I agreed. Taking his hand, I led him into my bedroom and started to undress.
Later, lying in bed, Will and I both collapsed. I put my head on his chest. The tension was gone. We were Will and Dani again, two people completely exposing themselves to each other. No longer the prosecutor and reporter.
“You hungry now?” I asked. “Or do you want a repeat?”
“Let’s eat,” he said. “I don’t want to insult General Tso.”
I said, “More later” as I slipped from his arms into a white robe. He put on his blue denim jeans without bothering to grab his boxers or a shirt. We returned to the kitchen, where Wilbur was curled up on a mat, taking a nap. He glanced at us through half-closed eyes and then went back to sleep.
“Who sent you roses?” Will asked. “Your mother?”
“I thought you did,” I answered, not having to feign surprise.
He tugged a tiny florist card from deep down between the stems where it had fallen and read it aloud: “ ‘Can’t wait for our second date. Affectionately, Walt.’ Who the hell is Walt?”
“FBI Special Agent Walter Coyle,” I replied. “The FBI guy I had dinner with the other night to talk about the Ricci murder.”
“Who sends someone roses after a business meeting? Did you mention that you were already taken?”
“Actually, I did. I told him I had a boyfriend.”
I hoped my comment might ease any insecurity Will was feeling. But it didn’t. “And this son of a bitch still sends you roses!”
I stepped toward him and put my face against his naked chest, holding him. I could hear his heart. “Honey,” I said, “we just made love. It was incredible. As long as we’re honest and open with each other, you’ll never have to worry about me. No matter how many men send me flowers.”
But Will was still fuming. “Men don’t send flowers unless they pick up some sort of vibe.”
I instantly pushed him away. “What? That’s not fair. Obviously, he’s making a play for me. So what? That doesn’t mean I sent him any vibes,” I said. “In fact, I defended you.”
“Defended me?”
“Yes, when he discovered you were the reporter who wrote about the Mancinis, he called you an asshole. I defended you. You’re the one who is jealous. Don’t blame me for your insecurities.”
As I was lecturing Will, I was thinking about my dinner with Coyle. Had I sent out any vibes? I found Coyle attractive, but I was certain that I hadn’t done anything to lead him on. Will was being paranoid.
General Tso’s chicken went uneaten.
Will and I argued for twenty minutes, and then he left angry.
All I could think was that this new year had to start getting better because so far, it had been just awful.
20
“We’ve been shafted,” O’Brien declared when I answered my phone. I peered at my bedroom alarm, which showed that I still had another fifteen minutes of precious sleep before it went off at 5:45 a.m.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
Usually, I was the one waking O’Brien up with early morning phone calls.
“Whitaker, the chiefs, and your boyfriend,” he said. “They fucked us.”
Now he had my full attention. “O’Brien, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” I said.
“A buddy at the Yonkers precinct just called,” he said. “There’s gonna be a big story coming in today’s paper. Whitaker sent us out of that meeting early the other day for a reason. He and his chiefs had their own little powwow and they didn’t want us to know about it.”
“Damn it, O’Brien, tell me what’s happening.”
During the next ten minutes, O’Brien explained that Vanderhoot and the Organized Crime Bureau had arranged a police lineup at the Yonkers precinct. The Butcher was part of it. Lineups are done discreetly because there’s no need to publicize suspicion of a potentially innocent person, but someone, who O’Brien and I both suspected was Steinberg, had tipped off a reporter. Not just any reporter. Will Harris. He had been waiting behind the station with a photographer, who’d snapped pictures of a very angry Persico and his equally angry lawyers scurrying into a waiting limo.
“Where did they find an eyewitness?” I asked. The only one that we knew about was Agent Coyle and he already was familiar with what Persico looked like. Unless someone else had seen Persico entering that apartment building, a lineup was a pointless exercise.
“Nobody was behind that glass,” O’Brien said. “The whole thing was a stunt.”
“What!?” I exclaimed.
“You heard me. They wanted to get Persico’s mug on the front page. All that crap about making sure the citizens feel better.”
As soon as I hung up the phone, I slipped into my running gear and headed to the neighborhood store to buy a newspaper. Only this time, I didn’t wait to run back home to read it. I stood in the store aisle. As O’Brien had predicted, Will’s exclusive was spread across the top front page of the White Plains Daily along with a large photo of Persico trying to hide his face. The headline: SUSPECT IN BLOODY KILLINGS?
Will’s editors apparently had thought that by making the headline into a question, they would be protecting themselves from a potential libel suit from Gallo & Conti. Under that questioning headline was a subhead: MURDER VICTIM AND HUBBY ENJOYED SEX PARTIES.
Will’s story was tabloid fodder. In the second paragraph, District Attorney Carlton Whitaker III was quoted as saying that Persico was only one of several “persons of interest” and that it would be “premature” to jump to conclusions. But, of course, the rest of the story did exactly that. Will quoted a “courthouse source who asked not to be identified by name” but was “close to the investigation” as saying that Persico had been spotted entering the Midland Apartments on the day of the murder. The next several paragraphs quoted unnamed sources talking about “swingers clubs in Scarsdale” that Isabella Ricci had participated in with her husband.
By the time I finished reading Will’s story, I was furious—at Whitaker, his three stooges, and at Will. In their hurry to make headlines, they had trashed Isabella’s reputation. I didn’t care about the mud that they’d flung at Persico and Marco Ricci. Those scumbags deserved it. But Isabella had been the victim of a vicious murder and now she was being crucified all over again on the front page without being able to defend herself.
Will’s story also painted a bright red target on Persico’s back. There was no question that the mobster was our chief murder suspect and now everyone in the paper’s circulation area knew it. Will had given Tiny Nunzio another reason to take vigilante action against his most-hated mob rival.
Whitaker and his chiefs had intentionally left us out—a signal that I wasn’t part of their team. The fact that they had most likely faked having an eyewitness also stuck in my craw.
As soon as I ran home, I dialed Will’s number and it immediately went to a busy signal. Coward! He must have unplugged his phone. He had to know that I was going to be upset by this. And the more I thought about it, the more pissed off I became.
Even though it was a Saturday, I’d planned to spend the day catching up in my office. But as I was driving to work, I changed course and instead headed toward Yonkers. Some forty minutes later, I parked my car outside Persico’s butcher shop, took a deep breath, questioned my own sanity, and walked through the shop’s front door.
The same chubby clerk who had been cutting meat when O’Brien and I had first visited the store was waiting on customers. He did a double take when he saw me.
“I need to see Mr. Persico,” I declared.
He gave me a curious look, glanced up at the camera in the corner, and then disappeared through the door behind him.
Part of me was thinking: What the hell am I doing? This is not a smart move on any level. For a moment, I thought about bolting but I didn’t.
Carmine Caruso, the second in command, emerged from the back. While he had been friendly during my first visit, he was definitely not smi
ling now.
“What the hell you want?” he asked. “You got your headline.”
“Listen,” I said, “you might not believe this, but I am not convinced Mr. Persico is responsible for Isabella Ricci’s death. I’m not certain he had anything to do with the Mancini murders. But the only way I can prove that is with his cooperation.”
Caruso grunted and said, “An assistant district attorney wants to prove our boss didn’t do nothin’ illegal? You seen today’s paper? Lady, what kinda games you playin’?”
“I had nothing to do with that lineup,” I said, wondering if I was disclosing too much information. “I’m here on my own and alone. I don’t have any witnesses with me. All I want to do is ask Mr. Persico a couple of questions. There’s no way I can use his answers at trial without corroboration. In fact, my boss might fire me for coming here.”
Caruso thought about what I had said and disappeared into the back room to consult with his master. I flopped down on one of the cheap metal chairs near the closest of three tables. A thirtyish-looking woman standing behind the deli counter eyeballed me. I smiled, but she glared.
What was I doing? What did I really hope to gain from this? I found myself staring at an old electric clock hanging above the exit; I was fascinated by its red minute hand, which was sweeping across its face. A smiling pig, encircled by the clock’s numbers, looked back at me. Nothing Beats the Taste of Persico’s Pork was printed under the pig’s snout. What idiot had come up with that slogan?
I fully expected Gallo and Conti to show up at any minute and braced myself for the nasty exchange that would follow, but after waiting five minutes, Caruso stepped from behind the counter, followed by the old mobster himself.
As they approached my table, Persico called to the woman making a sandwich behind the deli counter. “Angelica, we need you!” he hollered.
The woman put aside the hoagie that she was making, wiped her hands on her white apron, and came forward, still glaring at me. “Stand up and face me,” she ordered.
“I need to check for a wire,” she explained, and then before I could protest, she dropped down and expertly began frisking my legs.
“Is this really necessary?” I asked Persico.
Caruso answered. “If you wanna talk to the boss, it is.”
Having inspected my legs, Angelica announced, “I need to check under your shirt.”
I’d not expected this but again, she moved quickly, reaching under my T-shirt and racing her hands up and down my sides and then simultaneously along my back and front. It happened in seconds. She turned, nodded, and had started back to her station when Persico reached out and took her arm. “You stay,” he ordered.
Angelica looked angry and I wondered if something was going on between them. She turned and faced me.
I now had Caruso, Persico, and Angelica standing directly in front of me, waiting for me to speak. “That was a first,” I said, making no attempt to hide my indignation.
Caruso said, “You never been frisked by a cop? Trust me, they ain’t gentle like Angelica.”
“How about a lineup?” Persico said. “You ever have to go through one of them?”
“Yeah,” Caruso said, immediately chiming in. “You ever been called down to a station and been ambushed by photographers?”
“No, but I’ve never been a murder suspect,” I replied.
Persico said, “Why’d you come here?”
“Look, I already told you that everyone thinks you were having an affair with Isabella Ricci.”
Angelica seemed shocked for a second and then caught herself.
“I don’t believe that,” I continued.
Persico’s eyes locked on mine. “I’d never seen that broad before that Friday. I didn’t even know who she was.”
“Wait,” I said. “You didn’t know it was Isabella Ricci, Tiny Nunzio’s daughter, in that apartment?”
“You deaf?”
“Then why did you go there?”
“That’s none of your business,” he said.
“It is if you want me to help you.”
“I already got an entire law firm,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”
“Was it because of some feud between you and Tiny Nunzio?”
“You deaf and dumb?” he replied. “I just told you, I didn’t know that broad was his daughter.”
I was thinking about his answer when he turned the tables. “Your boyfriend—did you come here to help him get another big story in tomorrow’s paper?”
I got a sudden chill. I had no idea that the Butcher knew about Will and me. I didn’t like it. Clearly, he had sources either at the courthouse, the newspaper, or the police department. Maybe all three.
“If you want my help,” I said, “tell me why you went to that apartment.”
Persico turned and began walking toward the meat counter.
Our tête-â-tête was over. Just to make certain that I didn’t chase after Persico, Caruso stepped between us.
“For a prosecutor,” Caruso said coldly, “youse got yourself a nice pair a legs. I could use a broad like youse in one of our clubs. Youse ever want a legit job, gimme a call.” He gave me a truly evil smirk.
I was angrier at myself than I was at Persico. I’d thought I might be able to get the gangster to talk to me as a person. I wondered how many of his victims had tried that same tactic, pleading for their lives only to have him scoff at them. I looked at Caruso and replied, “Nice try, asshole. Maybe after I convict your boss of murder.”
21
O’Brien was waiting at our office when I parked my car and let myself in through the building’s back door. He was holding an open copy of the newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
“I’d like to be there when Tiny Nunzio reads that his only daughter was being forced to spread ’em and bend over at wild sex parties,” he said.
“Spread ’em and bend over?”
“Yeah. Remember? My New Year’s Eve resolution? I’m trying to expand my vocabulary.” O’Brien chuckled to himself and said, “Marco Ricci’s butt has got to be super puckered right now.”
“Super puckered? That’s increasing your vocabulary?”
He shrugged. But he was right. Marco Ricci had to be even more terrified of Tiny Nunzio knowing that the mobster had read about Isabella’s forced sexual swinging.
“He’ll be Nunzio’s secondary target,” I predicted, “after Persico.”
O’Brien nodded in agreement and put down the newspaper. “Your boyfriend’s opened a real Pandora’s box.”
“Citing Greek mythology now,” I teased. “That’s more impressive than super puckered.”
“I read the first few pages of that Pandora story back in high school. The teacher tricked me. I thought Pandora’s box was something else.”
I gave him a blank stare.
“A certain part of her lower anatomy.”
“You’re quite a detective, O’Brien.”
Eager to change the subject, he said: “I expected you two hours ago. Where you been?”
I hesitated, not sure I wanted to tell him, but then I said, “I went to the butcher shop.”
O’Brien’s smile vanished along with his New Year’s resolution. “Why the fuck did you do that?”
“I felt bad about the fake police lineup and I thought I might be able to break through to him if he realized I was different from Whitaker and his cronies. I wanted him to know that I was trying to solve these killings and not simply prosecute him.”
“How’d that work for you?”
“Not well, although I did get a job offer,” I said with a sly smile.
“Doing what? We’re both going to need new jobs after Whitaker finds out you met with Persico without permission.”
“Carmine Caruso said I had nice legs. He offered me a job in one of his titty clubs.”
I expected O’Brien to laugh, but instead he spun the toothpick in his mouth several times and in a serious voice said, “Dani, you don
’t want to get personal with guys like Caruso or Persico.”
“What do you mean, get personal?”
“Right now, they think you’re an asshole prosecutor. That’s how you want to keep it. If they begin to think you have some sort of fondness or friendship with them—that could be dangerous.”
“I was just trying to talk to him as a fellow human being.”
“Persico’s not a human being. He’s your enemy. If he thinks you like him, he’ll see that as a weakness and he’ll exploit it. And if you develop even the slightest hint of a friendship, you stop being just another asshole prosecutor. The moment you do something he doesn’t like, he’ll feel betrayed. He’ll think you’re toying with him and Nicholas Persico isn’t someone you toy with.”
“I don’t want to be his friend,” I said.
“That’s not my point. Let me spell this out for you. Let’s say two bums are sitting outside the courthouse, panhandling. Every day, we walk by them and I tell them to ‘go get a job.’ But you’re too nice to do that. You give them a quarter. Then one day, you got no change and you say, ‘Sorry, I don’t have a quarter.’ Who are they going to get angry at? Not me. I’m just another asshole. But they got expectations from you. Persico is like that. Don’t give him expectations.”
I’d learned to trust O’Brien’s street smarts so I paid attention. But now that he was finished with his lecture, I said, “My encounter with him was not a total waste. I did get one piece of useful information.”
“Yeah. What’s that?”
“Persico said he didn’t know it was Isabella Ricci when he went into that apartment.”
“He’s jerking your chain. If he wasn’t banging that broad, why’d he go there?”
I shrugged. “Look, Mancini said Isabella was meeting someone twice a week like clockwork and had been for three months. Persico says he didn’t know who Isabella was until he met her that afternoon. If he’s telling the truth, then Isabella wasn’t having an affair with him. She was meeting someone else.”
“Agent Coyle’s logbooks should show who’s tellin’ the truth,” O’Brien said.
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