The Hidden Man

by David Ellis

  “J.D., and the other guy,” I continued. “They will swear in their affidavits that Pete was only there to make a small purchase of powder cocaine. He wasn’t a drug dealer, and he wasn’t a gunrunner. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They will deliver those signed affidavits to the detective who arrested Pete, a guy by the name of Denny DePrizio. I think he works a regular day shift, so he shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  He didn’t need to know that I had connected DePrizio with him. Maybe he’d figured it out already, but I wasn’t going to tell him. I needed to be as much of a question mark to him as he was to me.

  “No chance,” Smith said.

  “You have my brother,” I said. “And you’re not letting him go until the trial is over, if ever. You’ve got the leverage on me, Smith. You win. But if you really mean what you say about letting him go when this is over, and clearing him of the charges—well, then, you have to do part of that now. Clear the charges now, show me that you’re serious. And then I’ll drop that request for the DNA testing. If that hasn’t happened by one o’clock tomorrow, then I go forward with that motion.”

  “No deal,” Smith said. He must have enjoyed that, throwing my oft-repeated line back at me.

  “Then I have to assume you’re just going to kill Pete, anyway. I have nothing left to lose. That’s DePrizio, D-E-P-R-I-Z-I-O. He better have affidavits in his hand before my one o’clock hearing. You know me well enough to know I’m not bluffing, Smith.”

  I hung up the phone and held my breath. I fought it as best I could, any thought of what might happen to Pete. I couldn’t rule out, much less control, anything they might do to Pete to make his stay with them less enjoyable. If I showed weakness, it would only get worse for him. They had to see me as a forceful adversary. It was the only way to get Pete back.

  Unless, between now and the trial, I could figure out who killed Audrey Cutler.

  I SAT ON MY BED, watching the clock approach midnight, pondering everything, using my abilities at cross-examination to punch holes in my plan. There were plenty of flaws, but I was satisfied that I was doing all I could do. The best thing I had going for me was the element of surprise. They didn’t know me. They thought they did. It would have to be enough.

  Just after midnight—thirteen hours before my hearing on the DNA testing before the judge—I turned off the bedroom light, leaving my entire town house in darkness.

  46

  JUST PAST THREE in the morning, two men—two of Smith’s men—approached the town house from the rear. The front made no sense; it was too well-lit and on a fairly busy street. The rear, on the other hand, worked well for their purposes. The town house was backed up to an alley, a locked gate separating the alley from a small garden area consisting of a circular patio with the ubiquitous barbecue grill, table, and chairs.

  The gate lock had to be picked, but that was not an overly difficult chore. Once past the lock, the two men slowly moved through the garden area toward the town house. One of the men, the bigger of the two, looked through the back-door window into the kitchen, searching for the house alarm. The alarm had a green light on it, meaning it was disarmed.

  “It’s not armed,” he said to his partner. He readied his tension wrench and hooking pick to get through the back-door lock. “We spend all that time getting the combo to the alarm from his idiot brother and Kolarich doesn’t even set the damn thing.”

  “Someone should tell these yuppies there’s crime in this city,” said the other, quietly.

  “I’ll make a note of it,” I said, swinging my baseball bat at the bigger guy first, just as he’d turned, connecting square across the nose. The second guy was reaching for his weapon. I kicked out at his knee, the heel of my foot hitting the side of his kneecap, causing a painful buckling of his leg before he fell. Once he was on the ground, I used the butt of the baseball bat, two sharp blows into his face, knocking his head against the stone patio. The bigger guy hadn’t had time to recover—he was stunned, crumpled awkwardly on the two concrete stairs leading up to the back door, blood gushing from his nose. “Where’s my brother?” I asked him.

  “Fuck . . . you,” he said through his hands.

  I swung the bat with all my might, with all the rage that had festered, into his kneecap, then into his chest. I didn’t want to kill these guys, nor did I want retrograde amnesia. They needed to get word to Smith, with the one phone call they’d be allowed.

  “Tell me where he is or I crush your skull.”

  At that moment, a light went on in the town house next door. We were making enough noise to wake the neighbors. It didn’t look like I was going to get the answers I needed. I’d miscalculated, yet again. I should have let them come into my house and jumped them there, instead of huddling in the corner of my back patio awaiting them. My thought had been that I was safer outside, where I could run, I could yell for help, if these guys got the better of me. But if I’d chosen inside to make my move, I probably could have spent more time with them. I could have extracted the information I needed. Another mistake.

  Figuring that my neighbors would be doing so shortly, I pulled out my cell phone and called 911, giving the dispatcher my address and telling them about two men trying to break into my house. Then I put the phone back in my pocket and surveyed my attackers.

  They were suffering badly. The bigger guy’s nose was shattered and bleeding uncontrollably and the blow to his chest had left him struggling for air. The second guy was stunned from the blows to his face followed by the immediate contact with the patio, forming a one-two punch that left him unable to discern up from down, dark from light, such that he didn’t even seem to notice that his knee was dislocated.

  I went back to the first guy. “Try again, Igor,” I said, poising the bat over my shoulder. “One last chance. Where’s my brother?”

  “Your brother’s . . . gonna fucking die.” He managed something in the realm of a chuckle. I hit him across the chest with everything I had. He didn’t take it well.

  “You, Einstein.” I stood over the second guy, who was barely conscious. “Where’s my brother?”

  I’d hoped that his dazed state might serve as truth serum, but he was unable to respond. I tried a couple more times with the bigger guy, alternating my watch from one to the other—they were armed, after all, and I had to be sure they wouldn’t reach for their weapons. I decided not to disarm them because I wanted the cops to find them that way.

  The bad thing about living in a nice neighborhood—normally a good thing—is that the cops come quickly. It was less than ten minutes later that two uniforms approached from the alley, coming through the same gate that Smith’s buddies had entered.

  A flashlight shone on my face. I was holding up my driver’s license. “I’m the owner of the house,” I said. “I called you. My name is Jason Kolarich. These guys are armed,” I added, “but at the moment, not dangerous.”

  The cops, guns drawn, were not in the mood for levity, but it didn’t take them long to get matters settled. My mentioning that I used to be an ACA, worked felony review out of Area Four, handled Judge Weiss’s courtroom, all that good stuff, helped them considerably. I was, after all, the owner of the house, and the two guys lying wounded and weary, with guns stuffed in their pants, looked like they’d come off the set of The Sopranos.

  I’d figured that Smith’s final play before tomorrow’s court hearing would be to mess me up, or maybe even detain me briefly—anything to keep me from attending that hearing. It’s what I would have done, if I were them. But then, if I were them, I might have considered the possibility that my adversary might anticipate that very move, and might be lying in wait in the corner of his back patio with a baseball bat.

  The goons were arrested on attempted aggravated burglary and suspicion of unlawful weapons charges. They were taken to the station house for processing and detention. I sat at the desk of a lieutenant and gave my statement. He gave me the names of my attackers and mentioned that each of them had encounter
ed more than one brush with the law in the past, which suggested that their bond might be set pretty high when their arraignment came.

  “These guys had handcuffs and rope,” the lieutenant told me. “Didn’t look like they were looking for a smash-and-grab. It looked more like a kidnapping, in fact.”

  I expressed my utter shock at the possibility. “Why me?” I asked.

  “I was going to ask you that.”

  “Never heard of these guys, Lieutenant. Nino Ramsey and John Tunicci? I don’t have a clue.”

  “You said you’re a criminal defense lawyer. You ever represent any organized crime?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Okay.” The cop thought about that. “These guys, they’re nothing but a couple of thugs. Enforcer types. They freelance from time to time, but they usually run with the Capparelli family.”

  He was talking about old-school mafia, Rico Capparelli’s crew. Rico, last I recalled, was serving out the rest of his life in a maximum-security federal pen. It stood out, more than anything, for the prosecutorial joke. The old man went down for federal racketeering charges—Rico was pinched on RICO.

  Was I up against organized crime? It could mean so many different things nowadays, that phrase. As much as the feds had curtailed their influence, they hadn’t so much cured the world of crime as simply forced these scumbags to scatter into subgroups—less “organized,” maybe, but still criminals. It didn’t narrow my focus much at all.

  But at least I had two of these guys out of the picture for a short time. I was confident now that I was up against a small band of people working for Smith—four people, to be exact. Two of them, presumably, had been baby-sitting Pete while the other two came for me. Now, for a time, at least, they had lost half their manpower.

  When I left the police station, as the sun was rising, I drove to a hotel. I had several changes of clothes in the trunk of my car along with toiletries. I had no intention of going home, or going anywhere that Smith might expect me to go, until that court hearing at one o’clock today. Smith would not have another chance to come at me.

  I knew I had to get some sleep. I knew it, but I couldn’t force it. I stretched out on the rickety bed and closed my eyes, trying to focus myself into calm. I woke with a start, the bedside clock telling me it was just past nine o’clock. I took a shower, dressed in my suit, reupped with the hotel for another night, and drove to the criminal courthouse, where I would present my motion in about three hours. I figured that Smith might make one last run at me, but he wouldn’t count on me showing up three hours early to court.

  Once inside the courthouse and past the metal detectors, I called Joel Lightner and gave him the names of my would-be attackers, Nino Ramsey and John Tunicci. “Enforcers, I think,” I told him. “Apparently, they run with the Capparellis.”

  “The Capparellis? What the hell have you gotten into, Jason?”

  “I wish I knew. Anyway—they’re my best lead. My guess is, they’re freelancing for someone, I just don’t know who. Hoping my prized investigator can help me with that?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Joel promised. “Hey, did you get in touch with Jimmy Stewart?”

  “I think he prefers ‘Jim.’”

  “That’s why I call him ‘Jimmy.’”

  “Yeah, I met with him. He says you’re a drunk and a womanizer.”

  “I’ll sue.”

  “Truth is an absolute defense, Joel. Gotta run.”

  “Say, Jason. Do you know what the hell you’re doing?”

  I didn’t have an answer so I punched out.

  I made my way up to the courtroom where my motion would be heard later today. The courtroom was empty. I walked around to the judge’s chambers and found her clerk in the anteroom. “Does the judge have any free time tomorrow?” I asked. “I might need to continue something I have up today.”

  The judge had a few openings, though I didn’t take them, not yet. I loitered in the hallway for a few minutes, checking my watch.

  At eleven-thirty, my cell phone rang.

  47

  I STOOD AGAINST the all-glass south wall of the building to maximize the reception on the cell phone. As I looked over the city’s southwest side, the industrial yards and beaten-down residential neighborhoods, I opened the humming phone.

  “Kolarich.” Smith didn’t sound so upbeat.

  “Having a bad morning, Smith?”

  He paused, showing his appropriate disdain. “The affidavit has been prepared.”

  “Affidavit? Singular?”

  “Marcus Mason is the man who was picked up with your brother.”

  Mace. I knew this already, but he didn’t know that I knew.

  “The affidavit will meet with your liking.”

  “I want an original delivered to my office and a copy to Detective DePrizio.”

  “We found this detective and delivered it to his attention. You didn’t say anything about a copy to your office.”

  “I’m saying it now. Make it happen. Listen, Smith. You call me in exactly half an hour—high noon—and my assistant better have seen that affidavit by then.”

  “Listen—”

  “Half an hour,” I said, closing the cell phone.

  I returned to the judge’s clerk and canceled today’s 1:00 P.M. hearing. Then I called the prosecutor, Lester Mapp, and broke the news to him. He didn’t seem to care much about the hearing but said he wanted to continue our “previous discussions,” meaning a plea deal, though I put him off.

  At ten minutes to noon, I called my assistant, Marie.

  “Just got it,” she said. “Let’s see. ‘Affidavit of Marcus Mason.’ ” She read the contents to me. “ ‘My name is Marcus Mason. I have personal knowledge of all matters stated herein. I have a relationship as an undercover informant with Detective Dennis DePrizio. I was working with Detective DePrizio on an operation involving the sale of a substantial quantity of firearms and rock cocaine. The plan had been that a man who called himself “J.D.” and I would meet on Saturday, October 6, 2007, at an abandoned warehouse previously owned by Lanier’s Amusement Supply Company, on the 3300 block of West Summerset. However, on Friday, October 5, 2007, near the hour of midnight, I received a call from “J.D.” in which he insisted that we make the purchase immediately. I had no choice but to agree. I immediately contacted Detective DePrizio at his home. As far as I could tell, Detective DePrizio had been asleep. Then I drove to the old Lanier’s warehouse to meet with “J.D.”

  “‘Before Detective DePrizio arrived, “J.D.” arrived at the warehouse and we began to discuss the terms of the purchase. He informed me that he had received a telephone call from someone who would be arriving, not to purchase the rock cocaine or the firearms, but for an unrelated reason that had nothing to do with me or the transaction. He told me this person’s name was “Pete.” He asked that I not mention anything about our transaction.

  “‘This gentleman, who introduced himself as “Pete,” arrived shortly thereafter. He was Caucasian, approximately five foot nine, approximately one hundred sixty pounds. He asked “J.D.” if everything was okay. He seemed concerned and asked “J.D.” what was taking place. “J.D.” told him it was nothing that concerned him and he shouldn’t ask questions. “Pete” seemed suspicious and said that he was going to leave.

  “‘At that moment, Detective DePrizio entered the warehouse and announced his presence. “J.D.” was not apprehended. I assume that he escaped to the rear entrance. “Pete” was arrested along with me. “Pete” did not appear to have any idea what was taking place between “J.D.” and me. I have no reason to believe, and do not believe, that “Pete” had anything to do with the transaction involving the rock cocaine or the firearms. ’ That’s it, Jason,” said Marie. “It’s signed by Marcus Mason and notarized.”

  It was like a song with the most beautiful lyrics I’d ever heard. It absolved Pete of all wrongdoing—not even a minor drug charge. Smith’s desperation was evident.

  “Scan that affidavit into
the computer and e-mail it to me, to Shauna, to yourself, okay?” I didn’t want to run the risk that a paper copy would get “lost” after I’d made this deal with Smith. My cell phone buzzed, indicating another call. “Gotta run, Marie.”

  The new call was Smith, five minutes early. “You got what you wanted,” he said.

  “I got most of what I wanted, Smith. What I really want is those charges against my brother dropped.”

  “There is no way your brother could be prosecuted with that affidavit out there. But I can’t make those charges disappear. That wasn’t our deal. You said all I had to do was produce that affidavit by today—”

  “Yeah, don’t you hate it when the other side doesn’t play fair? So shut up and listen to me, Smith. I’m going to reach out to that detective, and he better have that affidavit in his hand. And it better be enough to convince him to drop the charges.”

  “I can’t control what that detective—”

  “I said shut up, didn’t I? So shut up. If DePrizio has the affidavit, I’ll withdraw the motion for now. But you and I both know that I can renew that motion. And if the prosecution doesn’t want to drop the charges against Pete, then I will renew that motion. For your sake, you better hope DePrizio buys this affidavit and can sell it to the prosecutors.”

  “That affidavit—”

  “That affidavit,” I said, “could be explained away later by some kind of bullshit. Mason could say I put a gun to his head and made him sign it. I’m not taking any chances, Smith. So I guess you better pray.”

  I hung up the phone and paced the halls, forcing myself to bide my time. Twelve-fifteen. Twelve-thirty. I made the call.

  “Detective DePrizio, please,” I told the receptionist.

  A moment later, he answered. “DePrizio.”

  “This is Jason Kolarich, Detective.”

  “Kolarich. Kolarich. Just the guy I wanted to talk to. Guess what I’m looking at?”