Best American Crime Writing 2006 - Mark Bowden [111]
But after eighteen months of his team digging up the past—“We’re archaeologists,” Intartaglio jokingly said—Ponzi had worked his way to several certainties. The two retired detectives, he felt, were traitors—and killers. And the time had come to bring them to justice.
IN RETIREMENT, the two former detectives, bound by friendship and their secrets, stayed close. In 1994, Eppolito moved to Las Vegas, settling into a big bright house with a five-foot fountain on the lawn and baronial columns flanking the entrance. The Cadillac in the pink cobblestone driveway completed his idealized picture of gaudy success. Caracappa and his second wife followed a year later, moving into a more modest home across the street.
Starting in the fall of 2004, the task force, assisted by local DEA agents, began keeping a close watch on the two men. And they also began looking for a way to gather evidence about what the pair were up to in good-time Vegas. An inspired plan was hatched. Eppolito’s book had set the investigation in motion, providing both Casso and Betty Hydell with a name to match the husky face. And now, John Peluso hoped, Eppolito’s book would bring him down for good.
Posing as a high-flying Hollywood producer named Steve Corso, a DEA agent phoned Eppolito and announced that he was interested in making a movie based on Mafia Cop. He’d be coming to town and would like to meet.
That was all the starstruck would-be actor and screenwriter needed to hear. Eppolito had hovered, fierce, bloated, and largely mute, in the crowd scenes of a handful of Mob movies, starting with Martin Scorsese’s GoodFellas (1990), and had written a predictable and sentimental tough-guy feature called Turn of Faith, which had gone straight to DVD. But Eppolito had even larger ambitions. He just needed his break. Over the next few months the “producer” spent many days and evenings with both of the retired detectives and their families. And all the time he had a Kel transmitter about the size of a pack of cigarettes taped to his chest. Nearly every word they spoke—close to seventy-two hours’ worth—was recorded.
A convivial Eppolito bragged about all the wiseguys who were still his pals. He also reminisced about cops looking up license-plate numbers as favors. And when Corso, one swinger to another, asked Eppolito if he could score him some crystal meth—a bunch of his Hollywood friends were coming to town and wanted to party, he explained—Lou said, No problem. With the help of his twenty-four-year-old son, Anthony, the deal was done, according to authorities.
Several days later, the task force moved in for the arrests. Corso invited both Eppolito and Caracappa to dinner on March 9, 2005, at Piero’s, a flashy Italian place not far from the Strip. As the two men walked in, Peluso followed, talking into his cell phone, seemingly arguing with a coldhearted girlfriend. Not far behind him was Intartaglio.
Just as Eppolito and Caracappa were about to give their names to the maître d’, Peluso, gun drawn, announced, “You’re under arrest.” DEA agents seated at the bar rushed over and slammed the former detectives against the wall. Eppolito and Caracappa stared at each other as if in shock. Then they surrendered without a word.
As they were led handcuffed to the waiting unmarked cars, the maître d’ rushed after them. “You’ve got to give me their names,” he insisted to the agents. “I need to cancel the reservation. This is a busy place.”
“Pick up the papers tomorrow,” a gleeful Intartaglio shot back. “You want their names, read