The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [70]
“You got a hit?”
“A flatbed truck belonging to an outfit called Frank’s Foreign Cars, sole premises a piece-of-shit garage in Staten Island. The truck was clocked inbound on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge around seven on the evening that Gallegos’s car was stolen, and outbound around ten. Frank was busted for selling stolen parts six months later. The cops found a half-disassembled Porsche last seen in front of Nobu at his place. Belonged to one of the Yankees.” He reached over me to open the glove box and pulled out a manila envelope. “Check it out.”
The envelope contained a grainy black-and-white photograph. I expected it to be of a Porsche, but the subject was a toll plaza at night, shot from a height of maybe twenty feet.
“What’s this?”
“Fourth lane from the left,” Reggie said.
I counted with my finger. The vehicle in the fourth lane from the left was a flatbed truck, and it was hauling a dark-colored car. The car looked like a BMW.
“You got to be kidding me,” I said breathlessly. “Where on earth did you get this?”
“Bridges and tunnels into the city are all covered by multiple security cameras. In the old days, they used to keep the tapes for a year. Post 9/11, they started digitizing everything and keeping it indefinitely. The E-ZPass gave me an exact time to check. Once the tech from the MTA queued up the right day for me, it only took a couple of minutes to find the shot.”
“And that’s an M5 the truck’s hauling?”
“Looks like one,” Reggie said. “The picture’s not clear enough to be sure. Could just be a regular Five series. The tech who helped me out said the gray scale was consistent with a deep-red color. We can get a more scientific match later if we need to.”
My hands started trembling. If this was the right car, and if what we suspected was true, my son, Kyle, was in the trunk of the car in the photo, dead or suffering.
“Hey,” Reggie said softly, reaching over to take the photo from me. “Don’t sweat it until we know more.”
I took a couple of deep breaths.
“This guy Frank is still operating out of Staten Island?”
Reggie shook his head.
“Nope. Went to jail and got mixed up in a turf war between some skinheads and some Mexican Mafia. Took a shank in the yard. Dead before he hit the ground. But he had a sidekick named Vinny Santore, an eighteen-year-old kid. According to the detectives who worked the case, Vinny was the one who grabbed the cars and Frank was the one who broke them down. Vinny did two years up at the Mid-Orange penitentiary and another two on parole.”
“So, we’re on our way to see Vinny.”
“Right.”
“And you think he’ll talk to us?”
“I got a few ideas on how to persuade him,” Reggie said calmly. “Now, tell me about breakfast with Gallegos.”
We ended up in a semi-industrial neighborhood in Staten Island. I’d been lost since the moment we crossed the bridge, but Reggie seemed to know where he was going. He pulled to the curb behind a green Jeep Cherokee and flashed his lights once before turning them off. A guy got out of the Jeep. I was surprised to recognize Joe Belko, Reggie’s recently retired partner. Joe was a skinny white guy with a monk’s fringe of gray hair, who looked like what he was—someone who spent a lot of time fishing with his grandkids. Reggie lowered his window as Joe approached.
“Hey,” Joe said. If he was surprised at my presence, he didn’t show it. He leaned into the car and offered me his hand. “Good to see you, Mark.”
“And you. Retirement treating you okay?”
“So far.” He glanced at Reggie and made a face. “Car smells like puke.”
“I hadn’t noticed. So, what do you think?”
“Vinny’s working solo, and traffic’s light. I think we’re good.”
“You got the gear?”
Joe nodded.
“Wait a second,” I interrupted. “What’s our plan here?”
“What I told you,” Reggie replied. “To talk to Vinny.”
“Officially?”
“Officially’s not likely to be very productive,” Reggie explained, speaking as if to a child. “Vinny has experience with the justice system. I show him my badge, he