"When we tried to enhance it, all we came up with were sounds like clicking, chair-sc.r.a.ping, paper rattling, a humming sound. They could have been guys at a meeting anywhere, any time. At the end, we got you saying goodnight to your grandfather, I a.s.sume by the car. The pictures were excellent, Nick. We've had DEA experts ID almost everybody. But we are in the Dumpster with the rest of it." He stopped speaking and looked closely at Nick, who seemed to have blanked out. "Hey, you with me or what? You hear what I'm saying?"

Nick held his hand up. "Wait. Just wait a minute." He stared at Caruso, then asked, "Where've you got Joe Menucci? My grandfather's driver?"

Menucci, held as a material witness, was at Papa Ventura's home, trying to keep the old woman, Aunt Ursula, out of the way. Agents had come with an a.s.sortment of search warrants and were ripping through the house, room by room. Papa's sister was under the impression that they were dinner guests and she was upset. No one was in the kitchen cooking.

She didn't really recognize Nick, but he told her quietly that her brother Nicholas had sent him to tell her to get some rest. She seemed relieved, nodded, and disappeared.

Nick led Joe Menucci by the arm into the hallway. Through open doors, he could see men methodically going through all the papers, file cabinets, shaking books, dumping them on the floor. They were filling large corrugated cartons they had brought with them.

Joe the Brain stared hard at Nick, who leaned forward and rested a hand on the man's shoulder. "Joe, I gotta talk to you."

"How come you're here? Everybody else got picked up. I'm being held-material witness or some s.h.i.t like that."

Nick said, "Me, I'm just the grandson that worked in the real estate office, capisci? So far. I helped them go through the files at the office. They closed it down for now. I'm nothing to them. Yet."

"Is it true, Nick? Is ... is Papa dead? I heard it but ..."

"That's why I'm here, Joey. To pick out a suit and clothes for him. Help me, you know what he liked best."

The intelligent black eyes blinked rapidly. Joe the Brain smeared the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. Nick knew how much pain the man was holding. Papa Ventura had been his world.

One of the DEA agents called them into the office.

"How come there's nothing on this computer? Not a d.a.m.n thing."

"Papa Ventura never used it. He kept it here for when kids came to visit. They liked to play games with it."

"Yeah? Well, somebody knew what to do. It's been swept absolutely clean. I don't think kids did that."

Menucci shrugged. He told the agent why he and Nick had to go upstairs. The agent consulted his immediate boss. It was okay; there were agents in Ventura's bedroom.

They stopped at the top of the sweeping staircase and Nick drew close. "I've gotta ask you something, Joey. You never had a chance to go back to Ingram Street last night, right?"

Joe raised his chin; his eyes narrowed. "What for?"

"Look, Joe. I know all about the bug you put in for Papa. See, when they find that, they got everybody real tight. Including me." It was obvious that Joe was suspicious. The bugging had been strictly between Papa. and himself. Nick needed to convince him. "Look, I know Papa had you bug Chen's house ..."

"He never trusted them c.h.i.n.ks."

"I know that. And I know he wanted to have a tape of the meeting, to make sure, later, that all commitments were met by everyone. Christ, tell me where it is before these gloms get an idea and rip the place apart. Or Augie the Butcher's kid finds it and-"

"The kid wouldn't do nothing."

"But the feds would."

Joey leaned close, looked around, and whispered the details, and they entered Papa Ventura's bedroom.

Joe the Brain swept the wide bed free of various items the feds had tossed haphazardly. Stoically, he selected from Papa's wardrobe a handsome midnight blue suit, shirt, tie, socks, pocket handkerchief, shining black shoes. They pulled down one of Papa's smooth calfskin suitcases. The agent checked it out carefully, then let them pack up the clothes. Joe folded, caressed each item, his large hands smoothing wrinkles, fingertips lingering for a moment.

"You talk to a lawyer?" Nick asked him, as they went downstairs.

"Not to worry. Taken care of; they can hold me a while, then I'm gone." His eyes filled with tears and his voice was husky. "Nicky, tell them to get Georgie the barber to fix Papa's hair, okay?"

CHAPTER 50.

JOE THE BRAIN HAD installed two state-of-the-art bugging devices in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Ingram Street house: one directly under the flimsy table around which the meeting was held, and one in the ceiling. Both tapes were perfect. Recorded on hair-thin filaments, the sound was loud and clean. Carefully, experts deleted Nick O'Hara's name during Papa's introduction. From both tapes.

Each voice had its own definition. Once identified by the DEA men, voice was matched to photograph. Everyone breathed a little easier.

CHAPTER 51.

IT WAS NEARLY A year between the indictments and the various trials. During that time, five men from the Ventura and other families a.s.sociated with them were killed in what appeared to be unfortunate accidents. Three others were left in luxury cars, motors running, with bullet holes to the head in the cla.s.sic style. These events more than justified the no-bail policy for most of the top people and their close a.s.sociates. Including and especially Richie Ventura.

From the Chen Triad, people "disappeared" in alarming numbers. Presumably legitimate businessmen, conducting presumably legitimate businesses, from Queens, New York, to Hong Kong, via Chicago, Detroit, Miami, Las Vegas, San Francisco, L.A., and other cities around the world, simply went missing. Along with records, bank accounts, the voluminous data that outlined and detailed the relationship of one company to another. No one knew where they went. They were just gone.

Dennis Chen reportedly went to a sanitarium in Switzerland to recuperate from his difficult leg surgery. He was reportedly seen in France, Italy, the Bahamas, Hong Kong, and London. There was no hard evidence of his partic.i.p.ation in the China White deal, but he moved around. Just in case. His many legitimate businesses ran smoothly without him, just as he had always planned.

Joe Menucci was dropped as a material witness and retired to New Jersey.

The law of omert-the vow of silence-depends on two things: The honor of the man taking the vow. And his understanding of the word "honor." The idea of self-sacrifice for the benefit of abiding by some words spoken at a ceremony, where small pieces of paper are burned in the palm of one's hand, kisses and hugs exchanged, promises asked and given: All that by now has changed drastically. When one man tries to live by his solemn vow only to find out his best friend plans to betray him, a reevaluation usually follows. When faced with life in prison, no chance of parole, many factors have to be considered. There were many deals made during the windup of the China White case.

Because of Menucci's tape, Nick's photographs, and tremendous amounts of other evidence, Nick never had to testify. He turned down a promotion to first grade detective. He banked the salary he had earned but never collected for all the months he worked on the case, and retired with a good pension. His uncle Frank O'Hara also retired to spend his years playing golf down in Florida.

Kathy called Nick one night. The old dog, Woof, Peter's favorite, had died. Would Nick meet her at Peter's grave? Together they scattered the ashes so that boy and dog would be reunited. Though somber, of course, Kathy looked radiant as she introduced Nick to the man she was to marry.

Nick stayed on for a while, communing with Peter, remembering their open, trusting, hopeful, loving boy. He knew the kid would have been proud that his father had received a scholarship to Berkeley for graduate study. He wished to G.o.d it had been Peter who was going west to find a new life.

Despite the fact that billions of dollars' worth of China White was confiscated, and billions seized in money and merchandise, many more billions of heroin were held back by other dealers until things calmed down. Holding it back would only make the product that much more valuable. New resources for distribution, laundering, investment, and profit were on the horizon.

The Ventura-Chen connection was over, of course. Richie Ventura and many of his closest cohorts were convicted of a series of felony crimes and sent to Marion, Illinois, home of the toughest federal prison in the country. Numbers of other "family" members entered the Witness Protection Program and found themselves, after their usefulness was over, condemned to a life of lower-middle-cla.s.s anonymity, boredom, and loneliness. Not to mention the terror of possibly being discovered by some very angry and ruthless former colleagues.

Members of families up and down the coast, headed by aging, not-quite-with-the-times old men, were convicted of further crimes. Younger family members began restlessly looking around for new leadership. They would find it, after a period of time.

Some law enforcement personnel in various agencies were promoted; shifted; retired; wrote books; joined private firms.

The word "honor" rarely crossed anyone's lips.

EPILOGUE.

1997.

NICK O'HARA PACED ACROSS his hotel room, glancing at his notes, biting into a large peach. He had never tasted fruit this marvelous. It was brought in daily from outlying farms some twenty miles from Rome. He had asked room service for a light breakfast: coffee, a little fresh fruit. The waiter brought him a platter of grapes, peaches, apricots, cantaloupe slices, honeydew melon wedges, and he just kept eating.

The thesis for Nick's master's degree from Berkeley had been "America's Late Introduction to Worldwide Terrorism." As a graduate student, he had taught some basic courses in criminology and police science. He brought something to the cla.s.sroom that most instructors could never acquire: street experience. And that teaching experience was good preparation for his current employment with a government agency convened to combat the growth of international terrorism.

One of the things that unnerved him when he first delivered a paper in a foreign country was the time delay for translation. When he made a remark meant to be amusing, he felt sweat on his upper lip as a response to the stony silence that came back at him. After a delay, laughter exploded and he could relax.

Nick was winding up a three-week tour of partic.i.p.ation in a series of international seminars. Rome was is last stop, then home. To Berkeley. He took a quick shower, put on a fresh white shirt, lightweight beige garbardine suit, comfortable but handsome shoes, a good silk tie. He had come to enjoy fine clothing, and discovered at the same time that he had excellent taste. He carried himself differently now.

Nick brushed his dark hair quickly; ran fingers over his smooth face; splashed a little very-low-key aftershave on his cheeks. He glanced at his watch, picked up his thin leather case and checked that his notes were in place. Not that he needed them; he had become very good at speaking and thinking on his feet.

As he started for the door, his telephone rang that strange, loud, double European ring. Probably someone he'd see at the seminar. He opened the door, then stopped. He always found it hard to ignore a ringing phone.

Nick picked up the receiver and said, "h.e.l.lo?"

The voice in his ear, unheard for a few years, was whispery, playful, challenging, and as familiar as his own reflection in the mirror.

"Hi, Nick. Guess who's in Rome?"

A Biography of Dorothy Uhnak.

Dorothy Uhnak (19302006) was the bestselling, award-winning author of nine novels and one work of nonfiction.

Uhnak was born in New York City, where she attended the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Before she turned to writing, Uhnak spent fourteen years as a detective with the New York City Transit Police Department, where she was decorated for bravery twice. Her memoir, Policewoman (1964), chronicles her career in law enforcement, and was written while she was still on the force.

The Bait (1968), Uhnak's first novel, won the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel, and introduced NYPD detective Christie Opara, who appeared in Uhnak's next two novels, The Witness (1969) and The Ledger (1970). All three novels were adapted for television and eventually became the series "Get Christie Love!" starring Teresa Graves. Uhnak followed the Opara trilogy with Law and Order (1973)-a novel about three generations of Irish American police officers-which earned critical praise and was considered her breakout novel. Next came The Investigation (1977), another blockbuster. Both of these were also adapted for television.

Uhnak has been credited with paving the way for authors such as Sue Grafton, Sara Paretsky, Patricia Cornwell, and many others who write crime novels and police procedurals with strong heroines. Additionally, she was hailed by George N. Dove as "an experimental writer who ... tried new approaches with each undertaking." Her books have been translated into fifteen languages. Uhnak died on Long Island in 2006.

Dorothy Uhnak, around age one.

Uhnak, age four, holding a childhood pet.

A teenage Uhnak pictured with Mildred Goldstein, her only sister. Throughout her youth, Uhnak enjoyed doing odd jobs at the 46th Precinct station house on Ryer Avenue in the Bronx, near her family's home.

Sixteen-year-old Uhnak at the beach, around 1946.

Uhnak, age twenty-four, poses with her husband Anthony "Tony" Uhnak. (Photo courtesy of Harold Ellis.) A feature on Uhnak in the American Electric Power Company's CURRENT magazine, following the release of her second book, The Bait. "It's been a fantastic year," Uhnak said. The Bait went on to win a 1969 Edgar Award.

Uhnak with Police Chief Thomas O'Rourke, in a photo taken during the ceremony promoting her to detective in the New York City Transit Police Department. Uhnak would keep this t.i.tle for fourteen years.

Uhnak poses in front of Scottish wards at the 1964 World's Fair in Flushing Meadows, Queens-one of the largest world's fairs to ever be held in the United States.

Uhnak pictured with her husband, Anthony; mother, Josephine Goldstein; and daughter, Tracy.

Uhnak with her daughter, Tracy, and husband, Anthony.

Uhnak and her mother, Josephine, at her daughter's wedding in 1987.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

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