money. DeMarco could be a guest at the hotel and he might be trying to get tickets for a show or reservations at a restaurant, but since he had gone directly from the jail to the hotel, it was possible that his business with the concierge had to do with Whitmore. While DeMarco was talking to the concierge, the florist used one of the hotel’s house phones, called the front desk, and asked if a Mr. DeMarco was registered at the hotel. The lady said no.
When DeMarco left the Hyatt, the florist followed. When DeMarco caught a cab, the florist caught one, too.
DeMarco ended up at a house in Queens that he entered without knocking. As the florist didn’t know how long DeMarco would remain at the house, he paid the cabdriver an outrageous amount of money to sit there as long as necessary. While he waited, he called the man who was making his new identity. The man wasn’t a hacker but he and the people that worked for him—all of them relatives— could use the Internet in the normal way to get information. He gave the ID maker the address in Queens and DeMarco’s name and twenty minutes later the man called him back. The house belonged to a Gino and Maureen DeMarco. Gino was deceased. The DeMarcos had one son named Joseph.
So DeMarco was visiting his mother.
“One other thing,” the forger said. “This man Gino DeMarco worked for the Italian mafia. He’s dead because they killed him.”
Now that was interesting: DeMarco had a blood link to a criminal, but he couldn’t imagine a connection between Whitmore’s storyand organized crime. The more he learned about DeMarco, the more the man intrigued him.
As the florist sat there, he reflected again on what he was doing. Unlike his late brother, he wasn’t an intellectual or a philosophical man; he couldn’t articulate the correctness of the course of action he had chosen. All he knew was that his values—the values of his culture, the values of his family—demanded he act no matter the cost. It was the way it had always been and the way it always would be. They had selfishly and uncaringly destroyed someone he loved and he was the only one left to provide justice. And vengeance was justice.
He could have waited to see if the American legal system would punish the guilty but he had no faith in the courts, particularly not in a matter as complicated as this, one involving the press, the government, and wealthy people like Martin Taylor. He came to the United States twenty years ago because he figured the land of his country’s greatest enemy was the safest place for him to hide. At the time of his arrival, he’d been prepared to hate America but over time he began to love his adopted home: its freedoms, its opportunities, even its people. But what he never grew to appreciate was the American legal system. It operated too slowly and it bent over backward to favor the guilty. He had witnessed too often—although it was no different in other countries—the way rich, powerful people evaded punishment for their crimes.
So he would provide the punishment—and he would leave it to people smarter than him to debate the morality of his actions.
At four thirty, DeMarco left the house in Queens and took a cab back to the Hyatt. The florist watched as he spoke to the concierge again, and saw the concierge hand him a piece of paper. DeMarco then looked at his watch, rushed from the hotel, and caught the next passing cab. The florist had driven his own car to New York so he could bring his weapons with him but it was parked in a garage several blocks away. He looked frantically for another cab and saw half a dozen coming down Forty-second Street toward him but they allhad passengers. It was rush hour and every cab he could see was occupied, and he realized that DeMarco had been very lucky to get one. He watched helplessly as DeMarco’s taxi disappeared from view.
He stood on the street for a moment pondering his next move, then looked back into the Hyatt.
The
When DeMarco left the Hyatt, the florist followed. When DeMarco caught a cab, the florist caught one, too.
DeMarco ended up at a house in Queens that he entered without knocking. As the florist didn’t know how long DeMarco would remain at the house, he paid the cabdriver an outrageous amount of money to sit there as long as necessary. While he waited, he called the man who was making his new identity. The man wasn’t a hacker but he and the people that worked for him—all of them relatives— could use the Internet in the normal way to get information. He gave the ID maker the address in Queens and DeMarco’s name and twenty minutes later the man called him back. The house belonged to a Gino and Maureen DeMarco. Gino was deceased. The DeMarcos had one son named Joseph.
So DeMarco was visiting his mother.
“One other thing,” the forger said. “This man Gino DeMarco worked for the Italian mafia. He’s dead because they killed him.”
Now that was interesting: DeMarco had a blood link to a criminal, but he couldn’t imagine a connection between Whitmore’s storyand organized crime. The more he learned about DeMarco, the more the man intrigued him.
As the florist sat there, he reflected again on what he was doing. Unlike his late brother, he wasn’t an intellectual or a philosophical man; he couldn’t articulate the correctness of the course of action he had chosen. All he knew was that his values—the values of his culture, the values of his family—demanded he act no matter the cost. It was the way it had always been and the way it always would be. They had selfishly and uncaringly destroyed someone he loved and he was the only one left to provide justice. And vengeance was justice.
He could have waited to see if the American legal system would punish the guilty but he had no faith in the courts, particularly not in a matter as complicated as this, one involving the press, the government, and wealthy people like Martin Taylor. He came to the United States twenty years ago because he figured the land of his country’s greatest enemy was the safest place for him to hide. At the time of his arrival, he’d been prepared to hate America but over time he began to love his adopted home: its freedoms, its opportunities, even its people. But what he never grew to appreciate was the American legal system. It operated too slowly and it bent over backward to favor the guilty. He had witnessed too often—although it was no different in other countries—the way rich, powerful people evaded punishment for their crimes.
So he would provide the punishment—and he would leave it to people smarter than him to debate the morality of his actions.
At four thirty, DeMarco left the house in Queens and took a cab back to the Hyatt. The florist watched as he spoke to the concierge again, and saw the concierge hand him a piece of paper. DeMarco then looked at his watch, rushed from the hotel, and caught the next passing cab. The florist had driven his own car to New York so he could bring his weapons with him but it was parked in a garage several blocks away. He looked frantically for another cab and saw half a dozen coming down Forty-second Street toward him but they allhad passengers. It was rush hour and every cab he could see was occupied, and he realized that DeMarco had been very lucky to get one. He watched helplessly as DeMarco’s taxi disappeared from view.
He stood on the street for a moment pondering his next move, then looked back into the Hyatt.
The
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