O’Brien chuckled and said, “Whitaker better hurry if he wants to make the six o’clock news.”
“I’m certain he and Steinberg have that covered,” I said. Changing topics, I asked, “Did Rachel Gilmore’s story check out?”
He nodded. “The waitress who was shacking up with Gilmore that afternoon broke down and cried like a baby. They signed into the hotel under a fake name. John and Jane Smith. Real pros them two. The hotel manager verified it. The babysitter said Gilmore didn’t get home until nearly six-thirty. I’d say he’s in the clear.”
“Then why’s he running?” I asked.
“I put out a missing persons on him. We’ll hear if he or his corpse shows up. It don’t matter either way now.”
“I’d like you to pull some files for me,” I told him. “I want everything you can get me on Isabella’s murder and I also want the files on Roman and Maggie Mancini and on Marco Ricci.”
“Casting a wide net?” he said.
“I don’t like how Whitaker and Longhorn tied all these murders up into a neat bow without anything but conjecture,” I said. “And if I’m going to get a conviction, I’ve got to be prepared for Conti & Gallo. They’ll point a finger at someone else.”
“Maybe Marco Ricci,” he said. “Defense attorneys enjoy blaming the dead. It’s easier.”
“I need to be prepared for whatever screwball theory they offer jurors,” I said.
O’Brien said, “What did you learn from Coyle about Persico’s family?”
“Oh crap!” I replied. “What time is it?”
“About ten minutes after six o’clock.”
Grabbing my purse, I hurried out my office door, late as usual.
35
Special Agent Walter Coyle was just finishing a glass of merlot when the maître d’ seated me.
“Got held up at work,” I said.
“Actually, you’re early based on Dani Fox time,” he joked.
“Cute.”
“My comment or me personally?” he asked.
“Both.”
“That’s the first time you’ve given me a compliment,” Coyle said.
“You did rescue me.”
“I certainly did,” he declared, raising his glass in a mocking self-salute. “And you rewarded me with an embrace and kiss.”
“Actually, I hugged you and you kissed me.”
“I didn’t see you resist.”
I could feel my face beginning to flush.
We ordered and Coyle said, “How’d I do this afternoon?”
“The grand jury loved you,” I said.
“No surprises there,” he replied confidently. “I make a good witness.”
“At trial, it will be more difficult,” I said, hoping to pop his bubble. “You didn’t have Conti or Gallo going at you. They may lack certain ethics representing a mobster like Persico, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t skilled litigators.”
“I’m sure you’ll protect me in court,” he said.
“Thanks for your vote of confidence, but there are lots of holes in this case. That’s why I wanted to keep digging and not rush things.”
“But you got outvoted.”
“I didn’t even get to cast one.”
“Don’t worry. I testified in Detroit in plenty of gang cases and I never let a defense attorney get the better of me. I’m not some run-of-the-mill cop.”
Continuing, Coyle said, “I was a bit surprised this morning when you called and asked about Persico’s family. Jack Longhorn had told me when I got to work that your office was going to indict the Butcher this afternoon. But my boss didn’t mention anything about you going after Persico’s kids.”
I wondered if I’d heard him correctly. He’d just told me that Longhorn had known about our plans to seek an indictment before I had.
“How’d your boss know we were going after Persico today?” I asked in my most nonthreatening voice.
“He heard it from Vanderhoot. They talk regularly.”
I thought back to my morning meeting with Whitaker and his three chiefs. Whitaker had specifically ordered Myerson, not Vanderhoot, to arrange for Coyle to appear before the grand jury.
Again, sounding nonchalant, I said, “I thought it was Myerson who arranged for you to come before the grand jury.”
“He did. Myerson called me,” Coyle said, “but by then, Longhorn already had spoken to Vanderhoot so I already knew I was going to be your star witness.”
It was a minor detail but our conversation told me that my misgivings about Vanderhoot were well placed. He was telling the FBI about our every move inside Whitaker’s office. He was a snitch for Longhorn and in return the FBI special agent in charge was helping him get a more lucrative U.S. Attorney’s job.
I didn’t want to call attention to what I’d just learned so I said, “You asked why I was interested in Persico’s immediate family. I want to learn everything I can about someone whom I’ve charged with murder.”
“Makes sense,” Coyle said approvingly.
“I also think someone in his family was having an affair with Isabella Ricci,” I added.
Coyle’s easy smile vanished. “Why are you still fussing about that?” he asked in an irritated tone.
“It’s a loose end that might help us understand why Persico killed her,” I said.
Coyle considered this and said, “Okay, that’s reasonable. What do you want to know about them?”
“I know Persico has two sons, and O’Brien told me that one of them is like his father and the other isn’t.”
“Detective O’Brien is right. Francis Persico is the oldest but he’s the one who got away. He graduated from college, got a legitimate job, and is an investment banker on Wall Street. His wife’s from a respectable Stamford, Connecticut, family. She sells real estate. They got three kids, all in private schools.”
“He doesn’t sound like someone who’d get involved with Isabella Ricci,” I said. “What about the other brother?”
“Paul’s the obvious choice. Never married and a carbon copy of the Butcher. His mob handle is ‘Little Pauly.’ He runs the Battaglia crime family’s operations in the Bronx, where he’s just as ruthless as his old man.”
“Are those Persico’s only kids?”
“Little Pauly is the baby in the family. Francis is the oldest. Then there’s a daughter between them, Angelica. She works at the family butcher’s shop.”
I recognized her name. Angelica was the attractive young woman who’d frisked me when I’d paid my unofficial visit to Persico at his shop. The Butcher himself had called her over to check me for a wire and told her to listen to our conversation.
“Is Angelica in the mob?” I asked.
Coyle laughed. “C’mon. Little Pauly is the apple of his father’s eye and he didn’t fall far from the tree. Besides, she’s a woman.”
I was finding Coyle’s demeaning attitude irritating. I also didn’t like his use of idioms. He’d obviously been spending too much time with Special Agent Longhorn, the king of the folksy homily.
“What can you tell me about Little Pauly?” I asked.
“He was trouble from the moment he was born. He boxed in amateur bouts as a teenager and earned a reputation for his left jab, although rumors were that other fighters took dives as soon as they learned who his old man was. He’s got a long rap sheet.”
“What sort of crimes?”
“Everything and anything. Running cigarettes up from North Carolina. Hijacking trucks out of Kennedy Airport. He did time in a federal country club before graduating to maximum security state prisons. He’s known for having a hot temper. More Sonny Corleone than Michael.”
“Is he a womanizer?”
“Thinks he is. A real Don Juan with Jersey girls. He got one pregnant a few years ago. Rumor was she was trying to force him down the aisle, since he’s Catholic. Instead, they found her body in the Meadowlands. Against abortion, but not murder.”
“Little Pauly Persico murdered one of his gir
lfriends, but you don’t think he might be responsible for carving up Isabella Ricci?” I asked in a surprised voice. “Why didn’t you share that information with us?”
“Little Pauly wasn’t at that apartment when Isabella was murdered, remember?” he said in a ridiculing tone. “His father was there. How many times do I have to tell you that? If we were suspicious of Little Pauly, we would have told you. But we don’t just randomly share information with locals unless we think they need it.”
“This is our case. You should have told us, especially since we know that someone besides Nicholas Persico was visiting Isabella at that apartment twice a week.”
“You don’t tell us what we should and shouldn’t share with you. Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter who was fucking her,” Coyle said loudly. “The only thing you need to know is that Nicholas Persico was in that apartment when that woman was murdered.”
Several people sitting nearby were staring. He noticed and immediately dropped his voice. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said.
His outburst was startling. I hadn’t seen this side of Coyle before. I decided to go along with him.
“What would you like to talk about?” I said. “The trial? Your testimony?”
“No. Us. Our future.”
“There is no us,” I said.
“You’re wrong,” he said in a cocky voice. “You might still have feelings for that asshole reporter, but he’s not right for you.”
“That reporter has a name and how do you know what’s right for me?”
“I know his name. Will Harris, or does he prefer some Age of Aquarius nickname like his ex-girlfriend Moonbeams?”
“That happened during the sixties,” I said. “Besides, who are you to judge him?”
“Who are you to not judge him?” Will replied. “The guy lied to you about his past, for God’s sake.”
“He didn’t lie,” I said. “He just didn’t tell me about it.”
“Burning flags, student protests, maybe you can blow off those things now and say that he just got caught in the sixties,” Coyle said, “but not telling you about his daughter and how she died, that’s an entirely different matter.”
I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to defend Will. Maybe I still had strong feelings for him. Or maybe I just didn’t like Coyle’s condescending attitude. Regardless, I decided to turn the tables. “Do you think you should have sent me your confidential FBI background investigation just because you wanted to date me?”
“You’re a prosecutor,” he said. “The bureau sends background information to prosecutors all the time. You can’t compare my decision to tell you about your former boyfriend’s shortcomings to the smothering death of a baby. I was trying to protect you.”
“Maybe Will thought he was trying to protect me, too, by keeping his past a secret.”
“You’re a lawyer. The law sees no difference between the getaway driver and his buddy who’s inside holding up a bank. Will Harris was there when Moonbeams suffocated his baby. Under the law, that makes him a killer and you shouldn’t be dating him.”
I was beginning to get angry. Who was he to be telling me who I should and shouldn’t date?
Coyle realized he was pissing me off. He smiled and said, “I think this is another topic we need to skip over. I’m sorry if you don’t realize that I was trying to help you. I just didn’t want you to get hurt again.”
“Hurt again?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s be honest here. I asked around at the courthouse. I heard about you and your med school boyfriend. How he cheated on you. You don’t have the best history with men.”
I suddenly felt the urge to stick my fork into his chest.
“How dare you investigate me?” I said, taking my napkin off my lap and tossing it on the table.
“Dani,” he said softly, “don’t make more of this than it is. Guys ask around when they find someone attractive. It’s no big deal. I’m the good guy here. I’m willing to protect you. Hell, Will Harris isn’t even putting up a fight for you.”
“Are you stuck in third grade?” I replied. “What you just said was not flattering. It was insulting. I don’t need a man to protect me or win me in battle.”
“You didn’t feel that way when you were handcuffed in the warehouse, did you?” he asked.
Now I really did want to stab him.
Coyle picked up the menu. “Let’s order dessert. Something to share.”
I was in no mood for dessert. I was angry at him for the belittling remarks that he’d made. I was angry because he was arrogant. I was angry because he’d attacked Will. And I was really pissed that he accused me of having a flawed character because my first boyfriend couldn’t keep his pants zipped and my second had secrets hidden in his past.
“Agent Coyle, you’re going to have to change your attitude about a lot of things if you are interested in dating me.”
“No problem,” he said flippantly. “I’ll gladly let you change me.”
He reached over and placed his hand on mine. I immediately started to pull my hand back and when I did, he tightened his grip and for a moment held it in place before releasing me.
I was stunned. “Don’t you ever try to manhandle me again,” I snapped. “I’m leaving.”
“Does this mean no dessert?” he said.
In a controlled voice, I said, “Because of Persico’s trial, we’re going to have to work together during the coming weeks. I think we need to be clear right now that we are going to have a professional relationship and nothing more.”
“Dani,” he said in an accommodating voice, “I’m sorry. This evening has been a disaster. I warned you I can get too aggressive. How about if I play by your rules? We’ll keep this entirely professional and then after Persico is convicted, you’ll give me another chance. I mean, I did save your life, right?”
Without waiting for an answer, Coyle waved to our waiter and said, “We’d like to split a dessert.”
“You’ll be eating it yourself,” I said, standing.
I left Coyle at the table, choosing between a cannoli and gelato.
36
Except when necessary, I stayed clear of Agent Coyle in the weeks leading up to the Persico trial. I also told Will that I needed a break to sort out our relationship. I asked him to stop calling or coming by my office or house. I wanted to focus on my work. If I felt lonely, I had my mom and Wilbur for company. I threw myself into trial preparation and got along quite nicely without either man adding to my troubles.
Ordinarily, the scheduling of a murder trial such as Persico’s drags on for months, even years. But Persico didn’t like being in jail and our office was eager to get the case heard quickly. Both sides agreed on an insanely expedited trial. It was set for April 1. Beginning on April Fool’s Day seemed significant to me, although I wasn’t certain whether it would be Persico, his lawyers, or me who would be proved a fool.
Vanderhoot called me into his office several times to ask about my strategy. But now that I knew he was a snitch for Longhorn, I was intentionally evasive. Nor did I spend much time with Myerson, but that was for a different reason. Our office’s chief trial lawyer didn’t want to know too much or get too involved, in case it turned out that Persico was found innocent. He wasn’t going to take the blame. I sensed that Whitaker was laying the groundwork for a “blame Dani Fox” exit if this case ran amok. I began to notice that whenever Whitaker spoke to the media, he made a point of reminding everyone that I was the lead prosecutor and that Detective O’Brien and I had been deeply involved in the investigation of Isabella’s murder.
The only person I could count on was O’Brien. My first request was for all the investigative files on Isabella’s murder as well as the Mancini and Marco Ricci homicides. I had to put myself in the shoes of the defense to figure out what sort of cockamamie theory the law firm of Conti & Gallo might present.
When O’Brien dropped a huge stack of files on my desk, I got right to work. I removed all o
f the black-and-white crime scene photographs that had been taken and tacked them on my office wall. Underneath each photo, I wrote the victim’s name, date and time of their death, and how they died. I stepped back and examined my display. I needed more information. I got O’Brien to get me files about Giuseppe Nunzio and Nicholas Persico. I put their photos on my wall, too. One of the girls in our office knits, so I borrowed a skein of yarn from her and began using it and thumbtacks to link commonalities between the different cases and different suspects. Before long, my display looked like a spiderweb of purple yarn.
As expected, Anthony Conti and Alonzo Gallo filed all of the prerequisite motions that one would expect before a trial of this magnitude. I have always found it frustrating that prosecutors have to show all of their cards but the defense isn’t required to show anything. Even more frustrating is that defense attorneys are given wide latitude to conjure up whatever nutty theories and inventions that they want to protect their clients. This practice was especially common in domestic violence cases, where it always seemed as if the victims were the ones being put on trial. All of this pretrial maneuvering ran its normal course and before I knew it, I was standing at the prosecutor’s table in the courtroom of Judge Lorenzo Cerrato, along with attorneys Anthony Conti, Alonzo Gallo, and their client.
There had been so many requests by reporters to attend the mobster’s murder trial that Judge Cerrato had instructed his clerk to put numbered slips of paper into a hat and have reporters pick them out. The first thirty winners got seats. Everyone else was stuck in the hallway. Of course, none other than Will Harris was sitting in the front row directly behind me. In addition to reporters, Judge Cerrato allowed a limited number of family members from the Persico and Nunzio clans to attend. All of them were searched before they entered the courtroom, where they sat either on the left, behind the defense table, or on the right, behind me. That meant that I got the Nunzios on my side. The only spectator whom I recognized was the deceased Mafia capo’s heavyset daughter-in-law, who’d confronted me when O’Brien and I had shown up on the family’s doorstep. She was flanked by two men who deputies told me were both Nunzio’s sons. The dead mobster’s wife and elderly mother also sat with them. On the opposite side of the courtroom, the Persico family sat on wooden benches. His supporters included his wife, his son Pauly, his daughter, Angelica, and his elderly mother. I found it amusing that both Mafia kingpins had their mother’s support. There were more deputies assigned to keep order in the courtroom than usual. O’Brien told me that the Battaglia and Gaccione crime families had both sent their soldiers to keep an eye on each other during the trial but courthouse security had refused to allow anyone to enter the courthouse who couldn’t show that they had a legitimate reason to be there, so the Mafia goons, as O’Brien referred to them, had taken up residence in two different restaurants near the downtown courthouse, claiming each as their turf.
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