Rough Justice raa-5

by Lisa Scottoline

  "This is Howard Rattner reporting from the Criminal Justice Center in Philadelphia. The jury is expected to return this morning from deliberations in the murder trial of real estate developer Elliot Steere. The jury has been out only a matter of hours, and court observers expect it to return soon with a verdict of acquittal. Legal experts say the jury should know nothing of the murders last night of two security guards in the offices of Rosato and Associates, the all-woman law firm defending Mr. Steere."

  Marta tried to stay calm. Good, the jury was still out. Christopher had delayed them successfully. Maybe he could persuade them to convict. She couldn't give up hope.

  "In a related story," continued the reporter, "no developments in the status of two of the lawyers formerly defending this murder case. Elliot Steere's former lead counsel, Marta Richter, is still missing and her whereabouts are unknown. Another defense lawyer, Mary DiNunzio, remains in intensive care, fighting for her life. As we reported, Miss DiNunzio was shot in the early morning hours by an unknown assailant and spent the night in surgery."

  Marta sat stricken, reeling as they went though a tollbooth.

  "Told you, it's always bad news," said the old woman. "Murder. Killing. That's all they put on. That's all that matters to them." The woman moved to turn the radio off, but Marta grabbed her hand.

  "No, stop. I need to hear this."

  "All right, fine." The woman quickly withdrew her hand. "Don't get excited."

  Marta turned up the volume. The reporter said, "The police have no suspects in connection with the shooting of attorney Mary DiNunzio. We'll keep you posted as events unfold both in and out of the courtroom. Back to you, Jane, for the latest on the blizzard that has buried the Delaware Valley."

  Marta tried to get a grip. Mary, shot? What had happened? Had Bogosian done it? How? Marta didn't know what to do. She felt shaken, torn. She was drawn to see Mary, but she'd be recognized and taken in if she went to the hospital. The press would be everywhere. Everything would be lost. No, not the hospital. Not to Alix Locke, either. Suddenly Marta knew where she had to go.

  53

  Ralph Merry ducked into a stall in the men's room, unbuckled his pants, and dropped trou. His white boxers stretched between his knees, and the packet they'd sent to Ralph's wife was taped inside the waistband. He'd carried the damn thing every day like they told him to. He'd felt like a secret agent taping the packet to his skivvies in the morning, but now he was glad he had. He would never have guessed Christopher would pull a Benedict Arnold. The man turned out to be just plain weak.

  The packet was tiny and plastic, no bigger than a thumbnail, and it contained white powder. Ralph didn't know what the powder was, but they told him it wouldn't kill anybody, just give him a stomachache for a day or two, long enough to get him off the jury. They told Ralph to use it if he got in a jam. Ralph figured this was a jam all right.

  The urinals flushed as he peeled the packet off the waistband, leaving white threads stuck to the tape. Ralph threw the tape in the toilet and tucked the packet under his sleeve, like he practiced with his wife during the conjugal visit when she brought it. It was so easy to smuggle it in; of course it wasn't picked up by the metal detector. Ralph had realized what a cakewalk it would be to smuggle drugs into the country. The United States had to do a better job protecting its borders; it was a question of integrity, national integrity. Ralph double-checked the packet under his shirt cuff and pulled up his pants.

  "Ralph, you fall in?" asked the sheriff, who was standing by the door.

  "Nah, I'm good to go." Ralph flushed the toilet for show and opened the stall door.

  54

  Marta sat in Judy's apartment, sickened as the shaken associate told her the details of Mary's shooting. So Marta hadn't been able to keep the associates safe; they were both in it up to their eyeballs. And judging from the time Mary had been shot, it couldn't have been Bogosian that did it; he was in Long Beach Island around that time. Steere must have sent someone else. Someone who must be out there, waiting. Marta had set in motion something she couldn't control, jeopardizing them all. It had gone too far. She was spent after the long, exhausting night. It had to stop.

  "Wait until you see Darning's notebook," Judy was saying, from the stool at the kitchen counter. A small TV sat on the counter on low volume; the news covered the snowstorm continuously. A blue bag of Chips Ahoy sat open-mouthed next to the TV.

  "No, I don't want to see it. I don't care about the notebook. I care about you and Mary."

  Judy blinked at the unexpected sentiment. Erect? "The notebook could lead to why Steere killed Darning."

  "Not our concern," Marta said. Her manner grew calm suddenly. She felt centered, more in control than when she was a control freak, ironically. "We'll take the notebook and file to the police. Tell them we want protection, too."

  "Did you say 'file'?" Judy straightened up on the stool. "What file?"

  "It doesn't matter." Marta hadn't told Judy anything about the buried treasure or Bogosian. It was safer if she didn't know. "This has gotten way out of hand. Trust me."

  "Now you sound like Bennie."

  "Rosato? She knows about the notebook?"

  "She's concerned about my ethics. I'm out of a job."

  Marta winced. She'd gotten one kid shot, and one ruined. "We'll take the notebook and the file to the police. Leave the whole thing to them."

  "Is that the file you mean? That envelope there?" Judy eased off the stool and pointed to the manila envelope peeking from Marta's purse.

  "People are dead. Mary's been shot. No file is worth that."

  "Mary's the reason I want to see that file. She wanted justice, and so do I. Don't you? Isn't that why you went after Steere in the first place?"

  Marta felt a twinge. "Not in the beginning, don't kid yourself. It was jealousy, not justice. My motives were impure."

  "So you did the right thing for the wrong reason. It doesn't make any difference now. Steere killed Darning. We have a notebook that could prove it. Now could I see that file?"

  "It's too late." Marta stood up, grabbed her purse, and zipped up her heavy coat. "Let's go. You're in danger as long as you have that notebook. We both are."

  "We worked all night for this evidence. It's better than anything the cops have done. What's in the envelope? What kind of file?"

  "Nothing. I don't even understand it. Maybe the cops will. Come on, pack up. Let's go."

  Judy folded her arms and stood her ground. "Wait. I'll make a deal with you. Let me see that file. You look at the notebook. If we learn nothing in five minutes, we go straight to the cops. I promise."

  "No."

  "We've come this far. What have we got to lose? Five minutes?"

  "I don't care. Get your coat. We're outta here." Marta headed for the door, but Judy stepped in front and blocked her path to the door. The two lawyers stood toe to toe.

  Marta laughed abruptly. "You gonna hit me? Go ahead. I'm like a be-bop clown. I pop right up."

  Judy paused, unwilling to resort to striking Marta, though she'd fantasized about it during the trial.

  "Excellent choice." Marta sidestepped the associate and headed to the door. "Get your coat, kiddo."

  "I don't think so," Judy called after her. "I won't go with you unless you give me the five minutes. If you go to the cops now, you go alone. Without me or the notebook."

  Marta stopped in her tracks and turned around, incredulous. "Where did you learn shit like that?"

  "From the master, of course," Judy answered, with a gap-toothed grin.

  55

  The sequestration hotel had plied the jurors with a breakfast tray of bagels, Danish, and coffee, set on a credenza in the conference room. Ralph Merry hovered over the leftover food and coffee. He'd eaten the same cherry Danish every day for two months and he couldn't wait to check out of this place. First thing he'd do was travel and stay in better hotels than this one. Maybe take a cruise, too, with the wife. But right now he had a mission to complete.

/>   Ralph shook a Styrofoam cup from the upside-down stack next to a bronze plastic jug of coffee. He kept his back to the jurors, who were sitting around the table listening to Christopher yammer like a bleeding heart. Ralph couldn't tell how many of them were buying it. He had to assume a worst-case scenario. There was no margin for error. Zero tolerance. He couldn't cross a man like Elliot Steere.

  "Who wants more coffee?" Ralph boomed. "Anybody else for fresh coffee while I'm buying? How about you, Mrs. Wahlbaum? Mrs. Williams?" Ralph kept his voice cheery, like he was barbecuing with his wife and grandkids. Who wants hot dogs? Who wants hamburgers? Same thing.

  "I'd love some coffee, Ralph," Mrs. Wahlbaum said.

  Ralph grinned. "No problemo, young lady. How would you like it?"

  "Extra cream and sugar."

  "Roger dodger, my dear." Ralph poured Mrs. Wahlbaum a tall cup of coffee. Steam curled from the top. "Christopher? Want another cup of hot brew?"

  Christopher looked at his Styrofoam cup. It was empty and he'd had enough coffee for the morning. "I guess not. Thanks anyway."

  A miss. "Come on, Christopher. If you're gonna convince me to convict that rat bastard, you're gonna need some hair on your chest."

  Megan laughed. "No way, Ralph. Christopher's trying to get rid of unwanted hair. Right, Christopher?"

  "There you go," Christopher said with a smile. He liked the way Megan was looking at him. She was a pretty girl except for the blue-painted fingernails, but he supposed they were considered sophisticated in Philly.

  "Christopher," Ralph said gruffly. He glanced from Christopher to Megan and didn't like what he saw. No time for tomfoolery like this. "Have some coffee. I'll pour one for you and Megan, too."

  "Okay, I'm addicted to coffee," Megan said. "I get the latte at Starbucks. Do you like Starbucks coffee, Christopher?"

  "I never tried it," he answered. He had to get out more. "But I'll take a cup, too, Ralph."

  KABOOM! A direct hit on the second shot. Cheered, Ralph picked up the plastic pitcher and began to pour. "How do you take it, soldier?"

  "Cream and sugar."

  Ralph filled Christopher's cup with hot coffee and slipped the packet of powder from under his cuff. He palmed the packet, grabbed two packs of sugar, and tore the end off all three together. Then he poured the sugar and the powder into the hot coffee, stirred with a plastic stick, and tucked the leftover plastic back under his cuff. His heart thudded as watched the powder dissolve, but he was no coward. His resolve didn't waver.

  "Don't forget mine, extra sugar and cream," called Mrs. Wahlbaum.

  "Got you covered, young lady," Ralph said. He set Christopher's coffee aside so he wouldn't get it confused with the others, and poured the other coffees.

  "How about me, Ralph?" Wanthida asked. "I take mine black."

  "Hold your horses, darlin'. Christopher asked first and he's the foreman. He's the one doin' all the work." Ralph picked up Christopher's coffee, walked over to the table, and handed it to him. "See if I put enough sugar in, Chris."

  Christopher took a quick sip. "It tastes great. Thanks, Ralph. Appreciate it."

  "Sure thing," Ralph said, and had to remind himself that Christopher wouldn't die. He'd just get a tummy ache and spend some time in sick bay. He'd be out in two days, after the verdict was in and Steere had walked. Ralph would hold up his end of the bargain. The payoff would be deposited in a special account. Ralph couldn't wait to call his literary agent. They damn well better put his picture on the cover. "Let me get those other coffees," he said, and hustled away.

  56

  Marta only reluctantly skimmed the list of handwritten numbers in Darning's notebook and half wondered if they represented money or account numbers. There were no patterns she could discern. The police would do better. "Three minutes left, kiddo," she said, testy at the associate sitting next to her on the futon.

  "Four minutes." Judy hunched over the computer file spread on the coffee table. "You're right about this file. These are records used to make driver's licenses. It's a database, a computer file of driver's licenses."

  "It doesn't tell us anything, and I have no idea what the notebook means. It's a bunch of eight-digit numbers. That's it. Two minutes and we roll."

  "These numbers are eight digits, too."

  "What numbers?"

  "The numbers at the top of each field," Judy answered, pointing. "The operator's numbers, from the driver's licenses."

  Marta looked over. The way the numbers were spaced, she hadn't noticed. Hmm. "Probably just a coincidence. There are about four thousand records in the computer file. How many numbers are in the notebook?"

  Judy looked at Marta in astonishment. "About four thousand. Holy shit," she said, but Marta tried not to jump to conclusions.

  "So there are four thousand numbers in the notebook and four thousand driver's licenses in the file. We don't know if there's a connection."

  "Connection? What connection could there be?"

  Marta paused, thinking. "It's possible that the notebook is related to the file. If the notebook is a list of numbers and each computer record has an operator's number, then maybe the notebook is a list of the operator's numbers from the computer file."

  Judy's eyes widened. "You think they match? Like a copy?"

  "Possibly." Despite her better judgment, Marta felt a jolt of excitement. "If so, we should be able to find each of the operator's numbers in the notebook. Read me a number from one of the driver's licenses."

  Judy picked up the top computer page. "22 746 209."

  Marta scanned the list of numbers on the first page of the notebook with Judy looking over her shoulder. Two sets of keen eyes raced down the page. "Too bad they're not listed in any order." Marta asked, "Do you see it on the first page?"

  "Nope."

  "On to the next." Marta turned the page and they both skimmed the list on the second page. Judy was obviously excited, though Marta was trying not to get carried away with her. It felt strange to work so closely with an associate, and not entirely unpleasant. "See it on page two?"

  "Nope."

  "Onward and upward." They read page three and continued, page after page, until they reached page ten. There, in the middle of the page, sandwiched in the middle of the list on the left, it said:

  22746209

  "Yes!" Judy shouted in delight. "We figured it out! We're geniuses."

  Marta laughed. "Oh, yeah? Then what's it mean, whiz kid?"

  "I have no idea. What do you think?"

  Marta paused. She considered going to the cops. They were so close. "Give me that sheet. I want to see who number 22746209 is."

  Judy showed her the computer sheet. There was a field of information and a photo of an older white man with a faint smile. "It's William Swenson. 708 Greentree Court, Philadelphia."

  "Set Mr. Swenson aside and read me another number. Let's not go off half cocked. We only matched one of them."

  "Okay. 92294593,"Judy read, then hung on Marta's shoulder as she thumbed back to page one of the notebook. "Beginning at the beginning, huh?"

  "I'm nothing if not methodical."

  "That's one word for it."

  Marta glanced over her shoulder. "Read, kiddo." They went down the lists on the first page and the second, and stopped at the list on the fifth page. There it was:

  92294593

  "Awesome!" Judy almost cheered.

  "Totally."

  Judy laughed. "I didn't know you had a sense of humor."

  "I don't. Tell me who Mr. 92 is."

  Judy looked at the second driver's license on the sheet. The face of a middle-aged woman squinted behind bifocals. "She's Helen Minton of Rhawn Street, in Philly."

  "Set her aside. Check five more, then I'll believe the theory."

  "I'm sure we're right."

  "You're young and impetuous. Now read."

  Judy read Marta another number, which the lawyers found in Darning's notebook, then four more after that. They found each number in the notebook
and set aside each license when they matched it. "Now what?" Judy bubbled when they were finished.

  "We call them up."

  "What? Why?"

  "To see what we can learn." Marta checked her watch. Almost one. No time to lose. She picked up the portable phone. "Hand me the first sheet, then get me a phone book. Hurry up."

  "You like to give orders, don't you?"

  "Love it. Get the book."

  Judy reached under the end table for the phone book. "It makes you feel powerful."

  "I am powerful."

  "But people don't like to be bossed around."

  "Your point is?" Marta asked slyly, and Judy threw the phone book at her.

  * * *

  "Is this the Swenson residence?" Marta asked, with the associate sitting close enough to hear the voice on the telephone receiver. She felt strangely silly, like they were schoolgirls making phony phone calls. In a way, they were.

  "This is the Swensons'," said the woman on the other end of the line.

  "May I speak to William Swenson, please?"

  "That would be my husband."

  "Is he in?"

  "He's dead. My husband is dead."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't know," Marta said, caught off-balance, and Judy deflated like a hot air balloon.

  "He died in a car accident four years ago. A drunk driver crossed the median."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Thank you. Can I help you with something?"

  "No, thank you," Marta said. "Thanks again for your time." She pressed down the plastic hook. "Read me the next phone number."

  "Say please."

  "Before the jury gets back."

  "I hear you," Judy said quickly, and read off the number.

  * * *

  Marta punched in the phone number, albeit in a darker mood. She had to solve this thing and she had to solve it soon. She couldn't shake the thoughts of Bogosian or Mary. Was there a killer out there now? Waiting? "Is this the Minton residence?" she asked when a young woman picked up.