CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Derek started with Ben Martino.
His gut instinct had always been that Martino was the weakest link. So Derek had decided to save his visit to Wallace Johnson for later, and see if he could rattle Martino and get some information.
He waited until two o’clock. That meant lunchtime was over, and Martino had doubtless had his share of drinks, and then some. The consequence of that would be lowered defenses and a looser tongue.
Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Derek hung out near Martino’s manufacturing factory on East Broadway until a delivery boy finally exited the building.
Derek approached him, jerking his thumb in the direction of the factory. “Hey, I have to see Martino about an order for my company. Is he in there now?”
“Yeah,” the teenager replied, barely breaking stride or glancing up. “He’s in the front office.”
“Thanks.” Derek had his answer. He also had the very thing he’d hoped for going for him—the element of surprise.
He headed inside.
Ben Martino was right where the delivery boy had said. Through the office’s glass pane, Derek could see him standing up and throwing papers around on his desk. He was in a visibly agitated state, and pretty loaded, too, judging from the uncapped, half-empty bottle of whiskey on his desk that he was taking repeated swigs from.
Derek gave a brief knock and walked in.
“What?” Martino snapped, not abandoning his paper-hurling, not even glancing up.
“Mr. Martino, I’d like a few minutes of your time.”
Now, Martino’s head snapped up. He gazed at Derek through glazed, bloodshot eyes. “Do I know you?” he asked in a slightly slurred voice.
“Special Agent Derek Parker,” Derek replied.
It took a minute. “Sloane’s boyfriend. Right.” Martino shook Derek’s hand. His palm was shaking and sweaty, and his expression reminded Derek of a nervous rabbit at the wrong end of a shotgun.
“I’m here in my official capacity.” Derek wasted no time, getting to the point and utilizing the intimidation factor. “I’m sure Matthew Burbank told you I’m working the Chinese organized-crime angle of the Rothberg case.”
“Yes, he did. So did that other agent—Williams. He asked me all about some triad leaders in Hong Kong. I didn’t know what the heck he was talking about. I’m not exactly an expert on what goes on in China.”
“Good point. Now that I think about it, you weren’t even there when your partners sold Dead or Alive to Cai Wen—or after the transaction, when he was killed and the painting was stolen.”
Martino shook his head. “My father had just had a stroke. I was here in New York with him.” An awkward laugh. “I sure missed all the excitement.”
“You sure did. You and Wallace Johnson. He was away on a business trip when the ugly mess went down.” Derek went out on a limb and feigned knowledge he didn’t have. “But he did check in on you when he returned—you and your father.”
Sure enough, Martino nodded. “He was concerned. He dropped by the hospital.”
“Very considerate.” A quizzical look. “Are you two close friends?”
Martino swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple visibly rose and fell. “We’re all good friends. We have been since college.”
“True. But I get the feeling that you and Johnson have a unique bond.”
“We do…We did…We don’t talk about it anymore.” Although Martino was stumbling on his words, he was clearly providing a lot more information than he would have if he were sober. “Wallace desperately wanted a child. No one understood that better than me. My family, my kids and grandkids—they mean everything. But Wallace and Beatrice had a rough time conceiving. I introduced them to a specialist. He performed a procedure. It worked. When Sophie was born, Wallace made me her godfather. She was the sun, the moon, and the stars to him.” Tears glittered in Martino’s eyes, and, disregarding Derek’s presence, he took a gulp from his whiskey bottle. “I’m sure you know she was killed in a hit-and-run accident.”
“Yes, I did. She was only five. That’s a tragedy no parent should have to bear. I’m sure you rallied around Johnson, gave him your time and emotional support.”
“I tried. We all did. But Wallace has never been the same.” Martino took another drink, then deposited the bottle, now two-thirds empty, onto his desk.
Derek’s gaze followed its path. “Do you always drink during the workday?”
“What?” Martino started, and then a flush crept up his neck as he struggled to switch gears. “In case you missed it, the garment center’s dying. I’ve got a business I’m fighting to keep alive—one my father started years ago. So, yeah, I have a couple drinks now and then to calm my nerves.”