Authors: Lisa Scottoline
Grady Wells. “Are you okay, Bennie?” he asked. He was wearing his gray suit and print tie, and his eyes looked slightly red behind his glasses.
“Grady, Jesus.”
He tried to pull me out of the cop’s grasp. “I’d like to speak with Ms. Rosato for a minute, Officer.”
The cop yanked on my elbow on the other side. “Not now. Detective Azzic wants to see her.”
“This is firm business, which has to go on despite your investigation.”
“The detective’s been waiting—”
Suddenly Grady wrenched me free from the cop and hustled me back past a stricken Marshall. We banged through the door to her office behind the reception desk and Grady locked it behind us. “Bennie, listen,” he said. “Mark was stabbed to death last night. At his desk.”
“My God.” I sank down next to the telephone console.
“Now listen, they don’t have the murder weapon, they don’t have anything. They’ve been calling your apartment all morning. They want your fingerprints, they want to talk to you. Where have you been?”
“My mother’s.”
“What about last night?”
“I was the last to leave, I think. I locked up.”
“The murder took place around twelve o’clock, I heard the assistant M.E. talking. Where were you at midnight?”
“On the river, why?” I felt bewildered, almost dizzy. I was rowing when Mark was killed. I should have been here with him. I could have stopped them, whoever it was. “Who did this? Did they break in?”
“No. There was no forced entry and nothing was taken. The police think you killed Mark, Bennie. You’re the prime suspect.”
“What?”
It came as a jolt, like an aftershock after the main quake. “Me?”
“The police want to question you, but you can’t go in without a lawyer. Let me represent you. I can do it.”
It was happening too fast. Mark, gone. Now this. “Grady, I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t kill Mark.”
Boom, boom, boom!
came a pounding on the door.
“Bennie, listen. Think,” Grady said, touching my shoulder. “You were the last one with him. You locked up, so whoever got back in either has a key or was let in by Mark.”
“That doesn’t mean I—”
“They’re questioning the associates, taking them down to the Roundhouse. They already questioned me, I was in early. Every associate told them about the fight you and Mark had. Wingate, especially, he heard it all. The cops know Mark left you for Eve and also that he wanted to dissolve R & B. You’re the one with the motive, and if you’ve got no alibi, we have a problem.”
I closed my eyes. How had this happened? My heart beat faster.
Boom, boom, BOOM!
“Wait a minute!” Grady shouted at the door. “Bennie, let me represent you. You can’t be questioned without counsel.”
“I can represent myself.”
“With the cops? Are you nuts? You cost the police department a fortune, heads rolled because of you. No, they’re loaded for bear out there. I’ll table my other clients, and when the cops charge you—”
“
Charge
me?” I said, panic constricting my throat. “How can they charge me? What evidence do they have? Christ, I didn’t do it!”
“Bennie, focus,” he said, grabbing my arm. “You need help now, you’re in trouble. I haven’t done many murder cases but I know the facts inside out, and I can handle myself in any courtroom. I wouldn’t be a fact witness, anything I’d testify to, any associate could testify to. So hire me. I’m here and I’m ready.”
The doorknob twisted back and forth, jarring me into clarity.
“We don’t have a lot of time, Bennie. Say yes. Now.”
In a blink, I became the client, not the lawyer. I tried to listen to Grady argue with a uniformed cop, but I was disoriented, shaken by Mark’s murder and the police presence. The last time I’d had a uniform in my office was when I deposed him. Now it was me they were after. Everything was turned topsy-turvy. The world stood on its head.
“There’s no reason to question her at the police station,” Grady was saying, trying to persuade one Officer Mullaney, a martinet with a mustache.
“It’s not my decision, Mr. Wells. It’s up to Detective Azzic. He asked me to remain with Miss Rosato until he takes her downtown.”
“Ms. Rosato has clients to deal with, many of whom will have questions about the firm and their cases. She can’t be out of the office for the morning. She’s the only principal left in Rosato & Biscardi.”
“Those are my orders. Bring her down.”
“Tell Detective Azzic he’ll have one hour to question her today. See you at the Roundhouse.” Grady took my arm and led me out of the waiting room.
“Bennie,” Marshall cried, distraught, and almost collapsed into my arms as we hustled by.
“I know,” I told her, fighting the lump in my throat. I rubbed her back.
“It’s awful, it’s just awful,” she said, sobbing. “As soon as I opened the door, I knew something was wrong.”
“You found Mark?” I asked, shocked.
“What did you see, Marshall? How did you know?” Grady asked, prying her off of me.
“The coffeepot … was left on.” She mopped her eyes with a handkerchief and fought for control. “It was all burned, it stunk. And the Xerox was on … and the computers on the first floor. Everything. I thought someone pulled an all-nighter, so I went upstairs.” She wiped her nose. “Mark … was lying across his desk. His face was to the side and I thought he’d fallen asleep. You know, at his desk like he does?”
I knew. I remembered.
“So I called to wake him up, but he didn’t move. That’s when I saw the … blood.” Her tears welled up again. “There was blood all over the back of his shirt!”
I tried to visualize it. Mark over his desk. His white shirt. His blood spilling out. It was sickening.
A criminalist bumped into me with a dusting kit. The hallway and library swelled with police personnel. A police photographer was climbing down the spiral staircase from the upstairs offices, maybe coming from Mark’s office. I still couldn’t believe he’d been murdered here, in this house. “I have to see for myself,” I said, only half aloud.
“Bennie, wait,” Grady said, but I turned on my heel, barreled past the associates and police, and headed up the spiral staircase, squeezing by the people going downstairs. Up the down staircase, my whole life, but this time I was driven. I reached the second floor, ducked the tape, and hustled down the corridor.
“Miss!” called a uniformed cop behind me, but I ignored him and slipped into Mark’s office.
The sight took my breath away. I leaned on the doorjamb for support. There was a large blackish pool of blood in the middle of Mark’s desk. It soaked the papers and the leather blotter we’d picked out together. It spilled over the side of a desk I’d refinished as a gift. It tainted everything it touched, defiling it. Mark’s lifeblood.
Grady came up behind me. “It’s okay, Bennie.”
“No it isn’t. Nothing about this is okay,” I said, more harshly than I intended. I stared at the pool of blood and flashed with a rising nausea on the murder scenes from my old practice: an anonymous alley, a ransacked apartment, the drafty shell of an abandoned house. This crime scene was different. A place of business, of law, of rules and statutes. Mark’s and mine.
“He must have been working,” Grady said, bending over Mark’s desk to read his papers. “It’s a contract, an agreement to dissolve R & B. It looks like he was editing it when he was killed. There’s a noncompete. You agree not to solicit the business of any drug company within a ten-mile radius for the next two years.”
“Boilerplate. He knew I’d never take his clients.” I couldn’t tear my eyes from the desk. Blood buckled the papers covering it. Fingerprint dust smudged its perimeter, in clumps dark as stormclouds.
“I was up here before and nothing looked out of place to me. Does it to you? Anything odd? You would know better.”
I tried to survey the office without emotion. Bay windows cast bright light behind the glossy modern credenza. Against the wall stood teak bookcases, with Mark’s textbooks and other reference books neatly shelved. A matching teak file cabinet sat next to the bookshelves, with a CD player on top. “It all looks the same,” I said numbly.
Grady looked out the windows and across the street. “Maybe someone in one of the other townhouses saw what happened.”
“We’re checking into that,” said a gruff voice.
I turned around, and standing in the door was a detective I hadn’t met. He was built like a fullback and evidently stuffed into a lightweight navy suit, with a white shirt and puffy polyester tie. “I’m Detective Azzic,” he said, extending a hand with a stiff cop-smile. His face was broad-featured, Slavic, with brown eyes that slanted curiously upwards. “Frank Azzic.”
I shook his hand. “Bennie Rosato.”
“I know who you are. The tape is there for a reason, Ms. Rosato. This is my crime scene.”
“It’s also my law firm.”
Even the cop-smile vanished. “I know you don’t have much respect for law enforcement, but we have our rules, and we have them for a reason.”
“Don’t give me this, Detective, not now. I have no quarrel with the police when they enforce the law. It’s when they fence stolen goods I lose my sense of humor.”
“I’m Grady Wells,” Grady said, stepping almost between us. “I’m representing Ms. Rosato in this investigation. She’s very eager to assist you in finding her partner’s killer.”
Azzic snorted. “Is that why she broke into a secured crime scene? In most cases, physical evidence is found at the scene of the crime. She could contaminate the evidence, drop fibers and hairs, or even destroy evidence.”
I didn’t like the insinuation. “Let’s get to the point, Detective. I understand the police think I killed my partner, which is absurd.”
He turned to me calmly. “Maybe it is. Where were you last night after eleven o’clock?”
“Detective,” Grady said, “I’m instructing her not to answer that question. And if she’s in custody, you haven’t Mirandized her.”
Detective Azzic chuckled. “Down, boy. I don’t see any custody situation here. I’m just asking a coupla questions. Maybe we can eliminate the ride downtown here and now, then it won’t matter who drives.”
I doubted it, but answered anyway, “I was rowing.”
“Rowing?” His sparse eyebrows rose and he looked as surprised as a homicide detective can ever be. “Like in a rowboat?”
“Like in a scull.”
“At night? In the dark?”
“I like to row at night. It’s the only time I can find.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Not that I know of.” Grady shifted unhappily at my side.
“How did you get to the boathouse?”
“I walked.”
“Detective,” Grady broke in, “I think this questioning is unnecessary. Isn’t that all the information you need?”
The detective folded his arms. “No, I think we need to continue the interview down at the station.”
“What time?” Grady shot back, and if he were disappointed it didn’t show.
“An hour or so. Give me some time to get my papers together. I have to get the original of Mr. Biscardi’s will.”
“His will?” I asked, and Grady flashed me a discreet let-me-do-this look.
Detective Azzic looked at me, cocking his head. “You didn’t know Mr. Biscardi had a will, Ms. Rosato? Wasn’t he your boyfriend and business partner?”
Grady shot me another warning glance. “Please don’t answer that, Bennie. I’d like to see the will, Detective.”
I clammed up and got my bearings. Mark was murdered. I was a suspect. It made sense that Mark had a will, but we’d never discussed it. I’d never really thought about it, he was a young man. I felt suddenly alarmed.
Detective Azzic slipped a hand inside his breast pocket and retrieved a packet of papers for Grady. “I had this copy made before I bagged it. The will is dated July 11, three years ago, but I guess you didn’t know that, Ms. Rosato.”
I didn’t take the bait, but watched Grady’s eyes tense behind his glasses as he read. There were ten pages or so, but he skimmed them rapidly. His face betrayed nothing as he snapped the papers closed and handed them back to Detective Azzic. “Thanks,” he said.
“Interesting, huh?” the detective asked, looking from Grady to me.