Mob Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  “My name is Hunter Morgan,” I said by way of introduction.

  “I’m Geraldine DiMarco,” she replied in a giddy tone. “And this is Wally.”

  Wally opened one golden eye and studied me for a moment, then went back to whatever kitty dreams he was having.

  “You said the police didn’t take you seriously?” I asked.

  “They did not,” she said in an offended tone.

  “And what were you trying to tell them?” I prodded.

  “Oh, everything,” she replied. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen in this building.”

  “Including Wendy Romer and Francine Mott’s apartments?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed.

  “What can you tell me about Wendy Romer and Francine Mott?” I asked.

  “Where to begin?” she pondered.

  “Tell me about Francine,” I suggested.

  “Francine,” Geraldine mused for a moment. “She was a good girl, they both were. She was quiet, though she did come in late at night more often than not. She was getting better, though, now that she had a job she really enjoyed. She used to bring my boxes up for me when she’d get home from work.”

  “Did you hear anything the night she was killed?” I pressed.

  “No,” Geraldine huffed as she shook her head. “And that’s what I told that policeman. There wasn’t much noise, so if somebody claimed they heard her scream, they were lying. I would have heard it as well.”

  “Let me guess,” I suggested. “They thought you were deaf.”

  “They certainly treated me that way,” she agreed. “And my hearing may not be as good as it was, but I can still hear what’s going on in the hall, and I hear those two girls whenever they go in or out, or when they have a fight on the phone with someone.”

  “So what did you hear that night?” I asked.

  “No screaming,” she repeated. “But I heard Francie come home, and there was definitely someone with her. I could hear the extra footsteps. And then they went into the apartment, and a few minutes later, it sounded like somebody had dropped something heavy on the floor. But not something solid. Definitely something softer, like a giant bag of flour.”

  Or Francie, I realized.

  “There wasn’t much after that,” Geraldine added. “Not until the police arrived.”

  “Did you hear anybody leave Francie’s place?”

  “I did,” the old woman replied. “At least I think I did. But that’s what I wanted to explain to the police. I heard someone leave Francie’s, but then someone went into Wendy’s.”

  “So the person who left Francie’s went into Wendy’s apartment?” I asked.

  “Yes, I think so,” she replied.

  “I don’t suppose you went to investigate?” I prodded.

  “No,” she said sadly. “Wendy and Francie used to share stuff all the time so I didn’t think anything of it. I just thought Francie was hoping that the new tenant might have some wine or beer to share since she had company.”

  “Who’s the new tenant?” I asked.

  “Oh, him,” she said dismissively. “He’s not much. He goes out of his way not to talk to me, and I don’t know why he bothered to sublease the apartment because he’s hardly ever there.”

  “Could you describe him?” I asked.

  “Absolutely ordinary,” she replied.

  Which could describe thousands of men in the city, or one in particular. And if it was that one man, why had he taken an apartment in Francie’s building? An apartment he rarely used, if the neighbor was right.

  “Why did Wendy sublet the apartment?” I prodded.

  “That was rather sad,” she confided. “Her mother has been battling cancer, and I gather things took a turn for the worse. She needed to leave, but there’s a penalty if you leave before the lease is up. So Wendy did what everyone does, even though we’re not supposed to.”

  “She sublet,” I supplied.

  “Exactly,” she agreed.

  “How did she find the new tenant?” I wondered aloud.

  “Something on the computer machine, I don’t know,” Geraldine admitted. “But it was all rather quick, so I just assumed he must be a friend of hers. A very rude friend.”

  “What does he look like?” I asked.

  “He’s not very memorable,” the neighbor confided. “Shorter than you, with dark hair and dark eyes, but not the smoldering ones they talk about in my books.”

  “Sort of a round face,” I suggested as I tried to remember what Marinello looked like. “Hair just long enough to cover his ears, five o’clock shadow.”

  “You’ve seen him,” she said with a clap of her hands. “Thank goodness for that. I was starting to think he might be a figment of my imagination.”

  “How so?” I laughed.

  “Well, apparently, I’m the only one who’s seen him,” she replied. “I asked Julio about him once and he looked at me like I was crazy. But he only moves around at strange hours when most of the other tenants are at work or asleep. I’ve only seen him because I don’t need much sleep anymore, so I keep an eye and an ear out for trouble.”

  “Did you notice anything else about him?” I chuckled. “Like a jacket he always wore or something like that?”

  “He wears a necklace,” Geraldine mused. “But he always has it tucked under his shirt when I see him.”

  The nosey neighbor was a gold mine, and I had no doubt she would be able to identify Marinello from a photo. The real question was why the police had been so quick to discount her story. She certainly didn’t leave one with the impression of an enfeebled elder, but then maybe the information she had wasn’t what they wanted to hear. Or had been paid not to hear, if Duvernay was right.

  “Is he really living in the apartment?” I asked.

  “Well, that I’m not sure about,” Geraldine said as she leaned forward. “The place is empty more often than not so I think he’s using it for something.”

  “Like what?” I pressed.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I haven’t seen a lot of people going in and out, so I don’t think he’s selling drugs, but he could be making them.”

  “He could be,” I agreed. “What did the police say?”

  “Nothing, my dear boy,” she chuckled. “Didn’t I tell you they ignored me? Even after they dragged poor Julio back here in the middle of the night, and he told them Wendy was visiting her mother, they still didn’t listen to me.”

  “Did they go into Wendy’s apartment?” I asked.

  “No,” she said with a sigh. “I heard someone say something about a warrant, and then someone else say it wasn’t worth it, and that seemed to be it. They took care of poor Francie and took that other young man away and that was it.”

  “The other young man,” I started to say.

  “Oh, he’s a nice one,” Geraldine interjected. “He was always coming by to help Francie.”

  “Did you hear him arrive?” I asked.

  “Oh, of course I did,” she said with a nod. “Well, it was sometime after Francie arrived home, and I thought ‘now that’s going to be trouble, two boys at her place at the same time’. And it didn’t occur to me then that I hadn’t heard Francie go back to her apartment. It was all rather quiet until the police stormed in.”

  Which made sense. Marinello, or whoever had killed Francie, had returned to Wendy’s apartment, which probably had a nice view of the street at front, just like Francie’s. He could have waited quietly in the apartment until he saw Anthony Lamon arrive and then called the police. The precinct was close and officers would have responded quickly to a call about someone screaming. Especially if they had been told to expect such a call. It would be interesting to see just how long it had taken the police to respond to the call and I wondered if Liz’s source would be able to supply that bit of information.

  “Would you like some water?” Geraldine offered belatedly. “I have some of that fancy flavored bubbly stuff. It’s watermelon t
his week.”

  “As tempting as that is,” I replied, “I think I need to see if I can track down the mystery tenant. Do you think you would recognize him if I showed you some photos?”

  I didn’t mention that I already had a suspect in mind, and a name for that suspect. For some reason, it seemed safer for the neighbor if she didn’t know too many details about the man across the hall.

  “I think I could manage that,” she declared.

  “One more thing,” I asked. “Do you know if he ever ran into Francie?”

  Geraldine considered that for a moment, and I could almost see her replay all of Marinello’s arrivals and departures from the apartment in her mind.

  “I’m not sure she ever did,” Geraldine replied. “He always slunk around like he didn’t want to be seen, and I’d swear he only went in or out of the apartment when she wasn’t home. Do you think he was a stalker?”

  “Could be,” I agreed. “And if that’s true, then you should be careful around him.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not foolish enough to confront him. But if you leave me your phone number, I can call you the next time I see him.”

  I pulled out my wallet and pulled out one of my plain business cards that had my name, office and cell phone phone numbers, and the McHale, Parrish logo, but nothing that identified me as an attorney rather than a detective. Geraldine admired the card for a moment before she tucked it into one of the oversized pockets on her gown.

  “Like I said, he keeps strange hours,” she warned. “Are you okay with that?”

  “I’m okay with that,” I assured her.

  I didn’t mention that Marinello probably wouldn’t be back since his mission was complete, but then Marinello didn’t strike me as a genius, so maybe he would put in another appearance, to reclaim some personal item he left behind. If he did, it would be nice to catch him in the act.

  “Did Wendy leave you any contact information?” I asked, in part because I wanted to make sure she was still okay, but also because I wanted to find out how Marinello had ended up with the apartment.

  “She did,” Geraldine said as she looked over her shoulder. “I’ve got that written down in my address book.”

  Geraldine pulled herself to her feet using the arms of the chair, then waved me away when I stood up to help her. She shuffled towards the kitchen while I tried to decide if I should follow her or wait for her to find the address book. I could hear the elderly woman talking to herself as she moved around the kitchen, and after several minutes, she reappeared with a fat notebook bound in red faux leather.

  “Hers should be the last entry,” she said as she handed the book to me.

  I accepted the book and started to flip through the pages while Geraldine returned to her seat. As I tried to find the last entry, I noticed that many of the entries were so old that the ink had started to fade. Others were scratched through and replaced with updated information, and a few had been completely blotted out with a black marker. I found the last entry, which was listed as ‘Wendy’s Mom’ and gave an address and phone number for a place in Pennsylvania. I took a photo with my phone, then set the book on the coffee table.

  “Well, this has been an exciting day,” Geraldine said.

  “Not too exciting, I hope,” I teased.

  Geraldine cackled and then smiled at me.

  “My heart’s a lot stronger than you think,” she replied. “I can handle whatever excitement you can toss my way.”

  I was about to tell her that she probably had a stronger heart than the people in the gym when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, and was tempted not to answer, but something prickled at the back of my neck, and I accepted the call.

  “Morgan,” I announced.

  “Mr. Morgan?” Lamon asked in a shaky voice.

  “Call me Hunter, Anthony,” I replied. “And what can I do for you today?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” he replied. “But I thought I should call and tell you.”

  “Are you back at the station?” I asked.

  “No, we’re at the hospital,” he replied. “Dad’s been shot.”

  Chapter 11

  “Anthony, I’m going to call you right back,” I said. “Can I reach you at this number?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled. “This is my mom’s phone.”

  “Okay, just give me a minute,” I insisted.

  Anthony said something that might have been ‘sure’ and then disconnected.

  “Oh, you’re leaving,” Geraldine noted in a disappointed voice.

  “I have to,” I replied. “There’s been… an accident.”

  “No doubt involving one of the cab drivers,” she sniffed. “Worst drivers ever.”

  I couldn’t help but smile, and after a quick goodbye and a promise to bring her photos of potential suspects to look at, I ran all the way down the hall and down the stairs. I flew past the maintenance man and a group of tenants trying to enter the building and found a quiet spot near the corner of the building where I could talk without being overheard.

  “Anthony,” I said as soon as someone answered my call.

  “This is Gulia, Mr. Morgan,” a tearful voice said. “Here, I’ll put Anthony on.”

  There was a pause, though I could hear the sounds of the hospital in the background. A doctor was paged while someone else tried to get the attention of a nurse. Something metal clanged and a muffled sob echoed down the line.

  “Hunter,” Anthony said as he came on the line. He sounded more sure of himself, as if he had gathered his strength while I sprinted through Francie’s building.

  “Tell me what happened,” I insisted.

  “Dad was at a meeting for some new company he started,” Anthony said. “He was updating his investors and hoping to convince a few others to put some money into the operation. Things were going well, and he called mom to tell her that things had gone so well that he would be home earlier than he expected. Mom says she heard a couple of shots then, and Nunzio started to yell. Mom hung up and called 9-1-1. Dad’s been in surgery for almost three hours now.”

  “What have they told you?” I asked.

  “Not much,” he replied. “Dad took one to the chest and one to the head. Vince bled out on the way to the hospital. I haven’t heard anything about the driver other than he was dead at the scene.”

  “Do you have any ideas on who did this?” I pressed.

  “Nothing definitive,” Anthony said vaguely.

  “Which hospital are you at?” I asked.

  “We’re at Lenox in the Village,” he replied.

  “I’m on my way,” I said. “Just stay there until I get there.”

  “You don’t need to come,” Anthony said quietly. “I just thought I should let you know, in case the feds turn up or something.”

  “I’m coming,” I insisted. “We can talk when I get there.”

  Anthony made a noncommittal noise and then hung up. I looked around the streets, but there were no handy green cabs to be seen. I could always call the service desk, but getting car service out in Queens at this time would take forever. That left the subway. and I tried to picture what the nearest stop was and how close I could get to Greenwich Village.

  At least the subway was running normally again, and since I was heading into Manhattan while everyone else was heading out, I managed to find a seat next to a Jewish couple and their kids. I listened to their quiet chatter until Fourteenth street, where I transferred to the crosstown L, which dropped me off just a few blocks from the hospital. I had to push through the mob of people heading down into the station as I was heading up, but I survived the onslaught and sucked in a lungful of fresh air as soon as I was free. I jogged to the hospital, which is not as easy as it sounds with a briefcase in one hand, then stopped outside the doors when I realized I had no idea where they were.

  “Hey, Hunter,” Anthony said when he answered the phone.

  “I’m just outside,” I said. “Where are you guys?”

>   “I’ll come get you,” Anthony replied. “It’s easier than trying to explain it.”

  “I’m on the east side,” I stated.

  “Be right there,” he said.

  While I waited for Lamon to appear, I tried to settle my nerves and my heart rate. I could have used a towel to wipe my brow after my sprint in a business suit, but that was one of the few things I didn’t have in my briefcase. I made a mental note to myself to start packing a small one, and was trying to remember if I even had a clean gym towel available when Anthony stepped through the automatic doors.

  “How’s your mom doing?” I asked.

  “She’s hanging in there,” he sighed. “She’s tough.”

  “And your siblings?” I added.

  “All here,” he snorted. “Along with spouses and children. I’ve suggested that Paul and Kenyon might want to take the kids to a more family friendly place to wait for news, but so far they’re still hanging around. Cathy’s kids already broke one of the vending machines.”

  “And how are you holding up?” I asked quietly.

  “I’m still in shock, I think,” he replied after several moments. “I mean, you grow up around the business, you know this is always a possibility, but it still seems unreal somehow.”

  There didn’t seem to be much to say to that. My knowledge of life in the Mafia was based on movies and the occasional prosecution for various crimes that made its way into the headlines. I couldn’t imagine what it was like to grow up knowing that your father might be shot and killed, though someone whose parents served either in the military or the police probably had the same nagging fears during their youth.

  “We should talk,” I finally said. “Somewhere quiet without the rest of the family around.”

  Anthony studied me for a moment, and for the first time, I saw something hard in his eyes. He looked more like Salvatore at that moment, and the warnings from Duvernay and the IRS agent flashed through my mind.

  “Sure, we can talk,” he replied. “There’s gotta be a coffee joint around here somewhere.”