Stacks of transcripts and other legal documents rested on each of the three desks in the spacious room. Windows facing Centre Street covered one long wall, the area beneath them occupied by bound copies of New York’s Penal Law, Criminal Law, and Criminal Procedure Law. A glassed cabinet held more legal volumes, together with framed photographs of Sarah and Mollie, and several blue peaked caps with the insignias or logos of various law enforcement agencies he’d worked with in the past. A mock, blue-enameled gold detective’s shield — a gift from the DA’s Office Squad after Michael had served as lead attorney on his first OCCA case — was hanging in a small bell jar. His framed B.S. degree from Duke hung on the wall above the cabinet, alongside his Juris Doctor degree from Columbia.
A television monitor with a VCR sitting on a shelf under it was in one corner of the room. Labeled videotapes from various surveillances were scattered on top of a table alongside the monitor. On that same table were a stacked amplifier and tape deck, together with a CD player. Labeled discs and tapes were fanned helter-skelter on the tabletop, together with Magic Markers and blank labels.
Hanging on the wall right-angled to the window wall, there were framed mug shots of the Lombardi Crew, six gangsters Michael had put away five years ago, when he first moved over to Organized Crime. Standing in the corner of the joining walls was a coatrack that held Michael’s own beige Burberry trench coat and matching muffler, and the black raincoats both Regan and Lowndes had worn to work this morning. A black umbrella was lying on the floor near the coatrack; Michael had carried it to work with him two weeks ago.
“What we did,” Regan was saying, “was run a routine check with Motor Vehicles. Guy lives in New York, chances are he’s either a licensed driver or he owns a car.”
Regan was puffing on a cigar. He looked like a fight manager. Brown trousers, a tan crew-neck sweater, little beer-barrel belly bulging above the waist. Always looked as if he needed a shave. He was left-handed, so he wore his shoulder holster strapped on the right side of his body.
“We got nothing at all in New York or Nassau County, so we hit Connecticut and Jersey. Nothing in Jersey, but Alex came up with something in Connecticut. Well, you tell him,” Regan said, and turned to his partner.
Alex Lowndes looked mean as a pawnbroker’s offer. Long and lank, with stringy dirty-blond hair and eyes that appeared gray although they were actually a pale blue, he sat in blue jeans and a black turtleneck sweater with a black leather jacket over it. There was a scar at the tail of his left eyebrow. He told people he’d got it in a knife fight with a crazed junkie. Actually, he’d had the scar since he was ten, when he fell down roller-skating and hit his head on the curb. Michael knew this because Lowndes had confided it to his partner, and Regan had passed the information on. The two men didn’t get along. Everyone in the department knew that. It was amazing neither of them had asked for a new partner. Maybe this was because their arrest record was phenomenal.
“We got an Acura Legend coupe registered to an Andrew Faviola at 24 Cradle Rock Road, Stonington, Connecticut,” Lowndes said.
“Terrific,” Michael said sourly.
“Yeah, his father’s house up there,” Lowndes said.
“Where he don’t live anymore,” Regan said. “The old man.”
“Where he won’t live ever again,” Lowndes said.
“What we figure, the kid doesn’t live there, either,” Regan said. “No sign of the Acura, anyway, the three nights we sat the house.”
“When was this?”
“This past weekend. We figure you live in Connecticut, that’s when you go home, right? For the weekend. Snow, trees, all that shit. But no sign of him.”
“Has he got a driver’s license?” Michael asked.
“I was coming to that,” Regan said. “He did have one, but it got suspended after three consecutive speeding tickets. Far as we can tell, he doesn’t have one now.”
“How does he drive the Acura?”
“Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t go visit his mama on weekends.”
“What was the address on the license he had?”
“No luck there, Michael. It was a California license. From when he was in school out there. An address on Montana. It sounds like the Wild West, I know, but it’s a street in L.A.”
“Suspended in California?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s been driving without a license all that time?”
“Looks that way.”
“No application in New York for a new one?”
“No.”
“Or Connecticut?”
“No.”
“He’s mob-connected,” Lowndes said, “he can buy phony licenses a dime a dozen.”
“What you’re saying is we don’t know where he lives yet.”
“That’s right.”
“And if we don’t know where to find him, we can’t begin tailing him.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Have you checked for any parking violations?”
“I’ve got that call in now,” Regan said, nodding. “If he’s driving the Acura, he has to park it every now and then. And this is a guy with no respect for traffic laws...”
“Three speeding violations out there,” Lowndes said.
“So he’ll park the car wherever he feels like it.”
“When did they say they’d get back?”
“You know those guys. They get thousands of scofflaws, what’s the big deal?”
“Let’s try ’em again now,” Michael suggested.
Regan looked at his watch:
“Be a good time,” he said, and went to the phone. “What’s that extension again, Alex, you remember? At Parking Violations?”
“Three-two-oh,” Lowndes said.
Regan dialed. Michael hit the speaker button. They listened to the phone ringing on the other end, once, twice, three times, again, again...
“Gone home already,” Lowndes said.
“At four-thirty?” Regan said.
“Parking Violations, Cantori.”
“Sergeant Henderson, please.”
“Who’s this?”
“Detective Regan, DA’s Office Squad.”
“Second.”
Regan shrugged.
They waited.
“Henderson,” a voice said.
“Sergeant, this is Detective Regan, I called you yesterday about this Acura we’re trying to trace for the Organized Crime Unit? Connecticut plate on it?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sitting here with the deputy unit chief, and he’s wondering if you’ve made any progress on this.”
There was a silence on the line.
“He’s on the speaker now, in fact,” Regan said.
“Hello, Sergeant,” Michael said. “This is ADA Welles, how’s it going?”
“We’ve been jammed here,” Henderson said. “The holidays.”
“I can imagine,” Michael said. “And. we hate to push you on this, but it’s a matter of some urgency.”
“They’re all a matter of some urgency,” Henderson said drily.
“I’m sure they are. But do you think you can kick up your computer, see if you’ve got anything on this particular car? We really would appreciate it.”
“Give me the number there,” Henderson said.
He called back in ten minutes.
“Blue 1991 Acura Legend coupe, Connecticut registration, vanity plate FAV-TWO, registered owner Andrew Faviola, address 24 Cradle Rock Road, Stonington, Connecticut.