Unsafe Harbor (11 page)

Vinnie had put himself on the line for me over a year ago. He’d literally saved my butt in Hawaii, while nearly losing his own. For that, I still owed him big-time.

It only took a few minutes before Vinnie returned my call.

“Hey, New Yawk. What’s up?” he asked, in his native drawl.

“I could ask the same of you. What’s with the answering service?” I inquired.

“Oh, just the usual business,” came his noncommittal response.

Though I remained curious, I knew better than to ask any more questions over the phone.

“So did you call just to shoot the breeze, or is there something on your mind?” he queried.

I could nearly hear him drumming his perfectly manicured fingernails straight through the wire.

“A little of both. Have you got time to meet me for coffee?”

“Yeah, I think I can squeeze you in. But we’ll have to do it pronto. My morning’s pretty booked up and so is my afternoon,” Bertucci responded.

Well, wasn’t he the social gadfly.

“Do you want me to come to Queens?” I asked, more curious than ever as to what was going on.

“Nah. I’m already here in the city. Let’s meet in Little Italy. You know the spot,” he instructed.

I’d gotten used to Vinnie’s fixation with verbal shorthand. He always figured any phone line that he used was being tapped. I didn’t want to tell him the Feds were swamped with more important matters these days. Not only would it
hurt his feelings, but it might spur him on to other illegal activities in order to regain their attention. He believed that being on their watch list was a lot like celebrities and the tabloids: Once the press, or the Feds, lost interest, your career was pretty well shot.

“I’ll see you there in half an hour. How’s that?” I asked.

“I’ll be waiting with bells and whistles on,” he wisecracked.

Little Italy, as it had once been, barely existed anymore. Most of the area was now a front for the tourist trade. This was due to Chinatown, which had steadily spread and taken over, much like an ink stain.

Gone were the old Italian grandmothers who had cooked up a storm in the cramped kitchens along Mulberry Street. The restaurants were now all Chinese owned and operated, though they still retained their
paesano
names. The waiters remained Italian, in a ruse to draw in unsuspecting customers.

I parked near the corner of Elizabeth and Grand. That was one of the perks of being in law enforcement. I could park wherever I pleased. This was official business and I wasn’t about to pay for taxis and subways out of my own pocket.

I placed my handy dandy parking placard in the window and then walked to a small café that was more or less a “social club.” It was one of the few spots in the neighborhood that the Chinese didn’t dare set foot in. I entered to find Vinnie already seated and sipping an espresso with his back to the wall. If I hadn’t known it was Bertucci, I’d have thought I was meeting an Italian movie star.

Gone were the polyester leisure suits, as well as the pointy alligator shoes. Vinnie was decked out in an expensive Brioni number. A camel hair overcoat was draped over his shoulders, and a fedora perched jauntily on his head. His open-collar shirt revealed a perma-tan that would have sent Terri dashing back to the nearest salon in envy.

Bertucci still weighed in at three hundred pounds; however, my eyes were drawn more to his twenty-four-karat-gold chain than to his heft. Dangling from it was a medallion of St. Anthony the size of a small spare tire. Vinnie barely lifted a finger before an ancient waiter came shuffling over.

“Give the lady a cappuccino and bring us a plate of pastries,” he ordered, without my having to ask.

I looked at him and shook my head, utterly impressed.

“I know it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, but what’s going on? You look terrific,” I said, feeling a bit envious.

I was more aware than ever of my discount-clothing fetish. Maybe Terri was right. Perhaps it was time that I threw caution to the wind and blew some money on a more stylish wardrobe.

“I’ve got a new sideline going,” Vinnie revealed, his lips curling up in a satisfied smile.

“You mean in addition to all your other business ventures?” I joked.

“What can I say? I’m a true-blue American entrepreneur,” Vinnie replied, looking like a well-cured side of beef.

“So, are you going to tell me what it is? Or do I have to guess?” I asked, as the waiter placed a platter of biscotti, Napoleons, tiramisu, zeppoli, and cannoli before us.

“This one? He’s the new Johnny Depp,” the waiter proudly said in a thick Sicilian accent. The old man smiled broadly, revealing blank spaces where there should have been teeth.

“Johnny Depp, my ass. I’m more of a Bobby DeNiro,” Vinnie protested.

I saw him slip the waiter a twenty.

“I’m not even going to try and figure it out. What’s going on?” I asked, not having the slightest idea what either of them was talking about.

Vinnie took a sip of his espresso, ever so daintily curling his pinkie. “I was walking out of Sparks Steakhouse a coupla months back, when this casting director spotted me. Next thing you know, I’m being hired to play a wiseguy on
The Sopranos,
and the networks are calling me about doing a coupla shows. I’m even appearing in movies.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said, totally flabbergasted.

“They told me I’m a natural. I got, whaddaya call it? Oh yeah. Screen presence,” Vinnie informed me. “And if they decide to use one of those big-name actors instead? Then I’m hired as a character consultant. You know, it’s so they can ask dumb-ass questions like, ‘Hey, Vinnie. Do I wear my ring on this finger? Am I walking okay? Is my hair all right?’”

He emitted a high-pitched giggle and swallowed a cannoli in one bite. “I guess my life experience is finally paying off. To tell you the truth, it’s not a bad gig. What the hell. I’m raking in enough moolah to get free dental and health insurance from the Screen Actors Guild. And you know what those premiums cost. That alone was killing me.”

“What!” I exclaimed, beginning to feel totally pissed off. “You’re already a member of the Screen Actors Guild?”

“Of course. How else do you think I’m doing all this?” Vinnie retorted with a snort.

Forget the tan. Blast the new suit. I was upset that he was getting free dental and health insurance. I’d never managed to do that the entire time I’d been an actress years before. Vinnie was already doing better than I ever had after years of studying acting and speech, to say nothing of Shakespeare and classical theater.

“But my favorite thing is when the makeup girl comes on set to do our final touch-up. ‘Fluff ’em and puff ’em,’ as they
say. I just love that stuff. My boys in the’ hood get a kick out of it, too,” Vinnie said with a wink. “Even Billy Crystal told me just the other day that I’m gonna be a big star.”

Bertucci puffed out his chest, looking like an overinflated penguin, as he scarfed up a zeppole. I almost choked on my tiramisu, unwittingly consumed by jealousy.

“What can I tell ya? Life is good right now. In fact, my agent’s even working on a cookbook deal for me. I’m gonna call it
Mangia with the Mob
. Whaddaya think?”

“You’ve got an agent?” I asked in disbelief.

“Sure. That’s why I’m a little pressed for time today. I got two auditions this afternoon,” he divulged. “I think Victoria Gotti wants me to be on her reality show. Or maybe it’s a Victoria’s Secret commercial. I tend to get ’em mixed up,” he said with a laugh.

I polished off a Napoleon, hoping that it would provide me with some comfort.

“So, how’s by you?” Vinnie asked, apparently through with his update.

“Obviously, I’m not doing as good as you,” I replied, still trying to quell my envy. “Listen, I called to ask a favor.”

“What? Another?” Vinnie queried, and arched an eyebrow. “I’m gonna have to start charging you at this rate.”

“I just want a little information,” I told him. “A luncheonette truck was set on fire at the port last night. The woman that owned it was inside at the time. Is there any way to check if the local Mob was involved?”

“And why would you think that?” Vinnie inquired with a deadpan expression.

No wonder he was landing mobster roles left and right. You couldn’t get any more real than the
goombah
sitting before me.

“From what I hear, payoffs are part of doing business at the port,” I replied.

“I guess that would be fair to say,” he concurred.

“My boss thinks that’s why Magda’s truck was torched. Because she refused to pay. But I tend to believe it was something different,” I revealed.

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Vinnie was not one to be left out of any juicy gossip.

“You heard about the body that was found there the other day?”

“Sure. The rich broad with the Wall Street husband,” Vinnie replied. He clearly kept up with the news.

“Magda saw the body being dumped,” I told him.

“Did she get a good look at any of the faces?”

“No, it was too dark.”

Something struck me as not quite right. Perhaps it was the way Vinnie’s pinkie twitched involuntarily.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” he replied smoothly, his finger once again under control. “But you gotta do me a favor and stay outta trouble this time. I already got you outta one scrape. I don’t need to be picking up any body parts in Newark. It might cut into my screen time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, suddenly aware that
I
was the one with my back to the door.

I stood up and turned sideways, no longer certain as to which direction was safer.

“Hey, I got a joke for you, seeing as how you’re working in the Garden State these days,” Vinnie said, as we walked outside. “You know why New Yorkers are always so depressed?”

“No. Why?” I asked, willing to play the straight man.

“It’s because the light at the end of the tunnel is New Jersey,” Vinnie said, punctuating his punch line with a loud, “
Ba da bing!
”

“Keep your head down and your eyes open,” he added, by way of a new sign-off.

I watched as he strolled the down the block. He now had the life of which I used to dream. And all it took was being a mobster. I figured there was a lesson in there somewhere about show business.

I got into my Trailblazer and wondered what to do next. I had yet to check my cell phone for any messages from last night. That ought to eat up a good five minutes.

I entered my code and my blood immediately turned cold, causing the hairs to stand up on my neck. The first message was a voice from beyond the grave. Magda spoke to me once again.

“Rachel? I’ve changed my mind. Would you please come and pick me up? You were right. I think I should go home with you tonight.”

The Italian pastries curdled in my stomach at the gut-wrenching sound of panic in her voice.

Had she heard something outside that had prompted a cry for help? Footsteps, perhaps? Or had she caught a whiff of kerosene as it splashed against her truck? How much longer had she lived after that? Long enough to feel sheer terror crawling inside her like spiders? At least long enough to have placed one final phone call.

I suddenly felt lightheaded, and feared I was about to be sick, not just from the message, but the odor of smoke that still clung to my skin from last night’s fire. Even my shower hadn’t washed it away. It was the noxious fragrance of death.

I silently vowed to track Magda’s killer down no matter what. That’s when it finally clicked. Why had Vinnie seemed to know that more than one person had carried Bitsy von Falken into the field that night? “
Did she get a good look at any of the faces
,” he’d said. It was a bit of informa
tion that had yet to be released, and I certainly hadn’t told him about it.

I now began to wonder if Vinnie was a better actor than I had ever imagined. I also began to wonder if I was the biggest patsy alive.

I
was too revved up to head home. If adrenaline were music, it would have been bugling through my veins right about now. Fortunately, I’d stuffed the contact sheet that Joy from Haller Associates had so thoughtfully e-mailed me into my bag.

God, there were a lot of people who attended big money benefits, and Bitsy von Falken seemed to have known every last one of them. I quickly scanned the list, feeling like a kid in a candy store.

Skip the models. Save the actresses for later. I needed someone who might be impressed with the title “Special Agent.” I settled on Muffy Carson Ellsworth as an appropriate target. She was a doyenne whose name was constantly in the society columns. I picked up my cell phone and promptly punched in her number.

“The Carson Ellsworth residence,” answered a man with a killer British accent.

I immediately felt like a low-class commoner.

“Is Mrs. Carson Ellsworth at home?” I inquired, attempting to sound oh-so-proper.

“Whom may I say is calling?” he asked.

I was tempted to recite a sonnet, or break into Shakespeare. Instead, I came off sounding like a total idiot.

“Rachel Porter. This is in reference to Bitsy von Falken. It’s a matter of the utmost gravity,” I said, hoping to hit the right note of authority.

I thought I heard a chuckle as the man cleared his throat.

“One moment, please,” he responded dryly.

Terrific. It’s always nice to know that I’ve made a complete fool of myself. I couldn’t wait for the day when I finally felt like a grown-up. Until then, I’d just have to keep pretending to be one. I began to suspect I’d been cut off when a woman finally came on the line.

“This is Mrs. Carson Ellsworth. I understand you’re calling in regard to Bitsy von Falken. You’re not with the media, are you?” she asked, her voice dropping like a lead weight.

“No, of course not,” I hurriedly assured her. “I’m a Special Agent.”

“A Special Agent? And just what is it that makes you so special? Are you a female James Bond, perhaps?” my target sardonically inquired.

“No. It’s that I work for a law enforcement branch of the federal government,” I responded, not yet wanting to mention Fish and Wildlife. “Your name was passed on by someone who said you might be willing to help with my investigation.”

“Really? Who gave you my name? And help you exactly how?” she asked, sounding puzzled.

“I’m afraid I can’t reveal my source at this time,” I answered, pulling an Officer Nunzio. I just hoped that she fell for it. “However, my contact spoke very highly of you. I understand that Bitsy von Falken organized a charity event about a year ago at which some shawls were sold.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Muffy firmly retorted.

My heart immediately sank. Had word already gotten out that I might call and should be stonewalled?

“Those weren’t just
any
shawls. They’re absolute trea
sures. No. Actually, they’re much more than that. They’re heirlooms, really,” Muffy said, waxing eloquent. “To call them just shawls is to do them an injustice.”

Uh-huh. I was fairly certain all the Tibetan antelopes that died to provide them felt exactly the same way.

“Well, Mrs. von Falken might have gotten herself into a bit of trouble over them. Might I stop by and talk to you about it?” I asked, quickly glancing down at my outfit.

Ooh, yeah. My boots and jeans should really do the trick. With any luck, she’d simply take pity on me.

“Bitsy was in trouble? Does this have anything to do with her murder?” she asked, sounding intrigued. “Or does it involve that slacker husband of hers?”

Jake had said that Gavin von Falken was about to be investigated for investor fraud. Was that what Muffy was referring to? Only how could she have known if it hadn’t yet been made public?

“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone,” I hedged.

“I understand. Of course, I’ll make myself available. I’m happy to help in any way that I can,” Muffy responded with barely concealed delight. “When would you like to stop by?”

The sooner the better,
I thought, knowing there was no sense in taking any chances. I needed to question her before she was advised not to talk.

“How about right now?” I asked.

“Right now? Why not? That would be fine,” she gaily responded, as though we were about to meet for tea.

Muffy gave me the address, and I headed once more to the Upper East Side.

I’ve always thought of Manhattan as a series of villages, each with its own distinct personality. Every street has a signature that makes it unique. I left the aroma of cannoli and cappuccino behind and traveled through an area of Latino-
owned groceries. Their colorful awnings hung heavy as metal eyelids over each little bodega.

Continuing on, I skirted around trendy and tired Soho with its hipper-than-thou air, choosing instead to cruise by the hot, new shops of Noho and NoLita. Then it was on to Gramercy Park and Union Square. Once there, it was a straight shot up Madison Avenue to midtown, where I was able to catch a glimpse of the Empire State Building. Even now, I liked to imagine it being breached by King Kong.

Next came the glamorous Art Deco landmark, the Chrysler Building. The edifice stood as proudly as an aging regent, bedazzling the crowds with its stainless steel crown. A closer look at the façade revealed fancy brickwork designed to resemble automotive hubcaps. It was hard to believe that this had once been the tallest building in the world.

It was here that I caught the fragrant whiff of grease emanating from a group of pushcarts. Vendors sold hotdogs, souvlaki, and gyros sandwiches as angry taxis screeched past, blowing their horns like a flock of hungry birds.

Leaving the hoi polloi behind with all its noise and traffic, I soon entered the privileged landscape of the Upper East Side.

Finding a space, I wrestled my SUV between a Mercedes and a Jaguar. Then I walked toward Fifth Avenue and Central Park. Each step took me closer to a bastion of blue blood and old money. Truth be told, its roots could easily be traced back to robber barons and other assorted crooks.

I was surprised to find that Muffy Carson Ellworth’s address didn’t lead me to an apartment building, but rather an elegant three-story town house. That’s when I knew I was rubbing shoulders with really big bucks.

I rang the buzzer and my telephone buddy, Jeeves, promptly answered the door.

“Good day, miss. May I help you?” he asked, in a most eloquent and sonorous tone.

If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought the guy came straight out of Central Casting. Not only did he look like a butler, but he had the role down pat. In addition, he’d called me “miss” rather than “ma’am.” It didn’t get any better than that.

“Yes, I’m Rachel Porter. I’m here to see Mrs. Carson Ellsworth. She’s expecting me,” I said, and flashed a smile.

Jeeves shot back a withering look as he glanced at my attire. So much for my natural charm and winning personality. He turned and I followed him inside.

“Please wait here. Mrs. Carson Ellsworth will be with you shortly,” he said.

Jeeves took my jacket and gingerly carried it before him as though suspecting it might be toxic, leaving me standing alone in an enormous room.

I figured this must be a multimillionaire’s idea of cozy. The drawing room had two burgundy velvet settees, the usual French cut-glass mirrors, and a large burlwood bureau. Atop it were numerous framed photos of Muffy at various stages of life, all neatly arranged in a stylish “mess.” The walls were a pale soft green, decorated with hand-painted murals—the theme: fat little cherubs gorging themselves on fruit. It was then I became aware that there was a cat in the room.

A Himalayan, soft and round as a chocolate truffle, came sauntering toward me. The feline idly rubbed its brown and cream fur against my pants, as though I were no more than another piece of furniture in its path, before heading to a loveseat. Hopping up on the settee, the furball circled three times and then nestled down in the folds of a beautiful blue
shahtoosh shawl. I was making my way over to check out the goods when Muffy Carson Ellsworth abruptly entered the room.

Perhaps “entered” wasn’t the proper term to use. Muffy swept in with all the assurance of a grande dame coming to greet an adoring public. I turned to face her, quite aware that I was in the presence of a force of nature.

Muffy’s hair was the same rich blond sported by both Bitsy and Tiffany, though she must have been sprinting toward seventy years old. I had to hand it to the woman. She carried her age with style and class.

She stood adorned in a black Chanel suit and white chiffon blouse that was semi-transparent. An exquisite La Perla camisole flirtatiously played peek-a-boo underneath. Three heavy strands of pearls hung from her neck, each creamy globule nearly as large as the tip of my thumb.

The final touch was an enormous silver pearl, encrusted with diamonds, that dangled between her breasts. The gem perfectly matched the drop earrings that she wore. Not to be outdone was a diamond brooch in the shape of a snowflake. Its baguettes glistened like lethal slivers of ice on her lapel.

Muffy was one of those X-ray women that obviously believed you could never be too rich or too thin, and adamantly lived by her convictions. Which is to say, she was fashionably anorexic. Her cheeks didn’t just sink into her face but submerged like a pair of deep craters, while her legs were the width of two sticks. I could see every vein, every bone beneath her paper-thin skin. The impression was that of a stylish cadaver. No matter. She still wore the latest Manolo Blahnik high heels.

“That’s why you’d never make it as a socialite, Rach. Those women have got the iron will of Mussolini when it comes to eating,” Terri had once told me.

I could think of plenty of other reasons why I wouldn’t have made it, as well. Such as the fact that I didn’t have the necessary funds.

Muffy didn’t come to greet me, but struck a pose in front of one of her French cut-glass mirrors. I took my cue and walked over to pay the appropriate homage.

“Agent Porter, isn’t it?” she asked, and offered her hand as if she were the Pope.

I now knew who it was that Muffy reminded me of. She was a dead ringer for the haughty actress Lauren Bacall.

“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carson Ellsworth,” I replied.

Her fingers barely touched my outstretched palm.

“Naturally,” she modestly retorted. “Won’t you sit down?”

I followed the languid wave of her arm to one of the loveseats. Muffy sat on the other, next to her perfectly coifed cat. Amazing. Even the little sucker was better groomed than I was. Muffy seemed to think so too, as her eyes briefly flitted over me. I could almost hear myself being soundly dismissed.

“Is that shahtoosh, by any chance?” I asked, pointing to the wrap on which her cat lounged.

“Yes, it is,” Muffy replied, her voice oozing with pleasure as her hand tenderly stroked the wool. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I allow Everest to lie on one of my shawls whenever he’s being particularly good. He just loves the feel of it.”

I couldn’t say that I blamed him. I also couldn’t help but think of all the homeless animals there were, and wonder how many bags of pet food the sale of just one shawl would provide. Everest was badly in need of a dose of reality, to my mind.

“
One
of your shawls?” I promptly chirped up. “Are they all shahtoosh?”

“Of course. Once you own one, you immediately want more. They’re so light, you can barely feel them. Everyone I know has at least two, or three, or four,” Muffy responded, as if insulted that I might think otherwise. “You mustn’t view them as simply a fashion rage. Rather, they’re an absolute necessity.”

True. What else could these women possibly drape over their bony shoulders, or use to swaddle their newborn babies?

“All except for Giancarlo Giamonte. That scamp must have at least two hundred stoles, one in every color to match each of his sweaters, suits, and coats,” she blithely remarked, as though we were just two gals shooting the breeze. “Then there’s a certain socialite I know that had one made into a bed throw, while Donna Karan swears that her shahtoosh shawl is her security blanket. For goodness sake, even Queen Elizabeth, Blaine Trump, Christie Brinkley, and Patty Buckley own at least one.”

Muffy leaned forward, as if she were about to share a secret with me.

“Let me tell you. There was a mad dash on the shawls after British
Vogue
declared pashmina to be out and shahtoosh to be in. Of course, I already owned my stoles. I don’t allow anything as base as a common magazine to rule my fashion taste. But there are others in my social circle that clearly do,” she confided, and raised a knowing eyebrow.

Whoa! Back up a minute. My mind was awhirl in a potent swirl of celebrity names. Obviously there was some serious shahtoosh lust going on out there.

“Excuse me. But exactly who is Giancarlo Giamonte?” I asked, vaguely remembering that Terri had once mentioned him. “The name sounds familiar. Is he someone I should know?”

“Well, that all depends. Anyone on the A-list would natu
rally be acquainted with him,” Muffy informed me, while disdainfully pushing back a lock of her hair.

Her eyes flickered in amusement, and a devilish smile licked at her lips, telegraphing that I had far less status than even a cockroach at the base camp of High Society. As if that was something I didn’t already know.

I wondered what it was like to live Muffy Carson Ellsworth’s life, lunching on lobster salad at Le Bernardin and packing her Vuitton bags for a couture show.

“Would you mind giving me a bit more detail on him?” I asked.

As much as I would have liked to throttle the woman, I needed to keep it friendly for now.

“He’s an up-and-coming designer and a very sweet young man. I show my support by wearing his designs whenever I can,” she replied. “Giancarlo knows that if his fashions are seen on me, then others will surely buy them.”

Evidently, Muffy was more than just your average socialite. She was also a fashion stamp of approval.

“Giancarlo is such a perfect gentleman that I often have him escort me to social events. It allows him to mingle with the right crowd, and I know he won’t do anything to embarrass me,” she added. A hint of color rose in her cheeks and I wondered if Muffy had a crush on him.