I’d learned from Will Harris that Nunzio had gotten his nickname Tiny because of his slight build as a teenager, which he’d put to good use slipping through air-conditioning ducts to commit burglaries. But the Nunzio who peered out from behind security bars protecting the front door of his Personette Avenue house was anything but slim. He must have tipped the scales at more than 300 pounds. He had silver hair, large black glasses, was in his fifties, and was wearing baggy black trousers, house slippers, and an open-necked tan shirt.
I introduced myself and O’Brien and said, “We just wanted to ask you a few questions about your daughter’s murder—”
Nunzio slammed the door in our faces. Next to the doorbell was a five-by-seven-inch framed photograph of Isabella Ricci with a black cloth draped around it—an old Italian custom that meant the house’s occupants were in mourning. I pushed the bell and kept pushing until the door flew open again.
This time, there was a heavyset woman staring at us.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded. “Isabella was put to rest yesterday and you people can’t give us a frickin’ weekend for mourning?”
“We’re trying to catch whoever killed Isabella,” I said calmly, trying to make our impromptu visit sound much more noble than it was. “That’s why we’d like to speak to your husband.”
“Tiny ain’t my husband,” she said in an angry voice. “He’s my father-in-law and he don’t want to talk to you. Now get the hell off our front porch and leave us alone.”
She slammed the door shut.
“Smooth move, counselor,” O’Brien said. “Calling her Tiny’s wife.”
“She looks older,” I replied.
The screeching brakes of an approaching car made us both turn around. A slender man wearing white tennis shorts and an athletic shirt emblazoned with his country club’s emblem hurried from behind the wheel of a blue Cadillac.
“Reuben Myers, the Nunzio family’s attorney,” he announced as he walked up the sidewalk. “Why are you folks here?”
“I’m Dani Fox, an assistant district attorney in Westchester County, New York, and this is Detective Thomas O’Brien.”
“I recognize you from television,” he said. “But you’re in New Jersey now, not Westchester County. It would have been prudent to have called me during regular working hours if you wished to speak to my client. Coming here on a Saturday, the day after his daughter was buried, is, quite frankly, both rude and highly unprofessional.”
It’s one thing to get an ethics lecture from a professor at some highly regarded university or even from an esteemed judge, but from a paid mouthpiece from the mob? I didn’t give a damn that we’d interrupted his indoor tennis match at his club or upset his Mafia capo’s grieving.
“Your client has another funeral to attend,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Whose?”
“His son-in-law, Marco Ricci.”
Suddenly, Myers looked concerned. “Have you told Mr. Nunzio?”
“We figured he already knew,” O’Brien chimed in.
“What are you implying?” Myers asked.
“You’re a smart guy, you figure it out,” O’Brien said.
Obviously, O’Brien hadn’t liked the dressing down that Myers had given us, either.
Myers slipped between us and rang the Nunzios’ doorbell. He called out, “Maria, it’s Reuben Myers. Please let me in. I need to speak to Mr. Nunzio.”
The curtains in a side window of the Victorian house moved and someone peeked out onto the porch. Seconds later, the front door opened and Nunzio’s daughter-in-law unlocked the reinforced security gate, letting Myers through. She shot me a hateful look and said to Myers, “Why are they still here?”
Once again, she slammed the door shut. If she kept that up, Nunzio was going to need new hinges.
O’Brien toyed with his toothpick while I shifted my weight from one foot to another and tried to keep my mind from wandering back to Will. Myers and Nunzio left us standing outside alone for about five minutes before the attorney came out. Since the door slammed behind him, I assumed that Maria was still on sentry duty.
“Have you come to ask my client if he was involved in the murder of Marco Ricci?” Myers asked me.
“Actually,” I said, “I didn’t say Marco Ricci had been murdered. I just said he was dead.”
“Let’s not play word games, shall we?” Myers replied. “You wouldn’t have driven from Westchester on a Saturday if someone hadn’t killed Ricci.”
“Let’s not play any games at all,” I replied, although I doubted that was going to happen. “Marco Ricci was murdered and yes, it has crossed our minds that your client might have been involved. You know, given the story in today’s paper.”
“What story?”
“I thought we weren’t going to play games.”
Either Myers was good at playing dumb, really was dumb, or really hadn’t read about Marco Ricci forcing Isabella to take part in Scarsdale sex parties.
I said, “You asked why we are here. Let’s start with the fact that your client is an alleged member of a known criminal enterprise and that Marco Ricci hired security guards to protect him from your client the morning after Isabella was found murdered.”
With a straight face, Myers replied, “My client is a hardworking businessman. There was no reason for Mr. Ricci to be afraid of him.”
“Now we’re not only playing games, we’re pretending,” I said.
O’Brien decided to join in. “Listen, if she’d been my daughter and her husband was bending her over like that, I’d have wanted him dead, too.”
I wondered for a moment if O’Brien was trying to use the Reid Technique to sound sympathetic, but then I decided he was simply telling the truth.
Myers continued to stare at us blankly. He seemed at a complete loss for words, unlike the lawyers at Gallo & Conti, who were undoubtedly charging the Butcher a much higher hourly fee.
Hoping to snap Myers out of his fog, I asked, “Is your client willing to answer a few questions about his daughter, her death, and his relationship with Marco Ricci?”
“My client has an ironclad alibi,” he said.
“That’s interesting, because we haven’t told you when Ricci was murdered,” I replied.
“It doesn’t really matter. Since Isabella’s murder,” Myers explained, “Mr. Nunzio has been housebound in mourning. The only time he has left this house has been to attend her funeral mass and burial. We have plenty of witnesses who can vouch for that.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said with a hint of sarcasm.
A city police cruiser appeared and parked next to Myers’s Cadillac. The Verona Police Department officer who stepped from it called out to us. “The Nunzios are complaining about trespassers.”
“I’m Assistant District Attorney Dani Fox. This is Detective O’Brien.”
“You got a warrant?”
“No. We came to learn if Mr. Nunzio wanted to give us a statement voluntarily about a homicide.”
“He doesn’t,” Myers declared.
The officer said, “Then you two need to vacate these premises. This is private property and the owners have said you aren’t welcome here.”
For some stupid reason, he started to reach for O’Brien’s arm.
“Touch me, buddy-boy,” O’Brien said, “and you’ll be wearing a cast for a month.”
Apparently thinking better of it, the officer pulled back his right hand, which he then rested on the grip of his still-holstered pistol. In an authoritative voice, he said, “If you don’t vacate these premises, I’m going to arrest you.”
I didn’t want this standoff escalating, particularly since it was clear that the Verona police were more interested in keeping Nunzio happy than helping us.
“We’ll leave,” I said. “We were just trying to save Mr. Nunzio from possibly having to appear before a grand jury.” I practically yelled that last comment because I suspected Nunzio was probably hiding behind the door, listeni
ng as best he could to our conversation.
The house’s front door opened and Nunzio appeared in the doorway. He waved Myers over to speak to him. They exchanged whispers and then the attorney spoke to us.
“Can you tell me how Mr. Ricci was murdered?” he asked.
“An Italian necktie,” I said, loud enough for Nunzio to hear. “The killer also mutilated his body. But if you want the gory details, your client needs to talk to us.”
Nunzio looked directly at me, as if he were memorizing my face, then shut the door. I took the fact that he hadn’t slammed it as a sign that he was satisfied. Or maybe he was worried about those hinges.
25
It was after nine o’clock in the evening when O’Brien dropped me at the DVU to get my Triumph, so I drove straight home. Wilbur was waiting anxiously for his dinner and the red light on my answering machine was blinking.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
It was Mom.
“Are you coming for lunch tomorrow? I’ll make one of your favorites. We could go to Mass and then eat. It’s been a while and Father McHenry asks me every week when he might be seeing you. I’ll be up late tonight, as always, so call me.” The image of sitting down with Mom for a meal of okra and tomatoes, stewed with meat, poured over white rice was appealing. The image of sitting next to her listening to a Mass was not.
The next message was Will. “You probably heard Marco Ricci was murdered. The editors have called everyone in. We’re redoing tomorrow’s entire front page. Can you believe this? When was the last time Westchester County had four murders in a row? We’ve got photos of Isabella, Roman and Maggie Mancini, and now Marco Ricci lined up. I hope you realize that I haven’t called you for any inside information. I’m respecting our new professional boundaries.”
Will hesitated and then said, “Dani, I’m sorry I was jealous last night about that FBI prick. Remember, I do love you. See you tomorrow. Oh, did you see my story about Persico? Another exclusive for my résumé.”
Apparently, Will had no clue how angry I was about his morning exclusive. I put my anger aside. All I wanted was a hot bath and good night’s rest.
The third message was Chief Steinberg. “The boss is giving the press a short statement today about Marco Ricci. He wants to see you and O’Brien in his office tomorrow—yes, on Sunday—at two o’clock. We need to discuss what you two are doing to get this matter under control. Are you ready to indict Persico? One more thing. Has that FBI agent called you? I want answers tomorrow and don’t be late.”
The final message was from Agent Coyle. “We need to meet ASAP now that Marco Ricci is dead. I’ve got our logs to show you. We’re hearing rumors the Battaglias and the Gacciones are about to go to war. Call me on my home line tonight no matter how late it is. I can drive out to White Plains. It’s time to end this jurisdictional bullshit and combine our efforts.”
Although I was exhausted, I wanted to see those FBI logs. I called the home number that Coyle had left. He picked up on the first ring.
“I can be in White Plains in an hour,” he said. “Want me to come to your house?”
“No, there’s an IHOP that’s open twenty-four hours in Yonkers, on Central Park Avenue,” I said. “You will be bringing the logs this time, right? I’m not wasting my time if you forget them again.”
“They’re in my car. Hey, I heard you tried to speak to Nunzio today. You got guts. I’d like to hear how that went.”
“Show me the logs first,” I said.
I wasn’t sure how he’d heard about our visit. My best guess was that the FBI had a wiretap on Nunzio’s home phone and had heard him call his attorney. Either that or Coyle had a snitch in Nunzio’s crew.
Before hanging up, I added, “I’ll be bringing the package you sent me about Will Harris. And I want to make this perfectly clear: This meeting at IHOP is going to be purely professional. It will not be a date, got that?”
“See you in an hour,” he said.
It would take me less time to get to the Yonkers IHOP than it would Agent Coyle so I decided to give my mom a quick call.
“I only have a few minutes,” I began, hoping to keep our conversation short. “I’m heading out for a meeting with the FBI.”
“At this hour? Is it with that fellow who wants to date you?”
“Yes, but this is purely professional. It’s an emergency. I don’t have time to explain. I’m calling because I won’t have time for lunch tomorrow because O’Brien and I have to be at the D.A.’s office at two o’clock.”
“Honey, you still need to eat,” she said, sounding very much like a mother.
“Mom, I can’t. But let’s do breakfast in the morning.”
“If you swing by at nine,” she offered, “we can eat here and then go to the eleven o’clock Mass.”
I decided to give in. Maybe a good breakfast and some divine inspiration would help me deal with the murders and what I’d learned about Will.
“Okay, see you at nine,” I said. I told her that I loved her, grabbed my purse and keys, and hurried outside.
I got to the IHOP before Agent Coyle and surveyed the place out of habit. About a dozen customers were seated in booths. A waitress with a badge that read: hi! i’m patti! agreed to let me sit in a booth away from the other diners. I ordered a Dr Pepper and was relieved when I saw Coyle arrive carrying a bulky accordion file.
Taking a seat across from me, he said, “Thanks for seeing me so late.”
“Those the logs?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, but he didn’t pass the file folder to me or open it. Instead, he picked up a menu and said, “You ordering something? I’m hungry.”
Our waitress appeared and Coyle ordered a burger, extra fries, and a slice of apple pie à la mode.
“How about you?” he said.
I realized that I hadn’t eaten all day, so I decided to have breakfast as dinner and ordered pancakes with hot maple syrup. I was still eyeing the closed file, but Coyle clearly wanted to make polite chitchat.
“I’ll pay for that pie and ice cream tomorrow when I work out,” he said.
“I don’t think the pie and ice cream is the only problem,” I said. “It’s the greasy burger with extra fries.”
Coyle had always been wearing business suits when we’d met previously, but tonight he was in blue jeans and a navy high-collared sweater, which he proceeded to take off, because it was warm in the diner. The T-shirt underneath it showed ripped biceps. I couldn’t help noticing again that he was incredibly handsome. Coyle said, “I’ll throw in a few extra miles tomorrow. I like to run five miles each morning and then lift weights for an hour. I’m a bit compulsive about it.”
He was clearly trying to impress me and it was working.
“I run each morning, too,” I said. “Dark chocolate is my vice, Junior Mints in particular.”
“I’ll send candy instead of roses next time.”
“Unless you have a habit of sending roses and chocolates to every prosecutor you meet, including the men, I’d prefer you knock it off with the gifts.”
“If I send roses to Detective O’Brien, I can send chocolates to you?” he asked with a grin.
“If you send roses to O’Brien, he’d probably punch your lights out.”
“It might be worth it,” he said.
“Agent Coyle,” I replied, “I think it’s important that we keep our relationship professional. Now, can I see the logs, please?”
“I’ve been told that sometimes I can be too aggressive,” he said, ignoring my request. “I guess the enthusiasm and intensity that make me a good agent can be a bit intimidating to women. But you’re opinionated and independent and aggressive, too. Otherwise you wouldn’t be where you are in a man’s field. It probably intimidates most men. Am I right?”
“Can I see the daily logs?”
“I’m trying to compliment you,” he said. “As I said earlier, I’d like to be friends.”
“No. You’ve made it clear that you want to be more tha
n friends and I’ve made it clear that I’m not comfortable with that right now.”
He smiled. “Right now. I’ll take that to mean that I might have a chance later.” Without waiting for me to respond, he slid the accordion file across the Formica-topped table.
I immediately opened it. Coyle glanced around to see if anyone was watching us or was in earshot. Satisfied, he said, “What I brought you are summaries, not the full logs.”
“Why only summaries?” I asked. Was this another trick by Jack Longhorn?
“The summaries highlight how Persico spent his day. The full logs have more details. A summary would report that one of our best agents met with Assistant District Attorney Dani Fox at an IHOP restaurant at ten-thirty on a Saturday night. The daily log would describe the conversation that the agent had with Ms. Fox and note such information as whether or not Ms. Fox had gazed into the agent’s eyes longingly during dinner.”
“Cute,” I said.
“Illustrations are sometimes more effective than long explanations,” he replied proudly.
“So if I told the agent to stop flirting, then that would be in the daily log report but not in the daily summary.”
Coyle groaned and feigned a pained look. “That’s right. The summary would simply mention that the agent and Fox met. The log would describe how—despite his witty personality and their easy rapport—he got shot down.”
Thankfully, waitress Patti arrived with our food. Coyle waited until she was gone to continue.
“I can’t let you see the daily logs because they contain sensitive information, such as the names of undercover FBI agents and the numeric IDs of our confidential sources. But there’s no harm in letting you see the summaries.”
“You promised to show me the full logs earlier,” I said. “What happened?”
“Jack Longhorn,” Coyle answered candidly. “He told me to only show you the summary reports.”
I scanned the first entry in Persico’s file.
Clever Fox Page 16