Authors: Lisa Scottoline
“No idea.”
“Where could they be? I called their apartments, their homes. I can’t find them.” Bennie had even called DiNunzio’s parents, who had already heard from TV that their daughter was missing. She had tried to calm Mary’s mother, but her Italian wasn’t up to it.
“I called Missing Persons, I put out an APB, but we got no personnel tonight. The storm is a bitch. We’re doing everything we can to find them. You gotta cooperate with us. This is the worst possible night to investigate a homicide.”
“Who is the shooter? How did you find him?”
“Ms. Rosato—”
“Please. Maybe I can help. Maybe I know something. It’s a blizzard, a crisis. We have to work together, don’t we? Cooperate. That’s what you’re telling me.”
The cop sighed. “You didn’t hear it from me, right?”
“No.”
“His name is Bobby Bogosian. We know him. All we have to do is pick him up.”
“Bogosian, I don’t know that name. How did you find him?”
The cop cracked a smile, in spite of himself. “He left his magazine. I found it in the other conference room.”
“How’d you know it was his, without prints?”
“It has a subscription label. Name and address right on it.”
Bennie would have laughed if it hadn’t been Pete Santis that got killed. “Smooth,” she said.
“They get dumber every year, you ask me.”
Bennie looked past his shoulder to the glass conference room. “You mind if I look around in there? I can help.”
“No way are you going in there. That’s a crime scene. You’ll contaminate it.”
“I won’t touch anything. If I see something, I’ll mention it to you. Maybe give you a leg up.”
“No.”
“I won’t—”
“No!” he said, and his sharpness told Bennie she had crossed the line again. It wasn’t intentional, this habit of hers, treading on authority’s toes. She’d stop crossing the line if somebody would just tell her where it was.
“Fine, fine, fine. You win, Torregrossa. I’ll just stand here in front of the door and look in. I can look, can’t I? I have a First Amendment right to look.”
“Look all you want. Knock yourself out.”
“Thank you,” Bennie said, like she needed the cop’s permission to look in her own conference room. It was the best part of being the boss; she didn’t need anybody’s permission but her own. She walked to the threshold of the conference room and scrutinized it. Her Eakins print dangled askew on the wall, as if it had been knocked over when someone ran or walked by. A swivel chair had been upended and its feet stuck in the air like a crab on its back. The Steere file and exhibits were lying on the conference table. Photos sat on top of the heap, as if they had been examined recently. Bennie leaned closer to see them.
“Not another inch,” the cop said.
“Gotcha.” Bennie squinted to see the photos. They were grisly autopsy photos of the man Elliot Steere had killed, then a newspaper-type photo. It was Steere’s victim. Next to the photos was a legal pad that read,
Heb Darnton/Eb Darning
. Hmmm. Bennie made a mental note of it, then tried to identify the handwriting. Detached capital letters, good-girl curlicues. Catholic school writing. DiNunzio’s notes. Bennie gestured to the notes. “Looks like DiNunzio was researching something about the man Steere killed. Could that be tied in?”
“I’ll point it out to the detective when he gets here.”
“You want to call and see if he’s on his way?”
“No.”
“Maybe I should call.”
A set of cold cop eyes slipped sideways. “Let the detectives handle this investigation. They know what they’re doing.”
Bennie didn’t point out that she’d had some personal experience to the contrary. She’d lost one law firm because of police incompetence and she wasn’t about to lose another. Her gut twisted at the memory. Bennie had been the prime suspect in a murder she hadn’t committed, but innuendo had proved as damaging as indictment. There were phone calls from anxious clients, police leaks, and bad press, and Bennie had found herself watching the slow-motion crash of her first law firm.
But this time it had to be different. This time Bennie would protect her firm and prevent anyone else from getting killed. Marta Richter was her biggest client. The two were hardly friends, but Bennie didn’t take any of her clients lightly. It was a fiduciary relationship, one of trust as well as finances. Bennie had told Marta as much in their initial meeting, making it clear that Rosato & Associates would partner with her, not just serve as a local mail drop. The two litigators had talked trial strategy, business development, and the possibility of future pairings. Bennie had even lent Marta her two best lawyers.
Bennie’s thoughts turned to DiNunzio and Carrier. She had hand-picked the two lawyers and trained them. How were they involved with the guards’ killings? Where were they, for God’s sake, and what did it have to do with the Steere case, if anything? Could they be in jeopardy themselves?
Bennie’s firm was under attack. There was blood on her walls. Her reputation, her name. If anybody was going to get to her firm it would have to be
through
her. This time she had to fight back. Adrenaline pumped in her bloodstream. She couldn’t wait for the thaw to begin an investigation. She would begin now. Herself. Nobody knew police procedure better. Nobody had as much at stake. Bennie looked again at DiNunzio’s notes.
Heb Darnton/Eb Darning
.
It was a starting point.
M
ayor Peter Montgomery Walker paced the length of his huge, cherry-paneled office, in front of a remarkably bare mahogany desk. It was his show desk. The desk he used was in his private office behind the secret paneled door. It was where he kept his confidential papers, basketball hoop, and soda fountain. “We gotta get ahead of this, people! Steere’s lawyers are missing and two men are dead!” he fumed. “We got a murder case and a blizzard here! We’re not handling either of them!”
Large windows flanking the desk reflected the mayor’s rolled-up white shirtsleeves and flying rep tie. He had the stamina to rant for twenty minutes; he jogged three miles a day by the Schuylkill River. His aides thought he ran to keep fit, but he ran because he liked the sun on his face and he loved the river drives. The mayor thought no city in the country had a nicer entrance than Philly’s. It was prettier than Chicago’s, even. “I will not lose this election because of the goddamn
weather
!” he shouted as he paced. “Or because of Elliot Steere!”
The deputy mayors shriveled in their club chairs against the wall. An aged secretary edged toward the mahogany door out of the office. Only the mayor’s chief of staff, Jennifer Pressman, looked relaxed, leaning against a cherrywood credenza that held softball trophies and photos of the mayor’s family and friends. One of the photos showed Jen with the mayor when he was the district attorney and she was his assistant. A tall, thin beauty with long dark hair and a slim-fitting matte gray suit, Jen watched the mayor from behind glasses with lenses round as quarters. She knew how to handle him from way back; let him bitch.
“Where’s the crime lab reports? Where’s the coroner’s report? I want answers, sports fans! Why do I have to beg? Don’t I look familiar?”
Jen didn’t reply or even react. She had ridden the mayor’s coattails to this job and as chief of staff had the managing director reporting to her, as well as the heads of all major departments. She had hired most of the top administrative employees, managed the high-profile literacy campaign, and continued the blood and organ donor drive she’d started at the D.A.’s office. Jen checked her watch. Almost midnight. Her cool hid the tension she felt inside. She had to go, but getting out of the office soon was out of the question. Stress, coffee, and no dinner. Ingredients for a migraine.
“And who’re the detectives on the Steere case? Where the hell is Michael?” The mayor raked back his hair with an angry swipe and reflexively checked his hand to see if any had fallen out. His wife thought his bald spot was getting bigger, but his mistress disagreed. “Jen, do we know where Michael is?”
“The chief of police is at an FOP dinner with the inspector,” Jen answered.
“Wonderful. Where’s Sam?”
“He’s at the Doral at a meeting. All the managing directors of major cities are there. He’s the keynote speaker.”
“The Doral? He
went
? He knew the Steere case was going to the jury!”
“He had a command appearance.” Someday Jen would tell the mayor that his aides made themselves scarce in a crisis because of hissy fits like this one. The phone jangled in the scheduling office. The fax machine beeped in the secretary’s area. Jen was beginning to see little pinpoints of light in the distance. Oh, no. It was her early-warning sign.
“Where’s Tom Moran? He should know what’s going on with Steere! Do the murders affect the court case? Can Steere move for a mistrial?”
“Moran’s trying to get here, but the plows haven’t gotten to East Falls yet.” Jen pushed up her glasses, as if that would stop the lights in her mind. The mayor didn’t know about her migraines, none of them did. It wasn’t the kind of information you publicized if you wanted to get ahead in politics. “He’s in touch with City Hall Communications. We can get him on the phone if you want.”
“I don’t want him on the phone, I want him here! Goddamn it, why does he have to live in
East Falls
? From now on, everybody rents apartments in town! Get the same goddamn apartment if you have to!” The mayor stormed back and forth. “What’s Moran doing at home anyway?”
“They had the new babies, remember?” Jen tried to ignore the telephones and faxes. A light began to flicker behind her left eyeball, frantic as a candle in a hurricane. “They’re twins, and you’re the godfather,” Jen added, and one of the junior aides, Jack O’Rourke, started to giggle.
Idiot
, Jen thought. She didn’t mind that he was stupid, only that he didn’t know how stupid he was. The flickering behind her eye intensified.
“I can’t be the godfather, I’m the mayor! I’m up for reelection in November and I’m further behind in the polls than last election! The writing’s on the wall, people! Can you read silently while I read aloud?” The mayor charged across the red patterned Oriental. He only wanted to fix the city he loved and he couldn’t catch a break. He hadn’t gotten the Philadelphia Renaissance off the ground because of Steere. He wanted that prick in jail forever. It was the only way to shake loose those properties and win the election.
“I have a thought, sir,” O’Rourke chirped up. “What if Steere’s lawyers killed the security guards? What if they killed the guards and ran away with the suspect? Like a conspiracy.”
“
What
?” The mayor bit his tongue not to tear the kid a new asshole. The kid never said anything worth hearing, but he was Frank O’Rourke’s son and the mayor wasn’t above a little patronage if it got the job done. He was trying to keep this city afloat, and assholes like Elliot Steere were boring holes in the boat. Suddenly he whirled around on his wingtips and folded his arms with his back to his staff.
The aides exchanged glances behind the mayor’s back. They tried not to laugh out loud as the mayor went into The Cone of Silence. It was their nickname for Mayor Walker’s little quirk, and Jen usually found it funny. Not tonight. There was too much to do and the pinpoints in her head were spreading into large blotches of white light, like holes burning in a paper lantern. She needed to get her Imitrex injector from her desk. Her office was just across the hall. It would take her three minutes.
The mayor finally turned around, looking calmer. Redness ebbed from his face, and he stood still. “We should talk to the press, Jen,” he said, his voice almost back to normal. “Take the high road on Steere. Two men are dead. Say we’re doing everything we can. We’ll make sure the Steere case goes forward and justice is served. Write that up for me. Got it?”
“Yes,” she said, but she didn’t know how she could possibly whip up a speech. The nausea was starting, and after that would come the pain. Unbelievable, immobilizing pain. She’d have to lie down in a dark room. She’d be totally and completely fucked.
“The headline is the new snowplows, Jen. Announce the snowplows right up front. Say that we were responsive. All the streets will be plowed, no matter how narrow. Is the press outside?”
“In the hall,” Jen managed to say.
“Is Alix Locke still out there? I want her in on this. She’s the one who made the stink about the goddamn plows.”
Jen nodded, but even that hurt her head. “She’s been out there since the murder story broke. She wouldn’t go away. She’s bitching that we’re not releasing the police report.”
“Why? She knows we don’t release until the investigation’s over. What is it with Locke? Why is she always in my face? I thought she was a Democrat.”
“She’s a reporter. Doing her job. Being a bitch.” Jen’s brain flooded with light. She was sick to her stomach. The pain was starting.
The mayor’s secretary reappeared at the door. “Mr. Mayor,” she said, her lined face alarmed. “Alix Locke is insisting on speaking with you. She won’t take no for an answer, sir.”
“Tell her to wait until the press conference like everybody else!” the mayor boomed, and his voice reverberated like a rifle shot through Jennifer’s brain. Then the phone started ringing again.
“When it snows it pours,” O’Rourke said, but none of the staff laughed. Least of all Jennifer, who bolted for her office and her Imitrex injector.
“I’ll announce the conference,” she said.
C
hristopher Graham wedged his powerful frame into the tiny chair in his hotel room and set his green bottle of Rolling Rock on his leg. Christopher hated conjugal visits. Like Mr. Fogel had said while they were playing cards on the last visit: “Neither of us has anybody to conjugate.” Tonight Mr. Fogel wasn’t up for cards, so Christopher sat alone and took another swig of Rolling Rock. The jurors were allowed one alcoholic beverage a night.
“This one’s for you,” Christopher said, hoisting the bottle in the silent hotel room. His gaze wandered listlessly over snow flying outside the window, the double bed with the polyester comforter, and the TV on its swivel stand. The hotel would pipe in a cable movie for free during the conjugal visits — tonight’s was
Jurassic Park
— but Christopher kept the TV turned off. Beside him on the steel cart sat the remains of his dinner: fried chicken and Spanish rice, with ice cream for dessert. Christopher had come to hate fried chicken on this jury. Not as much as he hated chairs that were too small, though, and not half as much as he hated conjugal visits.