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CHAPTER 1
New York City, NY
Lester Fetor closed his eyes and took a long, slow drag on his cigarette then blew the smoke outside the window. He watched it slowly dissipate in the cold night air. It was a bad habit that he believed helped him to calm down. After looking around carefully for several minutes, he eased the van out of the hotel parking lot onto Grand Central Parkway in Queens and quickly blended into traffic.
Rock music blared out of the speakers while his hands vibrated, but not to the melody of the song. Uncontrollable nervous tension made his hands shake as his eyes flicked back and forth searching the highway for any sight of Tony Robelotto's thugs. He should be confident that they wouldn't suspect he was in the area, but past experience made him apprehensive.
After paying the toll at the Triborough Bridge he drove his rust-ravaged ten-year-old Dodge van across the Long Island Sound then turned north onto I-278 leading through the Bronx. In the distance he could see the brightly lit Manhattan Psychiatric Center from the expressway. Looking out the side window at the psychiatric center, he yelled, "That's probably where I really belong, in some freaking nuthouse."
Perspiration chilled his body despite the warm temperature inside the van. Reaching into his shirt pocket he took out another cigarette and lit it. Looking down, he glanced nervously at the package on the seat next to him. Inside the tightly wrapped box was a car bomb he obtained from a militia group operating secretly near Pittsburgh.
Smoking a cigarette with the bomb next to him was crazy, he thought. He flicked the ashes out the window, feeling a bit more relaxed as he thought about his plans. Lester knew two men who were former military explosives experts and arranged for them to do work for the Mafia. Over the years they made a lot of money doing jobs for the Mob and once told him that if he ever needed their services they would help him.
The package contained enough explosives to level a one family house and could be detonated with a remote device from up to a quarter mile away. Wrapped in plastic the explosives could be held in place with duct tape, making it easier to attach quickly under a vehicle. New car alarms made it difficult to wire explosives to starters inside engine compartments. The remote would work just as well, he thought. Plus, he would enjoy watching, the Mafia's highly-paid CPA, John Chapadeau, get exterminated.
It was 2:12 a.m., a frigid winter night. The area was bright from the abundance of streetlights, making it easy to see. The highway went north, the opposite direction from New York City, and eventually he took I-95 to Greenwich, Connecticut. Chapadeau lived in an extremely wealthy community in the suburbs of Greenwich. Lester estimated that the house must have been worth more than a million. Something Chapadeau could never afford as a CPA. Mafia clients must pay him extremely well, he thought.
Just south of Greenwich, he turned off I-95 and fifteen minutes later parked on the street a short distance from Chapadeau's home. The house was dark, but he could see John's new white Lincoln Continental parked in the driveway. It was 3:50 a.m. Lester eased his car out onto the street and drove around the immediate area to be assured that none of the neighbors' lights were on.
At the intersection, unsure of where he was going, he decided to turn right and circle the block. Every house in the neighborhood was dark. Moments later he returned to where he could see John's house. He parked near the corner and got out of the van, cautiously carrying the bomb inside a small plastic bag. Thoughts of the bomb exploding while he was walking really disturbed him. His two friends warned him to be extremely gentle with the box. While he walked, his legs quivered from trembling nerves and not the cold air he thought.
Suddenly, a car turned from the corner in his direction. Standing still unsure of what to do, he gawked motionless at the lights. His breath rose slowly in the icy night air and his heart pounded faster as the car moved toward him. He told himself, don't panic and just keep walking with his head down. Carefully, he tucked the bag under his coat to avoid the driver from seeing it; petrified it might slip out and fall to the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that it was a limousine coming in his direction. His eyes began to tear from the bitter cold air, making it more difficult to see clearly. As the limo passed him he turned his head away to prevent the driver from seeing his face.
The neighborhood was a popular location for many wealthy people who worked in Manhattan, but who didn't want to live in the city. The early morning limousine was probably picking somebody up for work in the city or taking them to the airport, he thought.
The vehicle passed and turned in the opposite direction from where he had parked. He walked slowly until the lights from the limousine vanished, and then he turned around and hurried back to the driveway. Within seconds he had reached John's Continental. The space between the car's underside and the driveway surface was barely large enough for him to slide his massive stomach under the frame.
Finally, he managed to slowly squeeze under the chassis and began searching with his hand for a location to secure the bomb. It was difficult to feel with his gloves on. Forced to take them off, he was painfully aware that he had to be quick.
The package with the bomb fit perfectly on top of the metal plate used to protect the engine from road debris. He glided it around making sure the bomb wouldn't drop out if John moved the car before he could detonate the explosives. Satisfied that it was secure, he removed a small roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket and attempted to fasten the package to the ice-cold metal plate. Dust on the metal prevented the tape from sticking. Cursing to himself, he removed the bomb as his finger tips began to throb from the cold.
After he cleared the dirt off the metal with his bare hand, he put the package back on the plate. This time the duct tape's adhesive coating held it to the cold metal. The temperature was nearly zero and his fingers had grown numb. He tried to move the package with the back of his hand to be certain it was fastened. Confident that it was tightly secured, he slid out from under the Continental and walked briskly to his van. As soon as he started the motor he put the heater on high and held his hands near the blower for several minutes. Once he got some feeling in his fingers he drove away.
It was 4:18 a.m. He decided to find a diner near the Interstate and get some breakfast. John would leave between six and six-thirty, giving him time to relax. Lester bought a morning paper and went inside the diner. Glancing at the mirror behind the counter, he noticed the front of his jacket was covered with dust. He went to the rest room to clean the dust off then returned to a stool at the counter to get something to eat.
The excitement of killing John made it arduous for him to concentrate on the news. The next day's paper would have the story - but not the complete story. It wouldn't matter because he wouldn't be around to read it, he thought.
After breakfast he drove back to the upscale neighborhood and parked his car around the corner from Chapadeau's driveway, waiting for John to get into the car. The enormous house had five bedrooms, a formal dining room, and an extra room used to entertain guests. The outside was made of imported stone and was surrounded by lush shrubbery.
The sky over the house began to emit a faint glow announcing the first signs of daylight. Suddenly, a light emerged in an upstairs bedroom. Lester looked at the clock on the dash. It was 5:52 a.m. Only a few more minutes until John would walk out the front door and get into the car.
Ecstasy filled his body and he cautioned himself to be patient and wait until John sat inside before pushing the button, ending the bastard's life and giving him incredible satisfaction. The excitement increased his heartbeat and he forgot about the cold as he thought about the impending explosion.
The bedroom light went off and moments later the front door opened. Lester assumed that John didn't eat at home and planned to drive to the City early to avoid the morning rush. He probably goes for breakfast with some of his cronies after arriving at his office in Manhattan, he thought. Unfortunately, John wasn't going to eat this morning.
Lester's heart pounded, and he began to fret as he watched John open his car door and slide onto the driver's seat. For a moment, John left the door open and appeared to reach over to the side near the glove compartment. Lester wondered if perhaps John might have some sort of device that could detect a bomb in his car, but then he thought that was impossible. Moments later, John moved back squarely behind the wheel, looked in his rear-view mirror and closed the door.
This is it he thought. He instantly pressed down slowly and firmly on the remote's button. An unbelievable blast ripped through the neighborhood. Even with his van windows up, the intense sound hurt his ears. The explosion shattered the glass in the front rooms of John's house and ripped away the siding from the frame, exposing the inside.
A second explosion blew a fireball up into the sky as the gas tank exploded. Debris seemed to be everywhere as pieces of the automobile fell back to the ground. Small fragments bouncing up and down on his van's roof made him worry that he might have parked too close.
The metal rubble that remained didn't even resemble a car. There appeared to be no trace of John; perhaps his body had vaporized, he thought. Lester laughed out loud and suddenly felt extremely relaxed.
Still laughing and feeling satisfied, Lester quickly drove away, positive that none of the neighbors had seen him. He was excited that he had completed vengeance against Chapadeau for squealing to the Mob about his embezzlement scheme. Tony Robelotto might catch up to him, but the financial damage he just did to the Mafia would haunt them for years.
He smiled and thought about the incredible amount of trouble Tony would go through trying to find his money without his high-powered CPA. Some funds he would never find and eventually they might go to the state of New York. John always kept his information secret; that was his protection from the Mafia. An anonymous phone tip to the FBI would further complicate Robelotto's attempt to locate his investments.
A short time later on I-95, thoughts of Nino Casatelli came into his mind. Maybe he should get another bomb and go to Casatelli's house in Lake Placid. Casatelli had been a constant thorn in his side ever since he told Chapadeau and Robelotto about his money laundering scheme he had hidden from the Mafia. The anticipation of blowing up Casatelli in his house excited him and he began thinking about how it could be accomplished. First, he would cut the phone wires, and then he would find the right location to place the explosives.
As he thought more about the plan, he realized that it wasn't realistic. Casatelli lived in the back-woods outside Lake Placid. It would take too long to get another bomb in Pittsburgh and take it so far north to his house. There was a better way to settle the score with Casatelli.
Time was crucial. Lester had planned to return to the hotel in Queens, but was now worried about how much the Mafia knew about his activities? After reconsidering, he decided not to go back since there were only a few items of clothing and a suitcase. They could be replaced. The City was a risk. It wouldn't take long before Robelotto would have his people watching all the airports in the New York and New Jersey area.
Another suitcase and some clothes were all he needed, and he had them in his flop house where he had lived for the past month. Lester changed interstates and drove west in the direction of Scranton, PA, where his other belongings, including a rifle, were hidden under the bed. He smiled in anticipation of his new plans.
It was nearly 7:30 p.m. when Lester finally arrived in Scranton. It had been nearly twenty hours since he left the hotel and drove up to Connecticut to kill John Chapadeau. Exhausted from climbing the stairs he just wanted to collapse on his bed. The walk up to his fourth-floor room seemed to take an eternity.
The door was unlocked, and he assumed he forgot to lock it when he left several days ago. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. Startling him, were three of Tony Robelotto's goons. Too tired to run, he just sat down on the bed and wondered if they had discovered the hit on Chapadeau. There wasn't enough time for that, he haughtily thought.
"Where've you been Lester?" asked the man next to the door. Lester recognized him from their days as union truckers. A thug who once ran the Teamsters Union in upstate New York, Louie always wore a faded blue shirt with jeans. Bowlegged, he walked more like a cowboy than a trucker. "The boss wants us to take you for a ride and find out where you put his money. It's better that you come clean cause if his CPA finds it first, you're dead."
Lester suddenly felt an enormous sign of relief, because it was clear they didn't know he had blown Chapadeau to bits hours earlier. His feelings changed quickly as one of the thugs grabbed him by his hair and pulled him up.
"Ok Lester, it's time to leave," the thug released his hair and shoved him towards the open door. "You need to explain a few things to us. For one thing, Mr. Robelotto is very interested in learning about where his money is being stored. Chapadeau seems to think you stiffed the boss and that's not good."
They stayed close to Lester making sure he didn't attempt to get away before they put him in the back seat of their car. Too tired to think straight about their intentions, gruesome thoughts filled his mind as they left the area.
CHAPTER 2
Scranton, PA.
Snow blanketed Ron Harrison's car windows. A glance at his watch confirmed that it was nearly midnight, two hours since Lester Fetor had been picked up at the flophouse where he was staying and taken to Polsinilli's Restaurant. Leaning back against the seat Ron continued waiting, resisting the temptation to clean off the windshield. A faint vision of a flashing "OPEN" sign was all he could see.
An FBI agent for five years, Ron was a 1988 Olympic bobsled athlete and knew Lester Fetor from his activity with the Bobsled Association. He tried to imagine why three known Mafiosi, who worked for Tony Robelotto, had driven Lester to Polsinilli's, a popular meeting place for the syndicate in the Scranton, PA area. He had received a call in the morning to keep Fetor under surveillance. The FBI wanted to learn more about his current activities. Within a day or two Ron suspected his supervisor would give him the order to arrest Fetor.
He had spent hundreds of hours studying the FBI's records of mobsters living in the northeast region of the United States. Most had relocated to the affluent vacation spot along the shores of Lake Hurley since the early sixties. The shadow of the Appalachian Mountains provided them with privacy and the convenience of less than a two-hour commute to New York City. Late at night it was common to observe known mobsters from Las Vegas and Hollywood slipping in and out of local nightclubs.
It worried Ron that the Mafia might execute Lester to prevent the FBI from putting together all the pieces of the Olympic Bobsled Association's corruption puzzle. Time was running out. The Bureau had many unanswered questions about what Lester and other officials may have done with the Association's records and Olympic funding.
They knew some funds were in local banks, but their efforts to trace the majority of the money had been unsuccessful. The Internal Revenue Service assisted in locating people who made significant donations to the Association's Olympic fund. Several hundred thousand dollars had been discovered, but that only represented about ten percent of the total budget.
John Chapadeau, the Association's treasurer, managed to keep their financial transactions and records so secret that neither the FBI nor the IRS could determine how the money was used. The FBI also suspected Lester hid other funds for Mafia clients in Swiss accounts.
A car horn caught his attention and he could see a taxicab pulling up to the restaurant. Mounting snow on the windshield blocked Ron's vision so he opened his frosted window a crack just in time to see Lester clamber into the waiting cab. It sped away in the direction of Scranton. He presumed that Lester was returning to the flophouse where he had moved after the Mafia's anger over the horrendous amount of publicity surrounding his alleged misuse of Olympic funds.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Inside The Cold War"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Norman L. Miller.
Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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