“More than you.” Erin was quietly amused at telling the straight truth, knowing Vic wouldn’t believe it. Carlyle was right about the best way to lie.
“You two ready to do some work?” Webb asked.
“Sure thing,” Erin said. “What’s going down?”
“I heard back from our Federal friends.” His voice was drier than usual. “They let me know that they have no objection to an interview of New York City resident Lorenzo Bianchi, in New York City, by New York City detectives.”
“Generous of them,” Vic observed.
“He may be under sealed indictment, of course, but they didn’t tell me that,” Webb went on.
“That being what ‘sealed’ means,” Vic added.
“Neshenko?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Shut up.”
“You were saying, sir?” Erin prompted.
“But barring that, there’s no open RICO investigation on him,” Webb finished. “That means he’s ours if we want him.”
“Do we?” she asked. “It might be his son we’re after.”
“We’ll go after them both,” Webb said. “The kid’s more likely to crack. Assuming he knows anything, of course. We mainly need to establish which hands the candy passed through on its way to Ridgeway. Anyone along the line could’ve tampered with it.”
“This is why mom always told me to check the seals on food packaging,” Vic said. “And to watch for razor blades in my Halloween candy.”
“Neshenko?”
“Shutting up, sir.”
“You really think they’ll talk to us?” Erin asked. “I mean, these are Mob guys.”
“We have to try,” Webb sighed. “We don’t have nearly enough for search warrants for these mopes. Either they talk or they don’t. They’ll probably lawyer up.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Tribeca, right on the edge of Little Italy. Penthouse apartment.”
“Fancy. I shoulda worn my good necktie,” Vic muttered.
Erin gave him a look. Vic only wore a tie as mandated by the department. His ties were, as a rule, forgettable.
“The good one doesn’t have coffee stains,” he explained.
* * *
They parked Erin’s Charger and Vic’s Taurus outside Bianchi’s apartment. The neighborhood was posh and overpriced, just the sort of place for stockbrokers, CEOs, Mafia underbosses, and associated sociopaths. The detectives showed their shields to the doorman and took the elevator to the top floor.
“So, the kid lives here, too?” Vic asked. “What is he, twenty-five?”
“I think so,” Webb said. “They’ve got basically the whole top floor. Plenty of room. And you know how Manhattan real estate goes. It’s cheaper for him to stay at Mom and Dad’s.”
“How much is this guy’s rent?” Vic wondered.
“More than we make in a year,” Erin said.
At the door to the penthouse, Webb glanced at the other two. “I don’t know this guy,” he said. “But he’ll know us. Bianchi’s been dealing with cops since the two of you were in diapers. He’s old-school. I’ll take the lead, but if either of you see an opening, feel free to pitch in. You never know what’ll crack him open.” He reached for the doorbell and gave it a firm push.
After a short wait, they heard three bolts being drawn back. The door opened a couple of inches, showing the chain-lock still in place. A young man’s face appeared in the gap.
“Yeah? Whaddaya want?” he demanded in classic New York style.
Webb held up his shield. “Lieutenant Webb, NYPD. Are you Paulie Bianchi?”
A woman’s voice came from behind the kid, the sort of strident, demanding voice Erin remembered hearing a lot back in Queens. “Hey Paulie! Who’s at the door?”
“Cops,” he called back over his shoulder.
“What do they want?”
Paulie turned back to Webb. “Whaddaya want?” he asked again.
“We just have a few questions, for you and your father,” Webb said. “Mind if we step inside?”
“Get lost, why don’t you?”
Webb sighed. “I’d like to do this in a congenial manner.”
“The hell you talking about?”
“He means he’d rather talk to you than have me do it,” Vic said over Webb’s shoulder.
Paulie looked him up and down. “Whoa, you’re a big piece of meat, ain’t ya? Juice much?”
Vic tilted his head. His muscular neck cracked audibly.
“Yeah, real tough guy, hiding behind your badge,” Paulie sneered. “And your boss.”
“The only hiding I’m seeing is you behind your door,” Vic said. “And your mom’s skirt.”
“Eat me, dickwad.”
“Look,” Webb said, stepping between them. “This is just a formality. We just want to talk, and we’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”
“Forget about it. You ain’t comin’ in here without a warrant.”
Webb sighed again. “Kid, are you seriously telling me you’ve got something lying around here, in front of your mother, that you don’t want the police to see?”
“I ain’t hidin’ nothin’!”
“Paulie!” his mom called. “Quit yappin’ and let ‘em in. We’re good, law-abiding citizens. We got nothin’ to hide!”
Paulie, still grumbling, unfastened the chain lock and stepped sullenly out of the way. The detectives trooped into the apartment. Paulie blinked when he saw Rolf.
“Hey, lady, is he, like, your seeing-eye dog?”
“My eyes work fine,” Erin said, smiling. “He’s for when I need extra teeth.”
Rolf looked Paulie over, unimpressed.
The living room of the apartment was furnished in thick, heavy carpet, dark red curtains, and mahogany furniture. The whole effect made Erin think of a half-assed homage to The Godfather. It was probably supposed to be serious, but the self-consciousness of it made her want to laugh. She thought of Carlyle’s courtesy and confidence. It was no comparison.
Mrs. Bianchi levered herself off the leather couch. She was a very large woman, dressed in black, who’d probably been pretty twenty years ago. She was wearing too much jewelry and makeup.
“You the guy in charge?” she asked Webb.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“I figured. The girl’s too pretty, the boy’s got no neck, and the dog ain’t giving the orders,” she said. “So that leaves you.”
“Is your husband home, Mrs. Bianchi?”
“He’s in his study. What you want with him?”
“If you could have him come out here, please, we’d like to speak with all three of you,” Webb said.
“Hey, Lorenzo!” she shouted in a voice that could crack glass. “Get your old Sicilian ass out here! We got company!”
Vic’s eyebrows went up. He exchanged a look with
