Irreparable Harm (A Legal Thriller)
Page 28
Chapter 19
Connelly made his way down a narrow, two-way street cut into the side of a hill. Parked cars lined both sides, making the passage so tight that he’d had to back Sasha’s Passat into an alley to make room for a car traveling the other direction. He pulled over and squeezed the car into a space four doors down from the Calvarusos’ house.
He felt stiff as he got out of the car. Getting his ass kicked by a tiny attorney, staying up all night, and the mad dash to return the rental car, pick up the Passat, shower, eat, and check into the office had taken a toll on him. Not to mention his broken nose had bloomed into a bruise, and he now sported two black eyes.
He stopped on the cracked sidewalk in front of Rosa Calvaruso’s house and looked up at it. It was a modest brick house with a small neat lawn, set close to the houses on either side. The house looked tidy, unimpressive, and closed up tight.
Motion caught his eye behind what he imagined were the living room drapes. The heavy fabric was swaying. He saw a shadowed face peering out from behind. As he tried to see in, the drapes fell shut again and the figure disappeared.
He walked up the front steps to the porch and stooped to pick up the newspaper. Tucked it under his elbow and rang the door bell with his good hand.
Waited.
He was getting ready to ring it again when he heard movement on the other side of the door. Then a burst of rapid Italian. It was a woman’s voice, angry.
“Mrs. Calvaruso? I’m Agent Leo Connelly with the Department of Homeland Security. I need to speak to you, ma’am.”
The same voice, in English this time, said, “You get the hell off my porch!”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t do that. I am very sorry to bother you right now, but I need to speak to you.”
Silence.
Connelly sighed. “Mrs. Calvaruso, I have reason to be concerned for your safety. If you don’t let me in, I am going to have to break your door to confirm that you are unharmed.”
“I’m fine. Go away.”
“I can’t do that.”
Connelly shifted his weight and eyed the door. It didn’t really fit with the house’s simple brick façade. It was ornate, with frosted glass sidelights and a transom window, and it looked solid.
He raised his voice. “I’m going to count ... ”
The door swung open.
“Come in, then.” Her voice was flat and resigned.
He stepped forward into the dim hallway and right into the path of the widow Calvaruso. She was about Sasha’s size, with stooped shoulders and steel gray hair cropped close to her head. And she was wielding an aluminum baseball bat.
He was beginning to hate Pittsburgh. And its tiny, aggressive women.
He thought about reaching for his identification but instead just raised his hands. The newspaper thudded to the floor.
“Mrs. Calvaruso, I’m not going to hurt you.”
She fixed him with her fierce brown eyes. Took in his conservative suit and his busted nose.
“What do you want?”
What he wanted was a kindly, mourning Italian grandmother who would offer him tea and maybe some biscotti.
“Put the bat down, Mrs. Calvaruso.”
He kept his hands up but made a patting motion, encouraging her to ease the bat down.
She lowered the bat, and all the viciousness leaked out of her. She was just a sad, little old woman.
“You can come into the parlor.” She leaned the bat against the wall behind the door and turned into the room to the left.
He followed her into the small room. It had a threadbare couch, two red velvet chairs, and a glass coffee table. Pictures of kids and grandkids lined the mantle. A gilt-edge crucifix hung over it. No television. No bookshelves. A Bible and a paperback novel sat on the coffee table. A tasseled lamp sat on an end table between the two chairs. That was it.
He stood there, awkward, waiting for her to shuffle over and lower herself into one of the chairs. Then he took a seat on the couch across from her. He stretched his legs out under the coffee table and waited.
The room was still and too warm, the way old people kept their houses.
She spoke first, “I’m in trouble?”
“No, you’re not in trouble. I was worried about you.”
“Why?”
He could see in her eyes that she knew why. “Because the men Angelo was working with are bad men. But, you already know that, right? That’s why you have the bat.”
She nodded, her mouth set in a line.
“Can you tell me about them?”
“I don’t know anything,” she said. “Nothin’. Angelo, he didn’t tell me. Just came home one day and said he had a new job.”
“When was this?”
“Last month, I don’t know. He was at the clinic and . . .”
“The clinic?”
She nodded.
“What clinic?”
“Hillman Cancer Center.”
“Your husband had cancer?”
Another nod. With the fingers of her right hand, she worked a slim gold band on her left ring finger, turning it back and forth as she spoke. “Bone cancer. He kept going for treatment. I made him go, but he was dying.”
Connelly gave her a minute, but she didn’t tear up.
She crossed herself. “He said it was a good job, a lotta money. He was worried that his pension would run out on me. I never worked outside the home.” She tilted her head to the family pictures. “I raised the kids, kept the house.”
“How did Mr. Calvaruso get the job?”
She shrugged. “He met someone at the clinic. They hired him and another man.”
“Who?”
Her hands came up, helpless. “I don’t know a name.”
“Did he tell you anything about the man? Young? Old?”
She shook her head. Then, she slapped a hand on her thigh, remembering, “Single.”
“He was unmarried?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Single. And sick. That’s all I know.”
He tried a different tack. “What were your husband’s job responsibilities with Patriotech?”
She gave a short laugh. “He was a, what do you say, consultant. He knew nuthin’ about anything but gardens and landscaping. But they gave him a big title, big check, fancy phone. I told him, Angelo, this isn’t right. He didn’t wanna talk about it.”
The words were rushing out now. “Then, he gotta go to Texas. No reason. Just fly to Washington D.C., then fly to Texas. And now he’s gone.”
Connelly’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the display. Sasha’s office number. He was almost done here; he’d call her back.
“A phone like yours,” Rosa Calvaruso said.
He looked at the smartphone in his hand. “Patriotech gave your husband a smartphone? What for?”
“Who knows what for? He couldn’t even figure out how to turn it on,” she barked out a laugh. That’s why he hadda fly to Washington first before Texas. To get a lesson to use the smart phone.” She said it as two words.
“Has anyone from Patriotech contacted you since the crash?”
“Mr. Warner. He called twice. Once to confirm that Angelo was on ... that plane. Once to tell me about the insurance benefits. And they sent flowers.” She sniffed.
Connelly looked around and realized there were no sympathy bouquets at all in the house. She followed his gaze.
“I take all the flowers to the church.”
He nodded. “Do you have somewhere you can stay for a few days, Mrs. Calvaruso? A relative, a friend from church?”
She looked at him, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Mr. Warner’s been killed.”
She repeated it, slowly, like maybe he hadn’t heard her the first time. “I’m not going anywhere. This is our ... my ... home.” She set her jaw and held his gaze.
He stood up. “Then, I’d keep that bat handy if I were you, Mrs. Cal
varuso.”
She slowly rose from the chair, using the armrests for leverage to get on her feet. She walked him to the door.
“I am sorry about your husband.” He handed her a business card and bent to get her paper from the foyer. “Call me if you need me.”
She put a papery hand on his arm. “Did my Angelo crash that plane?”
He didn’t have an answer for her. So he patted her hand and opened the door.
He heard the lock clang into place behind him as he started down the steps to the sidewalk below.