Kathleen was currently living in North Bergen, just outside New York City. Lou Kelly had run a credit check on her and learned she had recently applied for a home loan with her local bank. The loan was still pending, and Lou suggested I pose as a loan officer and use that pretense to set up a meeting with her. Of course, I could simply threaten her, Lou had said. I thanked Lou for the advice and explained that I wouldn’t need to rely on threats or a cheesy cover story. Truth, honesty, and an abundance of natural charm were my allies.
I dialed her number.
“Hello,” Kathleen Gray said.
“Kathleen, my name is Donovan Creed and I’m with Homeland Security in Bedford, Virginia. I’d like to talk to you about your ex-husband, Kenneth Chapman.”
The connection went dead.
Not a problem. I could always fly into LaGuardia tomorrow and sweet talk my way into a dinner date with her. Since I had my phone out anyway, I decided to dial my mystery caller, the persistent person who shouldn’t have had my number.
I punched up the number and watched it connect on the screen with no premonition of the effect this simple act was about to have on my life.
“Mister… Creed… thank… you for… re… turning… my… call.”
At first I thought it was a joke. The voice on the other end of the line was metallic, choppy, like a guy on a respirator or maybe a tracheotomy patient who had to force air through a speaking valve in his throat.
“How did you get my number?” I asked.
“Sal… va… tore… Bon… a… dello,” he said.
“How much did he charge you for it?”
“Fif… ty… thou… sand… dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money for a phone number.”
“Sal says… you’re… the… best.”
The tinny, metallic voice revealed no hint of emotion. Each word bite was cloyingly monotonous and annoyed the shit out of me. I found myself wanting to imitate it, but resisted the urge. “What do you want?” I said.
“I want… to em… ploy you… part… time… the way… Sal… does.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” I said.
“You can… torture… me… first… if you… want.”
He offered to write down a name and give it to me and I could torture him until I was satisfied he’d never reveal it. This was supposed to prove he wouldn’t sell me out later if something went wrong in our business arrangement. The man was obviously insane, which meant he was pretty much like everyone else with whom I associated.
“Before we go any further,” I said, “what shall I call you?”
“Vic… tor.”
“There’s a fl aw in your plan,” I said. “Torture is only one way to make you talk. What if someone kidnaps your wife or kids or your girlfriend? What if they threaten to blow up the day care center where your sister works? Trust me, Victor. It’s hard to let your loved ones die a horrific death when you could save them by simply revealing a name.”
