T
he other wing tip had finally dropped. The inevitable—what had been gnawing away at Hunter since his first meeting with Risotto, like famished rats in the sordid alleys behind Walnut Street’s restaurant district, dumpster-diving in the blackness of the wee morning hours—was finally upon him. And with less than twenty-four hours until the Vito’s trial and quite likely the untimely demise of Hunter’s legal career, desperation was plaguing his very existence. The last thing he needed was another Risotto detour. Working his black magic, though, and with just a single cool and self-assured nod, Risotto made it official.
Hunter had formally been named a person of interest in Russo’s murder and Sheila Primeau’s disappearance. Of course, in America, a hypocritical bastion of political correctness, that phrase was code for suspect. As a practical matter, the label generally meant that formal charges, arrest, and conviction were imminent. He was doomed. And although the scarlet letter had been rendered in henna instead of a grittier, permanent tat, Hunter realized the impact would be just the same. And undoubtedly, so did Risotto. The snobbish detective knew exactly what he was doing, which certainly wasn’t what he should’ve been doing. Instead of recognizing the obvious, linking Mancini and his co-conspirators to the murder and likely abduction of Sheila Primeau, he was channeling his investigative energy on precisely the wrong person.
So with the knowledge that he was about to go from pretty screwed to completely screwed, Hunter began the walk of shame, accompanied by two burly uniformed Philly cops out of city hall. Although he wasn’t cuffed and had technically gone on his own volition, there was no real alternative. Resisting in the least would have created one of two impressions: either he had something to conceal or he wasn’t interested in ascertaining the whereabouts of the woman he’d been seeing. Unfortunately, for him, both interpretations were forks in the same highway of guilt. This Hobson’s choice seemed to be exactly what Risotto intended.
And to heighten the drama of the well-staged illusion executed by Risotto, this David Copperfield of sorts, the detective stopped just short of having him arrested. For a seemingly eternal moment, Hunter was convinced he was about to be frisked and cuffed. In that instant, Hunter knew how a convicted felon must feel, as various escape scenarios and potential outcomes raced through his mind. He had no intention of becoming a fugitive, though. Instead, he was painfully aware that his own investigation was about to be derailed, needlessly and indefinitely. The sooner he could refute unfounded allegations, the sooner he could resume his quest for the truth. He was so close. But the tattered hemp rope of the makeshift bridge over the abyss was giving way, leaving him fighting for his life. If he could only catch Risotto red-handed, swinging the jungle machete, making that first, fatal blow.
The clean-cut black officer of the pair approached first, his short sleeves revealing bulging biceps. His partner, more male stripper than cop, hovered over them, proud as a peacock. With his muscular frame, artificial spray-on tan, and closely cropped and gelled hair frozen unnaturally in that crunchy state of suspended hair animation, he was a walking billboard for the perks of becoming a Philly cop. While he wasn’t out busting dangerous criminals, playing hero, and looking like a
Playgirl
centerfold doing it, he was pumping iron and pampering himself, presumably at one of the many taxpayer-funded spas.
Yet if the Roundhouse was any indication, beefcake cop’s existence was not all mani-pedis and Brazilian waxes. The concrete, double-towered fortress, which straddled Chinatown and Old City, an eclectic blend of chic meets Betsy Ross historical, was visually underwhelming. Its interior, although cavernous, was purely functional and out-of-date. Every utilitarian metal desk and even the bare concrete walls were downright grimy, as if decades of body odor, pungent prostitute perfume, blood, and cigarette smoke had formed a permanent and greasy layer of depravity.
Disheveled and completely out of his element, Hunter arrived at the Roundhouse close to twenty minutes later. He was escorted into the building’s rear entrance, which backed up to a parking lot full of unmarked Crown Vics, battered cop cars, police vans, and an array of off-duty vehicles, including about a dozen or so Harleys, lined up like those belonging to a notorious street gang at a biker bar. The image, which in Hunter’s mind was a blatant contradiction, lawlessness and lawfulness side by side, felt like an omen to him. The typical symbol, a crow, had been replaced by the hog. A short driveway with a steep decline led to a subterranean section of the building, the area containing the dank holding cells. An unsanitary communal grill had been positioned on a level section of the path, presumably for the officers and other staffers resigned to call the headquarters their home away from home. News vans belonging to the three major local networks formed their usual queue along the cracked sidewalk on the entrance side, always on the ready to break the latest in a dizzying array of crime stories.
Hunter was less than thrilled to be ambushed by the handful of field reporters who somehow had already gotten word of his being picked up. Like a deer in the headlights, Hunter ignored the coercive microphones and barrage of questions about being named a person of interest in the investigation into Russo’s murder and now Sheila Primeau’s abduction. Hunter’s accompanying officers, both sporting newsworthy expressions, managed to elude the equivalent of the media Bermuda Triangle and tactfully push him past.
Once inside, Hunter was swept up in the under-budgeted frenzy of Philadelphia crime fighting, almost immediately regaining his anonymity, despite a few obligatory sideways glances. He was also struck by the oppressive heat levels in the building, which could only be the result of a defective air-conditioning system. Humidity levels and the heat index outside were hovering at record-setting levels for the month of March. And despite increasingly threatening skies, the storm of the century had yet to officially begin.
Although he’d had friends from law school who’d chosen the criminal path, or rather had been chosen, as they might prefer to believe, nobly heading off to the district attorney’s office or the public defender’s, Hunter’s criminal experience was limited to late-night reruns of
Law and Order
,
12 Angry Men
,
A Man for All Seasons,
and the occasional glimpses offered by Sheila. Pre-disappearance, naturally. He couldn’t ignore the obvious irony, though, that he was entering this monument to criminality and municipal thriftiness for the very first time, not as a purveyor of the truth and justice but as a suspect in not just one but quite possibly two murders. And to make matters worse, he failed to heed his very own advice. As the questioning continued in a drab, two-way-mirrored interrogation room upstairs, the harsh fluorescent lighting flooding the room with trepidation, Hunter endured the twists and turns courtesy of Risotto’s baby-faced colleague without the benefit of competent criminal counsel. For the moment Hunter played along, navigating the predictable snake pits and quietly extracting information from his less-than-formidable interviewer.
“Color me stupid,” said Detective Rossi, with a harsh South Philadelphia accent, his gold chain making an occasional tacky appearance, “but I’m still trying to make sense of this whole Russo thing. Know what I’m sayin’?” Rossi was in his mid-twenties and an obvious Dunkin’ Donuts aficionado. His shiny polyester short-sleeved dress shirt was unbuttoned casually, bringing detective sexy back, and too tight to conceal the spare tire bulging around his waist. His cragged nose was too big for his puffy face, which was pasty and dried far beyond his years. Clearly he hadn’t hit the genetic lottery. Greasy, prematurely receding hair was slicked back, and a small rhinestone earring sparkled in the awkwardly shaped lobe of his left ear. It was clear that he fancied himself a rock star of sorts, a phenom in the world of the Philadelphia police force.
“Like I said, I barely knew the guy.”
“But I’m hearin’ you weren’t a fan.”
“Not sure—”
Hate is more like it.
Interrupting and obviously playing to the detectives on the other side of the glass, Baby-Face stood abruptly and leaned over the metal table, getting up in Hunter’s face. “Don’t play me for a fool, Mr. Gray. We know all about the sanctions thing.” Rossi paused, poised to get under Hunter’s skin. “The old coot really lit your ass up, didn’t he?”
Hunter didn’t dignify the detective’s line of questioning with a response. He was grasping at straws as he tried to develop a theory of motive. Plus, if the detective had the evidence to support it, Hunter would’ve already been booked and arraigned.
“And I’m not talkin’ about losing that case with…” he went on, momentarily blanking on the name of the party, snapping his fingers like a crooner, the dirty fingernails taking center stage. “That rip-off cable company. Media. Whatchamacallit.”
“Mediacast?” said Hunter, forced to play along with Rossi’s counterfeit forgetfulness.
“Thank you,” he replied disingenuously with a theatrical snap of the wrist and point of the index finger.
“You’re welcome.” Hunter faked a smile and mimicked the false enthusiasm.
“There’s no excuse for me forgettin’ that name. I pay them a friggin’ arm and a leg every month. I like a little adult entertainment every now and again, if you know what I’m sayin’.” Sleaziness oozed from his mouth like one-dollar bills flowing from the hands of married businessmen at a strip joint, full nudity.
“Sure do,” lied Hunter.
“Come on, man,” replied Rossi disapprovingly. “Now don’t tell me you’ve got time to watch with a hot little number like Judge Primeau in the house.”
Rossi’s tactics had officially crossed the line. It took Hunter all the patience and restraint he had left, not a whole heck of a lot, either, to resist the urge to level this little wiseass.
“Whatever you say.”
“Unless you’re watchin’ together. Then I give you mad props.”
“Can we just get on with this?” asserted Hunter, biting his tongue while taking a jab, training him with a jolt and letting him know he was overstepping.
“In a rush?”
“I have a big trial first thing in the morning.” Not that he had nearly enough time to prepare.
“Big-time trial, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” rebutted Baby-Face, all smartass. Rossi was the type who had a chip on his shoulder, knowing he never had the chops or drive to become a lawyer.
Hunter nodded and grinned, deriving a bit of pleasure, knowing he was starting to rattle Rossi’s cage.
“What kind of trial is it? You defendin’ someone for murder or something?”
“Bravo. Very clever.” Hunter paused and leaned into Rossi, making a point. “I think you know the one. The one involving Vito Armani. I’m sure your boss has told you all about it. There’s a lot more there than what’s on the surface. Stuff you,” he said as he gestured toward the glass, “and your buddies out there should be investigating instead of harassing me. You’re wasting your time here, and you know it. Just buying time for whoever offed Russo and can tell us what happened to Sheila.”
“You’re not trying to finger my boy Vito for all this, are ya? That dude’s the mack daddy. And if ya ask me, those liberal hippies oughta let the poor guy be. It’s a free country, and the dude can say whatever he wants, especially to those freeloading illegals. They get treated better than me. It frankly disgusts me.”
“No one asked you, Detective. And you might want to check your emotions a bit before they start to cloud your professional judgment.”
“Listen to me, you stuck-up little prick,” snapped Rossi. “You’re sittin’ there for a reason. Whatever you did or didn’t do had nothin’ ta do with me. It’s your own fuckup. And trust me, you do
not
want to get on my bad side.”
“Fair enough,” replied Hunter, diffusing the situation. Hunter hated to admit it, but there was wisdom in Rossi’s gruff words. Ultimately, setup or no setup, it was his own poor judgment that landed Hunter there in the first place.
Rossi retreated a bit, winning that round. “Good. Now let’s go back to Judge Primeau. You were sayin’ she and your boss used to be hot and heavy.”
Hunter was growing increasingly frustrated with Rossi’s incompetence and circuitous lines of questioning. “Correct. Her and Al Mancini, the chairman of my firm.”
“She gets around, this one,” he observed chauvinistically, twisting the knife again. The comment actually reminded him of something Dillon would’ve said.
“Whatever you say, detective.”
“Hey,” chided Rossi. “Just callin’ a spade a spade.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Hunter remained dispassionate.
“Yeah.” He was cavalier as hell.
“Because you sound like a misogynist to me. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Massa-ga-who? How ’bout a little English? A dumb guy like me can’t keep up with all this legal mumbo jumbo.”
“It’s not a legal term.” Hunter paused, considering whether to go for the jugular this time. At this point, he knew he had nothing to lose. Why prolong the agony with a self-righteous and borderline incompetent rookie? All he needed to do was light the fuse and pray for self-destruction. The sooner the detonation, the sooner he’d have a chance to present his side of the story to another one of his colleagues, and hopefully an impartial one next time around. “It means a woman hater.”