Alpha operated at a higher level and on a larger stage. But Robert Kissel was with Merrill Lynch in Hong Kong. Frank already had clients in Hong Kong and wouldn’t mind adding Merrill Lynch to the list. Corporate security for the Hong Kong offices of a multinational like Merrill would be a tasty cherry to pick. He’d seen it happen before: do some personal work for a corporate executive and wind up with the whole corporation.
Rob did call back the next day. All traces of hesitancy were gone. Crisply and authoritatively, he said he wanted to initiate the surveillance immediately. The fee of $12,500 per week, plus expenses, did not faze him.
Forty-eight hours later, at 4:00 p.m. on Saturday, June 7, investigator Rocco Gatta, a former Nassau County policeman and, like Frank Shea, an ex-marine, was sitting in a Ford Taurus parked in the driveway of the unoccupied house adjacent to the Kissel home at 702 Stone House Road in Stratton Mountain, Vermont. A hard rain was falling and fog was starting to form. Nonetheless, when a blue Chevy van pulled into the Kissel driveway an hour later, Gatta could see clearly that it bore New Hampshire license plate 910-153.
He called Frank Shea with the number. Twenty minutes later, Frank called back to say that the van was registered to Michael Del Priore, thirty-nine, of Ferncroft Drive, Hinsdale, New Hampshire. The van was still there five hours later when Gatta returned to his sixty-nine-dollar-per-night room at the Stratton Mountain Village Inn, eight miles away.
Nancy
On the day of the installation, Nancy spent a lot of time in the living room, talking to Michael Del Priore while he worked. He wore a tight sleeveless T-shirt. He had big shoulders, big biceps, strong pecs. By the time he was finished, she’d learned that he had two teenaged sons from a first marriage and a five-year-old daughter from his second, which was ending in an exceptionally nasty divorce.
His wife had accused him of inappropriate physical contact with the daughter, and until recently he’d only been able to see her under supervision. But that was behind him, he said, and now he saw her, unsupervised, every other weekend.
In the living room, the children were wrestling over the new remote. They wanted to get rid of the high-definition National Geographic channel and find some cartoons to watch on the just-installed fifty-eight-inch Panasonic plasma TV. The rain had tapered to a drizzle and pockets of mist were forming on the hillside above the house.
“So you’re finished. Does that mean I’m not going to see you anymore?”
“I guess not until your husband buys something else.”
The children had found SpongeBob SquarePants on Nickelodeon. They were playing with the volume control on the remote, seeing how loud it would go. Connie appeared from the back of the house to quiet them down.
“Let me know how to reach you,” Nancy said. “I’m sure I’ll have some questions about this stuff.”
“Just call the store and leave a message. I’ll get back to you right away.”
“No. I want to know how to reach you directly. Give me your cell phone number. And your number at home. Why not give me your e-mail address, too?”
Del Priore offered Nancy his warmest smile. “You know, maybe—oh, I shouldn’t ask you that,” he said.
Nancy offered her dazzling smile in return. “Of course you should. What is it?”
“I just thought maybe—see, my daughter gets a little lonely just with me and she doesn’t know any kids in my neighborhood. I was thinking maybe sometime I could bring her over here to play with your kids.”
“Of course you can.” Nancy gave him her devilish smile. “As long as you stay, too.”
“Sure. I’d stay.”
“Then it’s a date. I’ll e-mail you and we’ll figure out the best day. Probably a weekend, because you’re working. You can come in late afternoon and stay for supper.”
And so at 5:00 p.m. Saturday, June 7, in a downpour, Michael Del
Rob did call back the next day. All traces of hesitancy were gone. Crisply and authoritatively, he said he wanted to initiate the surveillance immediately. The fee of $12,500 per week, plus expenses, did not faze him.
Forty-eight hours later, at 4:00 p.m. on Saturday, June 7, investigator Rocco Gatta, a former Nassau County policeman and, like Frank Shea, an ex-marine, was sitting in a Ford Taurus parked in the driveway of the unoccupied house adjacent to the Kissel home at 702 Stone House Road in Stratton Mountain, Vermont. A hard rain was falling and fog was starting to form. Nonetheless, when a blue Chevy van pulled into the Kissel driveway an hour later, Gatta could see clearly that it bore New Hampshire license plate 910-153.
He called Frank Shea with the number. Twenty minutes later, Frank called back to say that the van was registered to Michael Del Priore, thirty-nine, of Ferncroft Drive, Hinsdale, New Hampshire. The van was still there five hours later when Gatta returned to his sixty-nine-dollar-per-night room at the Stratton Mountain Village Inn, eight miles away.
Nancy
On the day of the installation, Nancy spent a lot of time in the living room, talking to Michael Del Priore while he worked. He wore a tight sleeveless T-shirt. He had big shoulders, big biceps, strong pecs. By the time he was finished, she’d learned that he had two teenaged sons from a first marriage and a five-year-old daughter from his second, which was ending in an exceptionally nasty divorce.
His wife had accused him of inappropriate physical contact with the daughter, and until recently he’d only been able to see her under supervision. But that was behind him, he said, and now he saw her, unsupervised, every other weekend.
In the living room, the children were wrestling over the new remote. They wanted to get rid of the high-definition National Geographic channel and find some cartoons to watch on the just-installed fifty-eight-inch Panasonic plasma TV. The rain had tapered to a drizzle and pockets of mist were forming on the hillside above the house.
“So you’re finished. Does that mean I’m not going to see you anymore?”
“I guess not until your husband buys something else.”
The children had found SpongeBob SquarePants on Nickelodeon. They were playing with the volume control on the remote, seeing how loud it would go. Connie appeared from the back of the house to quiet them down.
“Let me know how to reach you,” Nancy said. “I’m sure I’ll have some questions about this stuff.”
“Just call the store and leave a message. I’ll get back to you right away.”
“No. I want to know how to reach you directly. Give me your cell phone number. And your number at home. Why not give me your e-mail address, too?”
Del Priore offered Nancy his warmest smile. “You know, maybe—oh, I shouldn’t ask you that,” he said.
Nancy offered her dazzling smile in return. “Of course you should. What is it?”
“I just thought maybe—see, my daughter gets a little lonely just with me and she doesn’t know any kids in my neighborhood. I was thinking maybe sometime I could bring her over here to play with your kids.”
“Of course you can.” Nancy gave him her devilish smile. “As long as you stay, too.”
“Sure. I’d stay.”
“Then it’s a date. I’ll e-mail you and we’ll figure out the best day. Probably a weekend, because you’re working. You can come in late afternoon and stay for supper.”
And so at 5:00 p.m. Saturday, June 7, in a downpour, Michael Del
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