Codes Of Betrayal Part 12

"Well, Nick, the information you gave us on the Golden Dream-good. Very good. It was intercepted three days ago, just inside San Francisco Harbor. The agency is very happy with this; a great deal of China White was confiscated." He stopped walking abruptly, squinted against the gla.s.sy ice particles that hit him smack in the face. "But, Nick, here's my problem. This really doesn't connect the Venturas with the Chen Triad. What we're doing here is helping Dennis Chen take care of his opposition without him having to lift a finger. So to speak."

"You asked me to pa.s.s along what I heard. I gave you what I heard."

Coleman turned up the collar of his black coat, adjusted his Burberry scarf, and pulled the incongruous knitted watchcap down almost to his eyebrows. It gave him a slightly r.e.t.a.r.ded appearance.

"You know, Nick, the coalescence of the Triads, the mob, and the Colombians is a very strange coming together. You know about the Triads? They go back hundreds of years, and-"

Nick hunched his shoulders as he walked, then moved slightly so that he was no longer acting as a winds.h.i.+eld for Coleman. "Skip your history lesson, okay, Coleman?"

Coleman shrugged good-naturedly and continued. "The young bloods in the Triads know how to live well. Quietly, privately. Never flaunt their wealth or their power. The younger ones are not happy about sitting down with a gathering of old Mafiosa who think a trip to Disneyland is a celebration. A collision of cultures, as well as of age. Your grandfather is to their liking, but some of his colleagues-" Coleman shook his head derisively. "If they don't parade around with glitzy girls on their arms, who's going to know what big shots they are? You know, it's these old-timers, they're the ones insisting on the sitdown that's going to happen. They have that thing about 'looking a guy in the eye'-as though eye contact will tell them all they need to know. Wait till they see the poker faces on those Triad honchos."

Nick kept walking "The young Chinese, they'd rather do it all with no human contact. Via fax, anonymous couriers, coded messages. Computer discs. But they're willing to come together this once, mostly because they respect your grandfather."

"A lot of people respect my grandfather." Nick was surprised by the pride and anger in his voice. Who the h.e.l.l was this little s.h.i.+t anyway?

He could feel the agent hurrying to keep up with him. He saw the two DEA agents moving out of the park toward Broadway.

"We know your grandfather will never fly." Coleman was smug; he knew a lot of things. "And the other old guys, they'd be lost in a foreign land. Without their people around them."

Nick gestured toward the figures waiting for them. "Those are 'your people,' I a.s.sume?"

Coleman laughed. His breath was icy. "They are indeed my people."

He followed Nick into a dimly lit coffee shop across from the park. In the overheated room, Coleman's gla.s.ses steamed up; he wiped them with his handkerchief, then dabbed at his watery eyes. He carefully hung his coat on the hook next to the booth where they settled. When he pulled off the watchcap, there was a dark red band across his forehead. He seemed to have two sets of eyebrows.

Coleman's eyes hardened as though frozen. "You do know, Nick-I a.s.sume you do know-that we're going after the whole operation before it gets going. Under RICO." He watched Nick closely. "If anything's a racketeer-influenced and corrupt organization, this bunch of thugs is. You do know about RICO?"

Nick didn't answer. The waitress delivered two coffees and Nick tasted his carefully. It was steaming hot.

"Years ago, we used to get the mob guys through income-tax fraud. Until their lawyers learned how to avoid that. RICO is our big ace in the hole these days-it lets us cast a large net over all these various organizations. That's how we got Gotti and that whole bunch. Sent them away forever on a long, b.l.o.o.d.y laundry list of charges."

Nick stared coldly, unimpressed.

Coleman didn't seem to notice. "You're going to be our fly on the wall. These guys are running billions of dollars' worth of activities. If we can pull this off, tie them all up into one large package, do you know how much money the government will confiscate, Nick?"

Nick said softly, "Billions of dollars, you said."

Coleman's voice was controlled but his words were excited. "It can be the biggest roundup of its kind in history. Get them all together, then charge them as individuals. We put you right smack in the middle, get it all on tape ..."

He stopped speaking abruptly. He lifted the steaming cup of coffee to his mouth and drank it straight down without stopping. It must have been near boiling point, but Coleman didn't seem to notice.

"So," he said, easily changing the subject, "you've gone back to school. To what end?"

"Well, I understand you need a college degree to get on the feds. Or is that just the FBI?" Nick sipped his coffee: it was very hot. "Let's say my plans aren't firmed up yet."

"Planning a fresh start, are you, Nick? Well, of course, your future depends very much on how well you handle your current a.s.signment."

"I'm doin' what I gotta do, okay? Look, Coleman, I can only bring you stuff I get. You want me to make up stuff, just say so. Maybe you really don't need me."

Coleman grimaced. "If I really didn't need you, you wouldn't be sitting here with me. You'd be upstate, Nick. Count on it. So, nothing to tell me?"

"Just one thing. Wait until I call you. I didn't ask for this meeting, you did."

Coleman carefully put his scarf around his neck, slipped his coat on, then his leather gloves. He held his hat until he reached the street.

Special Agent Alexander Kantor hurried after his boss, pulling his very large, lined trenchcoat around himself. Agent Felix Rodriguiz walked beside Nick.

"Hey, O'Hara, do me a favor, okay? Next time, pick someplace a little warmer." He shuddered, rubbed his gloved hands together. "This cold weather is murder, ya know?"

"Maybe ya never should have left your island."

Rodriguiz grinned. "I never did. Born and raised on Long Island. The weather doesn't bother me so much, but my boss-he's a f.u.c.kin' icicle to begin with. He's gonna break chops for the rest of the night."

"We all got troubles. Looks like he's waving for you, Felix, You better hustle."

Quietly, Rodriguiz said, "Oh, f.u.c.k him." At the same time he waved and nodded and headed toward his boss.

CHAPTER 26.

NICK STUDIED THE BOXES of frozen dinners: Healthy Choice, Lean Cuisine; pizza; roast chicken and noodles from the kosher deli down the boulevard. Sounded good.

As he tossed the package into the microwave, the phone rang. He lifted the receiver from the kitchen wall phone as his fingers played with the timing circles on the micro.

"Hey, guess who's downstairs? In your driveway. You hungry?"

"How'd you know?"

"Bet you're deciding which frozen special to have, right?"

"What are you, a witch?"

"Always have been. Put on something comfortable and come on down. I'm waiting for you."

When he got downstairs, she smiled and pointed to her car phone. "Handy device, huh? You're having home-cooked tonight."

"Your home?"

Laura Santalvo's home was a twelve-room duplex in the prewar Beresford Building, across from Central Park and the Hayden Planetarium. There were only two apartments on each floor, serviced by the various elevators. Nick glanced around at the small foyer, watched as she opened the door into what seemed to be another world.

It could have been a large old house in the country-a very rich, large, old house, with Mexican blood red tile floors and wood paneling in the huge entrance hall. Laura flipped some switches and made a sharp, clicking sound.

Cats came running from every direction: some leaping down the carpeted staircase, some sliding across the s.h.i.+ning floor from other rooms. Laura motioned him toward a closet that was slightly ajar. She tapped on the door and a huge red-tiger cat with golden eyes stretched toward her. When she bent to touch him, he waved a threatening paw and gave a slight hiss.

"Rocky has a problem expressing love," she told Nick. "Well, here they are, all eight of them."

They pushed against her, rubbed against her legs, buzzed, cried for attention or stood quietly observing, waiting for a turn.

Nick had never seen Laura so relaxed. Everything about her was spontaneous, unguarded, natural. And joyful. She was totally at ease. "Our housekeeper, Maria, was supposed to feed them before she left for her day off, but I think she must have forgotten. Or maybe she did and Su-Su cleaned up their dishes. Oh well, they can always eat."

He followed the parade into the kitchen, helped her to dish out the bowls of food. Two black and white tuxedos-mirror images of each other-ate from the same bowl. Some ate on the floor, some on the table, some on the counters. She named them rapidly, and each cat, responding in turn, looked up at her. Nick had never seen a cat respond to having its name called, and when he said as much she poked at him playfully, cupping her mouth.

"Be careful what you say. Some of these guys are very sensitive."

Upstairs, the hall was stark white to better set off the artwork and photographs Laura had placed on the walls. The doors to the various rooms were dark wood, with gleaming bra.s.s doork.n.o.bs. Laura held her hand up to Nick: wait a minute. She tapped lightly on one of the doors, poked her head inside the room.

"Am I disturbing you?" he heard her ask.

She entered the room and Nick looked at the black and white photographs. They all were of a Chinese child: some at age five or six; then a little older, nine or ten. As he studied them, the subject of the photographs herself, now about eighteen years old, followed Laura from her bedroom.

Laura's hand rested lightly on the shoulder of a small, beautiful young woman. "This is Su-Su. Sus, this is Nick."

Nick glanced at Laura's face, and saw there a concentrated pride. The girl came forward, offered a small hand, a surprisingly firm handclasp.

"Nick," she said quietly.

"Su-Su. I was just looking at photographs of you."

The girl nodded, glanced at Laura. "My proud mom."

For a split second, Nick froze. Laura's daughter?

The girl caught his expression and said seriously, "I am her 'chosen daughter.'"

Laura added nothing to the explanation. She turned to the girl. "You being picked up or do you want me to call Marko to drive you?"

"Nope. All arranged. Nice to have met you, Nick." Her eyes, black and expressive, missed nothing. She smiled slightly, a familiarly mocking smile. Then to Laura, "In about two minutes, Margaret will be calling from the lobby."

She had no sooner spoken than the house phone rang. She picked it up, listened, smiled, spoke softly. "I'm on my way." Then to Laura, "Not to worry. I'll call you tomorrow." She gave Laura a quick hug. "Fingers crossed for me, right? At about ten-thirty, have a thought of me."

"At exactly ten-thirty." She watched the slender girl in the baggy jeans and large black sweater dash into her room, emerge with a bulky garment bag. Before Laura could ask, Su-Su told her, "Yes, I have a very nice outfit with me. I will impress the daylights out of everyone at Yale." With a wave, shooing cats out of the way, she disappeared down the stairs.

"Pretty girl," Nick said.

Laura didn't answer. She pointed to the first photograph: Su-Su at five. The shadowed face, tiny, head down, eyes peeking at the camera, had a hopeless sadness.

"That's when I first saw her. In Bangkok, Su-Su had just arrived at a factory that supplied some fabric for my designs. Her parents sold her to the factory owners for about forty dollars. The factory owners had plans for her. At about nine-this is Su-Su at nine-at about that age Su-Su was to be sold to a brothel specializing in young virgins. For the foreign trade. They'd probably get around a thousand dollars. As you can see, by nine, she was already becoming the beauty she is today, at eighteen." She turned to Nick, put a finger on his mouth. "Not now. Let's just say my meeting with Su-Su was the most incredibly lucky thing that has ever happened to me. C'mon, I'll show you the rest of my domain."

She showed him the downstairs rooms: a dining room off the eat-in kitchen; a huge living room; a large den, which she called the media room, and a book-lined library. Everything formal, traditional: good dark wood, expensive carpeting, a few good rugs. She led him to a balcony off the living room, swept the view with her arm.

"Central Park."

She enjoyed watching him, trying to read his thoughts. "These rooms are off-limits to the cats. Too many scratch and puddle places here. This is mostly for company."

"Where do you live?"

She led him up the wide staircase. Her workroom was a huge studio, where sketches were tacked onto a long narrow board. Her worktable was cluttered with equipment, pictures, pens, inks. The floor was a washable white tile.

The cat room next door looked like a playground. There were carpet-covered climbing poles up to the ceiling, with shelves for perching and oval and box-shaped hideaways. There was a long, spiraling tunnel with several entrances and exits. There were cat-sized hammocks, chairs scratched to shreds; sisal scratching boards, toys that rattled, stuffed mice, things that dangled.

She gestured to the next room. Her bedroom. He raised his eyebrows. Laura shrugged and grinned. "Later."

"Suppertime for humans." She shooed the cats from the kitchen table, tricked them into the hallway, and closed the doors.

"I don't think you're ready to have Binkey or Precious Anne eat from your plate just yet."

"Hey, first time for everything."

"Yes. There is."

It was his first time for a vegetarian meal, and Nick wasn't sure whether or not he liked it. It was interesting.

"That's a start."

"What wine goes with tofu?"

"Apricot juice cut with club soda." She studied him with a slight smile at the corners of her mouth; her eyes were glinting. "You don't want to blunt the pleasure. Of the food."

The cats escorted them upstairs again and wandered into their playroom; one or two ran into Laura's bedroom and disappeared. It was as warm a room as the others on the second floor were cold and spare. Rich thick carpeting, deep red; dark red paisley wallpaper; huge mahogany headboard; paisley quilts and pillows; a velvet chaise, with a heavy, hand-knitted quilt tossed at the foot. Nick inspected the room quietly, aware of the tension building.

Laura stood against the window wall. The drapes were parted and the lights of New York blinked; traffic lights sent slashes of red, green, and yellow along the wet pavement. Nick hadn't realized it had started raining until he heard the pelting against the window.

She just stood there smiling. That maddening Laura smile-wise guy, brat, superior to everyone in the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n world. The hide-behind smile.

He took her by the arms; was surprised by how fragile she was, how light. One hand pushed through the thick, straight black hair, held her so that her face turned up. And still that smile.

"What's funny, kid?"

Laura grinned. "You. Me. This place. The cat behind you getting ready to leap."

He turned quickly and a striped gray cat froze on the bed behind him, then dashed underneath. Laura approached him, and when he turned she wasn't smiling.

There was so much depth in her slate eyes. She bit her lower lip, and ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, then over his.

"Is this a game of some kind?"

Laura's hands went inside his open jacket, fingers exploring. Her voice was low.

"Everything's a game."

She made a game of undressing: pulled clothes from him, undid zippers; pushed his hand away when he began helping her. This was to be her scene. For now.