Authors: Lisa Scottoline
“No. We can’t be.”
“The TV stations are here. The cops. Maybe it’s the verdict.”
Marta shook it off. “It could be the jurors, arriving from the hotel.”
“But it could be the verdict. They could have delivered it already.”
“No!” Marta shouted hoarsely. “We’re not too late! Now run!” She gritted her teeth and ran harder. She wouldn’t be beaten by Elliot Steere, not after last night. Not after the guards, and Mary.
Judy peered through the snow flurries at the scene. The crowd got closer and closer. They dashed past the shadow of City Hall and rushed down the block to Filbert. At the back of the mob stood black-jacketed cops and reporters in green parkas and snow ponchos. The noisy crowd was dotted with black police hats, baseball caps, and golf umbrellas. A hundred people filled the narrow street, talking excitedly, their breath making a collective cloud in the cold air.
“I can’t see anything, can you?” Marta shouted, out of breath. She was at the edge of complete exhaustion.
“No. The crowd’s too big.” Judy peeked from behind an overweight cop. “Officer, what’s happening?”
“Just got here myself, lady,” the cop said. His nose was red and leaky. “They called for crowd control.”
Marta yanked down her hood so she wouldn’t be recognized and shoved past a reporter in her way.
Bennie dashed the last hundred feet to the crowd. It was the final kick. She gave it all she had. Her legs hurt. Her lungs ached. She reached the Criminal Justice Center just in time to spot Judy’s yellow hat disappear midway through the crowd, with Marta pushing ahead of her.
M
arta stood near the front of the crowd, riveted at the sight. Elliot Steere was free. He stood joking with reporters on the sidewalk in front of the Criminal Justice Center. Cameras snapped his fake grin. TV lights bleached his features white as a cadaver. He was
free.
She was too late.
Judy pushed next to Marta from behind. “Oh, God,” she moaned, instantly sick at heart. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her body sagged with defeat. Steere had gotten away with murder. Judy wiped her eyes with a wet, snowy mitten.
Marta was too horrified to speak. She could see only her own fury. The man had used her. Used the court. Killed people. She seethed as he smiled for the press and raised his arms in victory. Steere would go free and prosper. It couldn’t happen. It couldn’t be permitted. Then Marta remembered.
The pritchel.
A long iron spike with a tip as lethal as a dagger. Did she still have it? She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the cold metal. The pritchel. She held it, feeling its heft even through her glove. It struck Marta as the perfect solution. She was already ruined. She had already killed. She had nothing more to lose. She stepped forward in a sort of trance, leaving Judy and the world behind.
Back at the middle of the crowd, Bennie began pushing harder. “Excuse me!” she said, elbowing past a cop. She spotted Steere at the front of the crowd, being interviewed by reporters on the sidewalk. So he’d been acquitted. At least Marta and Judy hadn’t been able to interfere with the trial. But where were they?
Bennie scanned the crowd and spotted Judy’s yellow ski cap among the black police hats. Where was Marta? She would be furious at seeing Steere walk. Bennie felt panicky without knowing why. She jostled her way forward from the right side where the reporters were fewer.
Marta stopped two rows from Steere. Snow fell on his fine overcoat and sprinkled his padded shoulders. She was so close she could see the hand stitching on his lapels. She gripped the pritchel in her pocket. Her heart pumped in her chest. Adrenaline pounded in her ears, drumming behind Steere’s voice.
“I always knew the jury would find me innocent,” Steere was saying to a TV reporter holding a black bubble microphone. “Never doubted it for a minute.”
Bennie pushed through the crowd and finally spotted Marta. There. Right near Steere. Marta was standing still, a faraway look in her eyes. What was she doing? Bennie would have shouted to her but the crowd was too loud. “Comin’ through!” she said, pushing her way to Marta.
Marta stood a foot from Steere, her face obscured by her hood. She imagined the pritchel piercing his chest. Staining his camel-hair topcoat with hot red blood. She waited for the right moment. The TV reporter was still in the way. Marta inched forward, the drumming louder in her ears, waiting for the reporter to move.
Bennie saw it then. What was happening. Marta was closing in. She must have a weapon. Would she really kill Steere? Oh God. She had to be stopped. She couldn’t do that. Bennie couldn’t let her. She bulldozed through the crowd.
The TV reporter moved suddenly aside. Steere looked around for the next interview, smiling. The path in front of him was momentarily clear. Marta’s world froze. The crowd stood still. The reporters fell mute. The motor drives stopped whirring. The only sound was the drumbeat pounding in Marta’s ears. She stepped into the breach and drew her hand from her pocket.
“MARTA, NO!” Bennie shrieked.
The scream broke Marta’s trance. The world came screaming back to life. What had she been thinking? Was she crazy? Strong arms grabbed her. It was Bennie, alarmed. She wrenched the pritchel from Marta’s hands and searched her eyes for sanity.
Suddenly sirens blared at the edge of the crowd. Cops shouted. Reporters yelled. Cameras clicked. Video cameras whirred. A phalanx of cops and detectives charged through the crowd toward Steere. “Mr. Steere!” shouted one of the detectives, pointing. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Steere started to edge away, but a ring of black-jacketed cops blocked his path. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, at least for the time being. His expression remained composed as they shackled him, and the cacophony of the reporters drowned out his requests for his lawyer.
I
t took Emil Gorebian all day to interview lawyers, police, and the employees at the election commission. He sat tapping at his keyboard in the press room at City Hall. It had finally stopped snowing. Leftover sun struggled through the dirty window next to him.
Emil was hardly tired even after such a long day. He wasn’t old enough to retire, he was still going strong. He had the entire story in his head and it poured out as smoothly as olive oil. It would be all over the front page in the next edition. His first exclusive in ten years.
Emil tapped away. Elliot Steere and Jen Pressman had been lovers. They used the organ donor scheme to file absentee ballots with forged signatures. They paid Eb Darning to forge and file the ballots, but Eb began blackmailing them and had to be silenced. Emil had spent all day reading election records and reviewing absentee ballots filed in the last election. There had been at least two others who were paid to file the fake absentee ballots, and he figured there were many more. Gorebian would explain the scheme in a sidebar, so readers could understand.
Emil kept tapping. The best part of the story was that the forged votes hadn’t been filed against the mayor, they’d been filed
in his favor
. Almost ten thousand votes filed on his behalf. Elliot Steere and Jen Pressman were trying to set the mayor up, so they could leak the driver’s license file right before the election and pin the voter fraud on him. Pressman had planned to betray the mayor and go her merry way. Steere would have defeated his biggest enemy and the price of historic properties would soar. The Philadelphia Renaissance would never blossom.
Emil sipped tea as he skimmed the half-finished story on the computer monitor. He would emphasize in the conclusion how the lawyers had worked to bring Steere to justice and how Bennie Rosato had risked everything to protect a client. The story would take the cloud off Bennie’s law firm and show her to be a hero. The young Turks called it spin, but that wasn’t what Emil called it. He called it truth.
Emil finished the story, tying up the loose ends. He imagined winning a Pulitzer and would settle for reinstatement to the day shift. Emil always knew he was a better reporter than Alix Locke. Sneaking into the chief of staff’s office and stealing her purse. Using Pressman’s keys to get into Steere’s beach house. Emil shook his head. No one had any morals anymore, any scruples. That was the problem today.
Emil hit the
PRINT
key and sighed happily.
John LeFort watched the telephone lights blinking from his desk chair in his office at Cable & Bess. Sunlight poured through the windows and glinted off the Waterford tumbler in his hand. LeFort never drank during the day, but today was an exception. He heaved a short sigh and picked up the phone. “Hello?” he asked, as if he didn’t know who it was. As if he didn’t know who any of the blinking lights were.
“John, Mo Barrie. I’m at home watching television. Did you see? Did you see it on the news? Steere’s been rearrested. Conspiracy to murder, for hiring a hit man. Vote fraud, trying to rig the mayoral election. It’s a scandal.”
“I know. I was there.”
“We’re calling the notes, John. We’re calling the notes right now. All of them. Those properties are for sale as of this minute. I’m ringing the city right after we hang up.”
“I understand,” John said. He sipped his drink. Mo could be as hysterical as Bunny. How foolish. It was only business.
“All of them, John. Consider them sold, John. As of now. Right this instant. It’s a house of cards, John, and it’s about to come tumbling down.”
“See you in court, Mo,” LeFort said, and hung up. He took another sip before picking up the next call.
Elliot Steere sat behind the wired glass across from his new criminal lawyer. The glass was scratched and smudged, and the interview room at the Roundhouse was far dirtier than the one at the Criminal Justice Center. Steere’s surroundings didn’t matter to him right now. “You’ll plead me innocent of all charges,” he said to his lawyer, who wore costly rimless glasses and a Zegna suit.
“But they have an excellent case for conspiracy in the murder of the security guards. They found Bogosian’s magazine, and there were papers in his apartment linking him to you. They’ll get his phone records and bank accounts.”
“Bogosian will never testify against me.”
“Bogosian is dead. The New Jersey police found his body on the beach.”
Steere paused. “All the better. Then he can’t testify.”
“But Richter will. Carrier will. They have a computer file from your beach house. They’re impounding your boat. They have records from Darning and a suspect in the DiNunzio shooting. He used a stolen car.” The young lawyer consulted his notes. “I expect indictments on vote fraud and election rigging. They’re talking about obstruction of justice, but I don’t know if they can prove it.”
“I am innocent of all charges against me.”
“You’d be lucky to be offered a deal.”
Steere smiled, amused. “Luck has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Did you ever hear of a general named Sun-Tzu?”
I
n an anesthetized sleep, Christopher dreamed he was cantering a horse across a snow-covered field, under a warm sun and a crisp blue sky. A fog hovered over the snow, so the horse appeared to be cantering on a bed of clouds. In anyone else’s dream the horse would have been white, an Arabian, but Christopher thought white horses were for show-offs, so it was a brown quarter horse. A large gelding with a white blaze, over sixteen hands high.
The horse’s hooves crunched through the snow as its canter accelerated without warning to a gallop. Though Christopher hadn’t kicked the horse to gallop him, he didn’t object to the change of pace until horse and rider were racing toward a wooden rail fence that appeared from nowhere. The fence was high, almost four feet, and Christopher didn’t know if the horse could jump it.
The horse’s hooves reached farther into the snow as it galloped full tilt, nostrils flaring, straining against the bit. The fence raced toward them. It was crazy to jump at this speed, but if Christopher halted he’d fly over the horse’s neck. He lifted into position and tightened the reins, but the leather slipped from his hands and flapped against the horse’s wet neck. The jump zoomed up to meet them. The horse leapt into the air. They’d never clear the fence.
“No!” Christopher shouted, waking up. He looked around him. Everything was white, but it wasn’t snow, it was a hospital room. He wasn’t crashing into a fence, he was lying on a hospital bed. And the touch on his hand wasn’t a loose rein, it was a woman. Megan Gerrity, the redhead from the jury, was sitting at the edge of his bed. Christopher blinked, groggy, and cleared his parched throat.
“It’s all right, Christopher,” Megan said. She squeezed his hand, and Christopher squeezed back, easing into the soft pillow with a sigh.
“You almost stabbed Elliot Steere! Do you realize that?” Bennie said as she stormed down the long hospital corridor. The late afternoon sun glowed through the large windows, but its residual warmth was lost on Bennie. On either side of the hall hung polished plaques listing the names of hospital benefactors, but she couldn’t have cared less. Bennie was walking so fast she didn’t notice anything and was so angry she didn’t care if Marta could keep pace.
“I agree, it never should have happened,” Marta said, bedraggled, as she rushed along. Her boots squashed and her snowpants rustled with every step. She felt whipped, out of gas. She had spent a long day at the Roundhouse being questioned by the cops, and the night before that had been eventful even for a criminal lawyer. “I’m sorry. Sorry for all of it.”
“Sorry?”
Bennie didn’t break stride. “For
attempted murder
? You can’t say you’re sorry for attempted murder. There are lots of legal excuses for attempted murder, but saying you’re really really really sorry isn’t one of them. If the cops had known what you were up to, you’d be in the slammer right now. And if I hadn’t palmed that fucking knife—”
“Pritchel.”
“Gesundheit.”
“No. It’s a pritchel, not a knife.”