Clever Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  “You can pour yourself a merlot, Mom. No tears tonight.”

  She uncorked a bottle and asked, “Now, give me the details about this dinner. I hope there’s not a problem between you and Will?”

  “Dinner was supposed to be purely business. And I don’t think there’s anything seriously wrong between Will and me, but he did something that bothers the hell out of me. It’s our jobs.”

  She frowned at my language. “I thought you two worked out ground rules about your jobs.”

  “Me, too, but there’s been a murder in Yonkers—”

  “I read Will’s story in the morning paper,” she said. “Isabella Ricci and how she might have been killed by her Mafia lover. All the ladies are talking about it. Just tonight, the television news said a Yonkers superintendent and his wife were murdered in that same building. Their throats were slit because they were going to be witnesses.”

  “Mom, I was the one who found their bodies.”

  She immediately put her glass of wine on the kitchen counter and walked over to give me a hug. “I’m so sorry, dear. It must have been just horrible to see that.”

  “It was. You know how hard it is for me to get those images out of my head.”

  “You see so many awful things at your job. I hate it. But you knew what you were getting into when you became a prosecutor.”

  This was typical of my mother. Sympathetic but direct. When you made a decision, you dealt with the consequences, good or bad.

  “What do these three murders have to do with your problems with Will?”

  “His story today is why those two witnesses were killed. I think the murderer read it and went after them.”

  “Oh, poor Will.”

  “Poor Will?”

  “I’m sure he feels terrible but you can’t blame him, really. He was just doing his job.”

  “That hardly lets him off the hook. If his job was being a Mafia hit man, would you use that same logic?”

  “Dani, we’re talking apples and oranges. I don’t think Will twisted that super’s arm and forced him to talk.”

  “He did—sort of. Will told me the super shut the door in his face at first but when Will smelled the man’s breath, he knew he was an alcoholic. So Will went back later with a bottle of whiskey and that’s what got him into that apartment for an exclusive.”

  “Oh, my. You think Will shouldn’t have done that?”

  “Don’t you? It was manipulative. But that wasn’t the only thing Will did. He tried to trick me into telling him that Isabella Ricci had been murdered.”

  “Trick you, how?”

  “He acted like he already knew it was her and then he tried to get me to confirm it. He knew what he was doing, even though he tried to laugh it off.”

  “That was wrong.”

  “There’s more. After he told me about his exclusive, I warned him that it might put the Mancinis in danger, but he refused to call his editors. He said protecting them was my job, not his.”

  “Did you try to protect them?”

  “I called O’Brien and he called the Yonkers police. But the chief refused to send anyone over to the apartment building, until it was too late. I called Whitaker, too, and urged him to call Will’s editors, but he wouldn’t.”

  “Then you did everything you could to protect them. Their deaths shouldn’t be on your conscience.”

  “How about his conscience? I’m not sure I can trust him, and if I can’t trust him, how can I love him? I was deeply in love with Bob and he cheated on me. He broke my heart and I thought I would never find anyone or stop hurting. Then Will came along.”

  “You need to talk to Will about this. But you can’t assume that Will is untrustworthy because Bob betrayed you.”

  “Mom, it’s complicated. It was simpler for your generation. You had clearly defined roles. You didn’t have a career that put you into conflict with your husband and his career.”

  “You don’t think we had conflicts? Come on, Dani.”

  “You had conflicts, but you didn’t have to deal with intimidating a man because you earn more than he does. Maybe a prosecutor and a reporter are like oil and water. That’s what O’Brien says.”

  “And you’re going to listen to advice about relationships from a divorced, grumpy cop? Is this argument really about your careers or is it about Will trying to manipulate you?”

  She was right. I didn’t care that he was a reporter. I cared that he’d tried to trick me and that he’d taken advantage of Mancini. My mother and I talked for another hour and she raised issues, but she didn’t tell me what to do. She never did.

  Just when I was about to leave, she brought up Agent Coyle. “Are you sure your only interest in this FBI agent is a professional one?”

  “Mom,” I said indignantly, “I was cheated on by Bob. I’m in a relationship with Will. I’m not thinking about Walter Coyle any way but professionally. Besides, you know how much I hate the FBI.” My answer sounded convincing, which was somewhat unsettling because deep down there was something about Coyle that I did find attractive.

  I got home just before midnight and found Wilbur sleeping soundly in his pen. I was envious. I went through the back door into the kitchen and checked my answering machine.

  “Hey, darling. How was your FBI date?” It was Will and he had emphasized the word date as a joke. He’d placed the call at about the same time I had been at the Bistro restaurant. “I’m still at the paper writing. I heard from a Yonkers cop that you found the bodies today. My God, I can’t imagine what you saw. Do you want to talk about it? My editors actually suggested that I interview you about it. How about giving me some quotes for my story? I can write a sidebar about you finding the bodies. It will make Whitaker green with envy. If you can call me, we’ll do a quick interview. But remember, I’m on deadline so you’d have to call me back before eight o’clock.” Will paused, then lowered his voice and added, “I hope you aren’t mad at me or blaming me because of my exclusive. I don’t want this to become a problem between us. Call me, even if you don’t want to be interviewed.” His voice again became upbeat. “Okay, love ya! Gotta run! Call me soon if you want to be quoted. I’m on the front page again tomorrow. This is fun!”

  The blinking light on my machine indicated that someone else had telephoned after Will.

  “Dinner tonight was really special, Dani. I know you’re not a fan of FBI agents but we could work well together. I’m determined to change your opinion about us. I’d like to set a time for our second ‘nondate’ date. If I don’t hear from you tomorrow, I’ll call you. This time I’ll bring the logbooks. Hell, I’ll even let you buy me dinner. Oh, one more thing. Tell your newspaper boyfriend that he’s a horse’s ass. You deserve better.”

  17

  District Attorney Carlton Whitaker III was fuming. “I’ve got three dead bodies and we’re only one week into the new year! What the hell is going on?”

  The murders of Isabella Ricci and Roman and Maggie Mancini must have been wreaking havoc on his tee times at the country club. While the killings presented him with a wonderful opportunity to make headlines, he also understood that the reporters whose favor he was constantly courting would soon turn against him if an arrest wasn’t made soon. I knew Whitaker was not about to let his poll numbers slide.

  O’Brien and I had been summoned to Whitaker’s office for a morning briefing. We’d arrived to find Myerson, Steinberg, and Vanderhoot looking as unhappy as our boss did. “Are we ready to indict Nicholas Persico for murder?” Whitaker asked.

  “No, sir,” I replied. “We don’t have enough yet.”

  Whitaker let out an exasperated sigh and I noticed Vanderhoot roll his eyes—a nonverbal rebuke that I interpreted to mean: “Hey, if the Organized Crime Bureau were in charge of this, we would’ve already arrested Persico.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not enough’?” Whitaker asked. “You have an FBI agent as an eyewitness who can put Persico at the Midland Apartments during the Ricci murder. Plus, Persico has
got to be behind the murder of Roman Mancini and his wife.”

  “I’m sorry, but we haven’t gathered up any physical evidence that ties him to either crime.”

  “What about the Yonkers cops? Have they found anything?”

  “I’ll let Detective O’Brien answer that since he’s been dealing with them,” I said.

  “They got seven detectives working the cases,” O’Brien explained. “But they got squat.”

  “No prints, no hairs, no fibers?” Myerson said, joining the conversation.

  “Squat means squat,” O’Brien answered. “Whoever whacked that couple knew what they was doing.”

  “Anyone else in that building come forward?” Myerson asked, thinking like the trial prosecutor that he was.

  O’Brien shook his head no. “The medical examiner says the couple was murdered between midnight and five a.m. It’s like a geriatric ward in that building. Most tenants weren’t up that late and the ones who were ain’t gonna stick their noses out now that Roman got himself an Italian necktie.”

  “Wait a minute!” I said. “Did you just say the M.E. put the Mancinis’ time of death at between midnight and five a.m.?”

  “Yep. Got the call early this morning.”

  “Why’s that matter?” Whitaker asked.

  “Because it means the Mancinis were murdered before the White Plains Daily hit the streets at six a.m.”

  In an accusatory voice, Vanderhoot said, “Trying to defend your boyfriend, Miss Fox? Trying to say it wasn’t his front-page story that got them killed?”

  “No, Vanderhoot, I’m not trying to protect my boyfriend. I’m pointing out that the killer must have already known that Roman Mancini was an eyewitness before his photo was splashed across the White Plains Daily.”

  “That’s right,” O’Brien said. “The killer had to know Mancini had seen him. Roman was outside the building’s front door fixing a busted light when Persico and his driver got there. The Butcher must have seen him and put two and two together.”

  “There’s another piece of circumstantial evidence for you that points to Persico!” Whitaker interjected. Warming to his own words, he added, “Plus, you got Persico’s nickname ‘the Butcher’ and all three homicides involved mutilations.”

  “A skilled prosecutor should be able to get that nickname in front of a jury somehow,” Vanderhoot volunteered, hoping to impress Whitaker. “That would be another piece of useful circumstantial evidence.”

  I thought forward to the trial and realized that Vanderhoot either was a lousy lawyer or had been out of the courtroom for too long. If a prosecutor tried to make a big deal out of Persico’s nickname, a judge would give a curative instruction to jurors, warning them against interpreting the “Butcher” moniker in any prejudicial way. The defense would also explain to jurors that Persico owned a butcher’s shop. I blurted out, “You don’t need to be a skilled prosecutor to get his nickname introduced in front of jurors during a trial. All you would have to do is indict him as Nicholas Persico aka ‘Butcher.’ That way the jurors would hear it when the charges against him were read in court and would draw their own conclusions without a judge issuing a curative instruction.”

  Vanderhoot shot me a spiteful look, but Whitaker was impressed. “That’s clever,” he said. “Much like a Fox,” he added, smiling at his double entendre with my name.

  Chief A.D.A. Myerson decided to dampen the mood. “It’s going to take more than cleverness and innuendo to get Persico convicted. He’s beaten every charge that anyone has ever flung at him.”

  “We’ve got to do something to calm the public down,” Whitaker snapped. “Every day that passes without an arrest makes us look incompetent.”

  “Why not get a grand jury to indict Persico now on what we have,” Steinberg offered, “and hope that by the time there’s a trial, we’ll have enough to make the charges stick?”

  I was about to object to charging someone with a crime that we couldn’t prove, but I didn’t have to. Much to my surprise, Whitaker spoke out against the idea.

  “If Miss Fox doesn’t think we have enough evidence, we’ll hold off,” he said. “But we are running out of time. We need to find a way to show we’re on top of these homicides before the press turns on us.”

  It probably wasn’t the best time for me to mention my doubts about Persico being the killer, but I did anyway.

  “What if Persico isn’t behind any of these homicides?” I asked.

  “Why are you bringing this up again?” Vanderhoot hissed. “Persico was there when Isabella Ricci was butchered and he’s the only one with an obvious motive for killing the Mancinis.”

  I decided to address the two murders in reverse order. “ ‘Obvious’ would be the operative word here, wouldn’t it? Besides, FBI Special Agent Walter Coyle doesn’t think Persico killed Roman and Maggie Mancini. He told me last night he thinks Tiny Nunzio killed them.”

  “Why in the world would Nunzio kill the Mancinis?” Vanderhoot scoffed.

  “Agent Coyle believes Nunzio is conducting his own private investigation into Isabella’s murder—trying to find enough evidence to convince the other families to let him kill Persico.”

  Whitaker said, “Wait a minute! Why were you meeting with Agent Coyle last night?”

  “To see the FBI logbooks.”

  “Did Coyle show ’em to you?” Myerson asked.

  “No, sir, he said he forgot them.”

  Vanderhoot laughed loudly. “Agent Coyle is playing you. He’s stringing you along.”

  Whitaker looked unhappy. “Those FBI bastards are trying to use you to worm into our cases,” he said.

  Steinberg jumped in. “Miss Fox, if Nunzio crossed state lines—going from New Jersey into Yonkers—to commit a murder, then the FBI doesn’t need an invitation from us to get involved in these homicide investigations. That’s why Coyle is claiming Nunzio murdered the Mancinis. It’s a ruse.”

  Whitaker picked up on that theme. “Jack Longhorn is putting ideas into your head because he wants to take charge of these cases and make a grab for the headlines. He’s using Coyle to spy on us through you.”

  “There’s rumors the FBI is about to file a big RICO case in Atlantic City. The five families, including the Battaglias, are involved. Adding three homicides to that RICO case would give Longhorn more to brag about and turn the spotlight on the bureau.”

  RICO was the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, a federal law enacted in 1970 that allowed the Feds to arrest Mafia heads even if they didn’t actually pull a trigger or commit a crime. All the FBI had to do was show that the family’s godfather had given an order to an underling. That was enough to create a RICO conspiracy. I knew the FBI had been watching Atlantic City gambling ever since the city’s first casino opened two years ago on its legendary boardwalk.

  Addressing me, Whitaker said, “Don’t get into bed with Agent Coyle.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Rhetorically, not literally.”

  “You need to brief me every time you meet with Agent Coyle,” Steinberg ordered. “I want to keep on top of what he is asking of you.”

  “That’s right,” Whitaker boomed. “Let’s have you spy on those FBI bastards. I want you to squeeze as much information as you can out of Coyle.” Whitaker turned his attention back to the murders and Persico. “This is the second time you’ve said Persico might be innocent. How’s that possible given that Coyle can put him inside the apartment building when Isabella was being carved up?”

  “What possible reason would Persico have to murder her?” I asked. “What’s his motive?”

  “Because you’re not part of the Organized Crime Bureau,” Vanderhoot said in a condescending voice, “you may not realize these two families hate each other.”

  “I assume you’re talking about how Joseph Persico was murdered by a hit man a decade ago who’d been hired by the Gaccione family?” I replied. “And how the Persicos got their revenge by making Nunzio’s oldest son disappear.�
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  Vanderhoot had underestimated how much I’d learned about the mob. Thank God for the tutorials that I’d gotten from Will and Coyle. Continuing, I said, “Detective O’Brien and I are looking into possible motives that would pinpoint Persico as the killer. He’s still our prime suspect. But we’ve come across other suspects, too.”

  “Like who?” Whitaker asked.

  “The most obvious is Isabella’s husband, Marco Ricci,” I replied. “They were in the midst of a bitter divorce. Plus, a close friend of Isabella’s told me that Marco was forcing his wife to have sex with strangers as part of a swinger’s club. Marco tried to interest her in bondage, too.”

  For the first time since I’d gone to work for Whitaker, I saw a look of total astonishment on his face.

  “Isabella Ricci and her plastic surgeon husband were sexual swingers?” he asked. “They were into bondage?”

  “Her soon-to-be ex-husband. Yes, they were, or, to be accurate, he was. Plus, Marco has a two-million-dollar life insurance policy on her and he’s the lucky benefactor. Like I said, there are legitimate reasons why Marco should still be a suspect, maybe even a better one than Nicholas Persico.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Whitaker said.

  “Look, the guy may be a pervert,” Myerson said, joining the conversation. “But Persico was still the one who was seen entering the apartment building. We know he was there. Was Marco Ricci anywhere near the apartments on the day of the murder?”

  O’Brien decided to answer him. “Marco’s got a pretty solid alibi but that don’t clear him. He’s the type who’d hire someone to do his dirty work.”

  I said, “We can’t answer all of your questions about Marco yet. That’s why it’s premature to focus only on Persico.”

  Whitaker was still reeling from my swinger’s and bondage comments. “Tell me more about this swingers’ club. Did your source tell you any other specific names of swingers? Prominent people I might know?”