Clever Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  “I wasn’t cheating on Isabella, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “So you were just platonic friends with this woman,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We were sleeping together, but Isabella didn’t object. We agreed when we got married that we’d have an open relationship.”

  “Are you saying that Isabella didn’t mind you having sex with other women?” I asked in a surprised voice.

  “That’s right. Where is it written that you can’t have other sexual partners in addition to your wife? It’s already the eighties, not the Dark Ages.”

  “Actually, it’s written in the Ten Commandments,” I said, adding, “since you asked.”

  “Neither of us gave a good goddamn about religion. She was raised Catholic but didn’t go to church. Anyway, it hardly matters now, does it?”

  “Adultery,” I said, “can be a motive for murder.”

  O’Brien jumped into our conversation. “Let’s get this straight. She didn’t care if you was balling other women and you didn’t care if she was screwing other men. Is that what you’re telling us?”

  “Why should I care if she saw other men?” Ricci said. “In fact, I encouraged her to liberate herself.”

  “So you weren’t jealous she was banging another guy every Tuesday and Thursday in Yonkers?” O’Brien said.

  “Twice a week? Is that how often they were meeting? Huh. Do you know how long this affair had been going on?”

  “At least three months,” I said.

  “No wonder he killed her,” he said smiling. “Three months with Isabella would be enough to make anyone go berserk.” He pressed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. “Isabella was spoiled rotten. I blame her father. He gave her everything she ever wanted.”

  “Do you know the name of the man she was seeing?” O’Brien asked.

  “Don’t have a clue. Do you?”

  I ignored his question and asked, “Do you know the names of any enemies that she might have had?”

  He shrugged. “She didn’t have any enemies or any friends. When people found out who her father was, they tended to stay away. Her father and her family were the only people who she wanted to socialize with.”

  “She ever say anything to you about problems that her father was having with some other mobster?”

  “She never said a word about family business,” Ricci said. “But you’re barking up the wrong tree. These guys don’t mess with each other’s families. It’s a big taboo. They’re smart enough to know that once you start killing wives and girlfriends and kids, then your own wife and girlfriend and kids are going to become targets.”

  “You seem to know a lot about them,” I said, “for someone who wasn’t accepted by the family.”

  “Call it self-preservation,” he said. “When we were first married, I tried to impress her father. I mean, I’m a doctor, an accomplished plastic surgeon, but every time I saw him, he’d make some crack about how I was the ‘breast man.’ If he was cooking pork, it’d be, ‘Save the teats for the breast man’ or ‘Grab a chicken breast for the breast man.’ I got sick of it. He runs a garbage collection business! Who’s he think he is? He’s bitter because I took his daughter away from him and I changed her.”

  “Changed her? How?”

  “Not her personality,” he replied. “I physically changed her. I improved her appearance. I worked on her legs, her abdomen, and got rid of her big Roman nose. I made it smaller and I made her breasts bigger.”

  “Daddy didn’t like that?” O’Brien asked.

  “He was furious. He took me aside and threatened me one day. It was after I had enhanced her breasts. He told me that I’d better never take the knife to his girl again or he’d take one to me. Now you see why I have guards here. Do you think I should leave town?”

  “That’s not a good idea right now,” I said.

  “Not until we get this sorted out,” O’Brien added. “But it’s probably smart to keep the guards around.”

  “Listen, my marriage was on the rocks but even if I had killed her—and I didn’t, but if I had—I wouldn’t have cut her up. I made her beautiful. Cutting her would have been like Picasso pissing on one of his own paintings.”

  O’Brien gave him a business card and told him to call if he thought of anything else. We left him puffing on yet another cigarette.

  When we were back in the car heading down the driveway, O’Brien said, “Talk about a Napoleon complex.” Mimicking Marco Ricci’s high-pitched voice, he said, “ ‘Cutting her would have been like Picasso pissin’ on one of his own paintings.’ ”

  “It also would have been a way for him to stick it to her daddy, wouldn’t it?” I replied. “Marco Ricci made her beautiful and then he took back his work. All the cuts the killer made on Isabella were at locations on her body where her husband had done plastic surgery. He takes back his work, makes her ugly, all the while knowing that the cops will blame the Butcher?”

  O’Brien removed his toothpick from his lips. “For a lawyer, you’re getting pretty damn good at police work.”

  “I have my moments.”

  12

  When I got to Roberto’s, Will was nowhere to be seen. This could only mean that he was still at the White Plains Daily finishing some sensational story. When he finally showed up fifteen minutes later, he explained, “It’s your boss’s fault. His press conference ran overtime.”

  “What’d the Westchester D.A. have to say?” I asked.

  “He announced that the murder victim was Isabella Ricci and described how she’d been tortured, which the New York tabloids loved, of course. He also dropped your name.”

  “What’d he say about me?”

  “That since you are the only female assistant D.A. in his office, and this was a brutal crime against a woman, he wants you to prosecute,” Will said. “He’s clearly out for the women’s vote again.”

  In addition to being the newspaper’s crime reporter, Will wrote about local politics on occasion. There were times when I suspected that he knew more about Whitaker than I did.

  Continuing, he said, “What he didn’t announce was why Isabella was in that apartment. In fact, he didn’t say a word about the affair that she was having.” A big grin appeared on Will’s face as he waited for me to ask the obvious.

  “Okay,” I said, taking the bait, “if Whitaker didn’t mention that Isabella was having an affair, then how do you know that she was?”

  “Because I did my own digging and interviewed the apartment building’s super. A fellow named Roman Mancini,” he declared.

  “Mancini is talking to reporters?”

  “No, he’s not talking to reporters. He’s talking only to me. I got an exclusive. It’s on tomorrow’s front page. Banner headline. That’s the real reason I’m late. Your boss’s press conference ran long and is good stuff, but it is going to be a sidebar to my Mancini interview. Boy, is Whitaker going to be angry at being knocked under the fold.”

  “He won’t be the only one,” I said, “especially if something happens to Roman Mancini because of your exclusive. You do realize, don’t you, that he’s an eyewitnesses in an ongoing homicide investigation that involves the daughter of a known Mafia capo?”

  “That’s why this exclusive is so cool. Lots of reporters knocked on his door, but he slammed it in their faces. He slammed it in mine, too, the first time. But after I got a whiff of his breath and saw his watery eyes, I pegged him for an alcoholic. An hour later, I went back to his apartment with a couple of fifths and got myself invited in for a drink.”

  “You bribed him with booze?” I asked in a stern voice.

  “I didn’t bribe him. I simply suggested we have a few drinks together and chat.”

  “And you didn’t see anything wrong with that?” I asked in a disapproving tone.

  “Why should I?” he replied, somewhat irritated. “Look, Mancini is an adult and I certainly didn’t hold a gun to his head. He invited me inside his place to have a few friendl
y drinks. No harm in that.”

  “What, exactly, did Mancini tell you?”

  “Are we changing the ground rules here, Dani?” he asked. “Earlier today, you got upset when I asked you to confirm that Isabella Ricci was the murder victim. Now you want me to tell you what Mancini said before my story is published in tomorrow’s paper.”

  “There’s a difference. I’m an officer of the court. You’re a newspaper reporter. A man’s life may be at risk. Besides, you’re going to tell everyone on the front page tomorrow what Mancini told you during your interview—so what’s the big deal about telling me now?”

  “The big deal is that I know you and you might try to do something about it,” he replied.

  His answer concerned me. “I’d really like to know what Mancini told you. Are you identifying him by name tomorrow in your story?”

  “You bet I am. We’re publishing a front-page picture of him standing outside the Midland Apartments.”

  “You do realize that you could be putting him in danger, especially if he said anything that could help identify the killer.”

  “Hey,” Will said in an exasperated voice. “My job is to get the story and this is a big one. I thought you’d be impressed with my ingenuity. I didn’t think you would criticize me about this.”

  “This is important to me,” I said. “I need to know exactly what Mancini told you about Isabella’s murder.”

  “Okay, so we are changing the ground rules,” he repeated. “Can I assume that the next time I need information, you are going to tell me?”

  I was getting exasperated. “No, it doesn’t work that way. I’m asking because I don’t want anyone going after Mancini. Don’t you get that?”

  Will hesitated and then said, “Mancini said Isabella Ricci was pretending to be a woman named Vicky and that twice a week, she met her lover in the apartment where she was found murdered.”

  “Did Mancini describe her lover to you?”

  “Yes, he said he was an older man who always came to the apartment in a black limo.”

  “Anything else? Anything about his appearance?”

  “Only the most important part of my exclusive interview,” Will said, triumphantly lifting up his beer. “Mancini said that he thought Isabella’s lover was a mobster. How’s that for a kicker? My editors are going nuts over this story. Can you imagine, the married daughter of a New Jersey mobster found dead in Yonkers, where she was having an affair with another mobster?! You’ve got to wonder why they were meeting in Yonkers and the logical answer is that her lover must be a member of a New York crime family, not a New Jersey one. Rival families. This is sensational stuff!”

  “Will, you need to call your editors and get that part of the story cut out,” I said.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “But it could get Roman Mancini murdered. If she was seeing a New York mobster, that mobster isn’t going to want Mancini identifying him in court at a trial. Your story also could stir up trouble between the New Jersey and New York mobs. Tiny Nunzio is no one to fool with.”

  “Dani, my job is to get the news—not hide it from the public. It’s your job to protect Mancini, isn’t it? And I don’t give a damn if some New York mobster who was screwing Isabella Ricci ends up being killed by her outraged father.”

  “I can’t tell you everything that I know about this investigation, but you need to cut out that part of the story because it’s going to cause problems,” I said.

  “Dani, I’m not going to do that. C’mon, I’m a reporter. I can’t decide what is and isn’t news based on what my girlfriend thinks may or may not happen in the future. Mancini is an adult. I asked him questions and he answered them. End of story.”

  Our entrées arrived, which was good, because it gave me a second to collect my thoughts. “Did Mancini say anything more about the older man who visited the apartment?”

  “He just said he was an older gangster. Why? Did I miss something?”

  “No,” I replied, lying and grateful that Mancini had not mentioned anything about a facial scar. “But after we finish dinner, I’m going to call Whitaker and urge him to call your editors. I’m also going to suggest that he arrange for Mancini to get immediate police protection.”

  “Aren’t you getting a bit melodramatic here?” he replied. “Besides, my editors aren’t going to cave in just because Whitaker calls them—if he does.”

  “That’s how serious I think this is.”

  “Do me a favor,” Will said. “If you put Mancini under protection, let me know so I can get a paragraph inserted in tomorrow’s newspaper saying that Mancini needed protection because of my exclusive story.”

  I glared at him. “You want to give yourself credit for putting a man’s life in danger?”

  “Dani, if anything, having Mancini’s face and name on the front page will probably protect him. I mean, who’s going to go after him when he’s in the public spotlight like that?”

  Our conversation was clearly grating on each of us.

  “You know, I really don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Will said. “I thought you would be happy for me because I just got a big exclusive. But instead, you’re worried about how it’s going to impact your case. This isn’t about you, Dani. It’s about me.”

  His words stung. I said, “Will, it isn’t me and it really shouldn’t be about you. It’s about Roman Mancini. Your story could get him killed.”

  Both of us picked at our food in silence. “Whether or not Mancini has put himself in danger is not my responsibility,” Will finally said. “I report the news. I don’t make it happen.”

  “But you got him to talk to you by getting him drunk.”

  Will put down his fork. “Don’t go all judgmental on me. I don’t need you criticizing me because I did my job.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes longer until the waiter cleared our plates. I didn’t want dessert but Will ordered coffee. I decided to offer an olive branch. “You know a lot about the mob, don’t you?” I said. “Tell me about Isabella’s father. Why’s he called Tiny?”

  “Nunzio got his nickname from when he was a kid. He and his pals used to do a lot of break-ins and burglaries and their specialty was getting into stores by climbing up on the rooftops and dismantling large air-conditioning units. Nunzio would slip inside through the vent holes because he was such a tiny guy. Or, at least, that’s the story that went around.”

  “Why don’t you give me a Who’s Who?”

  “Okay, here’s a primer. Everyone knows there are five New York crime families, plus a New Jersey crew—the Gacciones. All of the families are living under a truce since the last big war. But there’s always been bad blood between the Gacciones in New Jersey and the Battaglia family here in Yonkers. It dates back to Sicily and some reason that no one even cares about today. But it’s like the Hatfields and the McCoys.”

  Warming to his subject, Will continued: “The capo in Yonkers is Nicholas ‘the Butcher’ Persico. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. One of his brothers, Anthony Persico, was murdered about a decade ago by a hit man from Rhode Island hired by the New Jersey mob—the Gacciones.”

  I said, “So Nunzio and Persico—they’re both capos in two families that absolutely despise each other—is that fair to say?”

  “I’m not sure that the word hate really captures how much these two families detest each other. After Persico’s brother was killed, Nunzio’s oldest son disappeared. Completely vanished. His body has never been found. Naturally, Nunzio suspects Persico. It would be difficult to find two capos who hate each other more than they do. In fact, I’ve been trying for months to write a story about how much Nunzio and Persico despise each other.”

  “You have?” I said, surprised. “You never mentioned it to me.”

  “I don’t tell you everything just because you’re cute,” he said, smiling for the first time since we’d sat down to eat. “At one point, I actually followed Isabella Ricci around for a while because I was trying to get her to
speak to me about her father. I was practically stalking her! I went out to the mansion where she and her husband live and spoke to him. You should see the inside of that place. All French on the outside and modern inside. Anyway, he was polite but told me that he doubted she’d talk to me. I never got anywhere with that story, but now that she’s dead, maybe I can get a new angle on it, especially if she was sleeping with a mobster in Yonkers.”

  I quietly wondered if Will had any idea how close his imagination was to the truth. The waiter brought our bill and we split the check. I preferred to pay my own way.

  “You want to head over to your place for a while?” Will asked. “We can reconcile. Besides, we still haven’t officially welcomed in the new year.”

  My head was in a totally different place. Our earlier exchange about Mancini was still nagging at me and I was disappointed in how Will was handling the whole matter. I also needed to call Whitaker. Will’s work was done at the paper. But mine was just beginning.

  “Sorry, but I’m really beat,” I said. I should have left it at that, but I couldn’t. “Besides, I need to call Whitaker and O’Brien to see if I can get someone over to protect Mancini or at least get him and his wife out of that apartment.”

  “Dani, I can read you. I know you’re upset with me,” Will said, “but I’m not going to change anything about my exclusive.”

  “And if Mancini ends up getting killed?”

  “Then I’ll write a page-one story about his murder and you’ll have another murder to prosecute. It’s what I do, Dani, and you’ve got to learn to live with that.”

  13

  Five-forty-five in the morning arrived earlier than expected. My alarm jolted me out of bed. I threw on my running clothes and tied my sneakers, stretching my legs at the same time. I put my mane in a ponytail and headed out into the morning darkness. It was two miles from my house to a coffee shop where they sold the White Plains Daily. I scooped up a copy but didn’t bother to open it until I dashed back into my kitchen. After bringing Wilbur in to snack on my leftover salad from Roberto’s, I sat down at the table, took a deep breath, and looked at the front page.