Bury the Lead

by David Rosenfelt

  The weekend starts tonight, and I am very much looking forward to it. Laurie is going to spend the entire time at my house, which at first glance seems like an increase in our normal scheduled time, but really isn’t. That’s because it’s a college and pro football weekend, which means that even though we’ll be in the same house, we’ll have almost no daytime interaction.

  As we get close to the trial date, we’ll all be working seven-day weeks, but we’re still far enough away that we can have some relaxation. Tonight’s relaxation consists of sitting in my living room and watching Godfather I and II on DVD on my big-screen TV. It’s the one large purchase I’ve made since coming into my money, and it has been worth every penny.

  Laurie and I sit on my couch and watch the movies, a bowl of popcorn and Tara between us. Tara positions herself there so she can be petted from both sides, and neither of us minds. It is literally stunning how right these times with Laurie feel, and for the first time it flashes through my mind that maybe we should get married.

  The next flash is the realization that Laurie has never brought the subject up, not even once, not even in passing. I’ve always been pleased by that, relieved actually, but now I’m starting to wonder. Shouldn’t she be plotting to win me? Pressuring me to make an honest woman out of her? Telling me her goddamn clock is ticking?

  I decide not to bring the subject up, but the next thing I know it’s dribbling out of my mouth. “You never bring up marriage,” I say.

  My timing is not great, since just as I’m saying it Jack Woltz is discovering the bloody horse head in bed with him. Laurie screams, as she does every time we watch that scene. Moments later, when she calms down, she asks, “What did you say, Andy?”

  “I said, ‘Watch out, I’ve got a feeling there’s a severed horse’s head in that bed with him.’”

  We go back to watching the movie, and I successfully keep my mouth shut until just about the time that Michael goes to visit the don in the hospital. He discovers that the guards have been sent away, though I’ve always wondered why they never bothered to inform Sonny about that little fact. Michael goes to the phone and dials, at the exact moment the phone in my house rings.

  “I’ll get it,” I say. “It’s probably Michael telling me to get some men down to the hospital to guard the don. Can we spare anybody?”

  “No,” she says. “All our button men are out on the street looking for Solozzo.”

  I nod and pick up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Carpenter, this is County General Hospital calling.”

  For an instant it registers as comical that it actually is the hospital, but I just as quickly realize that getting nighttime calls from hospitals is never a good thing.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “We have a woman here . . . she’s been shot.”

  “Who is she?” I ask worriedly, but glad that Laurie is sitting next to me.

  “She hasn’t been able to give us her name; she’s in surgery. But she was carrying your card in her purse.”

  I’m not sure how to ask this. “Does she appear to be . . . a lady of the evening?”

  “Yes, I believe she does.”

  “I’ll be right there.” I hang up and turn to Laurie, who has heard my end of the conversation and is worried herself. “There’s a woman in the hospital . . . a gunshot victim. I think it’s Sondra.”

  “Damn,” she says, and without another word walks with me out the door and to the car.

  • • • • •

  LAURIE IS SILENT during the ride to the hospital. I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t feel like I should ask. It’s only when we pull into the parking lot that she breaks the silence.

  “I shouldn’t have left her there,” she says. “I should have dragged her out.”

  “You did all you could.”

  She shakes her head. “No. I could have pulled her away and shown her something better. Made it easier for her. Instead, I asked her if she wanted to leave. She said no, and I said fine.”

  “Rick is the villain of this piece. Not you.”

  Sondra is out of surgery by the time we arrive. We stop in the recovery room to see how she is and to confirm that it is really her. She’s still out of it from the anesthesia. The doctor says she took the bullet in the shoulder and has lost a lot of blood, but that eventually she should be okay. A half inch to the left, and she’d be dead.

  Drive-by shooting, not baseball, is a game of inches.

  A hospital official brings us into his office, then asks us if Sondra has any insurance. Somehow I don’t think Rick provides major medical for his employees, so I sign a form taking financial responsibility for the costs. I wonder if they would otherwise throw her out into the street and if they would first disconnect the tubes helping her breathe.

  The officers that answered the initial call have since left, but Detective Steve Singer of the Passaic police arrives to talk to us. He and Laurie know and like each other, which is the good news. The bad news is that I once took him apart in a cross-examination, and my guess is every time he shows up at a murder scene he hopes that I’m the victim.

  Singer tells us Sondra was shot in a drive-by, but there are no witnesses so far willing to come forward. He asks how we came to know Sondra and how she came to have my card. I tell the story, after which he looks at Laurie, hoping she’ll refute what I have to say.

  “You know anything about this?” he asks.

  Laurie nods. “I was there, Steve.”

  I see a quick flash of disappointment on his face, then a nod of resignation. He was hoping to at least arrest me for solicitation of prostitution, but he now knows that’s not going to happen.

  “Okay,” he says. “What else can you tell me?”

  “She had a pimp, a guy named Rick. He hit her while we were there,” I say.

  Suddenly, Singer’s face brightens. “Wait a minute, I heard about this,” he says to Laurie. “You kicked his ass, right? The guys were talking about it.”

  “He slipped and fell,” she says. “I just neglected to catch him.”

  He turns to me. “What were you doing while the lady was punching him out? Holding her purse?”

  His question confirms my low opinion of his intelligence. He knows nothing; the fact is that Laurie wasn’t even carrying a purse that night. It was more of a handbag.

  I fire back. “Maybe if you geniuses hadn’t let the pimp walk so fast, a woman wouldn’t have been shot tonight.”

  Singer grunts, goes to the phone, and calls in to the precinct. He talks softly for a few moments, holds on for a short while, and then hangs up, a self-satisfied look on his face.

  “Rick is still in custody, genius.”

  This is a little embarrassing, but I recover quickly. “Then he had it done.”

  Since nothing I say has any credibility with Singer, Laurie jumps in for support. “It’s too big of a coincidence to be otherwise, Steve. Rick was humiliated, and he didn’t want to come straight at me, so he went after Sondra, knowing I’d blame myself.”

  Singer seems to think this is sound reasoning, and he leaves to talk to Rick at the jail. “I’m gonna miss his wit,” I say to Laurie after he’s left. A few moments later the doctor informs us that Sondra is conscious and we can see her.

  She’s very much weakened; a .38-caliber bullet in the shoulder has a tendency to do that. She also has no idea who shot her. “A car just pulled up real slow, and I saw the window open, and I don’t remember anything after that.”

  “But you think they were aiming for you? Was there anyone else around that could have been the target?” I ask.

  She shakes her head sadly. “No. It was just me. Just me.”

  She is unable to provide any helpful information, and she’s soon going to have to answer the same questions from the police, so we let her doze off.

  In the car going home, Laurie says, “We have to help her, Andy.”

  “She’s got to want that help,” I point out.
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  She shakes her head. “No. That’s what we said the other day. She didn’t want it, so we backed off. Like we did our good deed and that’s enough. Well, it wasn’t enough.”

  “And a better plan would be . . . ?”

  “To help her whether she wants it or not, and let her see if we’re right. Then if she feels the same way, we can back off. But we cannot send her back on those streets without trying a hell of a lot harder.”

  “What does that mean in the real world?”

  “It means finding her a job and a place to stay. It means putting her into a position where she can develop some self-respect and dignity.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I say.

  • • • • •

  I RUSH THROUGH my Monday morning walk with Tara so I can meet Richard Wallace at the prison. He’s scheduled to interview Randy Clemens at nine-thirty, and there’s no way I’m going to be late.

  I arrive early enough to eat breakfast at a nearby restaurant called Donnie’s House of Pancakes. I order banana walnut pancakes, which when they are served turn out to be regular, heavy pancakes with bananas and walnuts on top. It makes me feel old, but I can remember a time when the bananas and walnuts would have been inside the pancakes.

  I decide to share this piece of nostalgia with the waitress, since there are only three other people in the restaurant and she’s not busy. “It makes me feel old,” I say, “but I can remember a time when the bananas and walnuts would have been inside the pancakes.”

  “Whatever,” she says, demonstrating a disregard for cultural history. “You want coffee?”

  “Not until after the Olympics,” I say.

  “Whatever.”

  I head over to the prison at nine-twenty, carrying the pancakes around like a beach ball in my stomach. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be taking them with me wherever I go for a while.

  Waiting for me at the gate are Richard Wallace and Pete Stanton. I’m a little surprised to see Pete, since Richard hadn’t mentioned bringing him, but I suppose a police presence is called for, especially if Randy is going to implicate someone in the murders.

  “Good morning, guys,” I say.

  They don’t return the greeting. “Andy, I tried to reach you, but you had already left.”

  There is probably a scheduling foul-up; such things are very common in the prison bureaucracy. “Scheduling change?” I ask.

  “Andy, Clemens is dead.”

  It is as if he hit me in the face with a four-thousand-pound medicine ball. “What happened?”

  “Somebody slit his throat this morning, outside the mess hall. I’m sorry, Andy.”

  All I can think of is Randy’s daughter, who will never get to know what a great guy he was and how much he loved her. When she’s old enough to understand, I’m going to look her up and tell her.

  Pete puts his arm on my shoulder and speaks for the first time. “Come on, Andy, the warden is waiting to see us.”

  They lead me inside, and by the time we get to the warden’s office, my sadness is beginning to share space with my certainty that this cannot be a coincidence. Randy has been in this prison for four years, never once having a problem or altercation of any kind, and the day he is going to talk to us about the murders, he is himself killed.

  “There was a commotion in the hallway,” says the warden. “A fight, some yelling, everybody milling around. Clemens wasn’t involved, but it was probably staged so that he could be killed without anyone seeing it happen.”

  “So more than one person was involved?” I ask.

  “Definitely. It was an organized effort.”

  “Suspects?” Richard asks.

  “Plenty of suspects, but no evidence. But I can tell you, if something like this happens in here, it’s very likely that Dominic Petrone wanted it to happen.”

  Dominic Petrone is the head of what passes for the North Jersey mob, an organization that is still functioning quite effectively. He and Randy Clemens are from different worlds. There is no way Dominic had ever heard of Randy, nor had any kind of grudge against him. If he ordered Randy’s death, it is because he was told that Randy was about to say something that could hurt him.

  It has to come back to Linda Padilla and her alleged mob ties. And if it does, and if the mob is somehow involved in these murders, then my client is actually innocent. Too bad my other client had to die for me to realize it.

  I drive back to the office, replaying in my mind the last visit I had with Randy. I remember the wariness in his eyes as he looked around the room, the way something caused him to briefly stop as he was leaving. He knew that what he had to say was dangerous, but he was so anxious to find a way out of the prison that he was taking that chance.

  I also think back to the words he used, trying to remember them exactly. He referred to the victims besides “the rich one” as “window dressing.” Among the many things I don’t know are how Randy came to know this and why the killer needed “window dressing” at all.

  Marcus is waiting for me at the office when I get back, sitting stoically as Edna regales him with stories of her latest triumph. She’s managed to combine and satisfy her two interests in life, crossword puzzles and finance, by discovering various business publications with financially themed puzzles. Marcus isn’t saying anything, which could mean he’s interested or not interested or asleep.

  In any event, his characteristic muteness is doing nothing to dampen the conversation. Edna peppers her sentences with phrases like “Right?” and “You understand?” and “You know?” and seems to pretend that Marcus is answering, as she nods and continues.

  He has returned from Cleveland, having gathered as much information as he could. There wasn’t much to learn: Daniel was a widely respected member of the press who had no criminal record whatsoever and no known tendency toward violence. The community, from politicians and business leaders on down, supported him through the ordeal. Counterbalancing that, in addition to the detective’s hunch, are some of Margaret’s acquaintances, who say that their marriage was troubled and that she was considering leaving him.

  Marcus’s hunch is the same as that of the Cleveland police: He thinks Daniel may have either killed her or had it done. Like the detective, he can’t come close to proving it. It’s just that the inheritance, the troubled marriage . . . these are things that arouse Marcus’s detective instincts. The presumption of innocence is not a concept that Marcus holds dear.

  Laurie and Kevin arrive for a meeting on how we will approach the investigation of Linda Padilla. They are stunned to hear about Randy. Neither knew him, so while they are sympathetic, it’s natural that they focus on the impact this might have on our case.

  Randy’s death enhances the credibility of the information he was going to provide. Kevin and Laurie share my view that there is almost no chance that his murder was a coincidence. He was going to name names, and we can only assume that the owners of those names, be it Petrone or anyone else, took steps to make sure that didn’t happen.

  I call in Edna to ask her to report on the results of an assignment I had given her, which was to watch as much televised coverage of the Padilla killing as she could find.

  There has been a recent tendency, probably since Princess Diana died, for television networks to cover funerals in their entirety. I’m at a loss to know what news value there is in showing people grieving and singing upbeat, gooey songs, but it must generate good ratings. I want to go on record and say that if anyone sings “You Light Up My Life” at my funeral, I will die of embarrassment. Actually, Sam Willis will probably song-talk it.

  The plus side of the coverage, at least from our point of view, is that it is easy to get a handle on who were the important people in Padilla’s life. These are the people we will talk to, and Edna does a very good job of filling us in.

  I give out assignments for each of us to cover. There is simply never enough time to prepare for a trial, and I want us moving quickly and efficiently. The meeting then breaks up, and La
urie stays behind.

  “Sondra is doing okay,” she says. “But her recovery will take a while.”

  “How long will she be in the hospital?”

  “She can leave in a few days,” she says, “but she needs to rest for at least six weeks.”

  “Where will she do that?”

  “My house.”

  I’m not surprised, but not happy to hear this for selfish reasons. Will Laurie be willing to leave her alone and spend nights at my house? Will she still feel comfortable having me stay over at hers? Is she starting down a path that is going to be filled with frustration?

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask. It’s a wimpy, completely ineffective question, unlikely to make her snap her fingers and say, “You know, I don’t think it is. Let me tell her to go back on the streets.”

  She nods. “I do. But this is my thing, Andy. You don’t have to be part of it.”

  I’m glad to hear this, because I don’t want to be involved in any way; I’ve got enough on my plate. “Are you going to get her a real job?” I ask.

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Let me see what I can do,” I say, thereby involving myself and crowding my plate a little more.

  I catch a break when Vince calls, and I mention I want to see Michael Spinelli, Linda Padilla’s campaign manager. It turns out that Vince knows him very well, which is true of pretty much everyone in the Western Hemisphere. It also turns out that Vince doesn’t like him, which is true of pretty much everyone, period. But he owes Vince a couple of favors for past press coverage, so Vince offers to set up a meeting ASAP.

  In the meantime, I take a ride down to the Tara Foundation to see how things are going and to apologize for not spending more time there helping out. I want to refine the apology, making it short but meaningful, because it’s one I’m going to have to deliver many times during the course of the trial.