Frame-Up (5 page)

Lex swung back in his chair with his eyes closed. He had wrinkles the length of his forehead when the focus became intense.

“How'd you pick up this Marone, Angela?”

There was a moment of confused silence before Billy Coyne's voice came through. “He was working an extortion racket on the shop owners in Revere. One of them turned him in. You familiar with The Pirate's Den, Lex? It's a bikers' bar on Ocean Boulevard.”

“It's not one of my hangouts, but I've been by the place.”

“It's a monkey cage. It's owned by Anthony Tedesco. We've known for years that those places in Revere were under the squeeze by members of the Mafia. This is the first time one of them raised a ruckus. Tedesco came to us.”

“Was this Tedesco willing to testify against Marone? That's an unusually courageous act isn't it, Billy?”

“It didn't matter. He gave us enough for an indictment. Marone was a three-time loser. This one was life. We knew he'd deal for witness protection. It'd never go to trial. Tedesco would never have to testify. We could keep his name out of it. I've got to admit, it even surprised us when Marone gave us the mother lode on Peter Santangelo.”

“It's more than a surprise, Billy. This whole chain of events suddenly puts the son of the Don in your lap. Doesn't that make you a little uncomfortable?”

“Everything about that bunch makes me uncomfortable. On the other hand, you play the cards you're dealt.”

“Agreed. If the deal's from the top of the deck. All right, what else have you got?”

Angela was back in control.

“Following that incriminating admission by Peter Santangelo, there was the bombing murder of John McKedrick, right on cue.”

“And you're going to count on the jury making that jump, Angela?”

“They'll jump like a show pony. That's it, Lex. We'll keep investigating. I've kept my part of the bargain. I'll expect full performance from you.”

“You should be as sure of reelection. Billy, I deal with you on this. No one else. I want your word.”

“When did you ever need to ask for it, Lex?”

“I know. I'm sorry, Billy. I'm putting a life on the line, and I get the feeling I'm walking on Jell-O. Angela, that third thing I had to tell you. It'll make our dealings easier.”

“Yes?”

“I never bluff.”

It was Thursday night. That meant as inevitably as the sunset that Mr. D. would be dining at the Marliave, an authentic little chunk of Rome tucked into what seems like an alley between Bromfield and School Streets. Since the death of his wife eight years earlier, he had become the kind of creature of habit who could practically recite the menu of every restaurant he frequented.

I was still in the office when he was leaving. By six o'clock I had gone through Julie's top-ten list of calls to be returned “no-matter-what.” The first three were at the screaming-fit level, but by the time I reached number eight, I was talking to people who were close to sanity. It seemed like a good place to stop. Besides, “no-matter-what” did not include passing up an invitation to join Mr. D. at the Marliave.

Having been there twice before, I expected the rotund, tuxedoed Tony Pastore to bow a smiling welcome to Mr. Devlin and lead his friend of countless years to his accustomed corner table under an exquisite Donatelli print. The bow and smile were there, perhaps a bit more tense than usual, but instead of going to the corner table, we followed Tony up the stairs to the small private dining room. Neither of us asked the reason.

When Tony held the door open for us, the figure seated with his back to us at the single table in the small room rose. I was perhaps more surprised than Mr. Devlin to be met by Billy Coyne. They shook hands and took seats beside each other. Billy extended a hand to me and motioned to the third seat at the table. I was flattered that
he had not questioned my presence at a table over which highly confidential information seemed about to pass.

Tony took care of business quickly to give us privacy.

“Your Honor, I'll be the only one serving tonight. You won't be disturbed by anyone else. May I bring you the usual?”

“I don't think so, Tony. I'd better hear what Mr. Coyne has to say with all brain cells intact. We'll order dinner though.”

To my knowledge, Tony has never allowed Mr. Devlin to look at a menu. It was a friendship that went back to the old school.

“Excellent. Let me prepare something with veal. Do you feel like a veal dish tonight, Your Honor?”

I could sense from the anticipation in Tony's smile that at one word from Mr. D., he would personally wring out of that kitchen a delicacy that would make the calf in question proud to have surrendered its flesh.

Mr. Devlin returned the smile with a gentle hand on Tony's arm. “That would be wonderful, Tony.”

Tony's day was made, and his heart was full. You could see it in his eyes as he withdrew and closed the door. Mr. D. looked back at Billy.

“A fine surprise, Mr. Coyne. I'd have thought you'd be taking your meals at the elbow of the Queen of Prosecution. Can she actually order dinner without you?”

“She'll muddle through.”

“I expect that describes most of her waking hours. What would that office do without you, Billy? And more to the point, what's your loyalty to her?”

Billy sipped the ginger ale that sat in front of him. I knew there was no trace of anything stronger in anything he ordered. It had been ten years since a liquid escape from the pressure and burnout of the District Attorney's Office had brought him to a bed in the Massachusetts Rehabilitation Center.

“You'd laugh if I told you, Lex.”

“I doubt it.”

Billy took a few seconds, looking into his ginger ale while he summoned words I'd bet he'd never spoken to anyone else.

“Angela Lamb will pass through that office to better things like her six predecessors without ever remembering she's been there. No, it's not Angela. It's something I started believing a long time ago.”

“Tell me.”

“Every one of those hoods and rapists and arsonists and murderers I take off the street means an equal number, maybe more, of my people who won't be hurt by them again.”

“Your people.”

Billy nodded in the direction of the Boston streets. “They're all my people.”

Lex nodded.

“Now a question for you, Lex. Our waiter, Tony. He's known you for years. That's why I arranged this through him. He must know you're not a judge. Why does he call you ‘Your Honor'?”

Mr. D. leaned back in his chair with a half-smile. I'd wondered the same thing.

“Tony's from the old country. Somewhere around Palermo. It's his way of expressing respect, gratitude. Shortly after he came over here with his family, before he became a citizen, he lived in the North End. His son and another boy pulled a robbery of a delicatessen up there. They hit paydirt without knowing it. They ran out of there with ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand from a delicatessen?”

“Well, that was the luck of it. It was Mafia money. The butcher was one of the collection sites for the numbers racket in that area. These kids had a tiger by the tail. The police were after them, but that was the least of their worries. The big shots in the North End wanted their money plus a little blood. No offense, but their investigative techniques have yours beat in trumps. They don't worry about things like the constitution, due process, civilization.”

“A distinct advantage.”

“I knew Tony as a waiter here. He asked me quietly one night if
I could help his son. The boy just wanted to return the money and keep his life.”

“I can see it coming.”

“Right. I sent a message to Dominic Santangelo. He wasn't the don then, but he was high up. It was a straight deal. They get their money back and let it drop.”

“In exchange for what else?”

“My promise not to spend the rest of my life going after everyone up to the head man if they didn't harm either of the boys.”

“No offense, Lex, but couldn't they solve that problem by introducing you to the fish in Boston Harbor?”

“I guess that option didn't appeal to Dom Santangelo.”

There was a light rap on the door. At Mr. Devlin's word, Tony wheeled in a cart and served three dinners of veal in a wine cream sauce with risotto, which will linger in my memory straight through senility.

When we had eaten, Tony returned with his own version of cannolis and dark Italian coffee. He carefully closed the door behind him.

Billy got down to business.

“Lex, I don't feel comfortable doing this. I'd feel less comfortable not doing it. You have a deal with Angela. That means you have a deal with my office. Whether or not she acts honorably is her concern. The honor of the District Attorney's Office is my concern. The agreement was full disclosure of everything we have on Peter Santangelo. She kept the ace of spades up her sleeve.”

We both leaned in for this one.

“I appreciate what you're doing, Billy. What's the ace?”

Billy leaned close and dropped his voice.

“We have the bomber. He's in custody upstate. He names Peter Santangelo as the one who hired him to rig McKedrick's car.”

“Who is this bomber?”

“ ‘Three-finger' Simone.”

“Occupational mishap?”

“No. It has to do with the amount of juice he puts in his explosives.
If this crowd ever dies out, about the only thing I'll miss are the nicknames.”

“Is he local?”

“No. Toledo. He says Peter Santangelo wanted an out-of-towner. Fly in, do the job, fly out. Hard to trace.”

“How'd you get him?”

“Someone phoned in an anonymous tip. We picked him up at the Village Green Motel up in Danvers. Can you believe it, he stayed around an extra day to see the Bruins play the Blue Jackets. If the Blue Jackets hadn't been in town, Simone would have been out of the state and we'd probably never find him.”

“What're you doing with him?”

“Angela already cut a deal with him in exchange for his testimony against Peter Santangelo. He pleads to manslaughter, takes three to five, no opposition to parole when he comes up. He serves the time out of state under a new identity.”

“Very generous.”

“She heard the name, Santangelo, and she opened up the store. If he asked, I think she'd have given him my job.”

I could see the veins pumping blood to supply the activity raging behind Mr. Devlin's creased eyebrows. I was playing the same quiz game. If Peter Santangelo was innocent, why would Simone finger him? On another level, who was the anonymous tipster who turned Simone in? If Peter was just the bystander that we thought he was, the real lines of battle were drawn up between Dominic Santangelo and an enemy that was not listed on the program. That was clearly the don's problem. Unfortunately, it was now our problem too. The real arrows in this case could be coming at us from somebody far more dangerous than the District Attorney's Office. Billy's disclosure evened the playing field a bit, but it did nothing for the digestion.

“Billy, what do you hear about rumblings in the Santangelo family? The professional family. Any splits, power plays?”

“Nothing lately. But they don't invite me to their board meetings.”

The lines deepened in Mr. Devlin's face.

“Follow me for a minute here, Billy. Assume for the moment that young Santangelo was set up, that he's innocent.”

“Isn't that an assumption you never make about a client? I thought that was Rule One of Devlin's Rules of Survival. Never consider a client innocent.”

“Granted. In most cases. You know the old saying about defense counsel in a criminal case, ‘Whatever the outcome, the lawyer always goes home.' In this case, the lawyer could be meeting those fish you mentioned. Bear with me here. Suppose Peter's innocent. Someone disposes of John McKedrick and eliminates Peter with a frame-up in the same play. Why Peter? He's a neutral. He's never been in the game. He's a senior at Harvard.”

“Oh Lex, forgive me. A Harvard man. Of course he's innocent. How could I think otherwise?”

Mr. D. held up a hand like a stop sign.

“Billy, please. Play the game with me here. If Peter's not the real target, his father must be, right?”

“Possibly.”

“Never mind ‘possibly.' Probably. Does that tell us that there's another player in this game who hasn't been identified yet? One who plays with bombs? One who goes outside the family to kill lawyers? That's not Santangelo's style.”

“How does that change things?”

“For one thing, I want to be able to see your sorry face around here after this ends. The kid you want to have in jail is not the threat. Neither is his father. You watch your back.”

“My every intent. I'll be watching yours too, Lex.

Mr. Devlin responded to the soft knock on the door.

“Your timing is impeccable, Tony. I'll have a bit more coffee and the check.” He raised a hand to stop Billy's reach for his wallet.

Tony placed the check on the table, and Mr. Devlin pulled a deck of cards out of his suit coat pocket, shuffled them, and placed them on the table in front of him. Tony cut the cards and showed the ten of diamonds. Mr. Devlin cut the cards, and with a resigned smile, showed Tony the king of hearts.

Tony shook his head and picked up the check and the hundred dollar bill Mr. D. placed on top of it. He retreated to bring more coffee.

Mr. D. leaned closer and whispered.

“We've been doing this for years. After I helped his son, he'd never let me pay for a dinner. I couldn't keep coming here like that, so we reached an agreement. We cut the cards. If I win, I pay. If Tony wins, I don't.”

“I get the feeling you pay most of the time, Lex.

“I shouldn't say this to the deputy district attorney, but the deck is rigged. I picked it up at the joke shop on Bromfield Street. I let Tony win once every eight or nine times so he won't suspect.”