“I know. So stay out of this mess. Tell the girl that the police investigation was handled appropriately and that there’s nothing more to it.”
Jessie looked at him with a knowing and sad smile. “I can’t do that yet. Not until I believe it myself.”
Exactly what he knew she was going to say. “Fine. I’ll help you, then.”
“No.” She shook her head. “That would make it worse. You’re not a cop anymore. You’re a civilian. It would be totally inappropriate to bring you into this. And, aside from that, I—” She cut herself off abruptly.
“What, Jessie?” He sensed she was treading carefully around him again. “What were you going to say?”
“I don’t think getting involved with this would be good for you psychologically. I know the transition from cop to civilian hasn’t been easy. I think you helping me on this case would be a bad idea.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Leary pushed away the rest of his food. His appetite was gone, for more reasons than one. He wanted to help her, but she seemed to think he was the one in need of help. The worst part? He wasn’t sure which of them was right.
“Leary, don’t…. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “Let’s eat, okay? And talk about something else.”
“Good idea.”
They talked about a new restaurant he’d heard served amazing wings, then about the arguments she’d been having with her father about his increasingly erratic driving. They laughed over a shared memory—funny only in retrospect—of a terrifying ride to a Wawa with her dad behind the wheel. It was a good lunch.
But later, as he walked her back to her car, his mind returned to Keeley.
5
Merging onto the highway, Dave Whittaker cursed as his phone’s Bluetooth lost its connection to his car again. He’d have to go through the pairing process again. So frustrating.
First world problems, he thought. It was all a matter of perspective, wasn’t it? He was a well-off man—hell, a rich man—getting worked up about a minor problem with his eighty-thousand-dollar car on his way to the multi-million-dollar company of which he was one of the owners. He shook his head and tried to smile at himself. But the smile wouldn’t come. I am beset by first world problems.
He parked in his reserved space and took the elevator to his top-floor office and sat in the ergonomically optimized chair behind the enormous cherry wood desk and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at a breathtaking view of the Philadelphia skyline. At least, it used to take his breath away. But like so much else in life, the view that had once filled him with hope and enthusiasm and pride in his accomplishments was now just another mundane detail of his life that he barely noticed. He might as well be sitting in front of a plain wall.
His beautiful assistant brought him a steaming cup of gourmet coffee with milk and sugar stirred precisely to his tastes. The mug sat on his desk and its contents cooled.
The mug was emblazoned with the logo of his firm—the words CBL Capital Partners below a stylized outline of Philly. CBL originally stood for City of Brotherly Love, but now it was just some letters and they meant nothing.
Dave Whittaker sat motionless and in silence for fifteen minutes, then sipped his coffee, which was now lukewarm and disgusting. He thought, it doesn’t matter how gourmet your coffee is, at room temperature it’s going to taste like crap. Was that a metaphor? Maybe he was getting poetic in his middle age.
Two months ago, Dave had turned forty. The big Four-Oh. But he didn’t think it was his age that was causing his sour outlook on life. He knew it wasn’t his age. It was something worse. It was his conscience.
I need to confront him, he thought. I need to challenge him, flat out.
He glared at the closed door of his office as if his gaze could pierce the heavy wood and penetrate all he way down the hall and around the corner to Luther Goyle’s office. But his body didn’t move.
Am I afraid of him? That thought almost made Dave laugh. Dave had grown up in North Philly, just another poor black kid in the ghetto, until clawing his way to college and then to a career in the financial industry. His childhood had been terrible, an absolute horror-show, every stereotype you could imagine. But it had one benefit. After living through it, there wasn’t much in the upper-class world that could scare him.
Goyle, on the other hand, had been born in some fancy suburb in Connecticut, spent most of his youth at an elite private school in New Hampshire, sailed through college and law school—both Ivy League, naturally—and then parked himself at a global law firm before joining CBL as its general counsel—the chief lawyer. If Goyle had ever been in a fight, Dave imagined it had involved lots of slapping.
No, he thought, I’m not afraid of him. And he got up from his chair and he went to talk to the man.
Dave found Luther Goyle seated behind a big desk of his own, in an office almost as large as Dave’s, with a view almost as good. Not for the first time, Dave looked at the obese, pale-skinned man and thought, bringing him on board was the biggest mistake we ever made.
The lawyer was a full partner in their firm, but not one of the founding partners. Dave and his friend, Jack Woodside, had founded the venture capital firm together fifteen years ago. Back then, they had been a couple of twenty-something Wall Street investment bankers with more money than common sense and big dreams of doing something meaningful.
Dave and Jack had left New York and founded CBL Capital Partners in the city of Philadelphia, where they’d both come from. The company’s mission had been as simple as it had been idealistic: to give something back—and make lots of money doing it—by finding the most exciting startups in the city and funding them.
Goyle had joined them later, after the firm had grown into a significant force in the investment capital world by backing several breakout tech companies. Flush with money, CBL had gone on a hiring spree, and one of their hires had been a lawyer. After all, why continue to outsource their legal work to high-priced law firms when they could have the work done in-house? That had been the theory, anyway.
At the time, Luther Goyle had been a partner at a major law firm headquartered in Manhattan. He was known for two specialties—investment work and mergers and acquisitions. His client base included venture capital firms like CBL that funded companies, and investment firms that specialized in taking control of undervalued companies through hostile takeovers. Dave and Jack had hired him for his expertise in the former.
But it wasn’t long before he got to use his skills in the latter, too.
A year or so after Goyle joined as GC, CBL hit a period of turbulence. The economy took a turn for the worse, and several of the firm’s investments imploded at the same time, along with a lot of the firm’s money. Goyle came to Dave and Jack with a proposition.
There was a metal manufacturing company based in Conshohocken, Pennsylvania. It was struggling, but it had valuable assets. Goyle proposed buying a controlling stake in the company—via a hostile takeover, if necessary—and then liquidating those assets. Dave and Jack protested at first. They hadn’t started CBL to become corporate raiders. But Goyle was persuasive. And they needed the money to get back to the venture work they loved.
The company in Conshohocken had been their first takeover. Three-hundred-and-twenty-five jobs lost. Everyone from the CEO down to the janitorial staff. Then auctions on the equipment, the buildings, the land. After all was said and done, Goyle’s scheme netted them a profit of several million dollars.
After that first takeover, they’d gone back to their core venture capital business. But they continued to struggle to make a profit on their investments. It turned out their early success had been attributable as much to luck as talent, and their luck had turned bad. Finding promising young companies and growing and nurturing them was a lot riskier, and didn’t pay nearly as well, as finding ailing companies and devouring them. So they did more of that. Goyle continued to prove his value, and when he pushed to be made a
partner in the firm, they’d agreed—which, Dave now realized, had been its own version of a hostile takeover.
In the short term, it had seemed like a good move. Dave and Jack got rich. Super rich. And when Dave felt bad about turning away from his dream of giving back to his city, he thought about his wife and children and the beautiful house he’d provided for them along with all the other luxuries he’d never had growing up, and he figured he was doing the right thing.
Problem was, it got harder to tell himself that when people started dying.
Goyle had an iPad clutched in his meaty hands. He put it down on his desk when Dave entered, and Dave saw dense text on the screen. The fat man was always online. Dave knew he frequented several forums, Facebook groups, and email lists tracking vulnerable and undervalued companies. Stalking his next victim.
“Good morning, Dave,” Goyle said. He leaned back in his chair, and the springs creaked. “You here to discuss Anders Innovations?”
“What?” Dave said. The question took him off-guard. He’d been too preoccupied with other concerns lately to focus on his actual work, and the Anders Innovations deal was the furthest thing from his mind. “No, not that.”
“Okay….” Goyle’s eyebrows were thin, oily-looking black lines. They rose now on his pale face, an exaggerated expression Goyle used when he wanted someone to get to the point. “What’s on your mind?”
Just say it, Dave told himself. “Corbin Keeley.”
The name brought a toothy smile to Goyle’s face. “Yes, I’ve been following the story. Shocking, isn’t it? The reporters say he’d been beating his girlfriend. She had to kill him in self-defense, apparently.” Goyle shook his head and made a clucking sound as his smirk spread across his doughy face. “Some people just have no decency.”
“Just what I was thinking.”
“On the bright side,” Goyle said, shrugging, “the councilman’s death means a certain bill you and I are both keenly interested in is much more likely to pass. Guaranteed to, I’d almost say.”
“Yes, it’s very convenient.”
Goyle exhaled loudly. “Do I sense some judgment in your tone?” His beady eyes seemed to drill into Dave, as if challenging him to make an accusation. Well, challenge accepted.
“I’m not an idiot. I know what you did. You promised me this would never happen again.”
Goyle snorted a laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dave. Listen, I’ve got a lot on my plate this morning. Why don’t we chat another time?”
“Don’t try to blow me off. I’m still a partner in this company, last time I checked.”
“Of course you are. All the more reason to see the positive aspects of this tragic occurrence. I can see, oh, about ten million of them.”
“I started this firm to help my city.”
“Yes, I noticed you’ve got a little martyr complex going on. You should really work on getting over that, Dave. The problem with martyrs is, they usually get themselves killed.”
“So now you’re threatening me? Where does it end, Luther?”
“Sometimes the people close to the martyrs get hurt, too. Their friends. Wives. Children.”
Dave felt the skin on the back of his neck crawl. “Fuck you.”
“Why don’t you go and read the paperwork on Anders Innovations? Put your mind to productive use. Don’t dwell so much on the negative stuff.”
“I suppose I should leave the negative stuff to you, huh?”
“I think that would be best for everyone.” And he picked up his iPad and returned his attention to whatever he’d been reading, leaving Dave standing there as if he’d been dismissed from the room and from the man’s thoughts.
Dave felt his molars grind. His hands clenched into fists. He stood there impotently for a moment, watching Goyle read his iPad as if he weren’t in the room. Then he turned and stepped toward the door.
Coward, he accused himself. After all these years, you’re nothing but a coward. Even worse, a complicit coward.
“You know,” Goyle said to his back, “your friend Jack doesn’t share your ethical concerns. Maybe you should talk to him.”
Could that be true? Dave had assumed he’d been the only one to discover Goyle’s secret, criminal behavior. Could Jack really be aware of it, too—and worse, comfortable with it? It didn’t seem possible. Not Jack.
“Talk to him,” Goyle repeated. “Maybe he can help you get your head on straight, before you make a mistake you can’t recover from. Corbin Keeley is dead and the investigation into his death is closed. Trust me—anyone who tries to open it is going to wish they hadn’t.”
6
Jessie stood in the parking lot outside Bistro Cannata. She shivered against the cold and looked around. In the bright, autumn sunshine, the black asphalt, white lines, and random assortment of cars looked like any other lot in the city. The sounds of traffic and wind seemed utterly ordinary. None of the gory details she’d seen in the photographs from the night of the shooting were visible now—during the intervening month, all of the blood spatters had been washed away, human remains taken to the morgue, rock fragments bagged and transported to an evidence locker, and the police tape removed. Not even a hint remained that this boring square of land had recently been the scene of a fatal shooting. She turned at the sound of a car engine. A sedan rolled into the lot and parked. Its doors opened and two men climbed out and walked past her toward the restaurant. One of them gave her a friendly nod as he walked by, probably assuming she was here for lunch and not to investigate a possible murder.
She paced the length of the parking lot, trying to visualize the crime scene. Crime scene. The phrase repeated in her head, and she winced. Had she started to believe that a crime had been committed? She identified the area where Keeley’s body had fallen, and the section of wall where his weapon—the rock—had crashed against the bricks.
Leary’s warnings were fresh in her mind. Prosecuting Raines is politically dangerous, he’d said. Stay out of this mess. He was right, but he was wrong, too. Finding out the truth was an obligation, both a professional and a moral one. She examined the rest of the parking lot and then found the jewelry store and the video camera over its entrance.
Once she was satisfied that she’d seen everything worth seeing outside—which wasn’t much—she entered Bistro Cannata. Warmth and noise enveloped her the moment she stepped through the door. Being featured in TV broadcasts and news articles as the scene of a shooting had apparently not deterred people from coming here. The publicity seemed to have increased interest in the place. The dining room roared with conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the scratching of silverware. Wait staff and busboys hurried from table to table.
A hostess dressed in a black cocktail dress asked her if she had a reservation.
“I’m actually here to speak with the manager. My name is Jessica Black. I’m an assistant district attorney.”
The hostess glanced behind her to a door Jessie assumed led to the kitchen and back rooms of the restaurant. “Jerry is the owner. Please wait here. I’ll see if he’s available.”
Jessie stood by the entrance as the hostess navigated between the packed tables. Bistro Cannata was a five-star restaurant in the Market East neighborhood. Close to City Hall, it was known as a lunch and dinner destination for politicians, businessmen, and lawyers. Depending on your point of view, the decor inside was either classic or old-fashioned, the jacket-and-tie dress code either classy or pretentious. Jessie had only eaten here once, as a guest at a DA’s office event. She’d found the atmosphere stuffy, but the delicious food had made up for it. She smelled that food now, and her stomach rumbled.
The hostess returned, hurrying to keep up with a man Jessie supposed was the owner. He was tall, middle-aged, with a dark complexion, close-cut, shiny black hair, and thick black eyebrows. Coming toward her quickly, with a purposeful, almost angry-looking stride, he glared at her. He wore a suit that looked fancier than ones she’d seen worn by top-tier defens
e attorneys.
“I’m Jerry Bonarini,” he said as he reached her. He did not extend his hand. “What’s this about? We’re very busy with the lunch rush, as you can see.”
“I only need a few minutes of your time. I’d like to ask you some questions about the night of Friday, October 14, when Councilman Keeley was shot here.”
Bonarini glared at the hostess, as if she were to blame for the imposition. “No one was shot here. The councilman was shot outside, in a parking lot I don’t own.”
“I just have a few questions, Mr. Bonarini.”
“I already spoke with the police. In fact, they forced me to close my restaurant for three whole hours. They asked me the same questions over and over again. They harassed my customers and my staff. It was ridiculous.”
Three hours? Fulco hadn’t even closed the place down for a full day to make sure no evidence was overlooked or lost?
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” she said, since the man obviously didn’t realize he’d gotten off easy. “I’m sure you can understand that when a shooting occurs, it’s critical that we get all the facts. That’s why I’m here now to talk to you again.”
Bonarini continued to glare at her. “The shooting had nothing to do with my restaurant, Ms….”
“Black. You can call me Jessie.”
“As I have said innumerable times, it occurred outside in a parking lot I don’t own. And, as I understand it, the police have already resolved the matter. So what more facts could you possibly need?”
“Were you here that night?”
Bonarini’s gaze strayed to the people dining in his restaurant. At a few of the closer tables, people had turned to look at him and Jessie. At the table closest to where they stood, the two men who’d walked past her outside stopped talking to stare and listen.
Bonarini pitched his voice lower. “You’re causing a scene.”
Jessie Black Box Set 2 Page 4