling of Mario and Stella Vitole.

I parked across the street and a few houses down. My car had tinted windows so, unless someone looked closely, they couldn’t tell that I was in there. I took my digital Nikon camera from the glove box, put the long range lens in, and waited.

This was routine for me, the same kind of surveillance I did on cheating spouses. Only this time, instead of catching an indiscretion, I wanted to chart the target’s movements to see where he went and what he did. I’d choose a way to confront him based on that.

At about
two o’clock
, a man came out of the house. He was about sixty-five, with a medium height and build, and curly black hair with streaks of white.
Tan and good-looking for an old guy.
I rolled down the window and snapped a picture of him. He walked up the sidewalk to the residence two houses away. I took pictures. He went in the front door.
Odd.
He didn’t knock, just went in.

I drove up a few yards to just across from the doorway of the house where he went in.

About an hour later the door opened. I started snapping. He came to the doorway, and a woman came along behind. She was wearing a robe. He kissed her, came out, and returned to his own house. I took more pictures. I wrote down the neighbor’s house number. Then I called Rodney.

“Rodney, find me the name of whoever lives at
512 Cherokee Avenue
.”

Rodney tapped and clicked. After about a minute of that, he said, “William Sproles. Do you need more information?”

“Can you get his wife’s name?”

Tap
,
tap
,
click
,
click
. “Marsha.
Anything else?”

“Find out what you can about them.”

I called Vitole.

“Mr. Vitole, I need to speak with you privately.”

“About what?
Who is this?”

“This is about one of the former clients in witness protection.”

“I retired. You must want somebody else.”

“This is about Anthony Curro, also known as Buford Overbee.”

The line got quiet for a moment. Then, “Who is this?”

“We need to speak alone,” I said. “I’m parked just up the street. Where’s a good place nearby to meet?”

“You want to come to the house?”

“Anybody else there?”

“No. I’m alone,” he said. “My wife won’t be home until about six.”

“Okay. Keep in mind, this is just a meeting.
An exchange of information.
I come in peace.” I smiled at the Captain Kirk reference. “I expect to be likewise received. If not, your next visitor won’t be so peaceful. Understood?”

“Understood.”
So far my usual bluff was working.

He was waiting in the doorway when I pulled up. He had changed into shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. I got out of my car and walked up the sidewalk toward him. He retreated into the house and waved me in.

He walked ahead of me down a hallway. He looked back to size me up. This was where my bluff really needed to work. Not only am I not tough, I don’t look tough.

The house was tastelessly decorated with pile carpeting, red flock wallpaper, and etched mirror tiles. New simulated antiques decorated the entranceway, and the furniture and wall hangings were new too, every schlock style imaginable, nothing matching, nothing coordinated. But much nicer than my place, you can be sure.

He led me into the living room and pointed to a chair. I sat and he plopped on a sofa across from me.

“You want a beer or something?”

“No, thanks.”

“So, what’s this about Overbee?”

“Someone’s been shaking him down.”

He paused.
“Really?”
His mock surprise was not well-delivered, given what I already knew.
“How?”

“They’re threatening to out him with his clients and with the mob.”

“No shit. You understand
,
I was not his handler. I never met the guy.” He was getting jumpy.

“I know. But you know all the major players in the Marshals Service. Maybe you can get the word out.”

“What word?”

“We traced the blackmailer’s e-mail address to his OnlinePay account and hacked into the account.”

His face got white.

“We recovered the twenty grand Overbee already paid the blackmailer. Next time the blackmailer signs
on,
he’ll be a lot poorer.”

Vitole started looking around as if he needed to check something. He took a gulp of his beer.

I continued. “It’s a short jump from the account to its owner. If the blackmailer persists in his extortion, we will make that jump and turn our records over to the feds.”

I watched for his reaction to that. His face turned red.

“If that doesn’t bring it to a stop,” I said, “Mr. Overbee and his business associates will make a personal call on the blackmailer. In fact, that’s what he wanted to do right off the bat, but I talked him out of it. I think we can safely say that whoever it is, he’s still walking around thanks to my intervention.”

You wouldn’t expect a retired U.S. Marshal to be that easily intimidated, but Vitole looked like he was about to crap his shorts.

Now for the clincher.
“If this doesn’t go down right, if the blackmailer puts any more of a squeeze on, the shit hits the fan.”

I paused to let the indirect threat sink in. Vitole bit his lower lip and ran his hand across his mouth like a junkie needing a fix. His eyes darted from side to side, and he squirmed on the sofa.

“Why do you think I’d know who it is?” he asked.

“Witness protection is a small team. It’s got to be one of your former colleagues, probably also retired like yourself. Nobody else has access to the files to know who to target. So, try to pass the word along. And we can bring this matter to a peaceful close.”

I said a polite goodbye, went out to my car, and called Buford.

“I think he’s convinced,” I said.

“He better be.”

“But if not, I’ve got leverage. He’s fooling around with his neighbor’s wife. I’ll e-mail you the evidence when I get back to the office.”

I drove around the block and parked between Vitole’s house and the Sproles’s so I could watch both. At about
six o’clock
, Vitole’s wife came home from wherever she had spent the day and parked her
Toyota
next to his Buick. I took a couple pictures of her going from the car to the house. Not a pretty woman, she was overweight with gray hair and looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties. She went in the house.

A short time later, a car pulled into the Sproles residence. A man got out and went into the house. He was middle-aged and looked like the couch potato type. I got more pictures. Then I headed back to the office.