Blood Money

by Laura M Rizio

  Nick would have to convince the Nazi that the case should not go forward, that it was a fraud, a setup, and that the plaintiff didn’t die as a result of negligence but as a result of premeditated murder. And he would have to do it without Donna Price. What chance did he stand? Little or none, he thought. But it was worth a try. Even if the judge thought it was just more legal shenanigans.

  He turned toward the shower head. The water ran down his face and he closed his eyes tightly, relishing the feel of the light sting of the spray. Somehow a shower cleansed the mind as well as the body. He felt his strength and confidence returning. Things started to fall into perspective. He moved his head slightly to the right, away from the direct force of the water, and opened his eyes. For a second he thought he saw a figure in the mirror over the vanity. He rubbed the water from his eyes to see if they were playing tricks on him. They weren’t. It was moving toward the shower. The figure stopped at the linen closet. Nick could see a dark object in the figure’s hand. He recognized it as a gun with a silencer. He squinted, pretending not to see the figure. He knew that if he didn’t move quickly, he’d be dead. He turned off the shower and opened the door.

  The figure stepped back. Nick spotted him in the mirror as he grabbed for a towel. He started to dry himself while facing the shower, purposely keeping his back to the figure whose reflection he could now see on the chrome shower head. His heart raced and the blood pounded in his head. He could hear it whooshing through his brain as he scanned the reflected scene. Suddenly he turned and simultaneously ducked as the figure fired two shots— pop! pop! He lunged and tackled the would-be assassin, and the huge figure fell backward with a thud as his head hit the sharp edge of the marble Jacuzzi, spurting blood everywhere. The man’s chest heaved once, and his eyes opened wide in a fixed stare. His skull was split open like a ripe watermelon.

  Nick’s instincts continued to rule. He crawled to the dropped gun, picked it up, stood, and shot the man between the eyes at close range. Maybe he was already dead and maybe not. He was taking no chances—and no prisoners—a lesson he had learned well on the streets. He dropped the gun, wrapped a towel around his waist, and ran into the bedroom, praying that Grace had not been harmed.

  He saw her lying on the bed, still in her damp clothes. He walked quietly to her while he prayed to God. She was breathing. He pulled the blankets back. No blood. Thank God, he thought as he stroked her damp hair. She had been lucky that he was target number one. Maybe God hadn’t abandoned him after all. He tried to think of a prayer of thanks, but he couldn’t remember one.

  He went into the living room, poured himself a double scotch, and was dialing 911 as Shoes arrived. Nick nodded toward the bathroom. Shoes took one look, checked the body still bleeding on the marble floor, shook his head, and walked back out to Nick, who had just finished reporting the killing.

  “Where the fuck you come from?” Shoes yelled. “Nebraska? How could you let this guy get in here? This big hunk of salami ain’t no Italian. He’s a Russki-red Commie fuck. I know this guy.” Shoes pulled Shakes’s wallet from his jacket pocket and threw it, opened, on the floor. The driver’s license showed the man’s fat face, grinning broadly over the name Vladimir Cherobin.

  Nick shook his head in disbelief. “I guess I’ve been away too long. You’re right. What’s the matter with my head?”

  Shoes pointed his index finger at Nick. “You better come back and hang on the corner once in a while and get some fuckin’ street smarts back in your brain—” pointing angrily at his own head—”or you’ll be dead in a year. Capish?”

  Nick ignored the absurd mandate but wondered how he could have been so naïve. How out of touch he had become! How easily manipulated. He never would have let this happen before his transformation. Trust a man he found sitting in the dark in his apartment? With a gun! What had he become? He had no answer.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  “Mr. Ceratto.” Ralph Kirby touched the brim of his worn, halffrozen Kangol cap. Melting droplets of snow fell on the red Herez carpet. “May I sit down?”

  “Please make this short, Detective. I’ve been traveling all night, I haven’t had any sleep, and I have to start a trial tomorrow morning at eight o’clock—” Nick checked his watch—”just six hours from now.”

  “Sure, sure, I understand. You need your rest, and I know judges don’t like waiting—especially for lawyers.” Kirby chuckled. “But there’s the simple matter of a dead man lying on your bathroom floor—that you shot.” The detective paused, took off his hat, and shook the melting snow off onto the rare carpet.

  “I gave the police a detailed statement. The man was in my apartment when I returned. He said that he was a bodyguard from the service I was using, and then he came after me when I was in the shower. I saw him, tackled him, grabbed his gun, and shot him.”

  “His head was smashed.” Kirby put his hand to the back of his own head.

  “Yeah. He must of hit his head on the way down.”

  “Ah—before or after you shot him?”

  Nick looked squarely into the detective’s wise, squinting eyes. “After.”

  “Of course, of course. You wouldn’t shoot a helpless man, bleeding to death on the ground, would you?”

  “No. That would be unreasonable force.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong on the law.” Kirby scratched his head. “But wouldn’t that be murder?”

  “Detective Kirby, are you accusing me of murdering this piece of shit, or are you just playing your usual games?”

  Kirby laughed, shaking his head. “Of course not, Mr. Ceratto. Of course not. What makes you even begin to think I would do such a thing? I’m just trying to understand—to gather all the facts. I don’t make such accusations—ever. That’s the DA’s job.”

  “Is that all then?” As Nick showed Kirby to the door, the black zippered bag containing the body was wheeled past them. The crime lab had finished with the photographs, prints, and samples and sealed the bathroom door with yellow tape.

  “I hope you have another bathroom. I’d hate to see you go to court like this.” Nick rubbed his hands across his chin. The stubble was as obvious as the bags under his eyes. “You’ll need to look your best. Maybe I’ll be there. What courtroom?” Kirby’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes, the Sean Riley case. I know—Judge Barnes, right?”

  “Yes. Good night, Detective.”

  “One more thing, please, Mr. Ceratto. I’m really sorry. The young lady, Ms. Monahan…?”

  “She was asleep in the bedroom. She’s still asleep. She’s

  exhausted.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I won’t wake her now. But I’ll need to talk to her. And to you, too. You’ll have to come down to homicide as soon as you’re out of court.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Nick waved his hand toward the open door. The coroner’s men were in he hall with the body, waiting for a down elevator.

  “Was there anyone else in your apartment?”

  “No.” Nick was quickly losing patience and irritably rubbed his upper lip.

  “But wasn’t there another person traveling with you, ah, from the protection service that you retained—a Mister…?”

  “Scarpetta,” Nick interrupted. “He had gone to get sandwiches when this happened.”

  “And…?”

  “He wasn’t here during the attack.”

  “But after?”

  “He came back and left to see if he could find a cop on the street while I dialed for help.”

  “He didn’t touch the body?”

  “He may have. I don’t know. I was busy dialing 911.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. Now, get out—please.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re tired. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” Kirby clapped his damp hat onto his head. “Good luck tomorrow—oh, by the way…”

  Nick sighed.

  “Did you know that the Maglio and Lopez cases are active again?”

  “No,” Nick said flatly, coveri
ng his surprise.

  “Yes, Gates and Mike Rosa—you know, the Montco DA—are working together on them. They think there might be something to them—a connection. You know, with that beautiful girl—what was her first name?”

  “Maria Elena.”

  “Yeah. See, she was a cousin…”

  “I know.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. You were concerned about the investigation on this case—or the lack of interest.” Kirby smiled and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His knees were aching. “I’m proud to say I’m the man they’ve assigned to the Lopez and Maglio cases. Funny thing, I was cleaning out my desk— I’m about to retire soon, you know, and I thought I’d get a head start with going through all the junk—and what did I find?” Kirby put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small key. “This.”

  “So. What’s the significance?” Nick stared at the key with a perplexed look.

  “Remember I asked you about a small key. You know, when I talked to you on the phone after the Lopez death. You know. After I met with you in this apartment? When I delivered the videotape. Raiders?”

  “I guess,” Nick said vaguely. “So what’s the deal?”

  “This was in her safe-deposit box along with the tape. I lost track of it in all the junk on my desk, and now I found it.

  “Great. It was obviously important to her,” Nick said, sarcastically.

  “Bingo.” Kirby laughed hoarsely. He tipped his hat as he turned to leave, reaching for the ever-present hard pack of Marlboros carefully tucked in his inside coat pocket. He waited until he was outside the door of Nick’s condo before lighting up. Then he cupped the cigarette carefully in his right hand so as not to set off an ultra-sensitive smoke alarm. All this No Smoking, here, there, everywhere. It was unconstitutional, he thought as he entered the down elevator. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, wasn’t that the guarantee? He shook his head as he walked into the cold outside and made his way to his salt-streaked car. He put the tired heap in gear and headed toward Graymont Street and his two-story row house, his cold dinner, and his sleeping wife.

  CHAPTER XXX

  Gusts of wind swept tiny, dry snowflakes across the frozen lawn. The leaded glass windows of the stone Tudor style Chestnut Hill home sparkled in the light of the wintry dawn. A limo driver paced nervously in the driveway, stamping his feet to keep warm as he waited for Judge Joseph Barnes. But the judge was taking his time. This was a big day—the opening of a high-profile trial where he would be prominently featured as the presiding trial judge. He carefully checked himself out in the long, antique mirror hanging over the entry hall table. He moved his face to and fro, checking his shave. It was clean. His skin was smooth and shiny. He patted his jowls with the back of his hand. He liked them. They made him look more distinguished, wiser and worthy of trust. He smoothed back his salt-and-pepper hair as he moved his head to the side to get a better view of the haircut he had recently gotten. It was fresh. It looked good, no stray hairs at the ears.

  Next he donned a long, black, cashmere overcoat. It was almost as authoritative as his black robe. He adjusted his red silk tie so that it peeked ever so slightly out between the coat lapels. And then the last touch—the white silk scarf laid carefully around his neck so that the ends were absolutely even. He never tucked it inside his coat. He wanted the expensive, long, hand-knotted fringe to show.

  Outside, the driver pulled up his collar against the cold. The blood seemed to leave his hands. He had rung the bell to alert the judge fifteen minutes ago. But he was made to wait outside until His Honor made his exit. He was not permitted to wait inside the limousine, which had to be kept running so that it would be just the right temperature for His Honor. Judge Barnes wanted his driver standing outside, ready to open the rear door for him when he decided that it was time. And it was not—at least not yet. He regretted accepting the assignment of being the driver for the peacock of the Court of Common Pleas. At first he had been pleased as hell with the patronage job. But then after a few weeks of being spoken down to, or not being spoken to at all, he came to hate the judge, and the job. But what good would it do? Wasting energy on hatred. It was too cold. He blew hard into his cupped, black leather gloves.

  Finally, the dark oak door opened and His Honor stepped briskly out, avoiding eye contact with the underling.

  The driver opened the nearest rear passenger door for the man he disliked, and could possibly hate, although it wasn’t worth the effort. He didn’t expect a thank-you, or a nod, or anything. And he didn’t get it. Accepting his position, he simply closed the door, got into the driver’s seat and put the limo into gear. The heavy car carefully made its way toward Kelly Drive, humming softly past other stately stone mansions built around the turn of the last century.

  Barnes was proud of his neighborhood. It was still within the city limits, as a judge’s home had to be by local law. The homes were large. Some were considered mansions by current standards—the palaces of nineteenth-century industrial tycoons. Some had been kept as single-family dwellings. Some had become schools for the children of the privileged. But the largest had been converted into small museums. He admired the ancient oaks and sycamores that he drove past each morning. He felt he had something in common with them—endurance, power, and timelessness. He was pleased with the high stone walls and ornate iron gates leading to meticulously maintained lawns. Ah yes, he thought, this is living. And when he was elected to Supreme Court, he’d move into one of the largest and the best—one with ten fireplaces. He liked fireplaces. They were traditional and enduring, like himself.

  The limo phone rang softly. The driver picked it up on the first ring.

  “Your Honor, it’s your clerk, sir. He would like to speak with you.”

  Without responding to the driver, Judge Barnes continued his fix on his elegant surroundings as they quietly slid past his window. He picked up the phone from the rear console, still staring out the window.

  “Yes, Thomas. What is it?”

  “Your Honor. It’s Nick Ceratto. He’s requesting an ex parte conference with you at eight a.m. He says it’s urgent…”

  “I don’t care if it is urgent,” Barnes interrupted coldly. “Didn’t you tell him, Thomas, that I don’t conduct any pretrial matters without the presence of all attorneys involved? In this case, John Asher?”

  “I did, Your Honor. But he was insistent that I call you to make the request. He said that there’s an ethical problem with the case and he’s going to request leave to withdraw based on this serious problem.”

  “What? At this late date? Withdraw and postpone this case? Never! I won’t allow it.” Barnes’s face reddened, something he hated. It represented a loss of control when control was critical. His career depended on this case—on his presiding over this case. He had groomed himself for it for three years. He was not about to hear something which might be so important that he would have to postpone the trial or, even worse, have to recuse himself.

  “I agree, Your Honor. I agree. But shouldn’t you meet with Ceratto to find out what he knows that you should be aware of before going public…?”

  The U-word. His clerk hadn’t used it, but Barnes was terrified of it. He prided himself on his purity of character and pristine professionalism, his ability to never be affiliated with anything or anyone that smacked in the least of impropriety…of unethical conduct. And in this case? Never. He had seen to it that the attorneys conducted themselves impeccably, that scheduling had been done fairly, giving each side ample time to conduct its investigation. It had to be the work of Joe Maglio, he thought. That lying, scheming wop. And now the other guinea was going public—and it was going to cost him his life’s work. He wouldn’t have it.

  “Tell Ceratto to meet me in my chambers at eight sharp. And I want my court reporter present and ready. Call Mary. Tell her to be prepared to deal with this. And tell her to call John Asher. I want him waiting at my chambers while this meeting is going on. I want all staff on high alert
and ready to go. Keep the jury happy. Get them doughnuts and coffee, comic books or something the simpletons understand. Ceratto’s not going to do this to me!”

  “And to his clients, sir,” the clerk unwisely interjected.

  “Fuck his clients. This is my trial and my courtroom and my reputation. Got that, Thomas?”

  “Yes sir. Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Good.” Barnes slammed the phone into its cradle. He had never taken his eyes from the window. His stare was as cold and icy as the half-frozen Schuylkill River, which had come into view as they turned onto Kelly Drive on their way toward the city’s center and its impressive skyline.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  Cigarette smoke blew back into the detective’s face as he exhaled into the wind. He flipped the butt from his open car window into the slush-covered street and moved his aching bones from the filthy vehicle he had been assigned. Finally out of the driver’s seat, Ralph Kirby removed a few dangling threads from the sleeve of his frayed overcoat so that he could read his Timex. Eight o’clock. Perfect, he thought. He had fifteen or so minutes to talk to the Lopez girls before they went off to school. He rang the bell and waited on the freshly shoveled stoop. The exterior of the small, two-story, brick row house was immaculate. The trim was freshly painted. The brass doorknob was polished to a glimmer. A lighted statue of the Virgin Mary smiled kindly at him from the squeaky clean picture window. She was flanked by two small vases of plastic flowers. It was clear that the home was well kept and lovingly cared for by good, honest, hardworking people. It stood out like a jewel from the blight around it.

  The detective rang the bell again, hoping for some relief from the relentless cold and wind. He squinted and pulled up his coat collar. He could feel a virus approaching, to which he would refuse to succumb as usual. Sometimes he won. Sometimes he didn’t. But what was important to him was to keep fighting. As with this case, which he needed to wrap up before Gates put it in limbo again. He smelled a rat for sure and wanted to find it before it went underground again.