I enjoyed a pleasant drive on a thoroughfare to the south, going across the river and under the Interstate. It was lunch time. I stopped at a fast food drive-through and got a burger and fries. With the hangover gone, the thought of all that grease and gristle didn’t bother me. I got back on the road and ate while I drove.
Mario Vitole’s house was a rambler in a suburban subdivision. Nothing fancy, but nice. A new Buick was parked in the carport, and the lawn was well-tended. A cute but tacky sign on the lawn announced to the world that the house was the dwelling of Mario and Stella Vitole.
I parked across the street and a few houses down. My car had tinted windows so, unless someone looked closely, they couldn’t tell that I was in there. I took my digital Nikon camera from the glove box, put the long range lens in, and waited.
This was routine for me, the same kind of surveillance I did on cheating spouses. Only this time, instead of catching an indiscretion, I wanted to chart the target’s movements to see where he went and what he did. I’d choose a way to confront him based on that.
At about two o’clock, a man came out of the house. He was about sixty-five, with a medium height and build, and curly black hair with streaks of white. Tan and good-looking for an old guy. I rolled down the window and snapped a picture of him. He walked up the sidewalk to the residence two houses away. I took pictures. He went in the front door. Odd. He didn’t knock, just went in.
I drove up a few yards to just across from the doorway of the house where he went in.
About an hour later the door opened. I started snapping. He came to the doorway, and a woman came along behind. She was wearing a robe. He kissed her, came out, and returned to his own house. I took more pictures. I wrote down the neighbor’s house number. Then I called Rodney.
“Rodney, find me the name of whoever lives at 512 Cherokee Avenue.”
Rodney tapped and clicked. After about a minute of that, he said, “William Sproles. Do you need more information?”
“Can you get his wife’s name?”
Tap, tap, click, click. “Marsha. Anything else?”
“Find out what you can about them.”
I called Vitole.
“Mr. Vitole, I need to speak with you privately.”
“About what? Who is this?”
“This is about one of the former clients in witness protection.”
“I retired. You must want somebody else.”
“This is about Anthony Curro, also known as Buford Overbee.”
The line got quiet for a moment. Then, “Who is this?”
“We need to speak alone,” I said. “I’m parked just up the street. Where’s a good place nearby to meet?”
“You want to come to the house?”
“Anybody else there?”
“No. I’m alone,” he said. “My wife won’t be home until about six.”
“Okay. Keep in mind, this is just a meeting. An exchange of information. I come in peace.” I smiled at the Captain Kirk reference. “I expect to be likewise received. If not, your next visitor won’t be so peaceful. Understood?”
“Understood.” So far my usual bluff was working.
He was waiting in the doorway when I pulled up. He had changed into shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. I got out of my car and walked up the sidewalk towards him. He retreated into the house and waved me in.
He walked ahead of me down a hallway. He looked back to size me up. This was where my bluff really needed to work. Not only am I not tough, I don’t look tough.
The house was tastelessly decorated with pile carpeting, red flock wallpaper, and etched mirror tiles. New simulated antiques decorated the entranceway, and the furniture and wall hangings were new too, every schlock style imaginable, nothing matching, nothing coordinated. But much nicer than my place, you can be sure.
He led me into the living room and pointed to a chair. I sat and he plopped on a sofa across from me.
“You want a beer or something?”
“No, thanks.”
“So, what’s this about Overbee?”
“Someone’s been shaking him down.”
He paused. “Really?” His mock surprise was not well-delivered, given what I already knew. “How?”
“They’re threatening to out him with his clients and with the mob.”
“No shit. You understand, I was not his handler. I never met the guy.” He was getting jumpy.
“I know. But you know all the major players in the Marshals Service. Maybe you can get the word out.”
“What word?”
“We traced the blackmailer’s e-mail address to his OnlinePay account and hacked into the account.”
His face got white.
“We recovered the twenty grand Overbee already paid the blackmailer. Next time the blackmailer signs on, he’ll be a lot poorer.”
Vitole started looking around as if he needed to check some-thing. He took a gulp of his beer.
I continued. “It’s a short jump from the account to its owner. If the blackmailer persists in his extortion, we will make that jump and turn our records over to the feds.”
I watched for his reaction to that. His face turned red.
“If that doesn’t bring it to a stop,” I said, “Mr. Overbee and his business associates will make a personal call on the blackmailer. In fact, that’s what he wanted to do right off the bat, but I talked him out of it. I think we can safely say that whoever it is, he’s still walking around thanks to my intervention.”
You wouldn’t expect a retired U.S. Marshal to be that easily intimidated, but Vitole looked like he was about to crap his shorts.
Now for the clincher. “If this doesn’t go down right, if the black-mailer puts any more of a squeeze on, the shit hits the fan.”
I paused to let the indirect threat sink in. Vitole bit his lower lip and ran his hand across his mouth like a junkie needing a fix. His eyes darted from side to side, and he squirmed on the sofa.
“Why do you think I’d know who it is?” he asked.
“Witness protection is a small team. It’s got to be one of your former colleagues, probably also retired like yourself. Nobody else has access to the files to know who to target. So, try to pass the word along. And we can bring this matter to a peaceful close.”
I said a polite goodbye, went out to my car, and called Buford.
“I think he’s convinced,” I said.
“He better be.”
“But if not, I’ve got leverage. He’s fooling around with his neighbor’s wife. I’ll e-mail you the evidence when I get back to the office.”
I drove around the block and parked between Vitole’s house and the Sproles’s so I could watch both. At about six o’clock, Vitole’s wife came home from wherever she had spent the day and parked her Toyota next to his Buick. I took a couple pictures of her going from the car to the house. Not a pretty woman, she was overweight with gray hair and looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties. She went in the house.
A short time later, a car pulled into the Sproles residence. A man got out and went into the house. He was middle-aged and looked like the couch potato type. I got more pictures. Then I headed back to the office.