Last One Standing

Chapter One - Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

FORMER JERSEY CITY police detective John DelMonico was sitting behind his desk, frantically searching through each of the small side drawers. Moving aside some dried out ketchup packets from lunches long past, he looked up to notice everybody in the office watching his every move. With the hope that he had applied the proper look of desperation to his face, he slammed the bottom draw shut in a huff and sighed.

Well, it was in here a few days ago, he said to the room in general. A slight shrug of his shoulders signified the end of an unsuccessful search.

Really, John? Is that your best professional estimate of the current situation?

John glanced across the room at his pretty partner, Terri O’Brien. She was standing nearby a large black file cabinet. The top had been cleared of the usual office items to make room for a chocolate cake, a small pile of paper plates and a box of plastic forks. On the other side, Eugene was busy tapping into his ever-present iPad. They were both waiting on John to produce a knife that he swore he had to cut the cake, to no avail.

Terri cocked her head and glared back at him menacingly, a crazed look in her bright green eyes. She was an addict when it came to all things chocolate, or as Terri called it, ‘Her secret sugary love.’ John had seen that expression on her face before and knew that she needed to eat some cake soon or she would probably go berserk and, using her considerable kung fu skills, kill them all.

She had bought the cake this morning from a local bakery in downtown San Jose and had been entrusted by the team to carry it into work. As she navigated the busy Silicon Valley rush hour traffic, it rested quietly nearby on the front seat of her car, but when she stopped for a red light, the pastry had called out seductively to her.

Eat me, Terri heard it say in a semi-sweet voice that ran shivers down her spine. You know you want to.

No! Go away! she answered back.

C’mon, the cake cried out. Just lift up the box lid and run your finger across my top. I won’t tell anybody. I swear. It’ll be our secret.

The loud honking of an impatient driver behind her quickly snapped her back to reality. She shifted the car into gear and summing up all of her willpower, somehow managed to continue the drive into work without molesting the cake.

But now, a few hours later, it was on display in all of its glory a mere foot away from her. The only thing that separated her from a first-class sugar rush was the lack of a knife.

Maybe we should put an APB out on the knife, she continued.

Funny girl, was all that John could think to answer.

Are we gonna eat some cake or what? Eugene said as he looked up from his iPad. I passed up lunch for this and my blood sugar’s running low. The computer technician was young enough to flash a look that suggested both boredom and displeasure at the same time.

We can always rip into it with our hands like a bunch of Neanderthals, Terri suggested sweetly as she eyed the cake. Once again, she heard the food call out telepathically to her, this time much more insistently.

Geez, you guys. Hang on a minute and I’ll go fetch a shiv from the kitchen, John said.

He stood up from behind his desk to go search the small area down the hall for a suitable knife. Just as he started to make his way out of the office, Mary Beth Harrington appeared at the doorway.

Looking for this, Agent DelMonico?

In one hand, she held up a large professional-looking triangular cake knife.

Yes, I was, he answered as he sat back down. Even though they had been working together at the Agency for a while, the Director’s personal secretary always addressed him with his formal title. He had urged her many times to simply call him John. Pointing to the cake, he asked, Would you like to do the honors?

John watched as Mary Beth wordlessly cut into the cake and served each a slice. As she handed Terri a larger than normal piece, he watched his red haired partner attack her plate like a famished lioness tearing in a tender young gazelle.

Mmmm. Death by chocolate, Terri cooed as she licked her ruby red lips, an orgasmic look on her face.

He noticed that Mary Beth did not cut a piece for herself. Guess that’s how she maintains her figure, he thought to himself.

Mary Beth Harrington had a damn good figure, as John often took the opportunity to notice. Today she was wearing a sleeveless dark blue cotton dress that hugged every bit of her lovely physique. Well-tailored, it was cut with clean lines and crisp folds that met in the center of her thin waist. Her blonde hair was, as usual, perfect.

John was shocked out of his midday fantasy when the Agency’s director appeared at the doorway. This surprised everybody in the room since Roger normally never appeared outside of his office, especially not to hobnob with the common folk. Although they had been friends for a number of years in Jersey City, John adjusted his tie. Terri stopped her attack on the helpless cake to acknowledge his presence after Eugene gave the back of her chair a nudge.

I see you’ve started the party already, he said in his usual, no nonsense tone.

Everybody smiled as he spoke. John, Terri and Eugene were celebrating the close of a very important case in which they had all put in a lot of hours. The results, however, had been worth it. A gang of Russian gangsters had used the latest spoofing techniques gained from the Internet to send out millions of spam email with the goal of hijacking computers worldwide. Working closely with half a dozen different agencies in as many countries, the trio had spearheaded a successful coordinated attack on the thieves.

I stopped by to congratulate all of you on a fine job, Roger said as he took the plate that Mary Beth offered him. I just heard from our contacts at Interpol. Several indictments are being handed down today as we speak. He paused long enough to take a large bite. Mmm. Good cake.

Terri nodded in agreement as she reached over for another piece of cake that was considerably larger than the first.

Where are you going on your vacation, Eugene? the Director asked.

Eugene closed the plastic cover on his iPad as he answered.

Nowhere, sir. I’m taking a ‘staycation’. My folks are hosting a family reunion next week in Cupertino and we’ve got people flying in from all over the world. I’ll be spending my time driving back and forth to the airport shuttling relatives around. Since a lot of them don’t speak English, my Mom told me that I’m also the official family translator for anybody that needs it.

Hmm, sounds like fun. He looked over at Terri, who was wiping white chocolate frosting from the side of her mouth. What about you, Agent O’Brien? Need some time off before I hand out your next assignment?

I’m good to go, sir. I’m saving up my vacation time for a friend’s wedding in a couple of months. She lowered her head as she added, I get to be in the wedding party and wear the world’s ugliest gown.

Keep shoveling that cake in your mouth and you’re going to need a crowbar to fit into that dress, John said with a wide grin.

Terri remained silent as she scratched at the side of her head with her middle finger.

The Director turned to John and wordlessly asked the same question.

John waved his hand as he said, I’m good too. I’ve been settled here in California now for a while and I talk to the kids back in Jersey on Skype every chance I get.

Roger smiled at his old friend with a weird grin that John knew from experience could be either good or bad.

Well, maybe we can go one better than that. I’ve got an interesting problem back east you might be interested in.

Mary Beth magically produced a series of folders from out of nowhere and handed one to each of the team members. As John took his, he wracked his brain trying to remember if she had been carrying them as she entered. The epitome of efficiency once again, he thought.

Our friends at the Securities and Exchange Commission have asked us to look into a situation at one of the larger Wall Street brokerage houses. Someone is orchestrating a pump and dump scheme from inside Donahue, Fenner & Spagatori, Inc. Roger looked over at John. That name sound familiar, Agent DelMonico?

Even though he tried his best to remain professional, a wide smile crossed John’s face.

Oh man! You bet! He continued as he noticed the confusion on Terri’s face. Joe Spagatori was a childhood friend of mine. We grew up together in Jersey City. After high school, I went into the Marines and he went on to college. After that, I kinda lost track of him, but the last I heard, he was a big financial genius. Made a crap load of money in the fast dealing Nineties. And if I remember correctly, he rose up the ranks quickly after that and became one of the youngest partners in the firm.

You’ve got a good memory, John. I’m hoping you can reconnect your friendship. The Director turned over a page in his folder. We can use all the help that we can get on this one.

What started the investigation? Terri asked as she leafed through her folder.

A while ago, the SEC started getting complaints about a possible securities price manipulation with a company called Solar Winds, Inc. They supply solar panels and parts to the space industry. It seems that a large block of stock was cheaply acquired by a client of Donahue, Fenner & Spagatori shortly after it went public.

Nothing too strange about that, John said.

True. The larger financial clients employ plenty of analysts and computer power to help sniff out bargains in the market, but shortly after the initial purchase, it was noticed that the normal everyday chatter about the stock on the major Internet talk sites increased exponentially.

Is that unusual for a new listing?

Again, no, but experts tend to monitor these public web sites for abnormal changes in the volume of the grapevine gossip since this is one of the first warning signs that a pump and dump is about to take place. The real problem occurred when a massive unauthorized e-mail campaign was sent out to all of the brokerage house’s clients recommending it as a hot pick a week later. Although the perps did their best to hide their tracks, the e-mail servers used were traced back to the Wall Street office. A fast check showed that the computer logs of the incident were all erased. He paused to take another bite of cake.

Well, as you can guess, with a favorable nod from a prestigious firm like Donahue, Fenner & Spagatori, the share price for Solar Winds quickly increased from fifty cents to over four dollars in a matter of days from all the hype. A huge sell off occurred and as usual with pump and dump schemes, the stock is worthless today.

Who’s the client that initially bought the stock? John asked.

It’s a holding company called East Coast Capital Investments, a consortium of small New York area businessmen. They made millions when they liquidated their position in Solar Winds after the price run-up.

Hmmm. So they were in the right place at the right time?

Seems like it.

What’s Spagatori’s take in all this? Terri asked.

They haven’t admitted any wrongdoing and to their credit they’re cooperating fully in the investigation. But it’s obvious that someone from the inside misrepresented the value of the stock for fun and profit.

Roger set down his paper plate after refusing another piece from Mary Beth.

I want you two to go out there and spearhead the investigation. Our problem is to find the person or persons responsible, but it’s not going to be easy. The brokerage house has thousands of people in the Manhattan office alone.

With that, he turned around in the doorway to leave. Mary Beth was quickly behind him, wiping the cake knife clean with a napkin.

The room went quiet except for the sound of Terri scraping the last bit of frosting from her paper plate. John contented himself with looking over the information in his dossier.

Well, Terri said, breaking the silence. What are the odds that a case would include an old friend?

Yeah, John said absentmindedly as he threw his plate into a round wire trashcan by the side of his desk. What are the odds?

Chapter One (A) - The Old Neighborhood

Jersey City, New Jersey - Late August 1968

JOHN WAS LEANING against a brick wall, taking advantage of the small amount of shade it provided to cool off. Having just finished playing an even dozen games of handball against the school wall in the hot summer sun, he was sweating profusely. He wiped at his forehead with a cold, damp bottle of chocolate Yoo-Hoo, then polished off the remaining thick brown liquid in one large gulp. With a quick flick of his skinny thumb, he shot the bottle cap at his buddy, then placed the glass bottle down hard on the concrete sidewalk.

Joey Spagatori, his best friend and current handball opponent, was sitting on the street curb, nursing a large Pepsi. He was dressed in a similar way, but wore his hair a lot longer than John. The ends of his dark curly locks that reached down past his shoulder blades were damp with sweat. After taking a large swig of soda, he leaned back on his elbows, tilted his head up to the sky and let out a tremendous belch. The sound echoed off the brick school wall and traveled slowly down the city street in a low, gurgling wave. Somewhere in the distance, a dog started barking in response.

Good one, Spags, John commented.

Joey remained silent, staring up into the clear blue sky. There was no need to acknowledge the complement that Johnny had just paid him. Everyone knew that he was the champion burper among all the kids in the small Italian neighborhood. Maybe even perhaps in all of Jersey City.

His full name was Joseph Anthony Spagatori, but everybody just called him Spags. Even the nuns at school used his nickname. This helped differentiate him from the dozen or so other guys named Joey that lived within a five-block radius.

There was a lot of Joeys in this neighborhood. There was Joey Bompanino, also known as Joey ‘The Face’ because he had bad scars resulting from a childhood case of the mumps, Joey ‘Squeaky’ Scintarella who talked in a high pitched falsetto voice and sounded like he had just swallowed a mouse and even a guy called Joe the Barber, who strangely enough had been a butcher for most of his life.

Almost all of the boys in the predominately Italian neighborhood had a nickname. Girls did not rate high enough in the social pecking order to get a cool sounding moniker, but a select few received titles based upon some sort of action, real or perceived,