“What is it?”
“For the past month, the Buffalo Board of Education has been sending its school busses across the Peace Bridge into Canada. It’s so much cheaper to buy gasoline over there right now. The effort is saving the taxpayers an enormous amount of money. The purchases are being made at a gas bar in Fort Erie Ontario, about five hundred yards from the Peace Bridge. It’s the normal practice of the Buffalo Board of Education to take samples of the gasoline they use and to have them analyzed by independent laboratories in Buffalo. As I speak, I’m looking at copies of the results of those analyses on my desk. And here’s the killer, Mr. Hill. They all reveal that the gasoline contains between two and three percent PCBs!”
“They contain what?” Hill asked, his voice rising with each word.
“Poly chlorinated biphenyls, an extremely toxic chemical.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“There’s no doubt about it. We sent our own people to Canada to verify the analyses provided by the Buffalo Board of Education, and had them analyzed by a different and trusted laboratory. The results were identical.”
“Did you find out who owns the gas bar?”
“Yes, it’s owned by XG Petroleums. The company’s head office is in Toronto.”
“That’s very interesting. Thank you very much for calling. You did the right thing, Victor. You can rest assured that we’ll take it from here. It would be very appreciative if you would send copies of your findings to me as soon as possible.”
“I’ll be happy to do that.”
Hill immediately telephoned Alex McDowell.
“You’re not going to believe this. I just picked up a shocking piece of information. If it’s true, it would suggest Mr. King is not be as clean as you think.”
“What’s the shocking piece of information?”
Hill related the entire text of his conversation with Victor Mayer.
“That’s incredible! Who in his right mind would put PCBs into gasoline?”
“Someone who was being paid a lot of money to dispose of it?”
Paul Conrad received a telephone call from Dan Campbell at 11 a.m. “Paul, we found it!” Campbell said. “We found the leak!”
“How?”
“Wirtz and I hired an outside contractor to go in there and do an independent check of the entire system. You won’t believe what they found.”
“Why don’t you tell me? I’ll let you know if I believe it.”
“Two valves were spliced into the gasoline lines leading to the east loading rack. They’re just two inches behind the meters—so obvious that they weren’t obvious! They were installed by somebody who knew what he was doing and who wanted to steal gasoline. It was a first class inside job.”
“Did you have the valves removed?”
“You bet. Right after we photographed them from every angle.”
“Have the police been notified?”
“An hour ago.”
“How do you know it was an inside job? Do you have any idea who was involved?”
“We can’t prove it, but we think it’s Sam Martin. He was the one who re-calibrated the meters after the meeting. He set them up to show big gallons.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No. He’s managed to disappear, and nobody knows where he is.”
“That’s just wonderful,” Conrad snarled. “Where the hell were our security people?”
“It looks like they blinked.”
CHAPTER 44
Sam Martin was scared. He slipped across the Rainbow Bridge into Canada at 7 a.m. and drove his red Oldsmobile over the Queen Elizabeth Highway as fast as his conscience would allow. When he reached the western limits of Toronto, he stopped at a pay phone.
“How may I help you?” the operator asked.
“Ah, yes. I wanna make a collect call to anyone at that number.”
“Your name, please?”
“Uh… Auggie Doggy.”
“Who?” the operator asked, muffling a giggle.
“Auggie Doggy! Please hurry!”
“Yes sir. One moment, please,” the operator said.
After three rings, Servito answered. “Yah.”
“I have a collect call for anyone from Auggie Doggy. Will you accept the charges?”
“Yup.”
“Go ahead sir.”
“The Golden valves are dead. They went in there last night and found the plumbing.”
“Where the hell are you?” Servito asked.
“At a pay phone in Toronto. I’m running, man. I had to blow town. My ass would be history if I showed up there today.”
“Get your ass up here. We’ll figure out how to handle it together.”
Servito immediately called Bob Bushing. “The Golden valves are dead,” he announced.
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. Sam Martin just told me they found ‘em.”
“Shit! What the hell am I going to do now?”
“Keep supplying King’s stations with as much gasoline as you can get. You understand?”
“I understand, but I haven’t the slightest idea where the hell I’m gonna get the juice.”
“Do whatever you have to do. Cut back other customers if you have to.”
“I can’t. I’ve already cut them back as far as I can. Most of them are already bone dry.”
“Call Lasker and tell him to haul from the barge and the farm. We still have some of Golden National’s juice in storage at both places. I want it all to go to King’s outlets, and I want it cut with maximum PCBs. Got it?”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Just do it,” Servito demanded.
He heard the slamming of a car door an hour and a half later. He stood and opened a hidden cabinet in the wall behind his chair, removed a twelve-gauge shotgun, and loaded it with two shells. He hid the shotgun under his long, black leather overcoat, and then proceeded outside to greet Martin.
“Jesus Jimbo, it’s sure great to see you,” Martin said, blowing on his hands while his brown street shoes crunched the snow.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” Servito asked.
“Not a living soul. I haven’t talked to anybody.” Martin’s mouth opened in horror as Servito lifted the shotgun and pointed it straight at him.
“Good,” Servito said. He unloaded both barrels into Martin’s face. Blood, bone, and brain tissue splattered the snow behind Martin, just before his headless body crumpled atop it.
Servito removed the keys from the pocket of Martin’s jacket, opened the trunk of his Oldsmobile, and hoisted Martin’s body inside. He drove to the top of a slope above the pond behind his barn, shifted into neutral, and climbed out. He pushed the car forward and watched as it slowly rolled down the slope, plowed through the thin layer of ice, and sank into the dark water.
Long before the next morning, the water in the hole would freeze again, entombing the car and Martin’s body at least until spring.
CHAPTER 45
Large, wet, fluffy snowflakes fluttered onto the parking lot of the Ontario Provincial Police station on the Queen Elizabeth Highway, two miles west of Fort Erie. Marty Piniero emerged from the warmth of his white Impala into the cold March air. He cupped his hands near his mouth to warm them, then pulled the collar of his jean jacket around his ears and walked slowly toward the station. He opened the side door and proceeded up the short flight of stairs to the main floor. At the door to reception, he stood motionless. He glanced at the counter with a bewildered expression.
Officer Wendal Smith was on duty at the reception counter, no more than thirty feet away. “May I help you, sir?” he bellowed.
Piniero, a diminutive Venezuelan who could easily have passed for a jockey, walked slowly toward Smith and leaned over the counter. Using his right index finger, he beckoned Smith to come closer.
When Smith complied, Piniero whispered, “I need to see the chief.”
Smith grinned. “Why do you need to see the
chief?” he asked with a whisper.
Piniero glanced around apprehensively. “I got some real important information for him,” he whispered.
“What information?” Smith bellowed.
“I got some information about stolen gasoline. Just go and tell the chief that.”
“Don’t go away,” Smith said. He turned and hurried down the hall to his left, returning just seconds later with a tall, square-jawed man with graying blond hair. “This is detective Mitchell Chandler,” Smith said. “He’s the chief around here today. What did you say your name is?”
“Marty Piniero.”
Chandler shook Piniero’s hand. “Please come this way, Mr. Piniero.”
They entered a small office, and Chandler closed the door behind them. “Come over to my desk and have a seat, Mr. Piniero. We can talk there.”
“It’s Marty. Call me Marty,” Piniero said. He sat on the front edge of a wooden chair in front of Chandler’s desk.
Chandler sat on his desk and faced Piniero. “Okay Marty, give me the information you have for the chief.”
Piniero fidgeted with the buttons of his jacket before looking up at Chandler. “First I want to make a deal,” he insisted.
“What kind of deal?”
“You give me complete immunity from prosecution, and then I give you the information.”
Chandler broke a faint smile. “Maybe you could be a little more specific about the information. Maybe it isn’t useful enough to prosecute anybody.”
“I’m going to tell you who stole the gasoline.”
“You’re going to tell me who stole what gasoline?”
“I’ll tell you who installed the valves at the Golden National refinery, and who used them to steal gasoline.”
Chandler salivated, aware that Golden National had reported the theft of huge quantities of gasoline. It was a big case. He stood, walked around his desk, and sat in his chair. After activating a tape-recorder with his right foot, he began to bait Piniero. “Marty, please understand that I’m now taping this conversation. Now how can I be sure the information you propose to give me is the truth?”
“You don’t until you check it out,” Piniero replied.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a truck driver for Amerada Tank Lines in Fort Erie.”
“Have you ever hauled stolen gasoline?”
“Maybe,” Piniero replied.
“What do you mean? Either you did or you didn’t.”
“I’m not going to tell you any more until you guarantee my immunity.”
“Okay, I can guarantee you this. If you can give me information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for the illegal installation of the valves, and the theft of gasoline at the Golden National Refinery, you will not be charged. There’s only one exception to that guarantee.”
“What?”
“I have to assume you’re not a party to the crime. If you are, I can’t guarantee immunity. You understand?”
Piniero nodded. “Put it in writing and I’ll spill my guts.”
Chandler opened the top right drawer of his desk and removed a lined sheet of yellow writing paper. He removed a pen from his vest pocket and proceeded to scribble the proposition he had given verbally to Piniero. He signed it and dated it. “I think this is what you want,” he said as he handed the paper to Piniero.
Piniero nodded while he read. He folded the paper and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket, then folded his arms and stared directly into Chandler’s blue eyes. “I’ve been hauling stolen gasoline for the last eight months. Two or three times a week I was sent to the Golden National Refinery. When I got there, I was sent to the east loading rack and was always told to load my truck from those illegal valves. They said the real valves were closed for repairs.” He scoffed.
“How did you know the valves were illegal?”
“I saw it right away. The gasoline that moved through them didn’t go through the meters. The wheels in the meters weren’t even moving.”
“And who sent you to those valves when you arrived at the refinery?”
“Sam Martin. The refinery superintendent.”
“Okay. Please continue. You said you knew who installed those valves. Who is that?”
“Sam Martin and the owner of the company that sold the gasoline I was hauling.”
“What company is that? Do you know the name?”
“It’s called Reserve Oil.”
“How do you know that? I mean how do you know Sam Martin and Reserve Oil installed those valves?”
“I heard Sam Martin talking. He didn’t know I was listening.”
“Who is the owner of Reserve Oil?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever accept payment for any of the stolen gasoline?”
“Yup. Always cash and before I dropped the gasoline.”
“Where did you drop the gasoline?”
“Mostly at XG outlets.”
“You mean XG Petroleums?”
“Yup.”
“Something puzzles me about this, Marty.”
“What?” Piniero asked, gripping his knees tight with both hands. Did Chandler suspect him of lying?
“You said you’ve been hauling stolen gasoline for eight months. Why didn’t you come in earlier? Why did you wait until today to come in here?”
Piniero had anticipated the question, and his answer was well rehearsed. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, then pretended to weep. “I didn’t want to rat because I didn’t want to lose my job… but I couldn’t stand it any more,” he whimpered. “I felt dirty and guilty. Every day it kept eating away at me.”
Chandler sat back. “I don’t have any more questions. Is there anything further you wish to say?”
“Nope.”
“You did the right thing, Marty. Before you leave, I would like to get a copy of your driver’s license.” Chandler copied Piniero’s driver’s license, shook his hand, and pointed to the door. “Thank you, Marty. I believe we’re through. I suggest you tell no one about our conversation.”
When Piniero had driven out of sight of the building, he breathed a sigh of relief, and then burst into laughter. Thirty minutes later, he stopped at a pay telephone in Niagara Falls.
“I have a collect call for Arthur Durant from Stoolie,” the operator said. “Will you accept the charges?”
“Yup,” Servito replied.
“Go ahead, sir,” the operator said.
“It’s done. The fuzz bought it this morning.”
“Yes!” Servito shouted, his teeth flashing, both fists clenched with thumbs up. “See you in Caracas,” he said.
Mitchell Chandler placed a call to the Buffalo Police Department and advised them of Piniero’s confession. The Buffalo Police confirmed that, at the request of Golden National’s management, they had launched a full-scale investigation into the illegal valves and stolen gasoline. Chandler advised them that he had taped a confession from a witness and that he would have a copy of the tape sent to them by courier.
The news of Piniero’s confession reached John Hill within an hour. He immediately telephoned Alex McDowell. “Alex, I’ve got something you won’t believe. It’s white hot.”
McDowell chortled. “I bet you’re going to tell me about a truck driver by the name of Marty Piniero.”
Hill’s excitement evaporated. “How the hell did you know?”
“My ears are almost as big as yours. You think the confession is bona fide?”
“I don’t know. But whether it is or isn’t, it gives you the green light to move on King. Don’t you agree?”
“Definitely. I think it’s safe to assume he’s guilty. There’s still a possibility we can nail Servito, if King can give us the dirt.”
“Servito, still? Is there something I’m missing?”
“Piniero said the owner of Reserve Oil was responsible for installing the valves at Golden National. We both know who that is, don’
t we?”
“Maybe we’ll kill four birds with two stones… we’ll get the politicians off our backs by arresting King, and we smoke out Servito by arresting his wife.”
CHAPTER 46
It was a bitter cold morning, but the sun was shining, unobstructed by clouds. Snow crunched beneath the wheels of three dark blue Fords as they rolled slowly and in single file into the parking lot beside Mike’s office, blocking the exits. Four men dressed in dark suits and overcoats emerged and walked briskly toward Mike’s office. The largest of the four men opened the door and marched in, his companions following close behind.
Mike was startled but remained calm. “What’s this all about?” he asked, assuming he was entertaining more CSIS agents.
The largest visitor withdrew his badge and showed it to Mike. “Are you Michael King?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Michael King, my name is Richard Morrison. I’m a detective with The Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I have a warrant for your arrest. You are charged with unlawful possession of a stolen substance, unlawful sale of a stolen substance, and the unlawful sale and disposal of a toxic substance. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you by the courts. Do you understand what I have just told you, sir?”
Mike nodded.
“I didn’t hear you!” Morrison barked.
“Yes,” Mike said. Two of the officers frisked and handcuffed him while he stood, stunned and silent. They led him into one of the waiting cars and transported him to the Don Jail in downtown Toronto. There, he was fingerprinted, photographed, and locked in a holding cell.
“Hey!” Mike shouted to the officer who had locked the door and was walking away. “When do I get a chance to call my lawyer?”
“In about fifteen or twenty minutes,” the officer replied, refusing to turn or even pause.
The same officer returned to Mike’s cell slightly more than an hour later. “Mr. King, we’re now going to give you an opportunity to call your lawyer. Come with me, please.” He unlocked and opened the cell, and then led Mike to a room with no windows and walls painted chalk-white. The room contained nothing but a gray metal table and two chairs, and on the table was a black telephone. The officer closed and locked the door behind them. “You may make your call now, sir,” he said, his eyes locked on Mike.