The Conway's Conspiracy Page 7

  He shook his head and smiled brightly. “I made up a list of underground arm dealers,” he said with a powerful voice. “As of tomorrow, we’ll conduct search in their dens and exert legal pressures to obtain their collaboration… Chalat is an easy target and I expect no difficulty from him. I’ve the feeling his cooperation will be decisive...”

  He took a glass of water from a stool and drank all at one go. “I’ve asked that they send you the manifests from Miami International Airport. Did you receive them?” he inquired cordially.

  The three men nodded.

  “Did you have time to examine them?” he asked kindly.

  No. They did not have the spare time to do it.

  “It’s important that you take a moment for them,” he said

  calmly. “It has been three months since the holdup. The probability the bandits are on the other side of the ocean is real… I know how frustrating this kind of work can be, but we’ve got to do it… Those lists must be examined carefully and I ask you to be patient.”

  He opened a legal file and took a quick look at some exhibits. “The Stavisky apartment is a Pandora’s box,” he said quietly. “It contains surprising evidences. The gangsters’ socks and underwear were in the kitchen… The blood found in the cars was also in there. They’re done the day we catch up with them.”

  “More and more, the evidences point away from the Commercial State Bank,” Garibaldi said with poise. “There seems to be no connection...”

  “We can’t be definite on anything,” replied Galiss. “The bandits are on the loose and their trails can lead anywhere.”

  “The Hauss & Caust remains the most important focus of attention,” Graham reminded them. “I’m intrigued by some apparently insignificant details... Ganoott’s reticence and Johnson’s evasive behavior are among them… There is, in this bank, a tension to be cut with a knife.”

  “I agree with you,” Canamera hopped up and down. “I think we should invest most of our resources in this troubled niche.”

  “The Stavisky apartment had allowed us to make notable progress,” said Garibaldi. “The evidences are mounting. We just have to catch the fugitives. Their conviction is certain.”

  “Interpol had warned us of a few trails,” grumbled Graham. “Suspicious foreign travelers were noticed in Mexico City, Abidjan, Ottawa, and Port-au-Prince. Government agents in those capitals are following up and will inform us of any new developments. I don’t know if there is substance to their warnings but I think we should send someone to assist them. The agency would’ve no problem with it.”

  “The Director refuses to consider that alternative,” Galiss replied evasively. “He is of the opinion we should concentrate here…”

  “Any news from Washington?” asked Garibaldi.

  “Are you talking about the prints?” Galiss looked at him.

  “Yeah,” he answered amicably.

  “It can be a long process,” the delegate mumbled with a smile. “They’ve to deal with thousands of samples…”

  “Do we’ve regular contacts with that office?” insisted Garibaldi.

  “Sure...” replied Galiss. “This morning, I talked to Elio, the Division chief. He said the only alternative is to wait.”

  “Did they add to the number of people dealing with this?” continued Garibaldi.

  “The Director is working on it,” said Galiss; but you know how slow the federal bureaucracy can be…”

  Garibaldi nodded, sat down, and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  As announced, Galiss paid a visit to inmate 33-0055. It was with a sense of hopeful obligation he handed his credentials to the Warden of the County Jail. Received as a federal representative in official mission, he was soon escorted to a deserted room. About ten minutes later, surrounded by a couple of guards, Chalat Cassoti entered the room.

  A dirty blond with blue eyes and the face of a weasel, the

  burglar was remarkably weak. Born on the Westside of Chicago from an Austrian mother and an American of Italian descent, Chalat experienced a troubled childhood and, very early, showed a shocking inclination towards criminal vagrancy.

  An inveterate alcoholic, father Cassoti spent most of his time in the city’s slums and never paid attention to the welfare of his progeny. The man was daddy to seven boys and six girls. Geraldine, one of his concubines, gave birth to two babies: Pattoti and Chalat. The first became a pimp; the latter, a professional burglar.

  Cassoti Senior died at the age of fifty-nine of a liver disease caused by alcoholism. Like his brothers and sisters, Chalat lived in limbo. Criminal infractions sent him to jail several times in the windy city. After his last release, he traveled south and established residence in Miami. With a long criminal record, it was not easy to find work. Chalat lived like a vagabond and, soon, was back behind bars.

  The announcement of Galiss’ visit threw him in typical disarray. Frightened to face a shark, as he called all federal agents, he wildly speculated on the reason of the visit. Believing nothing good could come out of it, he was ready to defend his life.

  When they took him to the questioning room, he appeared grim and insecure. Standing unsteadily in front of the detective, he looked like a soldier waiting for orders. Galiss stared him down and said in a ringing tone, “Old thief, you did it again!”

  “What …” the burglar mumbled fearfully.

  “The gun…” Galiss screamed like a master talking to a slave. “You sold it, huh!”

  “What gun?” Chalat seemed disconcerted.

  “The one you stole in Fort-Lauderdale,” said Galiss.

  “I don’t know…” the man was extremely nervous.

  Galiss opened his briefcase, took a revolver, and put it on the table.

  “Do you recognize it?” he asked commandingly.

  “I … don’t know...” Chalat stuttered with an almost inaudible voice.

  “Stop messing around…” Galiss was forceful and aggressive. “Good cooperation can get you out of jail…”

  “Ah yeah…” Chalat seemed pleasantly surprised.

  “Have my word on it…” said Galiss. “If you cooperate honestly, you’ll get out…”

  “What must I do?” the thief asked feverishly.

  “Who did you sell this gun to?” inquired the detective with a brazen voice.

  “Girard... His name is Girard…” the man replied anxiously.

  “Does he have a last name?” asked Galiss.

  “Pozy…” exclaimed Chalat. “Girard Pozy…”

  “You sold this gun to Girard Pozy?” insisted Galiss.

  “Yes…” Chalat could hardly contain his agitation.

  “How many times did you sell him guns?” Galiss stared at him.

  “That was the only time, I swear …” he answered falteringly.

  “What’s Girard’s address?” asked Galiss.

  “He lives in Fort-Lauderdale …” the burglar was nervous and diligent.

  As Galiss interrogated the prisoner, eleven miles away, Cana-

  mera directed a squad of officers toward the home of a well-known clandestine arms dealer. The Puerto Rican was eager to apprehend the outlaw suspected to being the leader of a ring that had infested the city’s Westside. He did not know that the same person was involved with the protagonists of the Hauss & Caust holdup.

  Inside the house, two brothers argued about the best way to get the prize offered for capture and conviction of the Hauss & Caust killers. With insistence, Steven Pozy talked to his younger sibling, warning him to be careful. “Girard, I tell you, it’s not a good idea... You sold the rifles to the bandits and that complicates everything… The entire nation would rise against you.”

  “You’re right,” the arms dealer answered anxiously. “All those promises will not prevent them from coming after me.”

  “Marcia could make a deal,” said Steven; “but everybody knows she is your mistress… It’s a problem... Perhaps, you should split for a while.”

  Girard jumped
joyfully around the room. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars...” he clapped like a lunatic. “Can you imagine that, Steve? That’s enough for a lifetime…”

  “Did they really do it?” his brother asked puzzlingly.

  “Yeah, man…” answered Girard. “I’ve no doubt about that...”

  “Did you talk to Marcia?” Steven seemed incredulous.

  “Not yet...” he replied vividly. “I wanted to see you first.”

  “Bro, you need a plan,” Steven sounded anxious and annoyed. “Those cops are vicious... You should talk to Marcia. She is a mule…”

  “Don’t worry, man…” said Girard. “For this one, she’ll give up her soul...” .

  “Pull the strings, babe, but remain behind the scene...” Steven warned him. “Your situation doesn’t allow you …”

  At this moment, somebody knocked loudly on the door. The brothers jumped and stared at each other. There was a suspenseful silence; and, then, a terrifying noise. “Police…” yelled a voice. “Open the door!!!”

  Dashing like a cat, Girard ran toward the back entrance. Steven stayed wide-eyed and froze on the spot. He was making a move to follow his brother when the cops smashed the door and burst in. At gunpoint, six officers erupted in the room. “On the floor…” they yelled stunningly. “Sit down on the floor…”

  Steven sat down and a policeman handcuffed him.

  “What’s your name?” asked Canamera.

  “Steven…” he answered hesitantly.

  Suddenly, two agents who were on the lookout behind the house entered with Girard. The trafficker had handcuffs and was barefoot.

  “He was getting away,” one of the officers said jubilantly. “We caught him right on time…”

  Canamera seized Girard on the nape of the neck. “Hey, hey, look who’s here…” the Puerto Rican sniggered jeeringly. “But… that’s you, Girard... Old smuggler, how are you doing?”

  One of the cops who were searching the place approached Canamera and said something. A moment later, two agents emerged from a bedroom, their arms cluttered up with guns and rifles. Carefully, they counted seven pistols, three rifles, and four hand grenades.

  “Is that all?” the detective asked amusingly.

  The agents nodded.

  “Girard,” said Canamera; “and you, too, Steven, I place you under arrest for illegal arms trafficking. You’ve got to answer a lot of questions...”

  Immediately, a couple of agents took the brothers into custody.

  On the other side of town, leading a squad of twelve officers, Garibaldi was ready to invade the den of a reputed arms dealer. Before moving in, he addressed his colleagues. “We’ve knocked down five of the six gangs without encountering substantial resistance,” he said proudly. “This is the last, perhaps most dangerous one. Let’s hope everything will go on swiftly. We’re going to encircle the house and close all exits. If you’ve suggestions, it’s the moment to make them.”

  Nobody answered.

  “Let’s go…” he ordered commandingly.

  They jumped into four vehicles and drove toward 3978 Cosmo Street, on the Southside of Pompano Beach. Arrived at their destination, they surged out and surrounded the property. With three officers, Garibaldi walked to the main door, knocked, and yelled vibrantly, “Police! Open now…”

  Nobody answered.

  “Smash it…” he directed his men.

  Armed with an iron block, two officers moved on. The door smashed to bits and they rushed inside. In a room contiguous to the kitchen, three young women struggled to hide in a closet. A couple of cops entered and took them away. The others quickly occupied the place.

  Standing in the living room, Garibaldi directed the police raid. The agents obeyed with astonishing vigor. Suddenly, two armed men erupted from a cabinet. They hid behind a door and opened fire. Hit in the forehead, one of the agents collapsed on the floor. The remaining officers lay down and fired frantically toward the two outlaws, killing one of them. The other leaned on the wall and killed Garibaldi and two of his men.

  It was then a crescendo of firing and yelling, a frenzy of running and thunderous racket. Hit by a number of bullets, the man staggered, collapsed, and died.

  Their eyes livid and their faces convulsed with emotion, the officers stood up and ran toward their fallen comrades. Garibaldi lay inert, already frozen in eternity.

  There was a long moment of silence; then, the noise of ambulances’ sirens and tires squealing: an ear-splitting hoopla.

  Their arms stacked up with rifles, revolvers and submachine guns, three agents came out from one of the bedrooms. Stopping in front of their dead comrades, they carefully put the weapons down and made the sign of the cross. At this moment, Galiss and Graham stormed in the living room. Graham walked toward Garibaldi’s corpse, knelt down, and vividly embraced his colleague. Galiss patted his shoulder and said grievously, “Oh, those arms dealers… What a band of murderers…”

  * * *

  Galiss had spent a sleepless night. To him and his colleagues, Garibaldi’s untimely death was a tragedy difficult to accept. He had a hard time understanding that his colleague was killed and it was normal to move on. A man of admirable

  composure, he seemed incapable of emotional outpouring; but he obviously struggled with his pain and tried hard to hold back his distressing feeling. Not that he was incapable of mastering his emotion but the mental effort to rationalize this absurd loss of life could not stifle his human instinct.

  On the left side of the ebony table, in the interrogation room of the monumental federal jail, Girard Pozy did not seem worried at all. The man’s blinking eyes stared obstinately at a picture hanging on the wall. It was a powerful photographic representation of Gotino Pradelli, legendary FBI agent, killed two years ago in a confrontation with drug dealers. Girard knew the undercover detective by reputation but had never met him.

  Seated at the table, Galiss did not understand why the smuggler showed so much interest in a famous cop. In time-honored traditions, they were mortal enemies.

  “You’re contemplating the picture of Pradelli,” the delegate said with a bit of sarcasm. “Did you know him?”

  “No,” Girard grinned dubiously. “There is something strange in his eyes…”

  The special agent looked at him obliquely. “Those criminals are so foolish…” he seemed to be saying to himself.

  Closing a file that was on the table, he grumbled in a disdainful tone, “I suppose you know why you’re here.”

  Girard turned furtively around. “This is a bad assumption… Frankly, I’ve no clue on the reason why you brought me here...”

  Galiss seemed upset. “You, bloody smuggler, stop playing game... Do you want to go down?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” the trafficker replied coldly. “Why did you arrest me?”

  “You’re like all criminals,” argued Galiss. “Vicious and

  arrogant... There is cause to keep you in jail...”

  “What do you mean?” asked Girard.

  “Police have duty to protect society from a murderer like you,” Galiss was straightforwardly combative. “It’s time to come clean... We know what you did...”

  “I did nothing wrong,” the individual insisted nervously.

  “Really…?” Galiss stared him down. “But you’re a recidivist, Girard… a dangerous arms dealer… The evidence we’ve is enough to carry you to hell… You should be begging to cooperate.”

  “What’s your deal?” the man asked suddenly.

  “If you work with us, you can have the break of your life,” said Galiss. “You just have to answer a couple of important questions.”

  “Where is my brother?” the man asked contemptuously.

  “He was released,” answered Galiss.

  “Bailed out?” asked Girard.

  “No… The arms were found in your residence,” replied the delegate. “You’re sole responsible.”

  Girard stayed silent for a moment; he then asked in a do
ubtful tone, “What can I do for you?”

  “You’ve critical information about a few killers,” Galiss revealed without hesitation. “We want evidences and a complete deposition.”

  “What is it about?” inquired Girard.

  “The Hauss & Caust affair,” Galiss sputtered impatiently. “You provided the weapons of the crime...”

  “No, sir …” the man yelled at the top of his lungs. “I’ve nothing to do with it!”

  “Don’t yell and calm down,” retorted Galiss. “It’s the moment to pull through... As a clandestine arms dealer, you sold the rifles used in the massacre. By law, you’re as guilty as the murderers…”

  “I tell you I’ve nothing to do with it …” Girard was furious.

  “Don’t you want to cooperate?” asked Galiss.

  “I didn’t kill anybody…” the man insisted vigorously.

  Galiss waved and said, “There is a prize for the gangsters’ arrest and conviction. First come will be first served. We get information from all over the nation. Don’t let the train pass you by, Girard.”

  Looking at the trafficker, he added, “You’re reckless and that will cause your demise. You’ve been walking on the edge of hell for a long time. You should take this opportunity to make amends... You provided the instruments of a crime whose commission gave way to the killing of eight officers of law. I’m asking you to help arrest the assassins and attenuate your responsibility.”

  Girard was very agitated. “You accuse me unjustly…” he bawled like a madman. “I’m not a murderer…”

  “The time has not come to answer that question,” Galiss was calm but firm. “Yes or no, do you want to cooperate with the police?”

  “I don’t know the bandits…” Girard replied hesitantly.