Second Skin (14 page)

The endless stream over the past six years of political and business influence peddling, illegal-contribution and kickback scandals that had ruined companies, brokerage firms, and had, at last, brought down the long-ruling Liberal Democratic Party, had rattled them. They saw, in the increasing scrutiny not only by law enforcement officials but also by the normally placid and indifferent public, a threat to their mini-empires.

The inevitability of change was what these men refused to grasp. Mick and Machida had gone into partnership in order to capitalize on these men’s fear, to harness their power and influence in ways they had never conceived of. To exploit them in the way they spent their lives exploiting those beneath their social station.

Machida seemed a willing confederate in this scheme perhaps because of all those who adhered to Dai-Roku, he lacked the requisite moneyed background to be considered fully an equal. Also, Mick believed, Machida secretly felt the others tolerated him simply because of his position. As chief prosecutor he was in the ideal position to keep them abreast of the latest investigations and to warn them of impending crackdowns, raids, and sting operations – all ever-widening nets in which these men or their cronies, associates, and those they kept on secret payroll might one day be caught.

Now, with the scheme in place, it was Mick’s job to convince the Dai-Roku that change was not only continuing to occur but that – surprise! – it could actually be used to make them wealthier and more influential. In one sense, it could be said that Mick was selling them nothing, using a sophisticated version of the con game. But, on another level, he would refute that. Because his own passion was as strong – possibly even stronger – than theirs. Mick wanted nothing less than to change history, to move the Nietzschean philosophy into the twenty-first century: the complete control of the commerce of business and thought. It was his right and due as an
Übermensch,
a Nietzschean Superman; who better than he to control the destiny of the world? And to think that the very technology of this new age would bring it to him. As more and more Japanese companies became comfortable with the vid-byte technology of the CyberNet, they would use it more and more to instantaneously transmit data over lines that would be proclaimed secure. A veritable treasure trove of secrets would come spilling into Mick’s lap: Sony’s newest digitized electronic breakthroughs, Masushita’s technology for a tiny video camera worn inside the rim of a pair of eyeglasses, which companies were currently on MITI’s most favored list, even which way the yen would go. So many, many ways to make money, to gain a crucial edge over a competitor. So much to do and so little time to do it in.

This ambitious takeover of international commerce he had no doubt he could do, assuming he had enough money, leverage, and the right people behind him. He had already had a number of years building his underground arms and drug networks throughout Southeast Asia from his former base of Floating City. Now it was time to get into the legitimate end of commerce. This he meant to do here in Tokyo, where the tenor of the times – militancy – the temperament of the people – subservience – seemed to him ideal. And, of course, Tokyo was where Sato International was; Sato with its TransRim CyberNet. If all went as planned, he would be inside Sato within a matter of weeks – if he could convince the Denwa Partners to go along with him. They would, of course, because he had done his homework, he knew these men and what made them tick. What he would offer them, they would find irresistible. These men feared change above all else because it was the status quo in Japan that lent them their power. They could see cracks forming in their power – political scandals, bribery links to brokerage houses, giant construction companies they owned – a vast and swelling outcry from the media and the public. These things they feared and reacted against instinctively.

Mick would give them what they needed to allay their fears – an establishment of a new status quo that enhanced their power base. How could they resist? Once they made that crucial decision, he would control them. They would be his entrée into Sato International. And once there, he would exert his influence, quickly, decisively, in true Nietzschean fashion, causing the ruin of the man he had come to view as his nemesis, his doppelgänger: Nicholas Linnear.

Margarite awoke from a dream-stalked sleep cramped and grimy-eyed. She uncurled herself from the backseat of the Lexus. She got out of the car and stretched. It was just past noon, not surprising since she had not fallen asleep until – what? – four, five in the morning? Then she got behind the wheel, drove out of the telephone rest stop, and hit the first 7-Eleven she came to.

Over a steaming hot coffee and a Drakes cake, she pondered her situation. Perhaps she had carried paranoia too far by not checking into any one of a number of anonymous-looking motels that dotted the Long Island Expressway, but she had not wanted to take a chance. She took another sip of overroasted coffee and massaged the back of her neck.

Late last night she had been within a couple of miles of her mansion in Old Westbury when it occurred to her she was doing just about the most foolish thing she could do. Wasn’t it logical that the people who had tried to kill her would have her house staked out? Sure. She had been in such a panic leaving the scene of the abortive strike against her that she had not been thinking straight. Clearly, she needed to get away and to implement a well-considered course of action. She had to call Tony, and this she did while she kept driving on the Long Island Expressway past her customary exit.

‘Call Tony’s office,’ she had said to the phone mounted on the center console of her car. She glanced at her watch, gave a little scream. She had to wipe away blood – Rocco’s or her driver Frankie’s – before she could see the numerals. It had been seven-thirty. Tony would be finished with his massage by now and back at work, making his most important West Coast calls.

‘Hello. Who’s this, please?’

A strange voice on the other end of the line. When she identified herself and asked for Tony, he said gruffly, ‘Hold a sec’, don’t go away.’ She heard a muffled word on the phone, something that sounded like Lew Tennant, and she automatically thought of Lew Croaker.
My God, how I miss him,
she thought.
He’d know what to do in this crisis.

‘Mrs DeCamillo? That you?’ Another voice, deeper, a whiskey baritone.

When she answered, he said, ‘My name’s Jack Barnett, Mrs DeCamillo. I’m a detective lieutenant with the NYPD.’ That was it, she thought. Lew Tennant. Lieutenant. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding your husband.’

An icy chill gripped Margarite’s insides. She swerved off the expressway onto the trash-strewn grassy verge where she braked to a halt, watching her hands shake. ‘Is he dead?’

‘I’m afraid so, Mrs DeCamillo. Murdered in his office.’

Bad Clams. So many emotions rushing through her like a wind blowing down a canyon. Tony dead. She felt as if her soul were being scoured clean by the hand of God. She slowed her breathing into deep inhalations, struggling to clear her mind, so she could ask the right questions.

‘Mrs DeCamillo? Are you still there?’

Concentrate, damn it!
‘When did it happen?’ she said, slamming the door shut.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What time was Tony killed?’ She was impatient now because this information was crucial.

‘I’m not sure. But it couldn’t have been more than an hour ago. The blood hasn’t yet fully coagulated.’

‘I see.’

There was a small pause. ‘Mrs DeCamillo, I wonder where you are. You’ve had quite a shock, maybe someone should be with you. Plus, it would be helpful if we could talk to you.’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible, Lieutenant...’

‘Barnett, ma’am. Jack Barnett.’

‘I’m on the road right now and it will be some time before I can get back to the city.’ She looked around her at the cars whizzing by as she listened to the silence build at the other end of the line.

‘Do you think that’s wise, Mrs DeCamillo? I mean, your husband has been murdered. The people who did this could be looking for you. At the very least, I’d think you’d want protection.’

He is right about that,
she thought.
Cars and more cars swimming by like schools of fish, blurred and indistinct, each carrying passengers with their own life stories. An uncaring cavalcade of metal and flesh ignorant of what’s happening to my life. First, my partner betrays me, selling my company out from under me, then my bodyguard and driver are gunned down and I am almost killed at just about the same time that Tony is murdered.

‘Mrs DeCamillo?’ Lieutenant Barnett’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘If you know anything about the circumstances of your husband’s murder or you believe you have any information regarding the perpetrator or perpetrators, it would be in your best interests to tell me. Plus, it could help stave off a potential bloodbath.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘A lawyer like your husband with a lotta different business interests, it’s only natural he’d made some very powerful enemies. Mrs DeCamillo, I wonder whether we’re connecting.’

‘Go to hell.’

‘I know you’re upset. But, see what I’m doing, Mrs DeCamillo? I’m reaching out to you the best way I know how. Do you think you could take even one step in my direction?’

Margarite suddenly felt vulnerable, sitting on the side of the LIE with her rear window a spiderweb of broken glass.
I’ve got to get out of here,
she thought.

‘If you want to know who killed my husband, talk to Caesare Leonforte,’ she said, severing the connection.

That was when the full brunt of the paranoia had taken hold, and instead of pulling into a motel, she had stopped at the telephone drive-by and had stayed there.

The way the ground had been systematically cut from under her was all too much of a coincidence, she thought now as she finished her too sweet Drakes cake. It had been as meticulously coordinated as a military campaign. Who the fuck were the people Rich sold out to? What a schmuck. Bad Clams had played him like a Steinway. She had little doubt now that Caesare Leonforte must own or at least control Volto, the company to which Rich had sold his half of Serenissima. She was shaking with rage and fear.

I’ve got to try calling Lew and Vesper again,
she told herself as she caught a window in the traffic flow and accelerated into the right-hand lane with a screech of tires. She’d tried them last night with no success. But first, she had to get to Francie. Her daughter was the most important person in her life, and now that danger had appeared at every side, her primary instinct was to get to her as quickly as possible. She’d tried calling last night, had gotten the answering machine. She’d checked her datebook and had seen that Francie was coming back from a horseback riding show sometime today.

Margarite exited the LIE and re-entered heading westbound, on her way to the Throgs Neck Bridge. She turned on the CD player, needing some music to calm her nerves, but nothing happened. She turned to a classical radio station, instead.

For the past nine months Francie had been living with Julie Longacre, Margarite’s friend in Connecticut. Julie was a horse fanatic and a first-rate rider, and Francie had taken to her right away. Lew’s advice to Francie had convinced Margarite to keep her daughter out of the family situation that had caused her problem in the first place.

So Margarite had secreted her at Julie’s. Not even Tony knew her whereabouts. And Julie, a divorced heiress with horses, hunting dogs, and all the paraphernalia to go with it, treated secrets like a sacred trust.

Margarite knew she had been foolish and out of touch, believing that she and Tony could hide their problems from Francie. Children had a way of being far more clever than their parents could possibly believe. And that, of course, made them more vulnerable to pressures and evil forces within the family.

Tony DeCamillo had been just such an evil force, but it was still possible for Margarite to understand how she had fallen in love with him. He was handsome, bright, and best of all, had access to a different level of society than she had been brought up with. The glitterati of Hollywood all knew Tony – many had been his clients. Margarite, on Tony’s arm, had met them all. She would never forget attending her first Oscar telecast. It was like being picked up by a whirlwind and being deposited in Oz. Of course she had been blown away. Of course she had looked up to Tony as some kind of God. Of course she had married him.

Then had come the nightmare.

She paid her toll, went across the bridge, and picked up Route 95.

Tony had wanted a baby machine. He’d told her on their honeymoon that he expected her to give him a child a year. And sons! My God, how he flew into a rage when Francie was born! He had changed the moment of his daughter’s birth, shunning the infant and physically punishing the wife who in his mind had betrayed him by depriving him of his son, his heir, the continuation of his branch of the DeCamillos.

She rocketed past the Pelhams, the Lexus humming happily while the wind whistled eerily through the shattered glass.

How did she feel now that Tony was dead? Could she mourn him? Not really. Truth to tell, she felt lighter than air, as if a long-standing ache with which she had learned to live had suddenly vanished. It astonished her how easy it was to breathe, how sweet each breath she took in now seemed. She felt dizzy with relief. But behind all that crept the anxiety of the many-pronged attack on the Goldoni family and on herself.

Bad Clams was behind this, she was sure of it. No wonder he had waited so long to make his move. He needed the time to coordinate all the pieces of the attack, and he needed to lull her into thinking he might never attempt to take over the East Coast Families, what had been Dominic’s territory.

So far every phase had worked to perfection, save the hit on her. That she had managed to escape was, she knew, something of a miracle. She must have her own personal angel looking over her shoulder. But now, as she entered Connecticut, the fear for her – and for Francie – intensified. Whom could she trust? She no longer knew. It occurred to her that no matter how much power Bad Clams had managed to muster, he would still need help from inside her own Family. Who had betrayed her and Tony? Probably one of the Family
capi
who had been promised more territory and influence under the Leonforte regime.