Helen McCorkendale sunk her chin deeper into the ratty collar of the worn coat wrapped over several layers of dirty, smelly clothing. The City Harvest people were making their way down the street, handing out sandwiches and sympathy to those in need. Damn. Soon, they’d reach her and the location she chose so carefully next to the overflowing dumpster in the alley between the Chinese takeout place and the Italian salumeria.
She pushed back deeper into the alley and hoped they hadn’t seen her. The last thing I want to do tonight is call attention to myself, she thought. Dressed in her tattered hat and coat, piled with unraveling scarves and carrying ragged old shopping bags, she knew she looked like every other New York City bag lady—which was exactly the way to remain unnoticed while staking out the Three Aces Social Club on Carmine Street. If its members saw her at all, they saw was an old, homeless woman rummaging through the dumpster and talking to herself.
What is with these Mafia guys? Why three aces and not four? She’d never understand the psychology behind some of this mob stuff. Especially the names: Joey Bones, Philly the Kid, Patsy Three Legs. She didn’t even want to imagine what that final name was all about.
Then, of course, there was Suave Sal Santucci, the Don of the Giambello family. Known as much for the cut of his suit as the sting of his gun, Sal was Capo di Tutti Capi of the New York region and had an army of captains and soldiers under his command.
Helen knew anyone who wanted to make a move in New York had to go through Sal and his boys. Guns, prostitution, drugs, stolen merchandise, identity theft—it all began and ended at the Three Aces, a dump of a storefront with Formica tables, folding chairs, and a giant espresso machine. Helen chuckled. Sal hadn’t felt the need to splurge on the décor, but had gone all-out on the bronze and silver Bormioli coffeemaker.
She watched the club’s doorway open and close over and over from her spot in the alley. Looks like a regular crime-busters convention is going on over there. Too bad I seem to be the only good guy invited to the party.
Was she in over her head? Probably. Was her adrenaline pumping and her heart rate spiking? Absolutely. Was she going to kill Joe Santangelo, the guy who had hired her? That remained to be seen.
Helen thought about Joe. As her friend, former lover, and New York F&T Insurance’s chief investigator, he had asked her to help with a potentially dicey case. A Park Avenue couple had reported the theft of a rather large and expensive diamond ring. They were distraught. They were inconsolable. They wanted the insurance money. Fidelity was about to pay until Joe put a hold on the deal.
Joe had run his hand through his hair when they met to discuss the case and he laid it all out for her. Helen appreciated his thick mane of naturally dark blond hair, rare on a man in his forties—unless he secretly dyed it. She smiled to herself. When they first met several years back, they had an instant mutual attraction that sparked into an affair. It flamed out fairly quickly, leaving them just good friends and pals who could also be useful to each other. And now, of course, she was dating Laurel’s father, who was ten years older but just as handsome. Ah, men, she thought, I do like ’em.
Joe had conducted the preliminary investigation into the case she was currently helping with. On the night of the robbery, the couple was at dinner with friends and the maid—a new, live-in girl from Guatemala with very little English—was visiting a relative in Queens. When the couple returned home, the wall safe in their bedroom was open, and a ring and some cash were missing. They immediately called the police and then New York F& T Insurance.
Joe showed up the next morning to interview them. The wife, a slim, blond matron from a prominent New York family, was upset, as one might expect. But the husband, a high-end real estate broker, was rude and imperious. Joe’s bullshit meter kicked into overdrive. He checked the locks and the building security tapes and spoke with the management. There was no sign of forced entry.
Joe returned to his office to run a check on the couple and discovered they weren’t quite as affluent as they seemed. The money was hers—or had been. Now, thanks to the husband’s greed and Bernie Madoff’s willingness to exploit it, they were almost broke. Joe told Helen he wondered how much the wife knew about their reduced financial situation and, if she didn’t, what she’d do when she found out.
The whole thing felt wrong and, going with his instincts, Joe decided to tail the husband for a few days to determine if Fidelity had any cause for concern.
On the morning of the second day, the husband left his building at his usual time, carrying his briefcase and a folded copy of The New York Times under his arm. Instead of hailing a cab and heading downtown to his office at Madison Realty, he headed west. Joe followed him to Riverside Drive, almost to the Hudson, as the husband made his way to the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin and found a secluded bench. He placed the folded newspaper on the seat next to him.
A young guy, also carrying a folded paper, took a seat on the same bench. The kid lit a cigarette and placed his copy of The Times on the bench between them. He sat back, staring up at the trees as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and polluted the air with a line of smoke rings. This was the way Joe had told the story to Helen, who knew Joe was probably almost as annoyed by the smoking as he was by the robbery.
A minute later, the husband, who looked like he’d never sat on a park bench before that morning, picked up the second paper, tucked it under his arm and headed off in the direction of the underpass leading to Riverside Drive.
Joe observed the switch. It was executed with a certain amount of skill. Did the husband leave the guy a payment for fencing the ring? Was he getting back an extra apartment key? Leaving the husband to continue his day, Joe tailed the young guy to a tenement on Sullivan Street and checked the name on the graffiti-covered directory: Ralphie Bonatura.
A little digging turned up the fact Ralphie had a record for petty theft and an uncle connected to the Santucci family. Ralphie also worked for the contractor who did repairs at the couple’s building a few weeks prior to the robbery. That offered plenty of opportunity for the husband or wife to meet him and strike a deal. Joe smelled insurance fraud big time. The husband looked good for it, especially after the rendezvous in the park. Joe needed to gather all the evidence he could before confronting the high-profile couple.
That was when he called Helen and asked her to take over the tail on Ralphie while he kept digging into the couple’s background. Watching Ralphie for the last few days had been a real treat. She rummaged through the dumpster and pulled out one red stiletto shoe. And, I thought all I’d do was follow him all over SoHo and Alphabet City as he made his rounds checking in with an assortment of lowlifes and weirdoes. Silly me.
Tossing the shoe aside, she risked a glance at the Three Aces, where Ralphie had spent the last few nights and early mornings. Tonight he was back, playing doorman to a long line of too-tanned men in sleek suits and beefed-up bodyguards emerging from long black limos with Jersey plates.
Something is definitely going on and I don’t think it has anything to do with Joe’s missing diamond ring. She scratched her scalp through her matted blond hair and settled back against her shopping bags. She scowled as she felt the first drops of water hit her dirt-encrusted face. Rain. Great. It was going to be a very long night.