Codes of Betrayal Page 3

  “You bastard,” she said softly.

  CHAPTER 3

  ONE OF THE SELLING points when the development was being planned up in Spring Valley was that each of its homes was to be set upon a full acre. Along with the forty-five-minute commute to the city, good schools, nice people, that damn full acre seemed to appeal to all the cops, firemen, sanitation men, and every other type of New York City Civil Service employee looking to get out of Queens, the Bronx, and Brooklyn. Looking to get anywhere, as long as it wasn’t Long Island. It was not as crowded as the island and seemed a bit more laidback: no crowded beaches or day trippers. Mostly year-round homes, with some summer residents and weekenders who would move in permanently after retirement. Block for block, Nick’s neighborhood was probably populated by more guys on the job than anywhere within commuting distance.

  As Nick raked the leaves and Peter bagged them, the dogs dove into each new pile, scattering Nick’s work.

  A loud voice yelled from the back door, leading to the kitchen. “What’s this all about?” Frank O’Hara, carrying a cellophane garment bag over his shoulder, shook his head. “Petey, you and your dad rake the leaves, the dogs scatter them? And who said you can’t teach old dogs new tricks?”

  As Peter led the dogs into the house, he was stopped by his uncle. “Here, kid, take your father’s suit inside.”

  It was an implicit dismissal.

  Nick leaned on the rake and tensed. He really didn’t need this shit just now.

  “Did ya a favor,” his uncle said, “picked up your suit at Clean ‘n’ Carry. Happened to be passing and figured I’d save you the trip.”

  Nick nodded without responding, continued to pull the leaves into a pile.

  “Jesus, why don’t you break down and get yourself a blower like everybody else? Good for leaves—good for snow. Gonna be a real tough winter, lotta snow coming.”

  He hadn’t come to talk about the weather and both men knew it. Frank O’Hara, a deputy inspector in the New York City Police Department, was one of those barrel-chested, wide-shouldered guys you’d want on your side if things got rough. The funny thing was, Frank was one of the gentlest men Nick had ever known. In all the years Nick had lived with Frank and his family, when he was growing up, he’d never seen him do anything more physically threatening than raise his eyebrows and lower his voice in a certain way. That was all he had to do to impress his sons, and Nick.

  There was only one time Nick had ever seen Frank hit anyone. The family had been sitting around the kitchen table over hot chocolate one night. His aunt, Mary, got up from time to time to replenish a cup, get more cookies. Frank was a great storyteller and he had everyone roaring over some baseball goof-up he’d witnessed at Yankee Stadium when he was a kid. Frank suddenly flung his arms wide to make a point and caught his wife on the side of her head, knocking her out cold before she even hit the floor.

  It was hard to know what was worse for Frank: his absolute horror at what he had done to his wife, or the way the doctors at the emergency room looked at him and coldly asked him what happened.

  If any sixty-year-old man could be said to have an innocent face, that would be Frank O’Hara. His soft voice, sweet smile, and sympathetic manner had fooled many a culprit into a confession he seemed to think he was entrusting to a priest.

  Frank sat on top of the picnic table that would soon be stored away. Another game of suburbia: take certain items out, store them away again.

  Nick dropped his rake and stood in front of his uncle. He used the technique Frank had taught him when he was a kid. Just keep looking into someone’s eyes without any expression whatsoever and wait him out.

  Frank knew what he was doing; he shook his head and stood up. “Okay. Okay, Nick. I wanted to talk to you for a minute. Just wanted a word with you, okay?”

  “About what?”

  “You know damn well about what. Look, the word is out about your grandfather’s party tomorrow.” Even though Frank was no taller than Nick, he always seemed to tower over his nephew. “I’ve been picking up things from all over. There are going to be some very heavy hitters there. From Philly, Miami, Atlantic City. The whole damn East Coast.”

  “To wish him a happy birthday. To honor him.”

  Frank wiped his mouth roughly. “Yeah, well, you and Peter and Kathy are going to honor him for his birthday. So, okay, give him the hug and the kiss and the present and get on your way, right? Nicky, there’s gonna be a lot of surveillance goin’ on. Local, state, and fed. Combined task forces, the works.”

  Nick spoke very carefully, trying, but not really succeeding, to contain his anger. “Jesus, Frank, gimme a break. This is my grandfather. He’s an old man—”

  “He’s the youngest seventy-five-year-old man in the world, Nick. He’s still operating, still running things. He’s still in charge. All these guys are coming to look over your cousin Richie. It’s gonna be like—well, wadda ya think? Richie is the heir …”

  “Richie Ventura is my shit-faced cousin. Period. That’s all I know about him. He has nothing to do with me. I don’t know and don’t care a damn about anything he is or isn’t going to do with his life, capice?”

  “Nick, you’re a member of the New York City Police Department. You gotta know what this party is: It’s practically a commission meeting, to make the big announcement, right from the old man’s mouth, that Richie …”

  “Gimme a break, Frank. I see my grandfather, what, three, four fucking times a year, holidays only. He is my grandfather. Anything else, I don’t know about. Period.”

  Of course, Nick knew more than enough about “anything else.” He chose not to acknowledge what he would not discuss.

  Frank shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket; he wished he still smoked. “Your grandfather is head of the Ventura Enterprises, which is responsible for—”

  “Ventura Enterprises runs legitimate businesses. He’s a businessman with solid legal investments who pays his taxes, gives employment to a helluva lotta people.”

  “Tell me something, kid. How the hell does a ‘businessman,’ starting from scratch, get his hands into so many pies? Trucking; commercial laundries; restaurants; convenience stores; cement and brick factories; used car lots; car parts; construction; garment manufacturing; food distributors. Not to mention chunks of stock in hotels, clubs—”

  Nick’s blue eyes lightened to a nearly transparent gray. “Ain’t America great? Listen, Frank. I never discuss anything about his business with him; he never asks me about my job. We love each other. We respect each other. We have a purely family relationship. Period.”

  “Yeah. Family.” Frank held up his hand. “Okay, okay, Nicky. Have a good time. Just don’t mug into too many cameras; ya never know where the pictures will end up. I don’t want to spoil your visit.”

  “Thanks a lot, Uncle Frank.”

  Because his uncle looked worried, and because Nick loved him, he said, “Hey, Frank. I don’t give a damn about any of these heavy hitters from Miami or wherever. I have enough trouble having to be in the same room with my cousin Richie. Okay?”

  “Don’t underestimate your cousin Richie. He’s a very dangerous man.” He bit back whatever else he was about to say, grinned, and said, “Hey, your suit’s in the house. Jesus, that thing still fits you?”

  Nick sucked in his stomach and shrugged. “I haven’t gained an ounce in ten years.” He reached over and patted Frank’s stomach.

  “Hey, I just look big. Have a nice time, lad.”

  Nick watched as his uncle walked through the yard in his surprisingly light step that’s always unusual in a large man. He hand-combed his thinning blondish gray hair into place, and without looking back, waved at Nick.

  CHAPTER 4

  NICHOLAS VENTURA’S LARGE SPLIT-LEVEL house was one of six in the private enclave known as Westwoods. Each house was set on a minimum three-acre lot; by common agreement, plans for each house had been submitted to a committee of residents for approval before being built.

>   At the entrance to the estates, there was a small booth manned by two men in brown uniforms who checked a clipboard at every arrival; each car was further carefully scanned by three or four men with scowling faces before being waved on toward the birthday celebration. Additionally, just outside the enclave, official surveillance was openly maintained by groups of government types equipped with video cameras, walkie-talkies, and whatever other equipment they deemed necessary. There was no communication among the various segments who, in one way or another, watched over the procession of those attending the Ventura seventy-fifth birthday party.

  Ventura’s immediate neighbors were a psychiatrist to the east, and a Wall Street attorney to the west. His back lawn touched hedges with those of a pediatrician who had written several popular best-sellers about raising children. Directly facing the Ventura property was the Tudor-style residence of a retired nightclub performer, who spent most of his life now playing golf.

  Ventura knew the names and locations and boundaries of every resident in his community-within-a-community, technically part of Westbury, Long Island. He also knew each neighbor’s gross and net worth and the various sources of their income. He could name the individual members of each household—family and hired help—and could describe each according to age, sex, sexual preference, appearance, and personality. He knew when and whom they entertained. He knew immediately if there was a change in the regular cook, maid, baby-sitter, groundskeeper, pool maintenance crew. If anything unusual happened, day or night, in the vicinity of the Ventura home, it was immediately noted and reported to him.

  It wasn’t that Nicholas Ventura was nosy, or even paranoid. He was neither. He headed one of the most powerful crime families in the eastern United States, and it wasn’t just his personal safety that concerned him but the sanctity of his vast and widespread enterprises.

  Nearly two hundred guests had been invited to the celebration, and there had been no “regrets” except on the behalf of one man who died the day before the invitation arrived.

  Each arriving car, having passed scrutiny, was directed to a red-vested attendant who accepted the key, held open the car doors, watched as the guests were waved toward the house by one of many neatly dressed, alert-looking young men wearing sunglasses and speaking into walkie-talkies. In their self-importance, the guides never smiled, although they didn’t look as unpleasant or threatening as the guys at the booth.

  As Nick, Kathy, and Peter stepped out of their six-year-old, somewhat beat-up Volvo station wagon, one of the Ventura men approached.

  “Jesus, Nicky.” Fat Sam Lorenzo—who weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds but had once been very fat—pointed at the wagon. “I was gonna direct ya to the rear of the house. Thought you was a deliveryman.”

  Nick accepted the crushing handshake and grasp of his forearms good-naturedly, then pulled away when he felt a cold strong hand on his neck. Someone obviously had beeped cousin Richie about his arrival.

  Richie Ventura was almost as tall as Nick. Not quite, but almost. An inch under six feet to Nick’s inch over. He was slightly heavier, which could have been due to the muscle he had developed over the years through weight training. Or to the huge appetite with which he struggled all his life. His hair, dark with a great deal of gray, was swept back from his high forehead and held in place by spray. The thickness at the crown might have been a weave, but if so, a good one. Maybe, maybe not. He turned from Nick to Kathy.

  “Will ya look at this one? She looks like one a’ the kids she teaches.” He caught her in a huge hug. He was not only impressed with Kathy, he had always been somewhat wary of her. She was a smart, educated lady.

  Next, he turned to Peter. “Look at this kid—damn,” he bellowed, grabbing Peter into his arms, then pushing him back. “They feed you some kinna growing beans or what? You gonna be taller than your old man.”

  “At least taller than you,” Nick said with a smile. The cousins had never been nice toward each other. Ever.

  Richie turned his full attention to Nick. He shook his head with a pained expression. His oldest son, Sonny, stood next to his father with the same expression on his face: amused disdain. Together, they looked like the same guy at age sixteen and forty.

  “Hey, Pop, can’t you get Nick a deal on a car? You see that station wagon they come in?”

  Richie wrapped his arm around the kid’s neck and told him to show some respect. He demonstrated by asking Nick how much he’d paid for the wagon new; when Nick said he’d bought it used, Richie gave up.

  “Jeez, bet I pay more for a suit than you did for that wagon.” He looked Nick over from head to toe, didn’t have to say a word. He reached out and adjusted his tie and nodded approval. Of the tie. Not bad. He winked at Peter, smiled at Kathy, and told Sonny to escort them inside the house.

  Despite the number of adults and children milling around the large entrance hall, the level of sound and activity was respectfully contained. Mothers hushed children, fathers grabbed at sweaty collars and glared at their well-controlled children, eager to join the festivities in the yard behind the house. All in good time; the procedure was orderly and on schedule. Members of the family and friends were escorted quickly into the library, where they could extend best wishes and beautifully wrapped gifts to Papa Ventura; he then dismissed them with a nod and a smile. Go enjoy. White envelopes were handed discreetly to one of Papa’s aides.

  Across the hall from the library, through a partially opened door, if anyone was indiscreet enough to look, could be seen a large, beautifully arranged dining room: a table set with magnificent linens, silver, china, crystal, under a glittering imported chandelier. There were some fifteen or so men seated around the table, each attended by his own people, whom they ignored as they spoke quietly to their table partners. They had been encouraged to eat until their host could join them. He had his hostly obligations. They were all well-behaved men; they drank very little wine, and ate sparingly, tasting every dish offered. But through all the courtesy and mannerliness in the room, there was also a feeling of tension, the electricity of a great massing of power.

  Nick stood with his back against a wall, scanning the crowded entrance hall, getting his bearings. He was approached by his great-aunt Ursula, Papa’s older sister. She was a childless widow who had attended to the running of her brother’s home from the time he lost his wife, some thirty years ago. Nearing ninety, she was still severely critical of window washers who left streaks; the cleaning women who missed dust; the gardener who failed to clear away clippings. Through the years, there had been so many cooks in and out of the house that it was finally decided she would be the main cook, with help from a docile cousin from the old country who lived in a small room at the far side of the house. (That cousin, in turn, was assisted by kitchen maids who actually did the work of peeling, slicing, chopping, dicing, and stirring that neither would trouble about.) Nicholas was an undemanding man with a moderate appetite; anything pleased him, but he had learned how much happiness Ursula drew from the heavy, earthy foods she set before him.

  She greeted Nick with a complaint. This was not her party. Richie had insisted on bringing one of the best chefs in Manhattan, along with his staff, to arrange the dinner: Nick listened to the criticism of the menu, item by item, and nodded sympathetically. When she pointed toward the yellow-and-white-striped tents outside, she whispered, There would have been hell to pay if it had rained today.

  Of course, it hadn’t rained.

  The old woman glanced at Kathy and Peter as they came alongside Nick. She had no idea who they were. In fact, she had no idea who anyone was or what they were all doing here. She’d have to find that stupid maid and ask her what all this fuss was about.

  Kathy grinned. “She still looks hale and hearty and angry.”

  Nick focused on his wife. She really was pretty: her shiny shoulder-length hair framed her face, yet moved almost with a life of its own. She turned toward him, stopped for a moment by the expression on his face.


  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just … you look great.”

  There was a slight hesitation, a fleeting suspicion. Nick wasn’t very generous with compliments these days. She answered too quickly, which was one of the problems between them.

  “You sound surprised.”

  He took a deep breath and caught sight of Tommy the Dog Bianco waving him toward the door to his grandfather’s library. While no one called him that to his face, Tommy’s loyalty was so doglike and unwavering that the name was part of his personality.

  He nodded at Kathy and Peter, then leaned close to Nick. “He’s been asking for you, Nick—the old man,” he said reproachfully. “You and your lady and the kid. C’mon, he’s waitin’ to see you.”

  The room was lined with expensive, wood, floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The books represented decades of collection, and they were matched with a wall filled with classical records. Nicholas Ventura was a self-educated man whose culture had been painstakingly acquired.

  The furniture embraced heavy English brocade and leather couches; shining warm tables and expensive brass lamps. The room accommodated two fairly large, collector’s quality Persian carpets; the paintings over the fireplace were not mere decoration but fine art. While he had hired decorators for other parts of his house, this library had been furnished over a period of years by Nicholas Ventura, whose tastes and require-merits were refined to a certain excellence.

  Joe Menucci, fifty-two years old, stood guard over Papa Ventura as he had for nearly twenty-five years. He was not a physically imposing man, but it was known that he had achieved a black belt in karate and could be murderously swift if he needed to be. Everyone who knew him respected his physical achievements, but it was his reputation of being some kind of genius that gave him his nickname: Joe the Brain. It was said that Joe Menucci could recall every single word said in his presence. That he could listen to a boring televised political debate, turn off the set, and repeat every word spoken not only by the candidates but by the moderators. In real time. It would have been hard to find someone who’d seen Joe’s talents in action, but no one was ever heard to question them.