The devils quota, p.1
The Devil's Quota, page 1
Praise for Tom Avitabile:
“Frighteningly realistic. Most of Washington really works this way. Homeland Security had better read this one and take corrective action.”
– U.S. Ambassador Michael Skol on The Eighth Day
“Awesome. I could not go to sleep last night because I couldn’t put it down!”
– Donna Hanover, WOR Radio 710 on The Eighth Day
“The Hammer of God is a tightly plotted, fear-filled and all-too-realistic thriller that is finely written, in fact the best this reviewer has read in a long time. It should be a best seller and will make the reader anxiously awaiting the third and final novel in this thriller trilogy! Great job, Tom Avitabile!”
– Crystal Book Reviews
“Well done and ensuring that the reader will grab book three as soon as available.”
– Bookbitch on The Hammer of God
The Devil’s Quota
Tom Avitabile
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
The Story Plant
Studio Digital CT, LLC
P.O. Box 4331
Stamford, CT 06907
Copyright © 2014 by Tom Avitabile
Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-192-9
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61188-193-6
Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com
Visit the author’s website at www.TomAvitabile.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.
First Story Plant paperback printing: October 2014
Printed in the United States of America
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To the strong and the brave who protect us from tyranny in all its forms.
And to the special class of protector/warriors who volunteer to put themselves at risk in service to us all.
Prologue – The Naughty Lad
The crisp snap of an English bullwhip reverberated off the cold granite walls as it cracked over the shoulders of sixty-two-year-old “Lord of The Manor” Jenkins. The red rough flannel undergarment in which he was clad dulled the full sting. His round belly tested the strength of the buttons along the front. He winced as another lash thrashed his back. Matilda, the wretched wench, was particularly spirited this day, laying into her lord with much force. As he faced her on his hands and knees from the featherbed, he couldn’t help but notice that her breasts jiggled and peeked out of her peasant dress with every lash.
He heard his own voice echo in the chamber as he pleaded with his cherished tormentor, “No more, Matilda, I will do as you say.”
“Oh, so now ya decide to give me the uppa ’and. Well, runt, you can just taste my lash before you taste my...”
“Yes. Yes. Oh, Matilda.”
Later, Jenkins propped himself up on his elbows and arched his back, his red garment now flayed open, its buttons torn off. Between gasps, he focused on the flickering candles of the wall sconces in the now quiet master chamber. Twice he averted his gaze from the piercing eyes of Oliver Cromwell’s portrait that stood as a disapproving witness to the final act which all the previous theatrics had built up to – that of Matilda, now on her knees, bestowing upon Jenkins an oral gratification.
He moaned like a rutting elk. “I’ve been a bad lad, Matilda. Urgh. I stole the list. It’s wrong but they are evil. Urgh. Urgh.”
“Um-hmmmppphhh,um-hmmmph,” Matilda urged him on as he was close.
Jenkins groaned and grabbed his chest, tearing at the spreading tightness, and fell back.
Matilda was miffed. “C’mon Jenky, you were almost there this time... Jenkins?”
She rose and lightly slapped him on his cheek. “Mr. Jenkins? Mr. Jenkins?”
But the man just lay motionless looking straight up... forever.
“Oh shit!” She grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand and dialed feverishly.
1. The Fat Lady Sings
The flash that illuminated Jenkins’ face cast momentary daylight into the dark, dingy, depressing room of the vacant apartment in which his body was now lying. The crime scene photographer’s focus was interrupted by the unexpected entrance of NYPD Detective First Grade, Mike DiMaggio, dressed like he was going to the opera, his clip badge stuffed in his tuxedo pocket.
New York City Medical Examiner, Dr. Harvey Sussman, in a sport jacket more suited to the racetrack at Aqueduct, removed the thermometer from the small incision he had made above the dead man’s liver. DiMaggio watched as the doctor squinted, trying to read the red line against the scale so he could calculate the time of death.
“Ninety point five degrees, that means the body’s temperature cooled eight point one degrees since his heart stooped… I make the TOD three and a half to four hours ago,” Sussman called out to his assistant, who recorded the finding.
DiMaggio cleared his throat to get Sussman’s attention and was quickly rewarded. “Hey DiMadge! What the hell are you doing here? This one’s natural causes!”
DiMaggio bent down to see the body. “No, it’s a mercy killing.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Got me out of sitting through Madame Butterfly.”
“I’m no opera critic, but the fat lady sang in a natural key on this guy.” The M.E. reached over to DiMaggio’s lapel and rolled the satin between his thumb and forefinger. “Nice workmanship. So why is Manhattan homicide’s finest here in his bar mitzvah suit?”
“When a federal circuit court judge dies, everybody’s night gets ruined,” DiMaggio said. He looked around, squinting from the glare of the portable work lights. From the looks of the place, it was an empty apartment. Dust was everywhere, and it smelled moldy and dank. “How much you figure a high-up judge like him makes?”
“Gotta clear one hundred fifty a year.” He handed the thermometer to his assistant.
“I would have figured a buck seventy-five, maybe two hundred Gs.”
“This guy? He was…” Sussman waited for his assistant to take one last shot of the body, and then he used a penlight to examine the eyes of the corpse for petechial hemorrhaging. “…he was already rich. Married well. Ever hear of the DuPont’s of Chappaqua?”
“The dog peed all over my copy of the social register. But if you’re telling me his old lady has cash up the wazoo, then this figures even less.”
“What does?”
“What a guy like him was doing in an empty apartment like this.”
The M.E. sighed. “I hate this part of the job. His Honor, Judge Jenkins, was having sex!” He pulled down the front of the dead man’s underwear.
DiMaggio followed the M.E.’s look. “You already ran a test and found vaginal fluids around his unit? Fast work!”
“No, professor. He’s got lipstick on his dipstick.”
DiMaggio stood. “I would’ve seen that if I looked as closely at it as you, but I am a well-adjusted male.”
The M.E. looked up and said, “Fuck you very large, Detective. Wanna be copied on all my reports?”
“I’m afraid the commissioner would insist.” DiMaggio continued taking in the surroundings. Since the power wasn’t turned on in the apartment, the M.E. had battery-operated work lights all around the body. DiMaggio picked one up and traced the steps from the doorway to the body on the floor. “Something hits me wrong here.”
The sixty-four year old, grey-haired doctor stood with a grunt, as he said to the fit, thirty-eight year old Italian with the dark head of hair, “Because you believe sex ends after sixty?”
“Because why would he be wearing this unflattering red flannel get up in the middle of sex? On top of that, what hooker would leave a wallet full of cash, not rifle through his attaché case, and leave no sign that she was even here, other than the lip lock?”
“She freaked out?” the M.E. said.
“No, I don’t think so. The floor is dusty, except for our footprints and this clean swipe leading right up to the body.”
The M.E. looked at DiMaggio with “Good point” written all over his face.
DiMaggio walked toward the feet and noticed one pristine, smaller footprint in the dust a few feet from the body. “Listen, nobody walk on this end of the body. Take a shot of this footprint here that’s smaller than ours.”
“So someone dragged the body in here? Maybe it’s a good thing you missed the aria after all, my boy.” The M.E. said.
Two minutes later, DiMaggio walked out of the brownstone and stood on the wide top step of the stoop. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the sweet, fresh air of the mild summer evening. There was a young, black uniformed officer across the step, also clearing his lungs. DiMaggio asked, “First on scene?”
“Yes, sir!” the kid, who looked like he was right out of the academy, responded.
“You see anyone leaving as you pulled up” – DiMaggio glanced at his nameplate – “Towne?”
“No, sir.”
“First death?”
“Does it show?”
&nbs p; “Unfortunately, you’ll get used to it.” Looking around, DiMaggio observed the small crowd of neighbors, who were drawn by the police car’s flashing lights. Another detective’s car pulled up and Maggie Reade, a detective from his squad, got out with two crime scene techs lugging forensic kits. He hitched his head in the direction of the first-floor apartment. “I’m very interested in the footprints in the dust at the foot of the body,” he said as he continued down the stone steps.
On the sidewalk, he approached the building superintendent, a skinny, Middle-Eastern man who immediately started backing away.
“C’m’ere, I need to ask you some questions. What’s your name?” DiMaggio said.
“Hafiz Haffad. I know nothing.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Three years but I don’t see nothing.”
“Three years and you’ve never seen the owner?” DiMaggio said.
“I don’t see nothing. I never see. It’s company apartments.” By this time, Haffad was breathing heavily, his eyes shifting back and forth, looking for a way out.
“Calm down, take a deep breath.” Stepping closer to block the only escape route, DiMaggio noticed that the man smelled of some kind of seasoned lamb dish. “Now, what’s that mean? Company? You mean corporate? No tenants?”
“Yes, no tenants... always different people, every two, three weeks. But this apartment, no people for months.”
“What’s a place like that rent for?”
“Much money. Very not nice people. Always yelling ‘Clean here; this not clean enough; smell like barn...’”
DiMaggio was about to tell him to calm down again when a statuesque, impeccably dressed woman exited the brownstone and descended the eight steps to the street. The woman was model-perfect with long legs, shoulder-length blonde hair, and minimum jewelry – a pearl necklace with matching earrings. She didn’t even glance at DiMaggio or Haffad. DiMaggio watched every move she made as she stepped to a waiting Lincoln Town car, which was across the street from all the commotion and police cars…without ever, DiMaggio noticed, turning her head or looking around to see what it was all about.
“Who is she?”
“She doctor. Very big. Very smart. Her office top two floors.”
Her driver hustled around and opened the passenger-side rear door. The hem of her pencil skirt flirted a little when it rode up slightly as she swiveled into the sedan.
“...Very big.” Hassad said, swallowing a gulp of dry air.
DiMaggio realized they were both acting like high school freshmen drooling over the prom queen. “What company?”
“Who?”
“What company owns the apartment?”
When the door locks on the town car clunked and the driver pulled away, Dr. Cassandra Cassidy finally let out a deep breath. She fished through her Gucci bag and found her phone. She held down the button on her iPhone and said to Siri, “Call Miles.”
She had an urge to look behind her to see if she was being followed, but Miles got on the line before she could turn around.
“What’s up?”
“Are you busy? Can I come over?”
“Well, actually, I’m still working. I got two cases I’m reviewing, and then I got a late conference call with the coast.”
The doctor’s heart sunk as she realized he was still mad. “I just need a minute or two. I’ve had a rough day and I thought…”
“Hold on, I have a call.”
She threw up her hands and the phone hit the rear passenger-side window. She brought it back to her ear. She became conscious of biting her bottom lip and stopped herself just as he came back on.
“Sorry, it’s crazy here. What were you saying? Hello? Come on, I’m busy.”
“Are we seeing each other tonight?”
“Look. We went over that this morning. Today’s a real bear and you’re insisting we go to the Met tomorrow night, so I’ve got to do double duty tonight. Geez. What the hell’s gotten into you?”
“I’m just, I’m just… I’ve had a really bad day, that’s all, and I thought…”
“Dammit, hold on.” She heard his muffled voice as he called out to his secretary, “Tell him to hold.”
Speaking clearly through the phone again, he said, “Now what’s the matter?”
“I need… I … Never mind. We’ll see each other tomorrow night?”
“Sure, but only because you’re blackmailing me about the Boys’ Club dinner Wednesday night… we still have a deal, right? I do Puccini and you show up for my table, my ten-thousand-dollar table! And don’t be so emotional. Have a drink and relax. Whatever’s bothering you can’t be all that bad. I gotta go.”
She was startled by the way she was so quickly dispatched. Not even a simple pleasantry; no “Miss you”, no “Love you” – nothing. She would have even settled for the dreaded, “Love ya.” Instead, she was hanging on the phone with a dead connection. In the silence, she realized she had been fooling herself; she had no connection with him either. With all her accomplishments and professional standing, she was still, in the end, alone – all alone. Blinking and widening her eyes to stave off the tears she felt forming, she looked out onto the New York City night and suddenly wished she could call her mom.
“Amalgamated Holdings,” Detective Second Grade Maggie Reade said as she handed DiMaggio a printout back at the station house.
He scanned the page. “And Amalgamated is holding the bag for who?”
“Dunno, but the five corporate directors of the company that owns the brownstone are all doctors. It looks like just an investment thing.”
“Damn, I got to get some investment thing going. That’s where you make the real money.”
“Invest? On a cop’s salary? DiMadge, you kill me.”
An administrative clerk, Julio Hernandez, walked over with a stack of folders. “Maggie, here’s all they had on Jenkins downtown.”
“Thanks Hernandez. Put ’em on the chair.”
“Please Maggie, call me Julio.”
DiMaggio smiled; Julio had been trying to play a little search and seizure with the five-foot-ten-inch curly redhead ever since he was hired to help out the squad. DiMaggio felt bad for the guy because he knew Julio was not a person of interest to Reade. He watched as Julio left with sunken shoulders.
DiMaggio gave Reade a questioning look, but she just rolled her eyes.
Her reaction prompted him to say, “What’s wrong with Julio?”
“He’s a nerd! I once let him bore me to death about bugs… and then the elevator reached my floor.”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t a tall building,” DiMaggio said as he grabbed a few of the folders.
“He’s got some kind of master’s degree in insects. That’s why he’s good for digging up files and reports. Maybe a little too good. Will ya look at this stack? It’s taller than he is.”
DiMaggio grabbed a folder from the pile on Reade’s desk and sat at his own desk.
“How did we get involved in this in the first place?” Reade said.
“Nine-one-one got an anonymous tip about a dead body. Delaney was supposed to cover but he was on his knees, praying at the porcelain altar – bad sushi or something – so I got the beep. By the time I got there, the M.E. had it figured for a natural.”
“So then why did you ruin my night, and why are we still involved?”
“One, I outrank you, and two, I think the body was moved.”
“From where?”
“Ah, that will be the first question the chief asks tomorrow morning, and the answer may be in this stack of stuff.”
“It’s after ten and there’s hours of work here,” Reade said, pointing at the pile that had toppled over across her desk.
“I’m thinking pizza.”
“Why not? But look, I know you outrank me and all, but just once couldn’t you be thinking salad?”
“Hmmp.” DiMaggio’s eyebrows went up as he scanned the contents of the folder from the top of the pile.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I could have sworn the super of the building, Haffad, was from Iran, but it says here he’s from Afghanistan.”
