Clever Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  Back in the kitchen, Mom spent two hours telling me how worried she’d been and how I need to be careful. On her way out she drew a hot bath for me. Once she was gone, I carried my portable twelve-inch television into the bathroom. I’d just begun to soak when Coyle’s face appeared on the tube, flanked by a grinning Whitaker and Longhorn. “Breaking headline news!” a voice announced. “We are now going live to a press conference being held outside the Westchester County Courthouse.”

  Perched behind a podium, Whitaker solemnly announced, “One of my assistant district attorneys, Ms. Dani Fox, was kidnapped late last night by a known New Jersey mobster, Giuseppe Nunzio, aka Tiny Nunzio. He and two of his associates took Ms. Fox to an abandoned warehouse. Fortunately for our community and my office, Ms. Fox was freed by FBI Special Agent Walter Coyle and was not seriously injured.”

  An old photo of me flashed on the screen, followed by footage of me ducking into O’Brien’s car earlier that morning.

  Whitaker stepped to his left so that Longhorn could take center stage. After introducing himself, he picked up the story. “In a heroic act, FBI Special Agent Coyle entered the warehouse and confronted three armed men, including Tiny Nunzio. Gunfire was exchanged and the three kidnappers were fatally wounded. Agent Coyle located Ms. Fox and brought her to safety. He is with us this morning.”

  Looking every bit the hero in his tailored dark suit, red-white-and-blue tie, and crisp white shirt, Coyle said, “I don’t think of myself as a hero. I did what any other professional law enforcement officer would have done. In our line of work, putting your life on the line to protect the public from a gangster like Giuseppe Nunzio is nothing out of the ordinary. It’s what we do every day.”

  I was surprised at how emotional I was becoming.

  Having made his one-paragraph declaration, Coyle stepped back to allow Whitaker and Longhorn to butt together at the podium and begin fielding questions.

  Someone asked where I was. Whitaker said, “Recuperating after this horrific ordeal.” One of the tabloid reporters asked if I had been sexually assaulted during the kidnapping. Whitaker looked more disappointed than relieved when he said that I hadn’t. It would have made the story even juicier. When a reporter asked why I’d been kidnapped, Whitaker said it was because I’d been helping investigate the “unprecedented rash of mob violence” that had hit Westchester County. He spent several minutes reminding the crowd that reports of violent crime had actually dropped under his tenure.

  When Longhorn was finally able to wrestle the microphone from Whitaker, he announced that Whitaker, the FBI, and the District Attorney’s Office had concluded that Tiny Nunzio had been responsible for the murder of Marco Ricci. Longhorn explained that Nunzio had murdered his former son-in-law after learning that Ricci had forced his wife to engage in “Scarsdale sex parties.” The FBI chief also declared that he and Whitaker had closed the Roman and Maggie Mancini homicides at the Midland Apartments. Tiny Nunzio had been responsible for their deaths, too, Longhorn said, explaining that the unfortunate couple had gotten caught in the middle of a dispute between a New Jersey crime family and a New York one.

  At that point, Whitaker reclaimed the microphone and explained that the closing of the Marco Ricci and the Mancini homicides left only the Isabella Ricci homicide still unsolved.

  “My office,” Whitaker announced proudly, “will present this case to a grand jury within days.”

  That bombshell caused reporters to begin shouting more questions, but Whitaker and Longhorn balked at answering them and instead pushed Coyle to the front.

  “Unfortunately, Agent Coyle cannot answer questions about his heroic rescue efforts this morning,” Longhorn said, “because the shootings in the warehouse are still being reviewed. It’s standard procedure. But I can tell you that I am recommending Agent Coyle for a citation and award from the FBI for his bravery in the line of duty.”

  The screen went from the press conference back to the television station’s newsroom, where the local anchorman said, “Agent Coyle certainly deserves our thanks and praise, and we’re all wishing Assistant District Attorney Dani Fox a speedy recovery.”

  The station then went back to The $50,000 Pyramid.

  Hurrying out of the tub, I plugged in my phone and paged O’Brien. When he called me back, I said, “Did you see the news conference?”

  “Yeah, no surprises.”

  “No surprises? They’re going to indict Persico for Isabella’s murder. We’ve got to tell them about Donnie Gilmore and his record. We’ve got to tell them Gilmore was stalking Isabella.”

  “Relax, we will. Your boss and Longhorn will keep busy kissing reporters’ asses all day. We’ll clear this up tomorrow. You need to get some rest.”

  He was right. I needed to be at my best when we broke the news about Gilmore to Whitaker and his three chiefs. I unplugged the phone and slipped under the covers. I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. But it didn’t last. Four hours later, my entire body began to shake as if I had stuck my finger into an electrical socket. My eyes popped open and I gasped for air.

  A nightmare. A bad one. I’d been sitting in the warehouse freezer. Only in my dream, Nunzio had come into the freezer and taken off my hood. He had stared into my eyes, brandishing a knife, and said: “You need a necktie!”

  I was drenched in sweat.

  I was afraid of having another nightmare. Awake, I could control my emotions, but how do you control your subconscious?

  Plugging in my bedroom phone, I dialed a familiar number.

  I caught him at his apartment. “I need a taxi. I need to talk.”

  “I’ll pick you up in fifteen,” O’Brien said, “but we’re going to a place I choose.”

  “Great,” I said. “I almost get killed by the mob and now you’re going to kill me by making me eat at one of your greasy spoons.”

  “Stop bitching and get dressed.”

  30

  O’Brien drove us to the diner where Ellen—his backup girlfriend—was on duty. She acted as if a pair of Hollywood stars had arrived when she spotted us.

  “Lordly Lou!” she screamed, looking away from the handful of truckers perched on stools at the diner’s counter. “I saw you on the news just a bit ago.”

  I had slipped on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, jacket, and baseball cap, but it obviously hadn’t kept her from recognizing me. She rushed over to our booth, grabbing a glass coffeepot and ceramic mug en route for O’Brien.

  “Miss Fox,” she declared, “I’m so glad those gangsters didn’t rape and kill you.”

  Conscious of all the eyes on us, I whispered, “Thank you,” and ducked behind the menu.

  “That FBI agent who rescued you sure is yummy.”

  “How about me?” O’Brien said.

  “Oh sweetie pie, no one can rock my boat like you. But that don’t mean a gal don’t have eyes, does it, Miss Fox? No harm in looking, right?”

  “I’m grateful for what Agent Coyle did,” I said.

  “Grateful!” Ellen repeated loudly. “Honey, grateful is when your old man picks his underwear and socks up off the floor and puts them in the laundry basket. What that hunk did for you demands a bit more than just feeling grateful.”

  “I think Agent Coyle knows how much I appreciate his actions,” I said.

  Without picking up a menu, O’Brien said, “You know what I want, darling.”

  “Are we talking food or something else?” she giggled.

  Oh God, here we go again. “I’d like a Dr Pepper and some wheat toast with jelly,” I said.

  “How about a juicy steak?” she asked me. “On the house.”

  “Thank you, but my stomach’s a bit upset,” I demurred.

  “Oh, baby, no problem. But it’s still on the house.”

  O’Brien watched Ellen with appreciative eyes as she walked away. Stirring his coffee, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nightmares.”

  He took a sip. “I’m not surprised. You’re not the first. I
had them, too.”

  “When?”

  “After I got shot.”

  “You got shot?”

  “Yeah, more than once. I wear bullets well.” He chuckled and continued, “The first time I was chasing this punk down an alley. Got me with a Saturday night special. Cheap piece of imported crap. I saw the flash and got knocked off my feet. The little prick swiped a Sony Walkman and I was lying in an alley looking up at the stars thinking, Goddamn it, I’m dying for a piece of junk made in Japan.”

  I tried to hold back a grin but couldn’t.

  He scowled at me. “It was only a flesh wound, but I kept reliving it every night when I got to sleep. Got so I was afraid to close my eyes.”

  “I didn’t think anything frightened you.”

  He put down his mug. “Any cop who’s never been scared is a liar or a fool.”

  I said, “Tell me about your nightmares.”

  “It was the same thing over and over. Chasing that punk, getting shot. The captain required me to talk to our department shrink. He said the dreams were my way of trying to figure out what I’d done wrong. My head was saying, Dummy, don’t let this happen again.”

  O’Brien had a way of making me smile. “How’d you stop them?”

  “When my thick skull finally realized I hadn’t done nothin’ wrong. Shit happens. It’s out of my hands. It’s out of your hands.”

  “The clockmaker,” I said. “And his granddaughter. That wasn’t your fault. You weren’t there. Shit happens?”

  A pained look crossed his face. I’d touched a nerve and O’Brien didn’t like it. Thankfully, Ellen arrived carrying a massive platter of chicken fried steak and french fries smothered in white cream gravy for O’Brien and some wheat toast with burnt crusts for me.

  “I told the cook to pour on extra gravy so it’s just how you like it,” she told O’Brien.

  O’Brien twirled his ever-present toothpick in his mouth and winked at her again. “You always know how to satisfy me,” he said. She giggled and sashayed away.

  After she was gone, he said, “Your skull’s gonna keep replaying the kidnapping until it’s convinced you couldn’t have done nothin’ different. You wanna sleep? Do what the rest of us do. Either get drunk or deal with it.” He stabbed his fork into his gravy-covered steak.

  I said, “What I need is to get right back in the saddle.”

  Suddenly, I stopped smearing grape jelly on my toast and shook my head in disgust. “Did you just hear me?” I asked. “Back in the saddle. Jesus, I’m channeling Jack Longhorn now. My brain is fried, O’Brien.”

  O’Brien winked and said, “Not in a pig’s eye.”

  “Leave pigs out of it.”

  “You’re gonna be messed up until the cows come home,” he said.

  “Stop, O’Brien. I told you my gut hurts.”

  I couldn’t think of any more Longhornisms, but O’Brien wasn’t done. “See that trucker over there,” he said, nodding at the counter. “He’s so cheap, he’d squeeze a nickel until the buffalo craps.”

  “Enough, enough,” I pleaded, laughing despite the pain in my ribs.

  O’Brien shook his head. “Not yet. Dani, you’re busier than a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest.”

  “I had no idea you could outdo Longhorn,” I said.

  “I can outdo that prick in everything,” he bragged, then got serious. “The first step to stopping those nightmares is smiling.”

  “And the next step,” I said, “will be prosecuting Isabella Ricci’s killer. We need to pay another visit to the Midland Apartments and confront Donnie Gilmore.”

  “And we will, Dani. But not tonight. Go home. Try to sleep. We’ll meet like normal people do at eight o’clock and head over to the Midland Apartments.”

  “I’d like to go tonight. Now. I’m worried he’ll run.”

  O’Brien used his last french fry to mop up what remained of the thick white gravy on his platter. “He won’t. Remember little Chunky?”

  “His name was Chucky.”

  “Yeah, but I got another smile, didn’t I? You’re afraid to go back to bed. But that’s what you need to do. I’m driving you home now.”

  He was right. I was scared. O’Brien gave me a sly look and then, in a voice that mimicked Longhorn, he said, “This dinner has made me as happy as a pig in shit.”

  I raised my hands in surrender. “Please. No pig references.”

  31

  Because Donnie Gilmore worked an irregular schedule at the U.S. Postal Service, we couldn’t be sure that he’d be home when O’Brien and I arrived at the Midland Apartments at 9 a.m. on Monday.

  We went directly to Apartment 104 and when no one answered, O’Brien made a fist and pounded harder on the door. I heard a baby cry inside. O’Brien had awakened Chucky. The door cracked and Rachel peeked out. Her eyes were red, swollen, and filled with tears.

  “We’d like to speak to you and your husband again,” I said.

  “Have you found him?” she asked, opening the door. Chucky was riding on her right hip, sucking hard on a pacifier.

  “Who?” I replied.

  “Donnie. He’s missing.”

  We followed her into the cluttered living room and waited while she put Chucky into a corner playpen, where he continued to suck on his pacifier, oblivious to his mom’s obvious distress.

  “I don’t know where he went,” Rachel said, sniffling and taking a seat in the cluttered living room. “We’ve been fighting since you guys came here last time.”

  I found a tissue in my purse and handed it to her. Rachel said, “We had a big blowup Sunday afternoon. He stormed out and never came back.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be?” I asked.

  “His supervisor called really angry because Donnie didn’t show up this morning when he was supposed to.”

  Rachel had called her husband’s family and his friends, even a local bar that Gilmore patronized, but no one had seen him.

  “I’m sorry I’m crying,” she said. “When I opened the door, I thought you’d come to tell me he was dead.”

  “We came because we wanted to talk to him about the murder in your building,” I said. “Detective O’Brien and I think Donnie knew more about it than he told us.”

  “Was he screwing her, too?” she asked.

  Her candor took me by surprise. I wasn’t sure how much Gilmore had told her about his sexual swinging in Scarsdale and his obsession with Isabella Ricci.

  “We think he was stalking her,” O’Brien said.

  So much for being subtle.

  In a weary voice, Rachel said, “I married him, had his kid, and then I find out he was cheating on me. I didn’t really know him, did I? How’s that happen?”

  I thought of my own life and Will’s hidden past. “Did Donnie keep a lot of secrets from you?” I asked.

  Covering her face with her hands, she nodded and said, “He sure as hell did. But he didn’t kill that woman. I know that.”

  “Did he tell you that?” O’Brien asked.

  “Naw, we didn’t talk about her. But he wasn’t there when she was murdered.”

  “How do you know?” I asked. “Donnie told us that he took the day off from work to be at home with your baby while you were at your mother’s house.”

  “Me and my mom were watching Donnie the whole time.” Rachel took a deep breath to steady her emotions and said, “I was worried he was cheating. And I thought I wanted to know for sure. Now I do know and I’m not so sure I want to anymore.”

  “You said you were watching Donnie on the afternoon of the murder,” I said, trying to get her back on track.

  “Yeah. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I hadn’t caught him with nobody.”

  “You and your mother followed him?” I said.

  “Yes and no. My mom came over and we told Donnie we was going to her house but we really went across the street to a coffee shop.”

  “What time was this?” I asked.

  “About ten in the mo
rning. Maybe later. My mom’s always late. We just sat there ’cause nothing happened. Then Donnie comes out without Chucky about noon. I followed him and mom went up to check on Chucky because we were afraid he’d left him alone.”

  “Was Chucky alone?” I asked.

  “Naw, he had Mrs. McCurry’s granddaughter babysitting. She lives next door. Donnie told her he had errands to do so she came over.”

  “Did Donnie see you tailing him?” O’Brien asked.

  “Naw. He was in a big hurry. He went to this park a few blocks from here and met up with this woman. I seen them kiss and then go in this restaurant. The Happy Clam. He takes me there sometimes, too.”

  “You went inside?” I asked.

  “Naw. I didn’t want no big scene. I knew he’d blame me, saying I wasn’t meeting his husband needs. That’s what he said when we were fighting yesterday.”

  “Tell me about your fight,” I said.

  “I told him I knew he was cheating but I didn’t tell him I’d followed him that afternoon. I didn’t want him to know.”

  “What happened after you saw Donnie enter the Happy Clam with another woman?”

  “I just sat in the park watching. He and her came out around two o’clock. They walked down to this hotel and went in there. I didn’t know what to do, so I just hung around. He finally comes out after six o’clock. That’s when he starts walking back to our place.”

  “You’re sure it was after six o’clock?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I needed to get home to feed Chucky. He eats around six. I also looked at my watch and it was like, maybe six-ten.”

  “You followed him home?” O’Brien asked.

  “Naw, I went after that woman. I caught her just before she got to the bus stop. She was wearing a wedding ring. I said, ‘Why you sleeping with my husband? We got a kid together.’ She got all embarrassed because people were watching.”

  “Did you know her?” O’Brien asked.

  She shook her head. “Naw, but I know where she works because she was wearing a uniform. She’s a waitress right across the street from the post office where Donnie works.”

  “Would you recognize her again?” O’Brien asked.