Leary watched the car roll past him. He counted to ten, then opened his own door and got out of his car.
“Look who’s back,” Thick-neck said.
His buddy laughed. “It’s Skinny Cop.”
Leary didn’t have the patience for bullshit this time. Instead of his badge, he pulled his service pistol. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
The meatheads froze, seeming to consider their options. Then they parted and allowed Leary to pass between them. They didn’t open the door for him, but Leary supposed he could live with that.
Inside, the same odors assaulted him. Sweat and rubber. The face that looked back at him from the floor-to-ceiling mirrors was one he barely recognized. It was either the face of a determined man, or a desperate one. He wished to hell he knew which he was.
“Put the gun away, Leary.” Mack Biondi had come out of the back room. He’d probably watched his confrontation with the meatheads on a monitor. Leary was sure this place had cameras, top of the line security.
Leary holstered his weapon. “I’m here to see Carlo.”
“Carlo’s busy.” Biondi scratched at his mustache, his lanky body blocking Leary’s progress. If he’d found Leary’s entrance intimidating, he sure hid it well. “Come back another time.”
“I know he’s here, and I need him now.”
“And you still won’t tell me what this is about?”
“Urgent police business.”
Leary tried to move around him, but Biondi was more spry than he looked. He managed to predict Leary’s movements and keep himself planted in his path. “Problem is, Carlo doesn’t have time for urgent police business because he’s busy with urgent Carlo business. So you’ll just have to come back when he’s not.”
Leary had dealt with thugs who pretended not to fear the police. He’d also dealt with creeps who legitimately didn’t fear them, either because the threat of prison was no big deal to them, or because they believed they had the power to avoid justice. Leary didn’t think Biondi was that tough or powerful, so he hoped the man was bluffing. “Mack, I’m going to count to five, and then I’m going to arrest you for obstruction of justice. One.”
Biondi smirked. “Nice try, Detective—”
“Two.” Leary reached for his gun.
“You can’t arrest—”
“Three.”
“I know how this works, asshole. You—”
“Four.” He brought out his handcuffs with his other hand.
“Why don’t you go fuck your—”
“Five.” Leary advanced toward Biondi, and felt a surge of satisfaction when the man took a step back, retreating. I always was good at the game of chicken. “That’s more like it, Mack. Now stay here and don’t do anything stupid. I’m going to find your boss—”
But Leary didn’t need to find anyone. The door to the hallway opened. Carlo Vitale stepped out.
“Enough cops and robbers,” Vitale said. “Mack, go take a coffee break. Detective, you want to talk to me, here I am. Does the office in back work?”
“Sounds fine to me.” Leary gave Biondi a long glare before returning his gun and handcuffs to their places.
Judging by his sour expression, Biondi wasn’t happy with the idea of leaving Leary alone with Vitale. But he also looked intimidated—much more than he’d looked when he’d backed down from Leary’s bluff, in fact. Leary guessed the man wasn’t in the habit of second-guessing his boss. “You need anything, Carlo, you call me.” Biondi gave Leary a final sneer, then walked to the gym’s exit.
Vitale waited until the man disappeared into the daylight outside before turning to Leary and beckoning him toward the hallway. “Come. We can get comfortable and wait for my lawyer to arrive.”
“Your lawyer?” Sensing another delay, Leary clenched his fists. “We don’t have time to wait.”
“You’re gonna need to find some patience, Detective. Because I’m not saying another word till he gets here.”
In the gloomy back office of Vital Fitness for the second time today, Leary couldn’t help feeling like he was going in circles. But unlike Biondi, Vitale had the manners to offer Leary a drink from the fridge. Leary declined, and noticed that Vitale did not take one either. They each sat down and faced each other over the old, battered desk. Leary tried to size the man up and assumed that Vitale was doing the same to him.
Carlo Vitale’s face made frequent appearances on local Philadelphia news, but this was the first time Leary had seen him close up and face to face, in person. He knew the man was in his sixties, but he never would have guessed that by looking at him. Vitale seemed somehow more dynamic than his age would suggest, more energized. A squeak broke the silence as Vitale sat forward in Biondi’s chair and studied Leary with a gaze that seemed to bore straight into him. Leary saw the muscle tone in the old man’s arms and shoulders, accentuated rather than hidden by his tailored suit. His hair, although peppered with gray, was full and styled like a younger man’s. There were lines on his face, grooves around his mouth and eyes, but even these seemed active, like hard slashes rather than soft wrinkles.
Leary scanned the desk for any sign of what the crime boss might have been working on before Leary had interrupted him, but saw nothing besides a pile of bills and a weight-lifting magazine.
“Charles should be here any minute,” Vitale said. “I called him before breaking up your little pissing match with Mack.”
“You should teach the man some etiquette.”
Vitale cracked a smile. “I think you’re the one who’ll be receiving some instruction.”
Leary could sense Vitale’s menace, but its effect was muted. Watching Jessie nearly fall off the side of a building was an experience of terror to which a sleazy gangster like Vitale could only aspire. “I thought we weren’t going to talk until your babysitter arrived.”
Vitale’s mouth twitched, but his stare remained flat and cold. “Do you really think a badge and gun give you the right to barge into a place of business and harass a private citizen?
Leary shrugged. “You call it harassment. I call it conversation.”
“And I call it interrogation,” said a voice from behind Leary.
Leary twisted in his chair and saw a tall black man stroll into the room. The man grabbed a chair from the other side of the room and planted it on the floor to the side of the desk, so that he was sitting between Leary and Vitale.
“This is my attorney,” Vitale said. “Charles—”
“Pendleton,” Leary said. “We’ve met.” He peered at the lawyer, not bothering to conceal his shock. He’d sensed that Vitale was a ballsy old bastard, but parading Tyrone Nash’s court-appointed lawyer in front of him was a whole new level of arrogance. Vitale was practically shoving his involvement in today’s events in Leary’s face and daring him to prove it.
“Nice to see you again, Detective Leary.”
“Shouldn’t you be at the Criminal Justice Center right now, trapped on the seventh floor with everyone else?”
Pendleton smiled. “Shouldn’t you?”
“I was running late,” Leary said, biting the words out.
“So was I. I guess we both lucked out.”
Vitale’s gaze swung back and forth between the men, following the exchange with interest. “I thought I was the one you wanted to talk to, Detective.”
“Now you want to talk?” Leary said, turning his attention back to Vitale. “Why don’t you give me the names of your people in the CJC?”
“What people?”
Pendleton held up a hand. “Don’t say anything else, Carlo. The detective clearly believes you’re involved in the hostage situation at the Criminal Justice Center. He’s fishing.”
“That’s why you’re here? The thing at the courthouse?” Vitale looked genuinely surprised. And amused. The creases around his mouth deepened as he grinned. “You cops will try to pin anything on me, won’t you?”
“Carlo,” Pendleton cautioned.
“Sorry, Detective,” Vitale
said, “but my lawyer doesn’t like this topic.”
“Why don’t we talk about Reggie Tuck instead?” Leary said.
That drained the amusement from the old man’s face. “What about him?”
“How much did he steal from you?”
“From me?” Vitale’s surprise looked genuine. “Tuck? I think you’ve got it backwards—”
“Let’s not disclose the details of a confidential business transaction,” Pendleton said. He gave Vitale a look that Leary had seen many defense attorneys level at their clients—a look that said, shut your mouth. Annoyance flashed across Vitale’s face, but he complied.
“Charles is right. I wouldn’t want to divulge any secrets.”
Leary studied Vitale’s smirk, trying to make sense of it. If Tuck had ripped him off, Vitale should be angry, ashamed, pissed off. Instead he looked smug. It didn’t make sense unless.... He remembered something Assistant DA Melody Yang had said about Tuck: He always played the role of a greedy man who was out of his depth, with no criminal expertise, who was looking for a partner in crime. Of course, the people he approached saw him as someone they could take advantage of.
Suddenly it clicked and Leary understood. Vitale thought he’d conned Tuck.
Leary made a face and laughed. “Come on, Mr. Vitale. I’d say Reggie forfeited the protection of any confidentiality provisions when he ripped you off. Don’t you?”
“Why do you keep saying that?” Vitale said. “Reggie didn’t rip me off. He brought me a fantastic investment opportunity, which I gladly took off his hands. I’m hoping he comes back with another one.”
Pendleton cleared his throat. “Carlo—”
Leary ignored Pendleton and maintained eye contact with Vitale. “That’s not what I heard. The police believed he conned you, right before they arrested him for conning a bunch of other people.” He needed to push the man, to see what he knew. Vitale might not be responsible for what was happening at the CJC—it was beginning to look like he had no motive—but something was off. A man as smart as Vitale should know he’d been ripped off.
“Tuck was arrested?”
“You didn’t know Reggie’s serving time for fraud?”
“That’s enough!” Pendleton rose from his chair. “Unless you’re planning to arrest my client, this interview is over. Please leave, Detective Leary, and continue your fishing expedition elsewhere.”
Leary rocked back in his chair. He pretended to ignore the lawyer, but Pendleton’s agitation had stirred a new theory in his mind. “I guess you wouldn’t necessarily know you’d been ripped off,” he said to Vitale, “or that the man who ripped you off had been arrested. Not if everything was handled by your attorney.”
“I’m only going to say this one more time,” Pendleton said.
“Shut up, Charles,” Vitale said. Leary could see that he’d captured the old man’s attention.
“Who introduced you to Reggie Tuck?” Leary said.
Vitale glanced at Pendleton, and that was answer enough.
“And did Charles handle the negotiation as well?” Leary said.
Vitale nodded. His eyes seemed to darken, and Leary could sense the thoughts in his mind.
“What was the scam?” Leary said.
“Tuck said he was a lawyer.” Vitale seemed to grind out the words. “At Condor & Strauss.” Leary recognized the firm—one of Philly’s most prestigious. “He had an e-mail address, a website. He gave me a business card.”
“Carlo, you need to stop talking,” Pendleton said.
Vitale let out a harsh laugh. “He told me he was drowning in student debt, but that there was an opportunity. A rich client of the firm, a multimillionaire, died. Tuck said he had access to the will, that he could change it. But he needed a partner.”
“Because if he made himself the beneficiary, it would be too obvious?” Leary said. “Because he worked at the firm?”
“Right. And also because he needed seed money.”
Again, Yang’s words replayed in his head: They would be so focused on their own scheme that they would hardly notice the up-front fees Reggie needed to get the ball rolling. A finder’s fee, or an administrative fee, something like that.
“Seed money for an inheritance? How does that work?”
“He said the inheritance would be taxed, and that the way the law worked, the inheritance had to be paid in whole—the firm couldn’t just deduct the taxes and pay me the rest. I needed to wire him the money to pay the taxes. Once he received it, the inheritance would come through and we’d split it. Two million dollars for me. Three-hundred thousand for him.”
“Two-million, three-hundred thousand dollars,” Leary said. “What would the inheritance tax be on that in Pennsylvania?”
Vitale looked sick. “Fifteen percent.”
Leary did the math in his head, and his jaw almost dropped. “He took you for three-hundred-and-forty-five-thousand dollars? And you never knew?”
Vitale whirled on Pendleton. “You motherfucker.” His rage was palpable as he rose from his chair. “You introduced me to a fucking con artist, and then you covered it up when he ripped me off?”
Pendleton backed up a step. The color drained from his face and beads of sweat stood out at his hairline. “I was going to tell you, Carlo. After I recovered the money. I had a plan—”
“And that plan is playing out as we speak, isn’t it?” Leary said. “Kidnap Tuck and force him to take your inside man, Kurt Garrett, to the money. You were hoping to replace it before your client here even realized it was missing.”
Leary felt the glow of a solved mystery. One of the best feelings in the world. Part of a smile had even made it to his face before Pendleton surprised them with a pistol. “Sit down, Carlo. And you don’t move either, Leary.”
Vitale didn’t sit down. He came around the desk, fearless in the face of the weapon. “You dare pull a gun on me, you weasel motherfucker?” Leary stood from his chair, too, and reached for his own gun, but he didn’t need it. Vitale knocked the gun out of Pendleton’s hands and punched the lawyer in the face. Pendleton dropped to the floor.
“Jesus,” Leary said, staring at the still body of the lawyer.
“Impressive for an old man, huh? Not really.” Vitale opened his fist and a roll of quarters dropped to the desktop. “Trick of the trade.”
Leary squatted beside Pendleton and shook him. At first, he thought the man was out cold. Then a feeling of dread wriggled through his guts as he searched for a pulse and didn’t find one. “I think you killed him.”
“Get serious, Detective. Charles isn’t exactly a tough guy, but he’s no pussy, either.”
“He’s dead,” Leary said. His tongue felt numb in his mouth. Any euphoria he’d felt upon solving this case had vanished. The only person who could call off the men in the courthouse—the only man who could order Garrett to release Jessie—was Charles Pendleton. And he was dead.
“I guess I should have listened to the bastard and kept my mouth shut,” Vitale said.
Leary rose and pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt. “You’re under arrest.”
Vitale let Leary cuff him without complaint. “What’s the charge? Act of self-defense by an old man against an armed criminal? Or mistakenly believing I was engaged in a criminal activity, when I really wasn’t?” And the bastard actually laughed. “Great police work, asshole.”
Leary shoved him hard against the wall. “How about you shut up and let me think?”
Great police work or not, this wasn’t over. Charles Pendleton might be dead, but Jessie Black was still alive. Leary intended to keep her that way.
29
Leary stared at Pendleton’s dead body as he called police headquarters from the dingy office in the back of Vital Fitness. Carlo Vitale dropped into the desk chair, handcuffed hands in his lap, and sighed. “Three-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars,” he said. “I’m glad the stupid fucker’s dead. Not that what I did was premeditated. It was an accident, and self-defense to boo
t. You saw it.”
Leary had seen the roll of quarters, which might have been considered a deadly weapon if Vitale wasn’t a sixty-something year old man facing a thirty-something year old man holding a gun. “Do me a favor and shut up.” He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then searched Pendleton’s body. He went through the motions without much hope. The man would have to be sloppy and/or stupid to walk into a meeting with Leary and Vitale carrying anything that would tie him to the attack on the Criminal Justice Center, and while Leary’s opinion of defense attorneys was generally pretty low, he acknowledged that most of them were neither sloppy nor stupid—especially the ones who were good enough to get mobsters as clients. He found Pendleton’s cell phone, but a password screen blocked his access.
“He wouldn’t have used that phone anyway,” Vitale said. The gangster leaned back in his chair, looking perfectly comfortable in spite of the handcuffs, and watched Leary with what looked like amusement. “Not for something like you’re describing. Coordinating an attack on a courthouse? You use a burner phone for something like that, or no contact at all.”
Leary knew he was probably right, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. He searched the other pockets of Pendleton’s suit, tossed out his wallet, his car keys. He heard Vitale chuckle and felt a burning need to wipe the smirk off the old man’s face. He said, “How’d a small-time crook like Tuck play you so easily?”
He glanced up in time to see the smile slip from Vitale’s face. Bullseye.
“Fuck you, Leary.”
Leary flipped open Pendleton’s wallet and found his driver’s license. The little card was a treasure trove of potential phone passwords. He tried a few variations on Pendleton’s date of birth, then his address. The phone unlocked on his fourth try.
“However he did it, I bet he was laughing pretty hard,” Leary went on, “making a big tough gangster like you think you were screwing him over, when all along, it was the other way around.”
Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1 Page 48