“No. New York originally.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Manhattan.” Which explains the fashion sense. “Been here for a few years already, though.”
“I’m a transplant myself.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do.”
Risotto flashed an endearing grin, ever so slightly metrosexual. “So tell me more about Vito’s place.”
“Right. The owner is this shrewd and hard-working businessman with brass balls. A real spitfire, you know? His name’s Vito Armani. As in the designer.”
“Armani. Armani,” he sounded it out. And then a halogen light seemed to go off in the detective’s cabeza. “Wait. Is that the guy who’s always in the media about one thing or another? Outspoken right-winger. A walking contradiction of sorts. Altruistic when he wants to be. Law enforcement eats free. Donations to the families of fallen officers.”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s the talk of the town over at the Roundhouse, believe me.” The Roundhouse is headquarters to the Philadelphia police. Homicide detectives with jurisdiction over murders at city hall, like Risotto, would be stationed over there, too. It’s an unsightly circular cement fortress, itself reminiscent of prison, just a stone’s throw from the National Convention Center and the Ben Franklin Bridge.
“He’s a charmer, all right. A real local celebrity with an almost cult-like following.”
“And he’s got that controversial sign up, right? The one about refusing to serve illegal aliens.” Risotto shook his head, reflecting. “Pretty bold political commentary, if you ask me.”
An unmistakable sensitivity revealed itself. Was it authentic, though? The cynic within Hunger was beginning to suspect that Risotto was an actor in addition to an aspiring runway model and magician. As Shakespeare said, all the world’s a stage. Right? Isn’t that what savvy cops do? Cozy up to the perp? Police Academy 101. Ingratiate yourself. Befriend the suspect. Pretty soon you’ll have them spilling their guts. “Especially in light of the upcoming presidential election and the continued erosion of the Republican party’s image.” Barack Obama was building serious momentum, making major inroads in the staunch Republican circles. “So your firm has something to do with that?” he asked skeptically.
“Actually we do. We rep the city. And they’ve decided to pursue Mr. Armani under one of their inartfully drafted public accommodation laws.”
“Unconstitutional?”
“Probably would be struck down. If it ever gets that far on appeal.”
“Vague and overbroad, I bet.”
“Right,” replied Hunter, nodding. For a second there, he almost forgot he was talking to a cop and not a lawyer.
“Almost went to law school myself,” Risotto explained, clarifying it in Hunter’s mind, beating Hunter to the punch. “Thought that’s what I wanted,” he added, smiling nostalgically. “Wasn’t in my cards, though.” There was obviously a story there, but Hunter didn’t press it. Not for public consumption.
“Got it.” Hunter could relate to the concept of one’s life taking a sudden, unexpected turn. He always thought he’d play pro soccer before he was sidelined with a career-ending injury. Law was his second choice.
“Anyway, don’t they have their own lawyers over there?” he asked cynically. “I mean, I know Mayor Valentine has had cutbacks on the brain lately. Seems like poor timing to be spending the big bucks for a firm as prestigious as Whitman.”
Mayor Valentine doesn’t have a fucking brain. “They do. But apparently it was the city solicitor who did the cost benefit analysis on this one.” At least, that’s what Mancini had told him. Yet even as Hunter responded, for the first time he realized how little sense that actually made. From everything he’d heard about the city solicitor, the last thing she was was last minute. Cold and calculated was more like it. Why was the case handed off at the eleventh hour?
“I guess I can see that. All Valentine needs right now is another PR debacle to contend with.” Not only did Valentine have historically low approval ratings, even among the city’s African American voter base, but his flamboyant nephew had just been indicted for tax evasion. It was the culmination of a three-year investigation into accounting irregularities associated with various city-awarded contracts. “Especially if he thinks there’s a chance of losing.”
“I don’t think Valentine had any idea how big this thing would get when he originally decided to go after him,” Hunter theorized, but he still wasn’t satisfied with the logic. And he could tell that Risotto wasn’t either, saving the issue on his mental desktop for further investigation.
“And it sounds like this Vito Armani guy is pretty good at fanning the flames.”
“That’s for sure. Without getting into the case too much, rumor has it he’s making an absolute fortune from the publicity surrounding the case.”
“Guess he can kiss his eventual defamation suit against the city good-bye.” Without damages, a plaintiff can’t make out a claim for defamation. “Must be nice, though. Having all that money.”
“I know,” said Hunter.
“So…” Risotto rubbed the dark stubble on the side of his face with the back of his hand. “…you think Mr. Armani, at least on some level, was involved in your friend Andy’s beating? Is that where you’re going with all this? You think his goons are trying to send a message?”
“I don’t think it’s that obvious. He’s far too intelligent. Plus, why ruin a bad thing?”
“Unless he doesn’t care about the money. The guy’s probably got millions by now, even if he sells half the pizzas he actually reports to Uncle Sam. Could be a principle thing.” Risotto paused. “Why Andy, though? I thought you told me he wasn’t assigned to the case.”
“I did. I mean he’s not. Someone targeted him the same way they targeted my second chair.”
“And who would that be?” Instead of a little black notepad, this detective had his iPad at the ready, waiting for the name of his next interviewee.
“Her name’s Stephanie Diaz. But I’m not sure how much you’re gonna get. I was with her in the Italian Market when she was nearly run down.”
Risotto stopped pecking on the virtual keyboard and then looked up inquisitively. “And neither of you got a decent look at anyone? Same thing as Andy, huh?”
“We didn’t. I think I know the car, though. It’s a Caddy. A dark, late-model sedan.”
“Plate?”
Hunter shook his head dejectedly. “No.”
“That’s all right. It’s a start.” The detective paused, settling upon his next key topic. “I’m surprised these people haven’t come after you yet.”
“They have. It’s just been more subtle. I have a feeling they’re saving me for the grand finale.”
“Which would be before this Vito’s trial? If you let it get that far.”
“Exactly.”
“When is this thing scheduled for?”
“This Thursday.”
“Back up for one second. Have you been able to get a look at any of these guys?”
“Just one.”
“And?”
Hunter conjured up the image of the character from Chinatown. “Older guy, swollen features. Real hardened, ruthless expression. And he’s got this unusual haircut. The gray on both sides is combed back like the wings of an eagle.”
“You just described Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos. You know who I’m referring to, right?”
“Actually, his look isn’t too far off.”
“Life does imitate art, as they say.”
“I guess so.”
“And you think this guy—this Paulie-looking guy—is part of the local Mafia.”
“That’s how it seems. And he sure as hell is brazen like them.” Hunter caught himself. “Or at least how I would expect them to be.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” assured the detective. “Now tell me about your colleague Dillon Wright. What’s his deal?”
“What do yo
u want to know?”
“Do you trust him?”
“Like a brother.”
“I see,” replied Risotto skeptically.
“Why?”
“No reason. I’m just trying to put some of these pieces together. But if you notice anything atypical, anything unusual about his conduct, let me know.”
“All right, I guess.” Hunter left it alone, dismissing out of hand the implication that one of his closest friends could be involved.
“Now I just have a few more questions related to Judge Russo. That is if you’re still all right on time.” The question hit him like a sudden, crushing blow to the abdomen. Hunter was just starting to become optimistic that his little talk with Risotto had clarified any questions about him in the detective’s mind. Just like that, though, he was a suspect again.
“Not really,” replied Hunter, growing restless in the slightly above-average dark wood chair. “Not sure what else—” Hunter’s BlackBerry chirped. He glanced at the caller ID: Sheila Primeau. Hunter immediately sent the call to voicemail, realizing the error too late. He had nothing to hide. At least as far as Russo was concerned. He should’ve answered the damn thing and spoken freely. He could tell Risotto was growing increasingly suspicious, though.
“If you need a few minutes…” observed Risotto, understandingly.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Risotto’s gentle voice sounded like a segue into hypnosis.
“Yes.” But then Sheila called again.
“Take it,” the detective instructed. “It must obviously be important.”
Hunter contemplated whether Risotto knew about his “thing” with the judge as he accepted the call this time and stepped away, holding the phone out without speaking, as if Risotto had just asked him to empty the contents of his pockets, slowly, very slowly. He instinctually moved toward the center of the club, where other patrons were assembled, talking over each other in passive-aggressive sound bites. He needed to drown out the sound of any unnecessarily incriminating conversation between himself and Sheila.
There must’ve been a corporate seminar happening that morning because a couple dozen stiff-looking businessmen, all in conservative dark suits, wing tips, and striped ties, congregated near the buffet, forcing smiles and spewing politically correct bullshit in each other’s faces. An attractive blonde in a relatively powerful-looking silk blouse and pantsuit, with just the right hint of cleavage, effortlessly negotiated her way around her mostly married and hard-up colleagues.
Hunter tried to rush Sheila off the phone, explaining that he was in the midst of a “friendly” interrogation, assuming that such a thing even existed. As his lawyer-slash-the-judge-he-was-screwing, she advised him not to answer “another fucking question.” In her mind, it didn’t bode well that the lead detective was devoting his time, at such a critical point in the investigation, to questioning Hunter. It was too late to avoid creating the impression that he had nothing to hide. Whether or not he was disclosing it, Risotto must’ve had a good reason for being there. Now was the time to lawyer up, not self-incriminate. Of course, her advice ran totally counter to his other main reason for wanting to continue on with the questioning; he was trying to acquire information to assist with his own probe into Andy’s attack and now the murder of Judge Russo. Hunter’s instincts told him somehow they were connected, and he had every intention of finding out how and why.
As for Russo’s death, Sheila sounded surprisingly sedate, even by her standards. The media was already describing it as the “brutal slaying of one of the judiciary’s most revered jurists.” The thing that seemed to concern her the most was not her own safety but rather the entirely damning yet entirely accurate rumors about their relationship now reverberating through city hall like the chatter of gnawing rodents in the dank, gloomy recesses of that haggard building. She was never a huge fan of Russo—that was for sure. He was virtually a self-proclaimed sexist. Sheila used to joke about the man’s sexuality, theorizing that his overt attempts at machismo were little more than a smokescreen for an insatiable homosexual craving.
For the first time, though, Sheila admitted that Russo had somehow gotten wind of their affair and had been spearheading an effort to get her brought up on ethical charges. She was positive her high approval ratings posed a threat, especially in light of his aspirations to ascend to the appellate bench. And Russo must’ve been convinced he had just the scandal to ensure that she never became such an impediment. Hunter vowed to wind things up quickly there and to call as soon as they were done.
The reality that the whole legal community—even the whole city—now knew about his relationship with Sheila didn’t hit him until he ended the call. Thanks to him, Sheila’s legal career, not to mention her life, now hung in the balance. And thanks to her talents, it was starting to look as if they both had motive to silence the judge who was now officially speechless. Russo would take his crusade against Sheila with him to the grave, and Sheila would get to keep her day job. How fucking convenient.
THIRTY-EIGHT
An absolute media circus surrounded city hall. Every major local news station was present, their tricked-out news vans self-importantly lining the edges of Market and South Fifteenth Streets. Even CNN was represented in the shape of a tour bus adorned by the CNN logo like a modern-day crest better suited for a rock star. Commuter traffic was at a virtual standstill along the perimeter of the building. Horns blared in a cacophony of frustration. Drivers and scores of pedestrians rubbernecked, trying to catch a glimpse of the newsworthy event, whatever the subject on that otherwise humdrum workweek morning. Tragedy, political scandal, corruption probe—it didn’t really matter. They all ranked between a seven and nine on the scale of intrigue, making for superb dinnertime conversation or office talk, something juicy enough to distract colleagues and also pass supervisor muster. Wasn’t it discriminatory to curtail the First Amendment in the workplace, especially when the story involved something so vital to the fabric of the city?
Hunter’s electronic security pass was officially missing. He held his bar ID card in one hand and what was quickly becoming the bane of his existence, his BlackBerry, in the other. His eyes glazed over the inbox, which, from a cursory glance, contained pressing messages from his adversary on the Mediacast case and something from Stephanie Diaz about the Vito’s case. Before he diverted his eyes, he also noticed an extremely terse e-mail from Chris Gates, the firm’s IT guy. Chris just said it was urgent that he call him or stop by the server room. Hunter wondered what Chris could’ve possibly wanted, feeling slightly annoyed at the possibility that he was trying to get a status on Hunter’s interminable efforts to get him laid.
Hunter flashed his credentials to uniformed and plain-clothes cops manning the entrance on the opposite side of the building from Russo’s office. City hall had several entrances, all of which looked virtually identical once you got inside and invariably took you to the wrong section of the building, forcing lawyers, messengers, and crazy pro se litigants at least a few minutes out of their way. And those couple of minutes could mean the difference between hitting or missing a court-imposed deadline, one of the few vestiges of order still left in this anarchic world, yet perhaps the most arcane.
Hunter rode the claustrophobic elevator car up to the sixth floor with an older black security guard who got on just before the doors shut. The guard, who looked much younger except for graying facial hair, gave Hunter a suspicious sideways glance. The pimpled metal door opened at two, where a short, bald lawyer got on.
“And look what the cat dragged in,” said the guard. His voice was deep, old school, Philadelphia-soul era.
“Hey there, Cal. What’s the good word?”
“You know the deal, man.”
“Tell me about it, man,” replied the uptight lawyer, trying just a little too hard. His “man” came off like an impersonation of a middle-aged white guy trying to sound black. It was awkward, but Hunter could tell the guard found it amusing in a fri
endly sort of way. “So what’s the deal with this Russo thing?” he asked, turning just enough to get a good look at Hunter.
“It’s crazy, man. Shit. They’re not tellin’ us little guys nothin’.”
“Must be big, I’ll tell you that. In all my years of practice, I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Between you and me,” he said, leaning over and staring down, “my peeps are sayin’ some bad shit went down. Russo’s brains got blown out or some shit like that.”
“Unbelievable.”
“What’s this world coming to, man?”
“Did they nab anybody?”
“Not yet.”
The elevator dinged, then jerked and stopped on six. Hunter squeezed by the two men and made his way to his girlfriend’s office, or chambers, rather. Sheila Primeau’s secretary, Mary O’Reilly, was a sweet mother of five with average-looking features, a ruddy complexion, and long, red hair. Her career as a legal secretary had spanned close to thirty years, and by now she had worked for half the judges on the Common Pleas Court bench. And that included Russo, with whom she had been relatively close at one point. Although that ended poorly, she still had feelings for the man. Her withdrawn expression said it all.
“Hunter,” she said, taking her beady brown eyes off the outdated computer monitor when he opened the wood door and stepped into the drab, confined entranceway. She seemed surprised to see him.
“You hanging in there?” asked Hunter, sensing she was mourning the loss of a former boss and likely one-time confidant.
“I guess,” she replied unconvincingly. She forced a weak smile, a few of her caffeine-stained teeth poking through. “I’ll be all right,” she added, nodding slightly, but she was obviously ready to break down at any moment.
“Is she in?”
“The judge is in, but…”
Hunter didn’t wait to hear the “but” and instead made a beeline for Sheila’s office. He rapped on the door.
“Yes? Come in,” said Sheila, firmly and slightly annoyed.
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