Fusco juggles the hot dog in one hand, a diet coke in the other. His stomach had been growling for the last half hour, reminding him that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And that a cup of coffee washing down a stale donut is not considered a valid substitute.
He places the coke on the top of one of the cities large trash bins, studiously ignoring the discolorations there on.
Can't worry about everything.
With one hand now free, he uses his finger to rearrange the globs of mustard and relish on the top of the wiener, and…damn! His best tie too! Unfortunately the dark blue one, on which a yellow stain fairly shouts its presence.
Wadding up several of the skimpy napkins provided by the street vendor, he carefully scrapes the blob from the fabric. Satisfied that the now greenish spot could be mistaken for an artistic design, he trashes the napkins while glancing around the area. That prickling in the back of his neck is back again. One he has been feeling on and off for a couple of days now and if he didn't know better he'd think someone was eyeballing him.
But a constant survey of his surroundings has revealed nothing. Besides, he's a cop! He knows the mechanics of tailing a subject, and the methods used to shake them! He's used all of them.
Still….
The morning had been less than productive. His efforts to trace the account his ex's con man had used to receive his money…correction, his ex's money…proved futile without a proper warrant. And that was something he wasn't going to request yet, as it was a given the minute this case became official it would be bumped to the Frauds department.
And all the while his ex and his boy were in danger it would sit and grow mold!
Because visualizing the huge stack of open cases he'd seen in that office yesterday, it would likely be the next millennium before this file was even opened, much less solved! So that left it up to him to find another way to root out this lowlife and eliminate the threat to mother and son.
His last meeting with his former wife had revealed little more than he'd gotten the first time around, though she had made the effort to print out all her email exchanges with that scum. And wasn't that gag worthy material!
Ignoring the flowery and blatantly false assertions of all the "love" crap, he was able to pick up on something his ex had considered inconsequential. That is, the con mentioned several times a project on which he had spent a lot of his money, thus leaving him with few funds "to buy his dream restaurant".
"An Italian restaurant?" Fusco had asked incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me!"
"What's wrong with wanting to have your own business? At least he'd get to make his own hours! Be home at a reasonable time!"
Oh, yeah. That old argument. Guess her gunny sack is still full of grievances…
Fusco had shook his head, pointing out that small business owners, especially those who were in the food prep industry worked incredibly long hours since it was all on their own backs to sail or swim. And owning a restaurant is a tough and competitive business that has an only one in ten chance of success. The guy wouldn't have made it home any earlier than a cop!
But watching her tear her tissue into a snow pile of small pieces on her lap, he'd refrained from adding that the con was good; the guy had done his homework. His ex loved to cook - the extra pounds he carried still testimony to her skill in that area. And with a maiden name like Scalini - which she had assumed again after the divorce - it wouldn't have been difficult for the crook to figure out that Italian is her favorite! Hence a dream Italian restaurant.
How could she not have connected those dots?
But he'd pulled the rein on those comments and forced himself to think like a detective again. "So did he tell you what this project was that had sucked up all his dough?"
"Cars," she'd replied. "Old ones."
"Like vintage automobiles?"
She'd shrugged, and herding the tissue shreds into a neat pile, replied somewhat testily, "I don't know. It has four wheels and runs on gas! What do I know about cars?" Then adds a bit more deferentially, "But if it's important, he did email me a photo. He told me he'd finally sold it to raise money for his restaurant but that it hadn't brought in quite enough."
"Hence the request for another loan…"
Yep. A classic con. Get the mark to think you're already fully invested in some scheme and they'll bite a lot faster than on their own. But again, what was the use of rubbing her face in it? He'd kept his mouth shut and had merely asked for a copy of the photo.
He bites into the dog again, this time leaning over so any errant mustard trails can end up on the ground and not his tie. The photo's in his pocket now…a possible lead, if it's not just another part of the con. It's an "old car", just like his ex said, but a real vintage one, early '50's maybe. A luxury Bentley, maroon in color and that in good shape could easily fetch a hundred thou. Not too many of those around anymore!
With a few phone calls he's already put in motion inquiries to certain car clubs that focus on the luxury vintages, in addition to several of the city's custom shops…though even if the car is actually the con's real "project", there's no telling if the scum resides in the city, and not some distant state. Or country, for that matter.
One of the first actions for such a con, is the insistence to leave any chat room or other organized social media in favor of the more anonymous private email correspondence. And that's exactly what this guy did…with of course an untraceable email. Or at least not one a NYPD cop without a warrant and only conventional resources could trace.
The Professor could do it. But he shrugs off the thought as before. That would be his last resort.
Popping the last of the hot dog into his mouth, he wipes his hands, polishes off coke and dumps his trash in the bin. Time to start tracking down his other lead, the accounting one, and he knows just who to collar for that!
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'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
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"Leon! Open up!" Fusco leans on the bell again, then places himself squarely in front of the peep hole. "It's Detective Fusco!" He knows the little man is home; his car is parked in the garage.
But good Lord! What if the guy is "entertaining" again?
The last time he'd come banging on this door, Leon had met him wearing nothing but skivvies. Not a sight he needs to see again…! And the sound of females giggling in the back ground that time had made the identity of the guy's "guests" quite clear.
By the third ring, the rattling of a security chain can be heard after which the door slowly opens several inches to expose a partial of the con artist's face.
"Oh, it's you, Detective!" The door closes briefly, then opens wide to reveal a fully clothed Leon Tao…
Thank you, God!
"You know, that peep hole is there for a reason. And I told you who I was!" Fusco grumps, pushing past the little man and moving into the apartment, while Leon glances quickly down one direction of the hallway and then the other.
"You expecting someone else, Leon? In trouble again?"
"It's a rough neighborhood Officer. Can't be too careful, you know." The con artist closes the door and relocks it.
"But…uh…what can I do for you?"
"You're a forensic accountant aren't you?"
Leon eyes him closely and Fusco can almost see the wheels turning, before the little man replies, drawing out the word, "Yeessss..."
"Well, I need you to do some forensicing! This account. Tell me whose it is and…and I'll buy you a steak dinner."
"At a restaurant of my choice?"
Fusco stares at the sometimes…ok, most times…two-bit con artist, and knows he's going to be taken to the cleaners on this. But whatever. It'll be worth the price.
"Yeah," he replies reluctantly, handing over a slip of paper. "Here's the number. See what you can do."
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''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
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Shaw rummages through the third file drawer and finding nothing but candy wrappers and miscellaneous office documents, slides it close with a disappointed huff.
Seems like she's done nothing on this case but poke around in this scum's life debris, with nothing concrete to show for it. All she's been able to do so far is confirm what Finch has already uncovered, namely that their Number is an accountant, working as an audit specialist on a contract basis for several large banks.
And evidently makes good money considering the top dollar living quarters he calls home…
She'd found nothing there either but at least in his apartment she could console herself with a bottle of his best wine. Here - nada! And she's all but done with her searching now, except for the last console drawer…and…hell-lo!
"Finch, it looks like our guy has a firearm. A .38 snub. Loaded. And a really stupid gun to own." She doesn't hide the derision in her tone. "Unless the guy is an experienced shooter, this is a wildly inaccurate weapon."
Finch responds with the non-committal sound of a person truly uncomfortable even talking about firearms…which Shaw ignores as she continues to verbalize her thoughts.
"Don't get me wrong. It's a gun, and it shoots bullets. But a newbie with a snubbie is twice as scary because you have no idea where the bullet's going to end up."
But Finch is evidently not much interested in her dissertation on the finer points of gun ownership and interrupts her.
"I think it's time you get out of there Ms. Shaw. You mentioned he's very punctual with his lunch time, and that time is about up."
"Right. Let me just take a quick look at the file in here." She pulls the manila folder out from under the weapon. "Looks like it's full of photos. About a dozen I'd say…and…." She stops.
"Ms. Shaw? Are you still there?" Finch's voice edges from questioning into concern. "Ms. Shaw!"
"Finch…I think I just found the connection between our two Numbers!"
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'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
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"He's good, man! Really good!"
Leon types furiously while heaping accolades on the faceless person whom he obviously considers a worthy opponent. His admiration for the fellow con's scam colors his voice, and Fusco reminds himself to keep a wary eye on the little man in the future, just in case the forensic accountant decides to try the game himself.
The cop listens with scant attention to Leon's latest commentary, his concentration having waned over the last couple of hours while the little man continually verbalized his progress. If he could have understood just a smidgen of all that accounting mumbo-jumbo, he might have kept his mind in the game, but as it was…the last slice of cold pizza in that box was much more interesting.
"You see what he did here? You see?" says Leon with boyish enthusiasm, pointing to the monitor screen. "Now that's a classic maneuver. Accept the money here," as he points to the screen again, "Then transfer it under a different number to this dummy account, but split off just enough that whoever is searching for that amount won't be able to match the numbers!"
He almost bounces in his seat with glee. "But of course, he's counting on some 8 to 5, five day a week civil servant bureaucrat to come after him. Not a dedicated expert like me! It's just a matter of connecting the dots…"
"Right." Fusco agrees vaguely, poking at the cheese topping. The stuff has hardened to the consistency of chewed gum. But whatever. He takes a bite, pleased that the taste fortunately hasn't been altered by being merely cold. Either that or he's just really hungry.
"And. There. We. Are."
The cop now turns back to the computer, pizza forgotten. "You got him?"
"Right there. That's the name…"
So with a vague promise to contact the con artist "soon" and make good on his promise for a steak dinner, Fusco leaves the apartment in a much better mood than he'd entered. He has a name. Now he just needs to attach a location to that identity, and that means back to the precinct and his computer.
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''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
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Another two hours sifting through the NYPD data bases and all he still has is a name. However, he at least finds himself in a good news, bad news situation…
The bad news: the ID info came back alright, but the address is a dummy, a long empty apartment with a local PO Box to accept mail. And without a warrant he has no way to force the post master to give him any data on the owner of the box.
But the good news?
The president of a well established antique car club has called him back with information on a maroon Bentley fitting the description given and exhibited at a local car show not more than a month ago. So lying through his teeth, Fusco convinces the man of his interest in paying a large sum for such a "priceless vintage luxury car".
The car owners name and phony address are verified by the club's records, but more importantly he manages to get the current location of said car: a Long Island storage lot specializing in climate controlled units for valued antique autos.
An hour later, he's brow beat the senior citizen running the units into letting him see the maroon Bentley. And yep, that's it. It matches the photo, right down to a discrete club sticker on the front window. Now he stands in the office of the storage lot's manager, putting on his most intimidating cop act.
One way or another he's going to find where the owner of that car really lives, even if he has to physically beat it out of the old man!
To be continued…
