Clever Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  “He beat you?”

  “Of course he did. He called me names. Said I was violating God’s sacred laws.”

  “But you kept seeing her.”

  “I loved her. She loved me.”

  “Your father went to see her to put an end to it.”

  “He was going to threaten her. He thought she was just some butch bull dyke.”

  “What happened in that apartment?”

  “He couldn’t scare her. He couldn’t do nothing. Not when she told him she was Giuseppe Nunzio’s daughter. If she’d been a nobody, he could have killed her. But not Nunzio’s kid. She was alive when he left that day.”

  “How do you know that? You weren’t there.”

  “He told me. When he came back to the shop. He called me a disgrace. He took off his belt and beat me. For the first time, I fought back. I ripped his shirt.”

  That must have been why Persico had changed his clothing that afternoon, I thought. But I didn’t interrupt her.

  “I thought he’d kill me, but Carmine Caruso stopped him. You got to understand, he couldn’t kill Nunzio’s daughter, but he could kill me. He threatened to kill me if I ever saw her again.”

  “Your father was in that apartment between the hours of three-thirty and five-thirty when Isabella was tortured and killed,” I said.

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “Yes, he was,” I replied. “An FBI agent was tailing him.”

  “That agent lied. We got proof.”

  “Agent Coyle lied?” I said, genuinely surprised. “What proof?”

  “Videotapes.”

  “What tapes?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  “That Friday, Carmine Caruso made me stay in my father’s office while he went to the apartment. I was watching the monitors that we got at the shop. They show the front lobby and back door. I was watching for my father. I was scared he’d killed Isabella. When he came back, the time was on the screen like it always was. It was three-thirty. If you don’t believe me, ask my father’s attorneys.”

  “Gallo and Conti have that videotape?”

  “Yeah, we all knew that agent was lying,” she said. “My father knew.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “They said you’d claim the tapes were fake. They had them at the trial, but the judge dismissed the case so they kept quiet.”

  “The person who murdered Isabella cut the cord from the clock radio at three-thirty-five,” I said. “If your father was with you at the butcher’s shop, that means the killer must have seen your father leave Isabella’s place and gone in immediately afterward to kill her.”

  “I have to get home,” she said. “I’ll be missed.”

  “Wait? Did Isabella ever mention a man named Gilmore, who lived on the second floor with his wife? He was stalking her.”

  “Yes. Her father sent men to scare him. He knew better than to mess with her.”

  “How about Marco Ricci? Could he have killed her?”

  “Marco didn’t have the cojones.” Angelica began to sob. “They’re expecting me at home.”

  “Just one more name, please?” I said.

  “My brother, Little Pauly?” she said. “That’s who you suspect. He wasn’t in Yonkers. He was in Miami. He didn’t do it. He blames me for our father’s death. He hates me now. They all do.”

  “Are you in danger? Do you need my help?”

  “How? You think you can hide me in a shelter somewhere?”

  “I can try. I saw your black eyes at the house.”

  “No. We never talked. You promised me.”

  43

  I was sitting at my office desk thinking about Angelica Persico when my receptionist buzzed me. “Some rude and really angry FBI guy from Virginia called while you were on the phone,” she told me. “He wants to speak to you right now.”

  I dialed Agent Todd Wheeler’s office at the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit and he answered on the first ring. “What the hell have you gotten me into?” he complained.

  “Not even a friendly hello?” I asked.

  “I told you this morning I’m busy. I don’t give a damn about what the weather is in New York or whether you’re having a good day. What I do give a damn about is finding out why I got Jack Longhorn breathing down my neck because of your phone call this morning.”

  “Jack Longhorn called you?” I asked.

  “Didn’t I just say that?” Anticipating my next question, Wheeler explained, “It’s standard protocol whenever we get a request from local law enforcement that we notify the appropriate FBI branch. We get a lot of loony calls and the local offices help us weed them out. Longhorn claims you’re a weed.”

  I bet Longhorn had plenty to say about me. But I kept quiet.

  Wheeler said, “Ten minutes after I had our secretary notify the New York office about your phone call, I got Longhorn on the horn demanding to know why I was wasting time digging into closed cases.”

  So much for keeping my investigation quiet.

  Without pausing for a breath, Wheeler said, “You didn’t tell me these were closed cases.”

  I started to speak, but Wheeler started up again. “If you’d told me that they were closed cases, then I would—”

  I decided to interrupt; otherwise I wasn’t going to get a word in. “Agent Wheeler,” I said in a stern voice, “you told me during our call that you didn’t want to hear what I had to say about the cases. All you wanted was for me to send you the police files and photographs, remember?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You shouldn’t have listened to me.”

  “What kind of reply is that?” I asked. “Longhorn thinks these cases are closed but I don’t think they should be. He doesn’t know about the missing body parts. He’s blamed these murders on the mob.”

  Wheeler didn’t immediately respond. Clearly, he was thinking about what I’d just said. When he finally did speak, he said, “Did the FBI investigate these murders or did you locals do it?”

  “We ‘locals’ did it. I’m gathering up our files for you.”

  “How badly do you want my help?” he asked.

  “I called you, didn’t I?”

  “Longhorn is going to complain to your boss,” Wheeler warned. “Can you take that sort of heat?”

  “I’ll handle it,” I said, glancing at my wall of photos. “I made a promise that I intend to keep.”

  “How fast can you get me your photos and your files?”

  “I can drive them down to Washington this afternoon.”

  “It would be better if I met you someplace away from our office. Let me think about it and call you back.”

  “If Longhorn is on your back, why are you doing this?”

  “Longhorn’s not my boss and my reasons don’t concern you,” he said. “You just make sure you bring me those autopsy reports.” He ended our call.

  I quickly collected the homicide files on my desk and then moved to the wall to gather up the photos and my note cards. Out in the hallway, I heard familiar voices. O’Brien was talking to Will.

  “I’m not sure she’s in her office,” O’Brien said.

  I turned from facing the wall just as Will knocked on my opened door. He looked in at me standing in front of my murder display.

  “I thought those cases were solved,” he said.

  “That’s why I’m taking them down.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Dani,” he said. “You’re horrible at it. I can always tell when you lie.”

  “Unlike me, who never knew when you were lying,” I replied.

  Will noticed the photo of Donnie Gilmore. “Who’s that guy? I recognize everyone else, but what’s he got to do with the mob murders?”

  “That’s a very good question,” a voice declared.

  Will and I turned our attention away from my wall. Agent Coyle was standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” Will asked Coyle.

  “I could ask the same question,” Coyle replied.

  I was angry at both of them for bar
ging in. Addressing Coyle, I said, “I can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face after our last telephone call.”

  He held up his hands as if he were surrendering and said, “I’m here on official business. How about lunch? A peace offering.”

  “I came to ask you to lunch,” Will said.

  “I’m not having lunch with either of you,” I replied. “I want both of you out of my office. From now on, call and make an appointment. I’m busy.”

  “Dani, we really need to talk,” Will said.

  “So do we,” Agent Coyle added with a smirk.

  I spoke first to Will. “I’m at work. This isn’t the place for us to have a personal conversation.”

  “Then let’s go to lunch,” he said.

  “No!”

  “Are you going to lunch with him?” Will asked.

  “If I do, that’s my business.”

  Will turned in a huff and started toward the door where Coyle was standing. The FBI agent did not step aside, but instead forced Will to turn sideways to slip by him.

  “You made the smart choice,” Coyle declared. “Where’s a good place to grab a sandwich around here?”

  “I have no intention of going to lunch with you,” I said. “After what you did to me, my reputation, and the reputation of the Westchester District Attorney’s Office, I don’t want anything to do with you. Not to mention the fact that you called me a cunt.”

  “Actually, that was Longhorn,” Coyle said, trying to make a joke of it. “I simply told you what he said.”

  “What’s your official business?” I asked.

  Coyle looked down at the floor as if he were ashamed. “I came to apologize for what I said in anger. It was inexcusable. It was unprofessional.” He sounded sincere, but I wasn’t buying it. I no longer trusted him and I didn’t think that he’d driven all the way to White Plains to simply apologize to me. He had to have an ulterior motive. He said, “How about I go get us something to eat and bring it back here? Although sitting in your office will not be as comfortable as eating at a table in a nice restaurant—especially with photos of murder victims staring down at us.”

  “I have other plans and I’m in a hurry,” I said.

  Without asking permission, he crossed my office and began studying the remaining photos and note cards on my wall.

  I didn’t like it. “Agent Coyle, I just told you that I’m in a hurry. There’s someplace I need to go.”

  “I didn’t come here just to apologize,” he said, while still examining my display. “Agent Longhorn sent me to have a friendly chitchat with you.”

  “What’s Longhorn want?” I asked, playing dumb.

  “He wants to know why you’re still investigating these closed cases and he really wants to know why you went behind his back and contacted Quantico about them.”

  “I’m guessing Longhorn isn’t a happy camper,” I replied.

  “None of us are and he won’t be any happier when I tell him about your wall of photos.” He reached up and tapped the picture of Isabella Ricci that I had taped on the wall, the one that showed her smiling months before her murder. “Longhorn sent me to tell you these are closed cases.”

  “I don’t give a damn what Longhorn says.”

  Coyle chuckled and said, “I believe you. You might not care, but others do. Maybe you’ve forgotten that he’s in charge of the New York field office and that makes him an assistant director of the FBI, which puts him near the top of the Justice Department food chain.”

  “He’s also an asshole.”

  “Asshole or not, he’s got powerful connections, and if he wants, he can use them.”

  “Are you threatening me, Agent Coyle?”

  “No, not at all, just trying to educate you. To begin with, Assistant Director Longhorn can and will exert considerable pressure on your office. He can slow down requests that your local cops make to the FBI for help with lab tests and records checks. He can stop supporting joint investigations. And that’s just for starters. If he really wants, he can get nasty.”

  “How nasty?”

  “He knows District Attorney Whitaker has accepted a free membership to that exclusive country club that he loves so much. Do you think your boss wants agents snooping around the Westchester County D.A.’s office—especially at election time—asking about his membership and other perks?”

  “Whitaker is clean. He’s not doing anything illegal.”

  “You know that and I know that, but how do you think the public is going to react when word leaks out that the FBI is investigating the District Attorney’s Office for possible malfeasance? We have ways of finding out potentially embarrassing things.”

  Agent Coyle may have thought I was totally ignorant, but I knew that Vanderhoot was his inside source. Continuing, Coyle said, “Your boss may be as clean as a whistle, but by the time the ballots are counted, the damage will already be done. He’ll get booted out of office with a cloud over his head. And that’s just what Longhorn can do to Whitaker.” He took his gaze off the wall and looked directly at me. “What kind of skeletons do you have in your closet?” he sneered. “Maybe this Domestic Violence Unit of yours needs a bit of FBI scrutiny or maybe your mother has a few ghosts in her past.”

  I was boiling inside, but I didn’t want to show it. I didn’t want Coyle telling Longhorn how angry he’d made me. I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction and I didn’t want to expose my Achilles heel. “Tell me something, Agent Coyle. What is it about these cases that makes them so important that he sent you out here to threaten me?”

  “Do I really have to spell it out for you?”

  “Yes, I want you to spell it out for me. Each and every letter.”

  “Mob murders get a lot of ink. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Our office is about to bring a big RICO case in New Jersey that’s also going to make national headlines.”

  “Is that what this fuss is all about? Getting publicity for Jack Longhorn?”

  “You’re missing the point. Longhorn wants more agents assigned to New York. That means the FBI director has to go before Congress to ask for a bigger budget. The threat of escalating mob violence and mob activity translates into more money. The FBI gets more money, Longhorn gets more agents, we catch more criminals, people are happy. Did I spell that out clearly enough for you?”

  “So if these murders weren’t done by the mob then Longhorn doesn’t get more agents?”

  “No, he’ll still get more money because of our big RICO case, but it doesn’t hurt if we’ve got two major crime families threatening to go to war and we’ve got several gangland killings to show Congress. Fortunately, for Longhorn, these murder cases are all mob related. Everyone knows that, except for you!”

  “Persico didn’t kill Isabella Ricci,” I said.

  Coyle locked his eyes onto mine. “Who cares? Persico is dead.”

  “I care,” I said. “Tell me, Agent Coyle, what time did you see Persico leave Isabella’s apartment on the day of the murder?”

  “It’s in the official log. I also testified in court.”

  “You said five-thirty. But Angelica Persico told me her father left that apartment shortly before three-thirty. And when he left, Isabella was alive. Persico was back at his butcher shop when the killer cut that radio cord in Isabella’s apartment and tied her up.”

  “She’s lying,” Coyle said.

  “I don’t think she is.”

  “Then you’re calling me a liar!” he said between gritted teeth.

  “Isn’t it possible you made a mistake, just like when you forgot to share the Brady material with us?”

  A flash of anger washed across his face. “You need to stop wasting everyone’s time, and go back to prosecuting abusive husbands,” he said. “Longhorn told me to remind you that every moment our people in Quantico spend listening to your fantasies is time they could be using to catch real killers. His exact words were ‘Tell her to fuck off—now!’ ”

  “Tell your boss I got his mes
sage and then tell him to mind his own business.”

  Coyle shrugged and said, “You’re digging your own grave.”

  44

  I needed to get my files and photos to agent Wheeler. Although I’d put up a good front, Coyle’s ominous warning was nothing I could ignore. It was just a matter of time before Longhorn took Whitaker aside for a friendly chat about me. I needed to solve these cases before Whitaker ordered me to stop my investigation… or decided that I was becoming such a political liability that I could be replaced by a less troublesome, new female hire.

  I called Wheeler’s line.

  “You decided where we should meet?” I asked.

  “Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’ ”

  “Sorry, I’m not following you.”

  “It’s from an Edgar Allan Poe poem,” he said. “Did you know Poe invented the detective novel? He’s actually the father of modern detective work.”

  “That’s nice but the clock is ticking. Longhorn just sent an FBI agent to my office to tell me to stop bothering you.”

  “People think of Baltimore when they think of Poe, but he actually wrote most of his famous works in the City of Brotherly Love.”

  “It’s nice that you’re such a big fan,” I said, hoping to hurry him along.

  “Poe rented a house in Philly and this year, Congress is scheduled to make it into a national memorial. I’d like to see it before the park service turns it into a tourist trap. In fact, I’d like to see it so much that I’m going to take the rest of the day off so I can visit Philadelphia on my own personal time this afternoon. Now if you just happened to be at the Poe house and you just happened to bring me your files and I just happened to look at them, then—”

  “I get it,” I said. “Tell me the address.”

  It had been about ten minutes since Coyle had exited my office. He would be reporting to Longhorn as soon as he got back to the New York FBI field office on the twenty-third floor at 26 Federal Plaza. Longhorn would then telephone my boss. I needed to get going before Whitaker could have Miss Potts summon me to his lair. Scooping up my files, I rushed out the back door of our building, to where my Triumph was parked.