Frame-Up (27 page)

Now I really had his attention.

“Sayin' what?”

“Orders. Directly from you. He's to recant his confession. That means take it back. He denies that he was the bomber. He denies that Peter Santangelo ever asked him to do anything. He may do some time for lying to the authorities, but they can't prove that he did the bombing, because he didn't. That's it.”

I took paper and a pen and an envelope out of my suit coat pocket and set it in front of him.

He looked at the paper without moving.

“I don't need to confess nothin'?”

“No. Tell him to destroy the letter after he reads it if you want.”

He just sat there, and I let the pot cook.

Fifteen seconds later, he took the pen.

“What do you want me to write?”

I gave him the ideas, but I wanted it in his words so Simone would believe that it came from Tony.

I took the letter, read it, and folded it into the blank envelope. I sealed it and placed it in my inside pocket.

I took the locker key out of my pocket and dropped it on the plate in front of Tony. He grabbed it like the Hope Diamond, but instead of stuffing it away, he sat there looking at it.

When I stood up, I looked down at him. He looked somehow smaller than I had ever seen him. I wondered if my questions about what in the world he'd do with it finally sank in, leaving him as lost and frightened as he looked.

I touched him on the shoulder, and spoke the first words I ever spoke to him that were not threatening or ridiculing.

“Take care, Mr. Aiello. We both have things to do. Take care of yourself.”

When that elevator door slid closed behind me at the office, it was as if I had crossed the moat. The drawbridge had been hoisted. I was in my castle, and all the dragons and marauding beasts were outside the walls.

Then I saw Julie. She had a blanched and worried look.

“What's up, Julie?”

“You had a call an hour ago, Michael. A man with what sounded like a Russian accent.”

Bad news. I'd hoped that that door was closed for good.

“And he said what?”

“He wants you to meet him. He says it could be life or death. Michael, what are you involved in?”

I was computing the possibilities opened up by that call as fast as my mind could function.

“Michael, speak to me. What is he talking about?”

“Did he say anything else, Julie? Did he leave a name?”

“No. No name. He mentioned that professor at Harvard. Denis — something. The one you called before the trip.”

“What did he say about him?”

“Just that. Life or death. Michael?”

“It's all right, Julie. He gets a little dramatic. Did he say where and when?”

“Tonight at ten. Harvard Square. He says there's a coffee shop on JFK Street. It's on the left about a block and a half off Harvard Square toward the river.”

“Okay. I know the place. It's all right, Julie.”

“No, it isn't, Michael. That man sounded—”

“Mean, tough, scary?”

“No. Just terribly stressed and frightened.”

That did not scan. Sergei Malkov was frightening, not frightened. On the other hand, Julie had nothing more to tell me to make sense of it. I could only log the time and place of the meeting, and get back to being focused on things I could handle.

There was, however, one preliminary item. I vowed that I'd never again walk into a lion's den without serious attention to my backside. I didn't care if it cost Mr. Santangelo every ill-gotten dime he owned. I called Tom Burns.

I caught Mr. Devlin on his way out the door. He did a one-eighty back into the office and told me to sit down.

“Tell me about it, Michael.”

Before I started, I closed the door. It was not that I distrusted either his secretary or Julie. But the way things were going, the less they knew, the better off they might be.

“Go ahead, Michael. I want to hear it all.”

I brought him up to date on my deal with Aiello that got the Denisovitch painting into Aiello's hands, and got us the letter to Three-finger Simone with instructions to tell the truth about the framing of Peter. He read the letter and nodded.

“Well done, Michael. Now we know Peter had nothing to do with John McKedrick's death.”

“Did you ever think he did?”

He looked over at me with a sly look, knowing that it was a loaded question. He'd been trying to indoctrinate me into the first rule of the Devlin school of defense tactics since our first case together — don't ever assume that your client is innocent. They lie.

“He's my godson. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Don't make a precedent out of it.”

“I hear what you're saying, Mr. Devlin.”

That always jerked his chain. He never failed to pick up the lawyer's distinction between my hearing what he said and agreeing with it.

He held up the letter. “The next issue is how do we use this.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Devlin, we don't take it to the D.A.”

“Why not? I know it's hearsay, but we could get this in under two or three exceptions to the hearsay rule. We could at least show it to Billy Coyne. He'll do the right thing.”

I shook my head. “We can't.”

He raised his hands and eyebrows in a “Why the hell not?” gesture.

“I gave my word to Tony. We can show it to Simone, but no one else.”

He closed his eyes and rocked back in his chair.

“That does make it interesting. Angela Lamb has Simone hidden away somewhere deeper than Fort Knox.”

This was Mr. D.'s territory. I gave him time for forehead rubbing and cogitating. In thirty seconds, he bounced forward and grabbed the phone.

“We can't do this over the phone.”

He got Billy Coyne on the line and set up a dinner meeting at the Marliave at five o'clock. The drinking members of the trial bar would likely be in their favorite watering holes, and the nondrinkers would still be in their offices. The confluence of Lex Devlin and the deputy district attorney in a social setting on the brink of the beginning of a highly sensitive trial would be most likely to go unnoticed at that transition hour.

At five past five, the three of us were huddled over generous servings of an antipasta in the upstairs chamber. This time Mr. Devlin did not wait for the final serving to get down to business.

“Billy, I don't know exactly how to put this.”

“You mean there's something that Irish silver tongue can't get around? I don't believe it.”

“You will. I need to get a message to Mike Simone.”

Billy leaned back and looked at the angels painted on the ceiling.

“My dear Lex. You'd stand a better chance of communicating with Al Capone in the great beyond.”

“I mean it, Billy. I know what I'm asking.”

“Oh, I don't think you do. Our esteemed lady district attorney would sooner give her body to the Inquisition than risk any interference with that witness. What is this message that's going to save the world?”

Mr. Devlin looked down at the table. I could feel his frustration at the size of the hurdle he was facing, and there was not a thing I could do to help him.

“I can't disclose it, Billy.”

Billy just shook his head with a smile on his face that expressed wonder that Mr. Devlin would even ask.

“Billy, there isn't a favor in the world that I could do for you to balance what I'm asking. So I'm not asking you to do it for me.”

“Really.”

“I'm asking you to do it because it's the only way that justice is going to be done in this case. You're trying an innocent man, and you're going to convict him of murder because you've got the perjured testimony of Mike Simone.”

“Is this the Lex Devlin who never believes a client is innocent?”

“This is the Lex Devlin who knows, in this case, and no other, that an innocent man will be convicted on false testimony. And when it happens, your office will be duped into serving the interests of the Cosa Nostra.”

“And you won't tell me the basis for this one-time belief that your client is innocent. Why in the world—”

“Because you and I are different. Damn it, Billy. We're not like some of those you deal with. When was the last time you ever broke you word?”

Billy just looked.

“And you know damned well that my word is the same.”

Billy remained frozen.

“I'm not asking you to dismiss the indictment or take any action whatsoever. I just need to get a message to Simone.”

“I take it this message might change Simone's testimony.”

“It might.”

“And is this message coming from you, Lex?”

“No. It's from — a third party.”

Billy cast his eyes to the ceiling. Mr. Devlin looked at me for a reading on whether or not he could disclose that it was from Aiello. I could only shake my head.

Mr. Devlin leaned over the table.

“I can't disclose the message or the sender because Michael's word has been given. I'll give you this though, Billy, and then you've got to follow your conscience just as I'm following mine. I give you my word that the purpose of this message is not to induce perjury. It's not to deprive you of a legitimate witness. The sole purpose is to guarantee the truth in this case. I'll give you one more fact, Billy. It's the only way the truth will be served in this case.”

Mr. Devlin took the sealed envelope from Tony out of his suit coat pocket and set it on the table in front of Billy. He looked at it without moving.

Mr. Devlin stood up. I followed his lead.

“Please tell Tony Pastore that we'll continue his wonderful dinner on another occasion.”

We began to walk toward the door. Billy never took his eyes off the letter.

When we reached the door, Mr. Devlin spoke without turning around. “I can't make the decision for you, Billy. But I want your word that whether you deliver that letter to Simone or not, no other eyes than his — including your own — will ever see it.”

Neither of us looked back. I heard from behind us Billy's voice. “Damn it, Lex.”

“I know. But I need your word.”

There was a significant pause before Billy spoke quietly. “That much. Yes.”

I had two glorious hours all to myself before my meeting at Paul's Coffee House in Cambridge with the nervous Russian. It was an easy guess that it was Sergei Markov. It was not a reunion that held happy prospects. The one comforting thought I had been allowing myself was that that whole buy/sell episode over the Vermeer was closed. Apparently not.

Terry O'Brien answered on the second ring.

“Michael, how's the eye?”

“Terrific. I'm even seeing in color. Quick question. Are you brave enough to try another date? Before you say no, I'd certainly understand if you'd rather wash your hair or trim the cat or anything that doesn't involve getting shot at.”

“I don't have a cat, Michael.”

“I know. I'm just providing a ready-made excuse if you want one. I've actually got two reasons for wanting to see you.”

“One will do if it's the right one.”

“Couple of questions I want to ask you about John. It's better if we do it in person.”

“That's not the right one, Michael.”

I could hear a very welcome disappointment in her voice, so I pulled my foot out of my mouth and gave the real one.

“I just want to see you, Terry. I wasn't sure you'd go for that one.”

“That's the only one I go for, Michael. When?”

I'd have given my personally autographed Bobby Orr playing
jersey and more to have jumped in with the offer of a normal date, but you can't offer what you don't have, and I did not have the time.

“Terry, I'm thinking of a stroll through the Public Garden just before sundown. Maybe a ride on the swan boats. Possibly feed the ducks. Then a quiet dinner at the Ritz Carlton. We could walk up Commonwealth Ave to a small jazz club for drinks and dancing to the greatest jazz singer since Sarah Vaughn. Then we could drive back along the shore for a walk on the beach, and—”

“Michael, you're dreaming or hallucinating, aren't you?”

“How could you tell?'

“It's still winter. The swan boats are in drydock, and the ducks are in Miami Beach.”

“Right. Actually I only have a couple of hours, and I really want to see you. How about fried clams at the Sea Witch in Danvers?”

“Sounds good to me.”

I had the Corvette in gear before the phone line was fully disconnected.

The Sea Witch may, in fact, dispense the absolute caviar of fried clams, but even the owner would admit that the décor is, to be generous, seacoast rustic, and that is a euphemism. But with Terry sitting beside, rather than across from me, and giving every indication of being just where she wanted to be, we were in the Oak Room of the Park Plaza.

Time, however, being mercilessly short, I had to break the mood.

“Think of this as a one-minute break for a commercial, Terry. Can I ask you one business question?”

She had a slightly disappointed look, but she bore up.

“Why not, Michael? I'm actually counting my blessings. We haven't been shot at or even hustled out a back door to escape goons.”

I liked her attitude.

“During that last week before the bombing, did John seem — frightened, as if he were in danger?”

She thought for a minute before answering.

“No. I don't think so. He was more tense, sort of exhilarated. He said he was working on something that would dramatically change his life. Those were his words. I wouldn't say frightened.”

I frankly couldn't square that with the John I knew. Why wasn't he frightened? He was about to steal more millions of dollars than either of us ever dreamed of from Tony Aiello, who could and would slice and dice him for ravioli meat if he ever caught him. And Tony had the tentacles around the world to catch him. On top of that, he was pulling the art fraud of the century on two well-connected Dutch financiers. And finally, he was the tenuous bedmate in all of this with a crafty Russian scorpion, Markov. Any one of those three would have scared the everlasting crap out of me.