“I’m really not in the mood—”
Before he can finish the sentence, the kid fires his right fist, which lands hard on Tommy’s face. He steps back, shakes his head to clear it, thinking, Not bad. I was right about this kid.
He raises his fists, waits for the next attack. It comes quickly, but this time he ducks out of the way and comes up with a right cross that sends the kid back two steps.
The kid feels his nose, confirms it’s broken, and starts in again. Tommy takes a glancing blow to the head but pays the kid back with rabbit punches to the face and a left-handed battering ram to the solar plexus that doubles the boy over. He steps up to the kid and finishes him off with a descending blow to the head.
“When you tell your granddaddy that you delivered your message,” he says, “tell him all those black-and-blue marks are my signed return receipt.”
He walks back to the truck and climbs in. He looks at his face in the rearview, sees the skin under his left eye already starting to darken.
“Man, I’m getting too old for this shit.”
He puts the truck in gear and drives off.
16
FRIDAY, MAY 10
Mick glances at Piper in the passenger seat.
“I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about,” she says. “Miss Kendrick simply told me what she saw and what she was told by the other kids.”
A glance in the mirror tells him that his face has the look it gets when he’s angry: pursed lips, flared nostrils, flat eyes.
Piper persuaded him that she alone should meet Gabby’s gym teacher, Sharon Kendrick, in hopes of getting to the bottom of what happened with their daughter on the soccer field. She had a sit-down yesterday with the teacher, who was pleasant and reasonable and had no apparent agenda against Gabby or in favor of the other girl, Vanessa. When Mick got home from work, Piper said Sharon had told her the same thing in person as she had over the phone the day before: that Gabby tripped Vanessa Coolidge.
Mick’s refusal to accept the teacher’s story had carried over into this morning, along with his anger.
“So Sharon took the side of the girl who said Gabby tripped her when, in fact, it was the other way around.”
“But that’s the question: Who tripped whom?”
“It’s not even a question for me. Gabby told us what happened. I don’t care what Sharon Kendrick thinks.”
She sighs, clearly unable to understand why he’s having such a hard time with this. “It’s not a big deal. Even if Gabby did trip her. Kids do stuff like that sometimes.”
“Gabby’s a good girl. Not the kind of who’d deliberately try to hurt someone else.”
“Mick, please—”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We’re just going to have to agree to disagree.”
“Look, all I’m saying . . . Oh, never mind.”
They ride the rest of the way to the office in silence.
“Any word from Giacobetti?” Mick asks. He and Vaughn are sitting across from each other at Mick’s desk. In the shootout at the Naval Yard two days earlier, Nunzio’s enforcer suffered a gunshot wound to the chest that just missed his heart, as well as an oblique wound to the side of his head that left him severely concussed. He was admitted to the trauma unit at Presbyterian Hospital and remained there until he checked himself out after just two days, against medical advice. The first thirty-six hours were touchy—heavily dosed on morphine, Giacobetti passed in and out of consciousness, talking and mumbling whenever he was half-awake. Much as Nunzio had feared. Fortunately, Vaughn Coburn and Erin Doyle took turns guarding his bedside until Giacobetti was off the morphine, recovering from the concussion, and in full control of his wits.
“Nothing since he left the hospital,” Vaughn says. “He’s already back underground.”
“Good. I want him out of sight.”
“You’re worried the US attorney will subpoena him before a grand jury, make him testify?”
Mick nods. “I don’t want Martin Brenner near him—at least not until Nunzio is ready to tell me where Giacobetti’s going to fit in his endgame.”
Mick sees Tommy standing in the doorway. He does a double take at Tommy’s black eye but doesn’t say anything, waiting to see if Tommy mentions it first. He doesn’t, just enters and takes a seat.
“Has your source given you anything more on the prosecution?” Mick asks Tommy.
“Just that Pagano’s chomping at the bit to bring Nunzio to trial, and he’s worried that Frank Valiante’s gonna get to Nunzio before Pagano gets his verdict.”
“Taking Nunzio down would be a huge feather in Pagano’s cap,” Mick says.
“You thinking he’s planning to make a run for the DA’s job in four years if Devlin loses?” asks Tommy.
Devlin Walker, Mick’s adversary in the Hanson case, is running against the incumbent. The race has been a bitter, hard-fought battle, so close that either man could take it. If Devlin wins, he’ll likely hold the job for at least two terms. If he loses, there’ll be an opening for another challenger to step up and take the crown.
“Absolutely.” Mick thinks a minute. “Has your source told you how Pagano’s going to handle the mysterious call Nunzio received, the one that caused him to go to the warehouse?”
“Anything they can’t explain they’ll call one of the great unanswered questions that don’t matter and have nothing to do with Nunzio’s guilt.”
“For him it’s an unanswered question. We’ll call it a hole in the prosecution’s case.”
“We can argue that Nunzio was set up,” Vaughn says. “That he was drawn to the warehouse by someone acting on Valiante’s behalf.”
“And things didn’t turn out like Tony Valiante and his men thought they would. Yeah . . . ,” Mick says.
“But if it was a trap,” Tommy says, “why wouldn’t Valiante have had his bodyguards there? To make sure things didn’t go wrong.”
“And on Nunzio’s end,” Vaughn asks, “why did he use a knife when he was carrying a gun?” He pauses. “And what’s up with the plasticuffs? Why were they cut off?”
Mick nods. “There’s no way to explain what went down that doesn’t put Nunzio in prison for life. So he’d better try before we go to trial.”
“What’s he waiting for?” Tommy asks.
“Good question.”
“Are you sure he’s even going to give you his story?” Vaughn asks.
“Any other client would let you tell him what the story is,” says Tommy.
“That’s the rub in this case,” Mick says. “Jimmy Nunzio’s used to calling the shots.”
“He’s also used to not having his ass in the wringer,” Tommy says. “But this is a whole different ball game.”
Mick looks from Tommy to Vaughn. “I already told this to Piper, but I think there’s something going on here that Nunzio isn’t letting me see. Something he doesn’t trust me with. Something big.”
“Did I hear my name?” Piper asks, walking in.
“We’re talking about Nunzio,” Mick says.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“Basically, nothing. We’re in a holding pattern, for now.” He turns to Tommy. “What did you learn up north?”
“That’s what I need to know, too,” Piper says.
Vaughn excuses himself, and Piper moves from behind Tommy to take a seat next to him, noticing his black eye.
“What happened to you?” she asks.
Tommy chuckles as he tells her about Elwood Stumpf’s grandson, then leads into what he learned from Stumpf, Buck and Dale Forney, and Tim Powell. When Tommy gets to the part about Darlene and Dale, Mick sees Piper’s eyes widen.
“This is the first I’m hearing about Darlene having a part-time job or a boyfriend,” she says. “None of it was even mentioned in the trial transcripts.”
“Something happened between those two—Dale and Darlene,” Tommy says. “Dale said she didn’t tell him about what her father was doing to her, but he said he knew
Darlene had ‘problems.’”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know. He shut me down. Said we should ask her.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Piper says.
“Another road trip to Muncy,” Mick says.
“Yep,” she agrees.
“What about the mayor?” Mick asks. “You said the real estate agent told you he was at the poker games, too.”
“I’m getting to that.” Tommy tells them he didn’t meet with the mayor but called him on the way back to Philadelphia.
“I dialed 411, got the number for the mayor’s office. A guy answered the phone, asked me who was calling. When I told him, he said the mayor was out of the office on a fact-finding mission. Overseas.”
“Seriously?” Piper says. “The mayor of Allentown, Pennsylvania, on a junket?”
“What I said. And he goes, ‘Sure. He’s meeting with Putin, learning how to hack the internet, interfere with elections.’” He stops, and they all look at him. “That’s when I figured out what was up, and I say, ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ He says, ‘How can it be me? I just told you I was in Russia.’ Then he hangs up.”
Mick considers Tommy’s story. “This isn’t making sense to me. Elwood no longer has his card games. The whole ‘casino’ thing’s over. The girls and the liquor are all in the past. So why would he feel threatened that you’re snooping around, threatened enough to sic his goon on you? And why would Buck Forney care? Or the mayor?”
Tommy considers this. “Only one reason. They’re up to something else now.”
“Find out what.”
Max Pagano takes in the mobster’s New York office. It’s old-school: wood paneling, dark drapes and carpet, a giant mahogany desk. And the air is thick with stale cigar smoke. He’s been waiting for ten minutes, two of the capo’s thugs hovering behind him.
“So, Boston clobbered the Yankees last night,” he says, to get a rise out of the goons.
“Fuck you.”
He smiles to himself.
Another five minutes pass before Frank Valiante enters and takes his seat behind the desk. He takes his time lighting a cigar, takes a couple of deep drags, then seems to notice Pagano’s presence.
Pagano leans forward. “The reason I’m here—”
The goon to his right cuffs him hard on the side of the head.
His hand flies to his ear and rubs it. “What the fuck!”
Another blow, this time to the left side.
He’s boiling now, but manages to hold his tongue.
“That’s not how these meetings begin,” Valiante says. “The way it works is you start by saying, ‘Thank you, Mr. Valiante, for agreeing to meet with me. Thank you for taking some time away from your very important schedule.’ You sprinkle in a lot of ‘sirs.’ Then, when you’re finished, I stare at you for a while, study you like the cockroach you are. Then I say, ‘Tell me what you need.’ Then, and only then, do you petition me.”
Pagano glares. “You can’t just hit a district attorney.” Sensing another blow, he quickly adds, “Okay! Wait. I’ll start again.” He works his way through the obligatory mantra, then waits as the mobster takes another few drags from his cigar.
“So,” Frank Valiante says, “how can I help you?”
“It’s about Nunzio. I want to take him to trial. I’m sure I’ll get a guilty verdict. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.”
Valiante leans forward. “See, that’s the thing. He’s going to spend the rest of his life in prison no matter what you do. His very short life. I’m going to see to that.”
“I know, I get it. That’s really why I’m here. I just want you to wait a little while. Until after the trial. It’s set for October, and—”
“That’s five months away. I’m not giving that pig five more months of sunshine. He killed my son!”
Pagano came ready for this. “What if I can move it up?”
“How you gonna do that?”
“Get Nunzio and his lawyer to agree.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because Nunzio, overconfident bastard that he is, thinks he’s gonna walk. The sooner he has his trial, the sooner he’s out. In his mind, anyway.”
“How do you know he won’t walk?”
“Are you serious? He was caught ten feet from a blood-pumping corpse, holding the knife that killed him.”
“Blood-pumping corpse? That’s how you describe my Tony?” Valiante nods to the thug on the right, who cuffs Pagano again, on both sides of his head.
Pagano jumps out of his chair, furious, but the goons push him back down.
His head spinning, his ears hot with pain, he strains through the fog to hear Valiante’s words.
“Listen to me very carefully, you Philly insect. I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do when I’m gonna do it. If you can squeeze in your trial before it happens, good for you. But I ain’t waiting for some jury to hand down a piece of paper says ‘guilty’ on it.”
Exactly one minute later, the goons deposit Pagano on the sidewalk next to his car. He slowly makes it to his feet and climbs in. He sits until the haze in his head clears, which takes . . .
He’s not sure how long it takes.
Half an hour later, Pagano’s on the turnpike headed south. He places a call to McFarland’s office.
“Change your mind, Pagano?” McFarland says. “Looking for a plea?”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Then what do you want?”
“How would your client feel about moving up his trial?”
There’s a long pause at the other end. “How soon are you looking at?”
“This is May tenth. How about the middle of June?”
He hears McFarland laugh at the other end. Then he stops laughing.
“You’re serious?”
“As a kick in the nuts.”
“You think Valiante’s going to move on Nunzio sooner rather than later.”
Pagano rubs the side of his head. “More than think. I was just with the motherfucker.”
Another pause. “You met with Frank Valiante? You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”
“Goddamn basketballs, what they are. What’s your answer?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
Pagano rubs his ear. “You’d better hurry.”
17
WEDNESDAY, MAY 15
It’s just after 7:00 a.m. when Susan climbs into Piper’s Range Rover. Susan took SEPTA from Center City to the station in Wayne, where Piper is now picking her up. They’re headed for the women’s prison in Muncy to see Darlene Dowd again.
Piper waits for Susan to buckle up, then hands her a small envelope. “Here,” she says. “It’s from Darlene.”
Susan accepts the envelope, telling Piper she received a letter, too. “It’s in my briefcase. I brought it for you to read once we get to the prison.”
“She’s pretty effusive in her thanks,” Piper says as Susan removes the letter and begins to read.
“‘This is the first time in years I’ve thought about the future . . . felt so hopeless for so long that all I could do was struggle through day by day . . . so glad God brought you and Susan into my life.’”
Piper listens to Susan read, taking note of the flatness in Susan’s voice.
“It makes me feel good to bring hope to someone who’s suffered through so much,” Piper says.
She glances at Susan, sees her force a smile as she puts the letter away.
They drive for a while, Piper trying to engage Susan by repeating what she’s shared about Dale Forney and everything else Tommy learned from his trip to the Lehigh Valley. Susan nods and makes the odd comment here and there, but Piper can tell her mind is elsewhere. She gives up for a while, asking Susan instead how things are with her father.
“The same,” Susan answers. Nothing more. Then she pulls out her iPhone and begins scanning her emails.
Piper takes the hint and drives in silence until they reach
the exit that takes them to I-80 West, where she pulls into a gas station to refuel and grab some coffee and snacks. When she comes back to the car, she finds Susan editing a legal brief. She hands a coffee to Susan, who glances up from the brief only long enough to accept the cup.
Fifteen minutes after they’ve started west, Susan’s phone buzzes, the sound indicating she’s received a text. Piper sees her glance at the screen and click it off. A minute later, another text comes in. Susan ignores it as she did the first. The phone rings, and Susan clicks it off. It rings again, and Piper feels Susan’s stress level rise.
“Everything okay?” Piper asks.
“Fine. Just work.”
Piper sees Susan shut off her phone. She wants to say something but bites her tongue.
Susan gets back to her brief, or pretends to. They drive along another ten minutes or so.
“Are you still seeing Armand?” Piper asks, referring to the Argentinian soccer player.
“We’re done.”
“Oh. Was it amicable?”
Piper glances to her right. Susan is staring at her.
“I don’t mean to pry.”
“He was an asshole.”
Piper doesn’t know how to respond to the acid in Susan’s tone.
“They’re all assholes,” Susan says.
“What’s the saying—you have to kiss a lot of frogs?”
“I’m not fourteen.”
“Jeez. Shoot me for trying.”
She hears Susan exhale. “I’m sorry, Piper. I just have a lot going on right now.”
“Okay. But, you know, if you ever need to talk . . .”
“Thank you. But this is stuff I have to sort out myself.”
Piper offers a sympathetic glance, then turns her eyes to the road and keeps them there. She’s known Susan for eight years, but the woman is still a puzzle to her. As smart and gorgeous as she is, Susan seems to have a knack for finding the worst men. Piper’s met a few of Susan’s beaus—a couple of athletes, a successful businessman, even a race-car driver—all strong, all good-looking, and every one of them afflicted with an overabundance of self-involvement. The type of men chosen by a certain type of woman: the type who needs to fix something broken, or fill something lacking inside themselves. But Susan has never seemed that type.
A Killer's Alibi (Philadelphia Legal) Page 14