85

GERRY QUINN KNEW WHAT he was talking about when he told Richardson that her story about Richie Cardella being the prime victim at Chi-Chi’s might shake some things out of the trees. In his thirty-five years as a cop, he saw it happen time and time again. An investigation went nowhere for months—in some cases, years—and then one new clue, prominently publicized, or brought to the attention of various suspects, succeeded in prodding a key witness to let the cat out of the bag in an effort to save himself.

On Friday afternoon, Jenna got a call in her office from Lester Karp. He started to remind her that he was treasurer of the Fiore campaign. She interrupted, saying that she remembered him well from having spent an entire day earlier in the month following his candidate around.

“I want to know whether I can speak to you off the record, Miss Richardson. I wouldn’t want my name used if I gave you certain information. No, let me put it differently. I’ll consider talking to you only if you agree to attribute anything I say to “a source claiming to have ties to the Fiore organization.”

Jenna’s gut told her that something good was on the way. “I can certainly do that,” she assured him, “but I’d have to be convinced I was talking to the right Lester Karp.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I understand.” He gave her his home telephone number and suggested she call the following morning, before 10:00 a.m. “I still want to think it over,” he said, terminating the conversation.

* * *

Lester Karp’s stomach hadn’t stopped bothering him since he read Richardson’s story on Thursday morning. At first he tried taking some Tums, but when that didn’t give him relief, he switched to the stronger Gelusil tablets. Still, the nervous tension wouldn’t go away.

Karp reached the same conclusion as Jenna as to what really happened at Chi-Chi’s, but he arrived at that point at least two weeks before she did. The idea suddenly entered his mind while he was lunching alone in a downtown Providence cafeteria, and rapidly escalated to a conviction he couldn’t dismiss. Now that the probable reason for the crime was out there for the public to read about, ponder, and in all likelihood accept, Karp was worried. The Herald’s finger was being pointed at the Tarantino family, at least by insinuation. If it did order the bloodbath that took place, there could be follow-up allegations that everyone holding a high position in the Fiore campaign was aware of the plan and assented to it.

Karp knew how badly the Tarantinos wanted to see Fiore win the election. He never spoke to either Sal or Sandy directly, in person or otherwise, since he was enlisted to work in the campaign by Russell Walsh; but he was in Berman’s room at the Biltmore quite often while Cyril spoke to one or both of the Tarantinos on the telephone. There were ways Karp could tell the incoming call was from Sal or Sandy. For one thing, Berman never mentioned the other person’s name during the conversation. And he habitually held his other hand close to his ear, as if convinced that it was the best way to keep the sound of the voice on the other end from being heard by anyone else in the room.

It wasn’t difficult for Karp to imagine the concern behind the message being communicated to Berman on those occasions. It was enough to hear Cyril say, “It’s risky, but I’ll look into it,” or, “I know how important this is for you.” And Berman’s reply was just above a whisper several times when he said, “I think you’re right on that one. Let’s win the election and afterwards we can worry about whether we should have done it.”

Karp remembered the time Berman finished one of those conversations, turned to him and Russell Walsh and said, “If I ever tell you we’re going to do something that sounds unethical, illegal, or immoral, call me on it. We promised Fiore he could have his clean campaign and I’m not looking for ways to beat Singer if they’re dirty. Make me justify anything that smells to you like it has crossed the line. I may not change my mind if I disagree with both of you, and I may not even have the final say. That may come down to Fiore and the Tarantinos. But let’s all be aware that the people who want Fiore in the governor’s office talk as if they’re willing to do anything to get him there.”

If Richie Cardella was murdered because he stood in Doug Fiore’s way, Karp wanted to be certain that everyone knew he wasn’t a part of that decision. He was a successful businessman all his life, and was tapped for fund-raising by the Republican Party in earlier political campaigns because he had a multitude of friends who contributed when he asked. His contacts resulted in large sums given to the Women & Infants Hospital, the Museum of Art, and the Rhode Island Philharmonic Orchestra, each of which he served as a trustee.

Lester Karp was a respected name in the Providence community, and he didn’t want even a hint of scandal attaching to it, especially now, near the end of a distinguished career. But even more importantly, if this tragedy did come off on orders from Federal Hill, he realized how dangerous it could be for the people of Rhode Island to have Fiore in office. The State’s Governor would be beholden to killers.

The only thing Karp knew was that he wasn’t involved in any conspiracy to end Cardella’s life, but he wasn’t certain about the others. He doubted that Walsh was brought in on something like that ahead of time. Walsh was more of a fringe player, like him. If he had to wager, he’d say that Berman wasn’t part of the plan either, but he couldn’t be sure. He recalled how shocked Berman seemed to be when news of what happened at Chi-Chi’s came over their car radio that night, but he supposed it could have been play acting, all part of the game. Karp asked himself a number of times whether he thought Doug Fiore would go along with such a scheme. It disturbed him that he couldn’t come up with an answer that allayed his fears.

* * *

Richardson called him at just after 9:30 in the morning. There was only one Lester Karp listed in the Providence directory, at the number he gave her. Still, she asked him a few questions that she knew no one but the real Lester Karp could answer. He understood the reason for what she was doing, and willingly responded. He told her the nickname he was given by Russell Walsh, the location of the window on his Lincoln that lost its power control and the name of the credit card she heard him say was the only card a person ever needed.

“You’ve got some memory there,” he said, in a complimentary tone.

When Jenna asked what he wanted to tell her, Karp first had her confirm that she wouldn’t use his name in any connection with the information he related. He explained that there were some things about the campaign only he and a handful of other people knew. Those things couldn’t be revealed directly without the others speculating that he was very possibly the source. But he could suggest that she do some more investigating in a particular area that ought to lead her to the same facts.

“The only thing you’re absolutely right about, Miss Richardson, is the relationship between Sandy Tarantino and Fiore. Make no mistake about it, the Tarantinos want him to be governor so he can veto any legislation that would let the State open up the kinds of casinos operated by the Family. They know from everything that’s been said at the Statehouse that the vote on casino gambling would be very close either way. If it’s passed, there wouldn’t be enough votes to override a veto by the governor.

“I suspect that Sandy Tarantino talked Fiore into running for office and coming out strong against casino gambling, but I can’t be sure of that. Fiore’s got a huge ego and maybe he figured he could do the job as well as the three others who were already in the race before he announced. It’s possible he called Tarantino first, just to feel him out about financial support, and ended up hitting the jackpot. The bottom line is that the Family put up a lot of money to get the campaign off the ground and keep it moving.”

Jenna interrupted. “I checked out their contributions to him, Mr. Karp, and they weren’t very large at all.”

“Not the ones they knew the public would see,” he replied. “You were hitting the nail on the head. The problem is that you couldn’t bang it in far enough. I’ll tell you what to do. Go back to those lists of campaign contributors. We file a new one every month. I’m sure you’re aware that a person can give up to a thousand dollars to any candidate. Take a name, like Morgan for example—I’m making that one up—and go through all the lists. September’s is already on file, by the way, even though the Herald hasn’t published it yet. Count up the Morgans and see where they live. Maybe you’ll find five of them at the same address, each giving the maximum amount. That could be the husband, the wife and three children. A little unusual, wouldn’t you say? It would be interesting to see how recently the checking accounts for the children were opened.

“Or perhaps you’ll see that the Morgan children are all married and that each of them and their spouses also sent in a thousand apiece. Another unusual giving pattern, you’d have to admit. It would be very revealing to know how many of those checking accounts started with cash that was hand delivered to the Morgans or others from a source on Federal Hill. Maybe you can’t check some of those things, Miss Richardson. You don’t have much time left anyhow. But people you speak to may give you some good information without realizing it. What do you think?”

“You’re right, Mr. Karp, it’s going to be a time-consuming thing to try and pin down. I’m not even sure how much the average voter would care about that sort of thing anyway. But I’ll take a look at it. Maybe it will be a good post-election story, regardless of who wins. That still leaves me wondering why you called. It wasn’t just to tell me this, was it?”

“No, that’s not the main reason.” There was a pause, and Jenna heard him exhaling into the phone.

“This part has to be strictly confidential, just something I want to get off my chest, but between you and me and no one else.”

“Agreed, Mr. Karp.”

“I don’t know whether you’re right or not about who was responsible for what happened to Cardella, but I agree with you that he was the target. The other guy, the bookie, was the one in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s what I’ve thought for a while already. It’s important for me to say that if the Tarantino family had anything to do with it, I never heard a word about it ahead of time. Believe me, I would have called the police if I did.” Karp paused again. “That’s what I wanted you to know. What I told you about the finances was just to give you something else to go on in case Tarantino or Fiore was involved at Chi-Chi’s.”

“I understand. I’m glad you told me that, Mr. Karp. It helps a lot to know you feel I’m on the right track. Please don’t hesitate to call me again if you’d like.”