Frame-Up (34 page)

“That much I know.”

“All right, Mike, here's what you may not know. When it came time to transfer the borrowed funds from the Dutch to Aiello's account, I just had to give them the number of my own account instead of Aiello's. They didn't suspect anything. Seventy million dollars was transferred electronically into my account in a foreign bank. Aiello never got a dime of it. That was my ticket out. Then I had to disappear in a way that would prevent Aiello from coming after me. He has contacts all over the world.”

“And the way to do that was to fake your own death.”

“I needed a witness that was believable. That's why I had you meet me in the parking garage. I know now I should have told you what was happening.”

“Why didn't you, John? You and I were like brothers. You couldn't trust me?”

John shook his head.

“It wasn't that. Believe me, Mike. I knew there'd be hell to pay when I disappeared and Aiello was stuck with a debt for borrowed money he never got — and couldn't repay. I really thought you'd be
safer if you weren't in on the deception.”

I had to think that one over, with precious little time to do it. My first conclusion was that I disagreed with John on his decision not to take me aboard, but I also couldn't doubt his sincerity in thinking I'd be safer on the outside.

“How did you pull it off, John? All I remember is walking toward your car.”

“I had one of the Mafia hoods who was supposed to be good at that sort of thing rig the car. He put a protective plate in front of the driver's seat. He told me to open the door and jump just as I turned the key. That part worked out. What didn't work out was that the force of the blast went through the front grill and hit you. I never dreamed anything like that would happen. I never even knew you were injured. As soon as I was out of the car, I was picked up in another car and out of there. I didn't hear about your injury until the following week.”

My mind was racing to put together John's version with what little I remembered of that day.

“So who was in on it, John?”

“I worked all that week to put it together. The only ones I told were the man who rigged the bomb, the pick-up driver, the boys in the ambulance. I had them standing by at the entrance to the garage so they'd be the first on the scene. Who else? Matt Magarrity at the funeral home. Oh, and that garage attendant who was watching when you came into the garage. He signaled the ambulance and hustled me into it right after the explosion. That was it, with the exception of my parents. I had to tell them.”

“And whose body did you use.”

“No one's. There was no body. You remember the whole thing was run with a closed casket, supposedly because of the injuries.”

“How did you get these people to go along?”

“Money. Remember, I had Aiello's money at that point. They were acquaintances to start with, but they were also well paid.”

Since John had raised the subject, I satisfied another curiosity.

“What about the money, John?”

“Ah, now there's a subject. If I gave it back, whom would I give it to? Tony Aiello? What would he use it for? To flood the city with more drugs. Should I give it back to the Dutch financiers? They'd loan it out to someone else to build a criminal empire. They keep their own hands clean, but they finance some of the worst scourges on earth. No, Michael, I don't think so. You know, as I look back on my life defending Benny Ignola's clients, the loansharks, the drug pushers, the pimps, I can say to myself in all honesty that because of my existence the world is worse off. Now I've got the time and the means to change that. I'm going to find the places in the world where it'll do the most good without it being detoured into the pockets of corrupt politicians. That's going to be my life.”

Time was really getting short now. The police had to be called before a suspicious amount of time lapsed after the shooting of Markov. But I still had two questions that needed answers no matter what.

“John, I have to know this. You know that Mr. Devlin and I got mixed up in this when Peter Santangelo was indicted for your murder.”

“I know, Mike. That came out of left field. That was Aiello. He saw the chance to make Santangelo look bad before the Commission. The last thing those boys want is the notoriety of killing a lawyer in a pubic place. If he could hang it on Peter, it would look as if Mr. Santangelo couldn't even control his own son. That was the reason for the frame-up. He got Three-Finger Simone to confess to the bombing and cut a deal with the D.A. by fingering Peter. You know our crusading district attorney. She'd cut a deal with Jack the Ripper if it would get her a headline prosecution.”

“So it seems, John. Now to my last question. In all of this mess, thank God, I've had a guardian angel. One with a gun. First when Vito Respa came after me up in Rockport. Then again when Aiello's men had me trapped on Charles Street. Then again tonight. Unbelievable as it seemed, I've been getting this creeping suspicion that you've been my angel all three times.”

I looked into his eyes that for the first time seemed to have lost the tinge of guilt. I thought I saw the beginnings of a smile.

He looked down at the table and spoke in a low voice.

“Mike, I've been ashamed of most of what I've done since I joined Benny years ago. I needed to make this break, and I swear to you I couldn't see any other way out. That doesn't mean I was proud of it. But I'll say this. The money I took has given me the ability to assemble a network of people to work for me who've been my eyes and ears — and my hands when it was necessary. I gave the orders, but they're the ones you can thank. It may have been unorthodox, but thank God you're alive here tonight. When did you know?”

“When I realized that there was no one else in the world who cared about me enough to commit murder to save my life.”

He started to say something, but it wouldn't come out. He used his hand to wipe something out of his eyes and reached over to squeeze my arm. I put my hand on top of his.

“I didn't think I'd ever get to thank you, John.”

He just shook as head, and I knew what he meant.

I leaned closer to his ear. “Just one more question, John.”

He looked up at me.

“I know what you're going to ask, Mike. I've been wanting to say this for weeks. Terry O'Brien and I were friends. That's all. When I realized that my two best friends were falling in love, I couldn't have been happier. I knew that at least something really good came out of all this. I may not be physically at your wedding, Mike, but there'll be no one more deeply there in spirit. Does that answer your question?”

What a scene. Now the two of us had liquid running down our cheeks, and neither one of us was ashamed of it. A couple of tough guys, right?

While Mr. McKedrick called the police to report that “someone” had shot a man in front of their house, I used my cell phone to wake Mr. Devlin with the most shocking news he had heard since this odyssey had begun. John was alive.

“How shall we handle it, Mr. Devlin? Do you want to notify Angela Lamb? And, of course, Mr. Santangelo.”

He thought for a moment before coming back.

“No, Michael. Neither one. I want you to be at Judge Gafni's courtroom at nine tomorrow morning. We've got to tie this up with no loose ends. Here's what I want you to do.”

At exactly nine the next morning, Judge Gafni's bailiff, Keiran O'Toole, called “All rise.” The judge took his place on the bench. Mr. Devlin and myself were at defense counsel's table and a very hyped up and totally in the dark Angela Lamb took her accustomed position at prosecution's table.

The judge looked in our direction first.

“Mr. Devlin, you're the one who called for this session. I've displaced several other matters on my docket. I trust this is worth it.”

Mr. Devlin rose to his feet.

“Oh, I think you'll call this a most extraordinary day, Judge. I have a motion and a witness.”

“I'm all ears, Mr. Devlin.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. My motion is for an immediate dismissal of the charge against Peter Santangelo.”

That dropped Angela's jaw at least half an inch. Her head spun
toward Mr. Devlin fast enough to give her whiplash. Whatever her flaws, lack of a quick mind was not one of them.

Judge Gafni took it with more equanimity.

“You say you have a witness, Mr. Devlin. Please enlighten us.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. I'd like to call to the stand the corpus delecti of this first degree murder charge — Mr. John McKedrick.”

Angela's head spun around in the opposite direction toward the door of the courtroom, and even the judge's eyebrows lifted. John walked into the courtroom as if he had never been dead a day in his life. The skin of Angela's face drained of every drop of blood and her eyes followed John's walk to the witness stand as if Elvis had just walked into the courtroom.

The judge looked back at defense counsel.

“I assume you have an explanation for this, Mr. Devlin.”

“I do, Your Honor. I have just one question of this witness. Could we have him sworn in?”

The judge's clerk did the swearing, and Mr. Devlin took the floor.

“Are you the John McKedrick who is supposedly the person who died in a bombing incident allegedly ordered by my client, Peter Santangelo?”

John was the soul of composure.

“I am, Mr. Devlin.”

Angela's perplexity radiated from every pore of her blanched face. She seemed fixed in one position.

I saw that glint in Mr. Devlin's eyes that told me he could in no way resist hammering the last unnecessary nail in Ms. Lamb's case.

“And would you tell the court, Mr. McKenna, are you in any sense of the word dead?”

The judge was on his feet and striding toward his chambers without allowing time for an answer.

“I'll see counsel in my chambers. This witness is not excused.”

Ms. Lamb, Mr. Devlin, and I gathered in chairs around the judge's desk.

“Mr. Devlin, you did not overstate the matter. This is an
extraordinary day. I'm looking for an explanation from you, Miss Lamb.”

“Flustered” is the only word that comes close to poor Angela's state at that moment, and the word doesn't even come close.

“This comes as a complete shock to me as well, Your Honor. I had absolutely no idea.”

That statement needed no backing up beyond one look at our shaking Queen of Prosecution.

“Then, Mr. Devlin, let's hear it from you. I want this done in chambers before the press goes shooting off half-cocked.”

Mr. Devlin gave a brief account of how the assumed corpse of John McKedrick had returned to the world of the living. He wrapped it up neatly.

“The most immediate piece of business is your ruling on my motion to dismiss the charge of murder against my client, Peter Santangelo.”

The judge looked at Angela simply as a matter of courtesy. “If I may ask an absurd question, Miss Lamb, do you have any objection to the motion?”

She stalled for a few seconds to see if there was any possible straw to be grasped. The judge gave her an incredulous look.

“Miss Lamb, that was practically a rhetorical question.”

“Yes, Your Honor. I can't — think of an objection.”

“No. I'd think not. The motion is granted. The indictment is dismissed. I want to do this in open court. Is there anything else at the moment.”

Angela bounced back in admirable style.

“Yes, Your Honor. I want you to issue a bench warrant for the immediate arrest of John McKedrick.”

“Interesting, Ms. Lamb. On what charge?”

“Fraud on the court, to begin with. There may be other charges.”

“Very well, I'll issue the warrant. Any objection, Mr. Devlin?”

Mr. D. just raised his hands in submission.

“He's not my client, Your Honor. No objection here.”

The slight smile on his face told me that he and I were sharing the same thought.

Our little troop marched back into the courtroom, where we discovered with a glance that the witness chair was empty. The judge called the bailiff, Keiran O'Toole, to the bench.

“Where is he, Keiran? I told him he was not excused.”

Keiran, in his Irish brogue, reported that Mr. McKedrick had had the need to make use of the men's lavatory facilities and had left the courtroom merely for that purpose.

The judge sent Keiran to fetch back Mr. McKedrick. Keiran returned in a minute to report, I believe to the surprise of no one, with the possible exception of Angela, that Mr. McKedrick was nowhere to be found.

The judge made short work of granting the motion to dismiss the indictment against Peter, and we left the courtroom. On my way out, Keiran took me by the sleeve and led me over to a corner.

“Mr. Knight, he left you a message.”

“Keiran. You let him walk right by you.”

I smiled when I said it, and Keiran smiled when he replied.

“And shall I give you the message?”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Mr. McKedrick wanted me to say to you in these very words, ‘May the road rise up to meet you, and may the wind be always at your back.' ”

I felt a lump the size of a grapefruit come up in my throat. I just patted Keiran on the shoulder by way of a thank you, and he understood.

I knew that was John's way of saying good-bye, and that I might never see him again. I think he was also telling me exactly where I could find him if I ever needed him. I think he wanted me to put that old Irish blessing together with my knowledge of where John's ancestors were buried in the west of Ireland.

I said a reciprocal prayer for my once friend and brother, and left the courtroom.

I got as far as the courthouse steps when my cell phone rang. It was Mr. Devlin.