F
or approximately the next hour and with pinpoint accuracy, Dillon proceeded to recount Mancini’s role in a staggeringly sophisticated criminal enterprise, implicating prominent members of the local organized crime family and politicians. The particulars were nothing shy of bone chilling, substantiated by bits and pieces from an ongoing federal criminal probe, snippets that Corday miraculously managed to obtain. As the details were unearthed in Dillon’s laid-back yet brilliant style, Hunter couldn’t help but tip his proverbial hat to Corday, the sleuth, a miracle worker by anyone’s interpretation of that term.
The evidence presented an intricate mosaic of judicial corruption, with none other than Albert Mancini squarely in the center. Succumbing to the allure of pure, unadulterated greed, the root of all evil, as the saying goes, a tight-knit band of the state’s most powerful judges, representing each of the appeal courts and a string of local counties, “sculpted the quintessential model of judicial corruption.” The racket, which essentially placed gilded “For Sale” signs on the front of the judges’ respective lofty benches, had persisted for close to a decade and lined the designer pockets of corrupt officials and partners like Mancini with literally tens of millions of dollars.
Hunter interrupted, still uncertain about the link to Armani, a man who certainly didn’t need any supplemental income at the risk of an indictment and losing a cash cow. “And the connection to Vito Armani?”
“You’re joking, right?” Dillon donned an incredulous know-it-all expression.
“Mafia?” replied Hunter hesitantly. But Hunter’s instincts told him otherwise. He wasn’t sure whom to believe at this point.
“Bingo.”
“So you know for a fact that Armani is connected? Not just on the receiving end of an extortion plot.” Mancini had gone out of his way to persuade Hunter that Vito’s son was a deadbeat gambler with fatally high debt owed to Mafia-tied loan sharks.
“Maybe that’s what Mancini wants you to think. But it’s way off the mark. Armani is undeniably a made man who’s been using that joint to launder money for years.”
As Hunter continued to mull over the gooey evidence, his cell phone quivered. It was a text from Stephanie warning him that Mancini was on a warpath and was en route to the Reading Terminal.
And why would Mancini need to be in bed with the mob if he had this whole judicial corruption thing going? Could he really be that blinded by greed?
Dillon tried to get a visual on Hunter’s LCD. “What is it?”
“Nothing really. I guess Mancini found out I’m here, and he’s out for blood. Apparently, he’s on his way.”
“
I’m
here, or
we’re
here?”
“No, just me.”
“Who gave you the head’s up? Please don’t tell me it was Stephanie,” said Dillon, dreading the inevitable.
Hunter nodded in agreement.
“Damn it,” exploded Dillon in frustration. “That bitch is fucking crazy, man. The balls on her.”
“It’s pretty cavalier. I’ll give you that.”
“I guarantee you she thinks she’s playing you like a fiddle.” Dillon paused. “Anyway,” said Dillon, settling up with the bartender in cash, “that’s obviously our cue.”
“We
should
probably go,” concurred Hunter, chalking up Dillon’s eagerness to depart to not wanting to become road kill.
Perfectly understandable.
“And you know that cretin Mayor Valentine has got his number on speed dial…” said Dillon, already on his feet. His glassy eyes wandered as he spoke, completely ADD, his voice trailing off.
Hunter took a subtle glance over his shoulder, immediately spotting the object of Dillon’s diversion. A leggy and attractive pair of thirtysomething professionals had just entered the bar.
“That’s got to be it. Mancini knows.” They were both referring to Hunter’s impromptu and altogether botched visit with the mayor earlier that same morning.
“Dude, I still can’t fucking believe you did that. You’re my hero.”
“Just too afraid to run away, I guess,” said Hunter humbly.
“What is it?” asked Dillon, hesitating and then reading Hunter’s expression. “Still panicking about the Russo thing? That detective still up your ass?”
Agitated, though, Hunter asked, “You sure your guy couldn’t put anything together?” A trace of desperation was detectable in his voice.
“Sorry, man,” he apologized, empathizing with Hunter’s plight.
“You think Russo wanted out?” According to Corday, Russo had been on the take for years, which sure as hell explained Mancini’s remarkable influence over the man.
“Could be.”
“How the fuck am I going to prove it, though?” pondered Hunter, virtually under his breath at this point.
“My guy is close,” assured Dillon, with an encouraging pat on the back. “Closer than we think I guaran-fuckin’-tee you.”
“I sure as hell hope so.” Hunter led the way, surveying the area for any sign of Mancini. “Because in case it’s not abundantly clear to you by now, time is not on my side.”
Even the most damning evidence would be no match for Mancini, who had probably wanted him dead from the first instant he learned of Hunter’s relations with Sheila Primeau. The next best thing would be framing him for Russo’s murder while simultaneously eliminating the threat, a corrupt judge who wanted out and was maybe searching for redemption, someone who was ready to sing like a bird. And then, as Hunter’s mind continued to race uncontrollably with questions about his arch-nemesis’s next move, a revelation came to him, promising oxygen as the quicksand mired him in breathless desperation: if Mancini was using Hunter as a scapegoat, then he wasn’t done putting the nails in the coffin. There was one final piece of potentially damning evidence. Hunter just hoped he could get to
her
before it was too late.
S
heila Primeau’s life hung in the balance. She had enough credible information regarding Mancini’s payola to put him away for a very long time. Typically resilient and fearless, Sheila always seemed immune to the usual travails confronting the type-A divorcee and mother of two. Even when it came to her admission about Mancini, she managed to exude an air of grace and dignity, all the while hiding the battle scars of betrayal. Hunter had suddenly been plagued by a sinking feeling related to her whereabouts—or, frankly, whether she was even still alive.
Less than a day before the trial, all that remained were Hunter’s hardened instincts. And like the antennae of an incensed wasp hovering over the dank waters of the Schuylkill River on a humid August Philadelphia afternoon, his senses were on temporary overload. His mind raced with the realization that she was easy prey for Mancini and his people. Invariably she possessed information about Mancini’s alarmingly high litigation win rates, having judges like Russo in the firm’s hip pocket.
Notwithstanding the perverse sense of satisfaction Mancini might get from offing one of the only women to ever scorn him, Sheila’s death would also play right into homicide’s theory of Hunter’s involvement. First, he killed Russo, at the behest of his lover. Russo simply knew too much. His threats to seek their disbarment coupled with his own blind ambition were in desperate need of quelling. And when Hunter learned that Sheila was beginning to cave under the pressure of the investigation, especially with the unearthing of increasingly incriminating evidence regarding her affair with Hunter, the only thing left for Hunter was to silence her once and for all. Without her testimony and the dearth of physical evidence at the crime scene itself, the state’s case would be threadbare at best.
Purple and dark gray tones had transformed the hazy sky over the city into a fiercely ominous swell of electrical impulses. Sirens and horns blared, unnecessarily heightening the dramatic effect of the imminent storm. Pedestrians and groups of tourists anarchically ignored the traffic signals as they impeded the path of angered drivers with the right-of-way outside the Convention Center. A brazen driver revved his engine and taunted the offenders with the threat of vehicular homicide, all the while probing the vicinity for police officers. The passersby shook their heads in unison, in utter shock and disbelief. An indie-rocker type bike messenger flipped him the bird, as he had assuredly done millions of time before, prior to resuming his course, entirely unfazed.
Reminiscent of his days as a winger on Temple’s soccer team, Hunter dodged each level of congestion as if he were eluding the counterattacks of the opposition’s defense, constantly mindful of his throbbing right knee. His destination was city hall, just a few blocks west on Market Street. Of course, that was where Sheila Primeau passed her days, either in the courtroom or in chambers. Hunter just prayed his epiphany hadn’t come too late, rendering it moot altogether.
The media still had city hall under siege, milking Russo’s death for every last drop of sensationalism. Hunter entered the dilapidated building at one of the numerous ground-level orifices. He was trying to time it so that he could sneak in behind another attorney, trying to stay invisible. The odds were good he’d be identified and picked up at visitor registration. The only opportunity came with a whistling, morbidly obese city employee, someone Hunter was sure he’d seen before. Hunter believed he worked at the Prothonotary down on two, the digestive system of the litigation anatomy, the place where court filings were taken in, filed, and then assigned to various judges and courtrooms, which, of course, would constitute the brains of the operation.
The employee, effortlessly carrying an unimpressive stack of copies in the crook of his arm, like a union laborer refusing to overexert himself, was sporting one of those nerdy lanyards, from which his key card dangled officially. But Hunter’s efforts, even having donned a might-as-well-follow-you-in-since-you-know-me-anyway expression, were immediately shot down. Hunter accelerated apathetically toward the spring-loaded door. But like a snake offering its prey one final warning before releasing its venom, the worker stopped short, recoiling his virtually nonexistent neck. His eyes, too narrowly spaced for the blockhead, bugged out, a clear warning for Hunter not to take another step. Foiling the misguided efforts of vagrants had likely become second nature to him by now, ever since the institution of the key system just a couple years earlier. He repeatedly tried to get through to Sheila as he waited. He tried her chambers, office, and cell numbers again and again. All went straight to voicemail. It took another ten minutes for a lawyer to show up and obliviously hold the door open.
The door to Sheila’s chambers was locked, which was not unusual, especially given the heightened level of alert and a possible judge killer on the loose. Hunter held down the ink-smudged intercom button and made himself known to the secretary, Mary O’Reilly, her voice an inconspicuous mixture of depression and anxiety. The door buzzed approvingly and Hunter entered, trying to mask the obvious awkwardness to the process, just as he had done dozens of times before. Although Mary and the judge’s clerk, Adam Rosencranz, an unusually tall and clean-cut twentysomething, knew about the relationship, they feigned ignorance and acted aloof, more of a symbol of their unwavering loyalty to the judge than anything else.
Hunter instinctually made a beeline for Sheila’s office. But his path was blocked by a roomful of generally unfamiliar faces. Two Philadelphia cops and a handful of well-dressed detective types, led by Mitch Risotto, had essentially commandeered the chambers. Hunter looked past the probing and triumphant gaze of Risotto and spotted Adam and Mary, who’d been displaced and relegated to the back of the room. Both refused to make eye contact and instead shunned him, seemingly dismayed by something Hunter had done—or not done, as the case may be. After taking a moment to process the activity, Hunter realized that the investigation into Russo’s murder had led Philly detectives and the feds to Sheila Primeau.
“Where’s the judge?” asked Hunter, dreading Risotto’s response. He noticed that the judge’s private office door was ajar, an obvious indicator of an official and intensive search effort.
Risotto flashed a mysterious grin, his dark eyes radiating compassion. In his trademark soft, raspy voice, he replied, “What a coincidence, Mr. Gray, because I was about to pose that very question to you.” Hunter felt the inquiring, discreet stares of the suits all over him, scrutinizing his body language and facial expressions. A shrewd detective’s improvised lie detector test was being administered five times over, without Hunter’s consent or Miranda warnings no less.
“I honestly have no idea. Why? What’s going on?” A pang of guilt ripped through his body, realizing that he’d been duped by Mancini yet again, to the point of even suspecting Sheila of being in on it. His mind raced with tragic scenarios, one more gruesome than the next. He flashed on Sheila’s children.
Risotto raised his hands diplomatically. “No need to get defensive, Mr. Gray. It’s just a simple question, and we figured you of all people would know the answer.” This, of course, was the guilty boyfriend or husband theory. When a woman goes missing, standard protocol compels authorities to presume the man was somehow involved. Hunter selfishly breathed an internal sigh of relief knowing that he wasn’t the named beneficiary on any life insurance policies. Might as well hang him right then and there had that been the case.
“Well, apparently the judge never showed up for work today, which, according to her staff over there,” Risotto offered up as he gestured deferentially to Adam and Mary, who continued to pretend he wasn’t there, “isn’t like her in the least.” This time he carefully enunciated each and every syllable, letting the words ooze into Hunter’s conscious, like a twisted doctor administering a freakishly large hypodermic needle. It was the diction of an accuser, one who’d already made up his mind about the guilt of the accused. The obvious implication was that this bit of information was already in Hunter’s possession, which it was not.
Hunter was too overwhelmed and shocked to respond, undercutting Risotto’s momentum.
“If you know where she is,” added Risotto with the concern of a priest during penitence, “of course now would be the time to tell us in the spirit of cooperation.”
“I told you everything I know,” snapped Hunter.
“All right,” replied Risotto, changing tack. “Tell me when you two last spoke.”
Hunter reflected for a moment on the events of the past several days, which seemed to last an eternity. “Monday or Tuesday, I guess.” Hunter paused. “No. Monday.”
“Monday?” said Risotto gently. “And you’re sure?”
Locked and loaded.
“Yup.”
“And can you recall the time of day?” He paused and scratched the back of his neck, checking to ensure his perfect coif was still perfect. “I’m sure your life has been something of a whirlwind of late, so I understand if you don’t.”
Bullshit.
After being interrogated first thing Monday morning in a private social club of all places, Hunter knew the shit was about to hit the fan. “Mid-morning.”
“And anything unusual you can recall about the conversation?” Risotto’s dark eyes flickered masterfully. Both men knew they were referring to the exchange right after Hunter realized he was a person of interest. Hunter momentarily considered whether Mancini had already gotten to Risotto. Charmed him? Overpowered him? It was conceivable that Risotto was on the take, if his black designer suit was any indication. If he was the protagonist in a tragedy unfolding before his very eyes, Risotto and the other detectives may very well just be the chorus.
Does a heated discussion about being murder suspects count?
“No. Not really,” lied Hunter, against his better judgment. He had nothing to hide, at least as far as any murder allegations were concerned. Of course, that was putting aside the ethics investigation looming portentously just over the horizon.
“And you’re sure about that?” he asked skeptically.
“Like I already said.” Hunter dug in his heels, realizing the words were too reactive, highlighting his sensitivity.
“All right.” Risotto let it go for now. “And where exactly did this
ordinary
conversation take place?” Risotto didn’t strike Hunter as the kind who asked a question he didn’t already know the answer to.
“Right here in chambers,” he conceded, gesturing across the room and stealing another glance at Adam and Mary, who appeared to be bickering between themselves. “In her office, to be exact.”
“Typical Monday morning, I presume,” he said sarcastically. Hunter noticed the two graying detectives seated behind Risotto sharing a fraternal and subtle laugh. The official ring of a cell phone call cut short the diversion, the answering detective’s expression going somber.
“Were you over here for a case or something?”
“No.”
“No it’s not typical, or no you weren’t at city hall for one of your cases?”
“Both, actually.”
“I see.” Risotto paused dubiously. “Out of curiosity, that didn’t happen to be right after our little chat that same morning, did it?”
“It was, actually,” he said.
Risotto looked befuddled. He squinted exaggeratingly, as if trying to bring his understanding into focus. “And might I pose the obvious question? What exactly does Judge Primeau have to do with the murder investigation?”
“Didn’t you interview her yourself?” asked Hunter, stalling as he formulated a credible response.
“That’s right.” Flipping his cell phone shut, the detective discreetly began to approach Risotto, who immediately sensed the movement in his peripheral vision.
“Then I suppose—” A grinning Risotto turned in response to a polite shoulder tap, interrupting Hunter’s nonresponse, essentially sparing him from the potentially calamitous interrogation. With the tact of a politician during a media-laden address, Risotto nodded as he received the breaking news. Almost immediately, the other detectives and officers in chambers reacted to the information by preparing to move out.
“Well, it appears as if you’ve been spared, Mr. Gray.”
Desperate to know if she was still alive, Hunter asked, “Did they find her? Is she all right?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” he replied sternly.
“Just tell me whether or not she’s in harm’s way. That’s all I’m asking,” pleaded Hunter.
“I’m sorry.”
“So what happens next?”
“As I started to say, you’ve been spared.” Risotto paused with the deliberateness of
American Idol’s
Ryan Seacrest, maximizing suspense in an obvious ratings maneuver. “At least for now.”
And in less time than a commercial break, the meaning of Risotto’s cryptic remark hit him.