Eye of the Witch

by Dana Donovan

  “Sure.” Now he and Carlos were sharing secret smiles. “Anyway, this Mallory woman absolutely hates Rivera, and his feeling is mutual. She told me that Ricardo Rivera became livid when Bridget Dean got the promotion he felt he deserved.”

  “Really?” I said. “Was he supposed to get it?”

  “I don’t know, but he expected it. Rivera has been with the firm four years longer than Dean has. He and Hartman played golf together all the time. And when Hartman confided in Rivera that he planned on retiring soon, Rivera assumed he told him so that he could prepare for the promotion.”

  “But then Bridget Dean won that big case,” said Carlos, “and that changed everything, right?”

  “I don’t know if it changed everything. According to Mallory Edwards, Bridget Dean was a pit bull, a no-holds-barred attorney. Pierce and Petruzelli aligned her for that job long before Hartman announced his plans for retirement. If Rivera didn’t see it coming, he should have.”

  I came back around the desk and gave Spinelli a good hard slap on the back. “So, now we have a suspect and a motive. Good work, kid.”

  He hunched sharply under the slap with a wince that indicated pain. It made me think he didn’t have the bone structure Carlos had. I used to whack the crap out of Carlos all the time, and he never flinched. Then again, Carlos is built like a brick shithouse. Spinelli stood his ground, though. I’ll give him that. I mean he didn’t actually fall over or anything. He smiled thin-lipped at me. “Ah, it’s Dominic, sir,” he said.

  “What?”

  “My first name is Dominic. It’s okay if you use it. I much prefer it over, kid.”

  “Dominic?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Huh. All right, Spinelli, I’ll remember that.”

  I pulled the chair out from across the desk and sat down just as Carlos stood up. “Wait a minute.” I watched him herd his brows down low over his eyes. “It doesn’t add up. We have a suspect and a motive, but we still don’t have a crime. Remember Dean’s death was ruled a suicide. We need more evidence before we can call it a murder.”

  “I’m working on that,” Spinelli answered. “Mallory Edwards told me that Dean’s suicide took place in her office. The firm is very conscientious about security. They may have videotape of the incident. She’s trying to get us a copy as we speak.”

  “Excellent!” I clapped my hands and rubbed them together vigorously. “Now tell us what you have on that third woman, the waitress from the coffee shop.”

  Spinelli shook his head. “Not much. I’m still calling in favors on that one. I know her name was Anna Davalos, but that’s about all.”

  I slapped him on the back again, this time easy, so as not to fracture his obviously compromised skeletal structure. “It’s okay, son, you did well.”

  “Wait,” he said, with a smile usually reserved for the ever annoying, I-told-you-so and the What-do-you-think-of-that? “Don’t you want to hear the rest?” Oh, yeah, and that, too.

  Carlos and I both looked at his throat. Together we figured we could wring fourteen to sixteen fingers around it—plus our thumbs. “All right,” I said, biting. “Let’s hear it.”

  “The man in the picture at the cafe with Rivera? Do you want to know who he is?” Our fingers really began twitching now. I suspect he noticed, because he didn’t wait for us to answer. “His name is Gregory Piakowski. He’s an ex-con who went to high school with Ricardo Rivera.”

  “No!” said Carlos.

  “Yes. The guy has a rap sheet a mile long. And get this. Back when he was a public defender, Rivera got a conviction of murder-one overturned for Piakowski.”

  “That’s incredible!”

  “Unbelievable!” I said, dumbstruck at that. “So, I guess this Piakowski fellow owes Rivera big.”

  Carlos agreed, adding, “Yes, but the question is: has he already paid that debt back?”

  “Do we know how to find this guy?”

  Spinelli shook his head. “I searched E.I.N.I. We have no known addresses on him. His last place of residence was the Billerica Correctional Institution. He spent two years there before getting out on parole for good behavior.”

  “Well, he’s got to have a P.O. What does he say about it?”

  “Not much. His parole officer hasn’t seen or heard from him in months.”

  “All right, we’ll look into that later. In the meantime, we need that videotape.”

  “I know. I know. I’m—”

  “You’re working on it. We know. Just don’t leave any stone unturned, especially with Anna. I want to know how she plays into all of this.”

  Carlos asked, “You think she does?”

  “I’m sure of it. I just don’t know how. Yet.”

  Spinelli left, and soon after Carlos and I decided it was time to sit down with Ricardo Rivera for a little one-on-one. Okay, so that’s two-on-one, but we promised to take turns. We caught up with Rivera at his office on the fourteenth floor of the Hartman, Pierce and Petruzelli building. I remember when the San Juan Bank was the tallest building in town, five stories and a radio tower. But that was before HP&P built a mega-monument designed to rival anything New Castle had ever built before. The new justice center notwithstanding, at fifteen glittering stories plus a penthouse loft, the glass and marble structure of the HP&P building dwarfed and embarrassed all others built previously. It didn’t matter whether or not you held partnership in the firm. If you were lucky enough to occupy an office above the ninth floor (as I mentioned, Rivera’s was on the fourteenth), then you commanded a superior view of New Castle and the Greater Vicinity.

  Rivera’s secretary buzzed us into his office immediately. He greeted us warmly (though I have met lawyers before. It means nothing. Trust me). We shook hands, and he offered us a seat on two fine leather wingbacks that likely set the firm back a cool ten grand. Rivera’s dress didn’t let the ambiance down, either. He sported an Armani with gold cufflinks the size of dinner plates, a diamond tie clip that probably doubled as a chandelier at evening cocktail parties, and an oddly undersized gold ring on his pinky finger, shaped like half a broken heart.

  We all took our seats, but not before Carlos found it necessary to comment on the fantastic view out the window behind Rivera’s desk. I think he may have even said something like, “Hey, look. I can see my house from here!”

  Rivera laughed at that, and a few other things that weren’t funny, and then we got down to business. I could see why he thought he might become the next full-fledged partner in the firm. His confidence level read off the charts. He came off remarkably astute and seemed apt at anticipating ones moves by gestures alone. It’s probably the reason he didn’t seem surprised to see us, nor did he appear particularly worried either. I let Carlos have the first crack at him. You should have seen the old boy. After the novelty of high-rise gawking wore off, he really came out swinging hard and made me proud.

  “Mister Rivera,” he started. He tossed the picture of Rivera and Piakowski at the cafe down on to the desk. “You want to tell us who the man in that photo is?”

  Rivera picked up the photo and examined it closely. “It’s me.”

  “Funny. I mean the other man.”

  “Detective, am I to understand that you have me under surveillance now?”

  “Just answer the question, please.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “If you feel you must.”

  He laughed. “That’s a joke, Detective.”

  “We’re not here for jokes. If you prefer, we can go downtown and do this.”

  “There’s no need for that.” He pitched the photo back onto the desk. It slid across the surface and came to rest teetering on the edge in front of Carlos. “That man is an old friend of mine. His name is Gregory Piakowski. Looks to me like we were enjoying a coffee together. Is that a crime?”

  “Piakowski is a known felon. Why would a man in your position socialize with him?”

  Rivera pushed his seat away from the desk enough to cross his legs a
nd cup his hands over his kneecap. I recognized the body language as a deliberate attempt to portray a comfort level not necessarily enjoyed. “Detective, whom I choose to socialize with is none of your business,” he said, “nor anyone’s for that matter. I’m not running for public office, and I’m not worried about winning any popularity contests. Piakowski is an old school chum of mine. We keep in touch now and then. Like I said, the last time I looked that wasn’t a crime.”

  Carlos pulled his notepad from his jacket pocket and started writing. I leaned over his shoulder and saw that his notes were merely loose scribbling. It’s an old trick I taught him years ago. If you let the interviewee think you’re taking notes on everything he says, even if you’re not, then it helps to trip him up. They tend to become preoccupied trying to remember what they told you to keep their story straight. I didn’t expect that trick would work on a guy like Rivera all that well, though. A practiced lawyer with highly polished debating skills would not allow himself the contradictions. Still, I gave Carlos high marks for effort.

  Carlos finished his scribble and looked back up at Rivers. “Let’s move on to Bridget Dean. I understand you didn’t like her very much.”

  “What? Are you suggesting I killed her?”

  “I didn’t say that. I merely asked—”

  “I know what you asked. And unless you don’t believed she committed suicide, the question is totally out of line—regardless of whether I liked her or not.”

  “So, you didn’t like her.”

  “Nobody liked her, except maybe that tail-chasing hound, Petruzelli. I mean, Bridget Dean was an insensitive bitch. She stepped on more toes climbing the success ladder than I care to imagine.”

  “I see. So, I take it you don’t feel she earned her promotion to full partnership fair and square.”

  “Oh, she earned it, Detective, on her back. The woman stopped at nothing to further her career—and I mean nothing.”

  “I’m sensing more hostility here than simple office rivalry.” I knew right away where Carlos was going, and I was glad to see it, because if he hadn’t gone there I’d have taken that road myself. “Mister Rivera, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “You want to know if I ever dated Bridget.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Please, Detective…Rodriquez, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Rodriquez, of course I dated her. Who hasn’t? Truth is Bridget and I go way back. We actually dated in high school. How do you think she got her job here at HP&P?”

  “I thought she caught the eye of a senior partner.”

  “She did, but only after I introduced her into my inner circle at one of our company picnics.”

  “You invited her to a company function as a date?”

  “Sure. I thought it might be nice to hook up with her again after the years we spent apart.”

  “You mean you wanted to sleep with her again.”

  “I wanted to get to know her again.”

  “And what? She used that opportunity to get her foot in the door at HP&P?”

  He splayed his hands like a man surrendering. “Just another rung on her ladder, I guess.”

  “So you resented her for that?”

  He shrugged. “At first, maybe. But I knew what she was when I slept with her the first time. I blame only myself. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. She’s trashed my heart before, but I’m over it.”

  “Has she done worse by you before?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did she abort your child?”

  “Carlos!” I said. I reached over and grabbed his arm.

  Rivera slammed his hands down on the desk and shot to his feet. “Where did you hear that? Mallory Edwards? I suppose the woman told you I killed Anna Davalos, too.”

  “You knew Anna?”

  He got suddenly quiet. I thought he might point to the door and ask Carlos and me to leave. Instead, he reeled his emotions back in. He pulled at his jacket, brushed out wrinkles that were not there and then calmly reclaimed his seat. I imagined that sort of self-discipline proved invaluable to him in a courtroom. What it might do for him on a witness stand remained unseen. After sitting back down, Rivera folded his hands neatly on the desk and continued.

  “Of course I knew Anna Davalos. She worked downstairs for God’s sake. And if you dig a little, I’m sure you’ll find it’s no secret that we even dated on and off for years.”

  “So, you freely admit this to us?”

  He looked at me and pointed at Carlos. “Is this guy for real?” I shrugged. “Detective, like I said, it’s no secret. If you’re looking into her death, then it’ll come out. I have nothing to hide. The woman was unstable. So was Bridget Dean for that matter. That’s the reason women kill themselves, isn’t it? If you ask me, they’re doing society a favor. Now if only Mallory Edwards would jump off a tall building somewhere and do us all a favor.”

  Carlos and I exchanged immediate glances. I could tell he wanted to bring up Karen Webber’s death after that comment. But I gave him a no with a subtle head shake, not wanting to lay all the cards out on the table at once. He scribbled the name, Mallory, on his notepad and tilted it toward me. This time I nodded yes.

  “What’s your beef with Miss Edwards?” Carlos asked. “Wanting her to jump off a building is kind of rough. Don’t you think?”

  He scooted his chair forward and squared his elbows on the desktop. “Life is kind of rough, Detective. But my beef with that woman is her obsession with my kid brother, Benjamin.”

  “Is your brother a minor?”

  “No. He’s twenty-one, but he’s…special, if you know what I mean.”

  “Retarded?”

  “Slow. But he’s a good kid and he works hard. I got him a job here in the building so that I could keep an eye on him.”

  “What’s he do?”

  He shrugged. “Simple janitorial stuff mostly, you know, he changes light bulbs, empties wastebaskets, distributes the mail, that sort of thing. He gets by, don’t get me wrong, but he’s led a very sheltered life and he doesn’t need the predacious attention of an older woman like Mallory.”

  “Predacious?” said Carlos, sounding surprised. “You consider her a predator?”

  “I do when she tries to lure mentally compromised boys to her apartment for sex.”

  “But your brother’s a grown man.”

  “Psychically, perhaps, but….” He stopped and seemed to shake the thought from his head. “Listen. I’m not opposed to Benny getting lucky with a woman, just the right kind of woman, someone his own age without weird secrets. He’s fragile. He needs someone gentler.”

  I saw Carlos look over at me, and then down at his watch. I knew what that meant so I gave him the nod. He folded his notepad and slipped it back into his pocket. “Mister Rivera.” He started to his feet. “I want to thank you for your time.”

  Rivera stood, and I followed. “You’re entirely welcome.” He offered us a departing handshake, which Carlos and I accepted. “If I can assist you further gentlemen, don’t hesitate—”

  “Actually, you may,” I told him. Carlos and he froze in mid-handshake to look at me. “I understand that some of your offices here have video cameras for security.”

  Rivera gestured toward the corner up over the door. “We do. All the partners and associate lawyers have cameras in their offices. It’s partly for security reasons and partly for legal protection. There are a lot of kooks out there willing to claim something happened behind closed doors that maybe really didn’t.”

  “Do you suppose we might get a copy of the videotape Bridget Dean’s camera shot the night she killed herself?”

  Rivera’s brows crowded some. “You already have that, Detective.”

  “I do?”

  “The medical examiner’s office requested it the morning they removed Miss Dean’s body. Maybe you should check with them.”

  “Of course,” I said. “We’ll do that?”

&n
bsp; Carlos and I thanked Rivera again before heading for the elevators. On our way down, I suggested we stop on the second floor and check out the coffee shop.

  “You want coffee?” Carlos asked. I saw him check his watch again.

  “I know,” I said. “It’s late for coffee. What I really want to do is ask around to see what we can find out about Anna Davalos and Ricardo Rivera’s relationship. I don’t buy it that Anna killed herself because she was unstable. If anything, after meeting that pertinacious twerp, I would think she’d have killed him.”

  We stepped off the elevator and found ourselves staring directly across the hall at the coffee shop. It was mid-afternoon, so we missed the lunch crowd, but with a building that size there were still plenty of people there, snacking and taking coffee breaks. We entered the shop and claimed a small table by a window overlooking a duck pond. I expected we’d only order some iced tea or a Coke, but Carlos, with his ever-ferocious appetite, picked up a menu and started leafing through it. I reached across the table and snatched it from his hands.

  “Carlos, you just ate a couple of hours ago. You can’t possibly be hungry again.”

  “Well, it’s not like I’m starving,” he explained. “But Lilith came in and I never finished my extra meatballs.”

  A more reasonable excuse I’ve never heard. I handed his menu back and drew my gaze to the window. Out on the pond, a mother duck with her spring brood paddled blissfully along the water’s edge. It made me think of the small lake behind the research center and the gazebo where my last case really began to spin out of control. I thought of an unusually talented group of individuals that somehow lost their way and began turning on one another. And about Lilith Adams, whose complicity in that case is both the origin of my sleepless nights and the reason I’m alive today. I began to hear the voices of doubt in my head again. Did I really want to be there, helping Carlos, maybe steering him blindly down a road he might not otherwise take? He did all right interviewing Ricardo Rivera. And his decision to take Dominic Spinelli under his wing, well, I could not have made one better. I looked at my watch and wondered if I still had time to catch the afternoon flight back to Florida. That’s when Courtney came into our lives and changed everything.