Last Lawyer Standing

by Douglas Corleone

  CHAPTER 54

  Scott Damiano stepped out of the towering Aloha International Hotel on Saratoga Road, walked across the street, and hopped into the passenger seat of my Jeep.

  “No problem,” he said.

  “No problem?” Gavin Dengler lived in the penthouse suite, and to get there you needed a special key for the elevator. That, in my mind, constituted a problem.

  But apparently not in Scott’s. “Ever hear of Gene ‘Piss Pie’ Spinelli?”

  “The wiseguy who owned a bakery on Long Island?”

  “Yeah, him. Know why they called him Piss Pie?”

  “I can hazard a guess.”

  “Right,” Scott said. “Anyway, you know how he died?”

  “Fell down an elevator shaft in Queens.”

  “Not so. That’s what it said in the papers. See, the fucking feds were trying to get us to talk about it, so they fed that bullshit to the Post, hoping one of us would say, ‘Whoa, that’s not how he died!’ on a tapped phone.”

  A moment of silence as we watched a pair of bikinis cross the street.

  “So anyway,” Scott said, “Piss Pie didn’t fall down no elevator shaft. The whole fucking elevator car went down, twelve floors over the course of a few seconds.”

  “How do you know?”

  Scott shrugged as though I were being obtuse. “’Cause my brother, Chris, and I rigged the fucking thing.”

  “Your point?”

  “My point is, Chris and I didn’t learn how to rig an elevator overnight. We went to elevator school.”

  “Elevator school?”

  “Well, not elevator school, but we took on an apprenticeship, all right? With this company that installed and repaired Alto elevators.”

  “And the elevator across the street…?”

  “It’s an Alto.”

  “So we don’t need a key?”

  “We don’t need a key. I just need a few minutes alone with the elevator.”

  * * *

  Scott got his few minutes alone with the elevator when a fire alarm went off across the street. Nothing pulls people away from whatever they’re doing like the possibility of witnessing death firsthand. Or at least serious injury. But the alarm’s going off was my doing, so in a strange, warped way I felt like a bit of a tease.

  Twelve minutes later we were cruising up forty-two floors to the penthouse suite.

  “Nice elevator,” I said.

  “Alto does good work,” Scott agreed.

  “No music, I like that.”

  “I disconnected it when I rigged it to work without the key.”

  “Really. Think you can do that at my office building?”

  “No problem.”

  When we reached floor thirty-nine, Scott started sniffing the air.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “I don’t know, maybe it’s nothing.”

  The elevator doors opened right onto the suite, a massive space appointed with the most luxurious of everything, from furniture to appliances to tapestry.

  But what Scott sniffed from the elevator wasn’t nothing. It was far from nothing. I covered my nose and mouth with my tie to try to help block out the stench. But it wasn’t working.

  The body on the floor was a bloated green-black, with blood vessels and blisters rising out of its rotting flesh. Most of the dead man’s blond hair had retreated to the hardwood, and his nails had vacated the tips of his puffed-up fingers.

  “This guy has to have been dead a week,” I said, still holding my tie over my nose.

  “Don’t be so sure. We’re in the tropics. Heat speeds up the process of decay.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Of course it’s right,” Scott said, lowering himself to his haunches in front of the body. “That’s why back East, whenever you can, you wait until winter to do somebody.”

  I stood behind him and watched over his shoulder as he examined the corpse.

  “Humidity or not,” I said, “I still say this guy’s been gone five or six days.”

  “You never know,” Scott said, shaking his head. “Could be due to sepsis.”

  “Sepsis?”

  “A blood infection that accelerates the decay process. Can easily make a day-old body look like a week-old corpse. Only way to really tell is to open him up and examine the internal organs.”

  “Well, we’re going leave that to Charlie Tong.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The new ME.” I stared into Gavin Dengler’s protruding eyes. “You think he was poisoned?”

  “Not unless you mean lead poisoning.” Scott pointed to a hole on the right side of Dengler’s head, just over the ear. “Execution-style. Point-blank from behind. This fucker was on his knees with a gun pointed to his head and he knew it was coming.”

  I glanced around the room as I removed a set of latex gloves from my suit jacket. I slapped them on and tossed a pair to Scott. “Let’s take a look around because I don’t think Gavin Dengler’s going to be doing much talking.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  I began in the living area, checking shelves and opening drawers. “A photograph of Orlando Masonet with his name under it would be nice. Maybe his address and telephone number on the back.”

  After inspecting the main area, I moved from bedroom to bedroom, while Scott checked out the kitchen.

  “This fucker eats a lot of steaks,” Scott called out.

  “Not anymore,” I mumbled.

  I met him back in the living room ten minutes later.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Not a laptop, address book, day planner…”

  “I could have told you that. This was a professional. Professionals don’t leave any of that shit behind.”

  “Check his pockets for a cell phone.”

  Meanwhile I checked the caller ID and speed-dial buttons on his landline. Nothing.

  “No cell,” Scott said.

  “Let’s go. We’ll call it in from a paypho—”

  The landline suddenly rang so loudly I felt it in my chest. When I finally recovered from my initial reaction, I glanced at the caller ID. “Restricted.”

  “Answer it.”

  I hesitated. Something about answering a dead man’s phone didn’t sit well with me. Still wearing my gloves, I lifted the receiver and didn’t say anything.

  “Mr. Corvelli,” an accented female voice said hurriedly.

  My stomach sank like an ice cube in wine as soon as I heard my name.

  “I need your help. I saw you enter the hotel and I knew you were there to visit Dengler.”

  I steadied my voice as best I could. “You’ve been watching the place?”

  “Yes. Ever since the murder. Days ago I came to visit Dengler, to bring him money, when I saw someone else punch in the penthouse floor in the elevator. Whoever he was, he had a key. So I punched a different floor and didn’t try to return until later. When I did, Dengler was dead.”

  My mind raced with excitement at the thought of a material witness. “So you saw the killer.”

  “Yes, Mr. Corvelli.” She paused. “But worse, I think the killer saw me.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Just outside the hotel, hiding between some hanging surfboards on the beach.”

  “Stay there. We’ll come and collect you. What’s your name?”

  “It’s me, Mr. Corvelli. Iryna Kupchenko. Oksana Sutin’s friend.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Seated in the passenger seat of my Jeep, in the glow of the tiki torches lining Kalakaua Avenue, Iryna Kupchenko appeared ragged, her long blond hair now unkempt and unclean, her tight black skirt and blouse disheveled, her makeup smeared, mascara running from both eyes down her cheeks. The smell of cigarette smoke mercifully masked her body odor.

  “We thought you were dead,” I told her.

  “I moved from Diamond Head to Kahala, but I have not been home in three days,” she said. “Not since I saw Dengler’s body.”

  “There was a w
oman’s body…,” I said gently.

  “In Lake Wilson, yes. She was my friend. Her name was Hannah.”

  “Who killed her?”

  Iryna placed her face against the passenger-side window and wept. “One of the drivers. They are killing everybody they think will talk.”

  Scott had chosen to walk back to his apartment on Tusitala. Now we were headed back to my villa in Ko Olina because Iryna refused to stay alone in a hotel.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” I said as I turned up Paki Avenue. “But we might be close to bringing all this death to an end. You saw Dengler’s killer. And Dengler’s killer may well have been Orlando Masonet.” At the end of Paki Avenue, I made a left onto Ala Wai Boulevard, speeding alongside the canal. “Tell me what he looked like.”

  “He was tall. Dressed very well. But I did everything I could to avoid looking at his face.”

  My chest heaved with disappointment. “Tell me you caught a glimpse at least, Iryna.”

  “I glanced back as I left the elevator, just to be sure he wasn’t following me. I saw him just quickly before the doors closed. He had a hard, handsome face.”

  “How old was he?”

  “It was difficult to tell. Young forties, I would have to guess. Not heavy but very well fed.”

  Our half-hour drive on H1 West was silent as I contemplated my next move. I needed a sketch artist but I couldn’t exactly bring Iryna to police headquarters. The only cop I knew I could trust was John Tatupu—and he’d threatened my life just a few hours ago.

  As I pulled into my driveway, it finally struck me. I leapt out of the Jeep, helped Iryna out, then took her inside through the front door. Skies greeted us immediately. He didn’t like strangers but he did indeed adore beautiful women. Even when they looked and smelled as though they hadn’t bathed in days.

  “Something to drink?” I said as Iryna stared in wonder at the mattress on my living room floor. “Beer, scotch, soda, Red Bull, bottled water?”

  “Do you have red wine?”

  “No,” I told her emphatically. “I no longer keep red wine in the house.”

  “Then water will be fine.”

  I double-checked the cap before I handed her an ice-cold bottle of FIJI. Then I pulled my cell from my pocket and dialed Audra’s number. As it rang, I stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.

  “I need a favor,” I said when she picked up.

  “If it has to do with Slauson, the answer is no. He kicked me out of FBI headquarters this morning after accusing me of sleeping with the enemy. He said he should have me fired and prosecuted for treason.”

  “I may not need him. What I do need is access to a forensic artist. FBI, if at all possible.”

  The FBI did good work. Without that notorious sketch of the Unabomber, which will be forever ingrained into America’s collective memory, the Bureau might never have captured Ted Kaczynski.

  “What’s this for?”

  “I have Iryna Kupchenko here in my villa. She may have seen Orlando Masonet.”

  “You have a call girl at your place? Isn’t one charge of prostitution enough for one year?”

  “You would think, but no. I’m going for the record.”

  “I’ll call Mike Jansen. He’s the one who’s been after Masonet from the beginning anyway.”

  “Special Agent Jansen of the DEA? It was his stupid fucking plan that got us into this mess to begin with.”

  “Look, he’s the only one I can go to, Kevin. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  * * *

  After she showered, Iryna passed out naked in the center of my bed. I threw a sheet over her, then sat outside on my lanai and waited for Audra to call back. My thoughts carried me back to July and SoSo’s sentencing, Boyd’s warning that a Waialua meth lab had been raided, Turi’s frantic plea from the FDC, the late-night call from Jason Yi, and the gruesome sight of Oksana Sutin’s corpse at the Diamond Head crime scene. Had that all really happened in a single day and night? Could I have somehow avoided it all by marching back down the courthouse steps before the sentencing, returning home, shutting my phone off, and going to sleep?

  At some point in the night, as the trade winds blew through my hair and the geckos chirped, I drifted off into a dreamless sleep in the wicker chair. I woke to the bell of my cell phone just as the sun began to rise over the Pacific.

  “Eight a.m.,” Audra said. “At the DEA’s Honolulu District Office.”

  “No go,” I said groggily. “Have Jansen send the sketch artist here. Last thing we need is to have someone spot Iryna visiting with the DEA.”

  “Jansen can arrange for protection.”

  “I’ve experienced Jansen’s protection firsthand. Iryna came to me; I’ll protect her.”

  “I’ll call him back,” Audra said, annoyed. “If you don’t hear from me, Jansen and the sketch artist will be at your home at eight.” She disconnected.

  Without closing the clamshell I dialed Jake’s number.

  He picked up on the sixth ring. “Getting revenge for me calling you so early yesterday morning, son?”

  “Yes, but I also need to ask a favor. I need you to cover for me in court this morning. Call our ballistics expert to the stand. Keep him up there until Narita breaks for lunch, then cut him loose. I’ll be there this afternoon to toss Guffman around the courtroom.”

  Jake didn’t ask any questions. “You got it.”

  I ended the call and dialed Flan. Casey picked up.

  “Sorry, Casey,” I said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Oh, no probs, Kev. Actually, I just got home. Don’t tell Dad.”

  I heard a door creak open, I heard Flan snoring, then I heard Casey yell, “It’s for you!” just before the door slammed closed again.

  Flan picked up the phone.

  I said, “I need you to head to Pearl City this morning, Flan. Make sure Max Guffman makes it to court today. If he gives you any trouble, tell him if he doesn’t testify, I’ll put his lady friend, Meredith Yancy, on the stand. And her daughter, Karen Haak. And I’ll subject them all to charges of perjury. And if none of them show, the whole family, baby Kyle included, will be thrown in jail for contempt.”

  “Can a baby be held in contempt?” Flan asked, mid-yawn.

  “Hey, if I could convince a judge to allow a four-year-old to testify in a murder trial like I did in the Erin Simms case, I figure I can pull off just about anything.”

  “Let’s hope for Turi’s sake you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 56

  “You are bringing the police here?” Iryna said, dressed again in her tight black skirt and blouse, which I’d thrown in the washer and dryer and shrunk overnight.

  “Not the police,” I explained. “A sketch artist. And an agent with the DEA.”

  “What is DEA?”

  “Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  “Oh my God,” she shouted, running across my living room in bare feet. She grabbed her purse, opened it, stuffed her hand inside, and came out with four vials of white powder. “Quick, you hide these for me!”

  “No one is going to go through your purse, Iryna.”

  “I have no documents,” she yelled at me. “They will send me back to Odessa!”

  I put up my hands, palms out. “No one’s going to Odessa.”

  “Do you know how fucking cold it is there?” Iryna reached into her purse again.

  I walked toward her to try to calm her. “Listen, as soon as the sketch is finished, I’ll send my receptionist to Ala Moana Center to buy you some new clothes. Her name is Hoshi and—”

  Before I could finish the sentence, Iryna’s arm was extended, and I was rewarded with a faceful of pepper spray.

  I experienced immediate agony. My eyes shut instantly, and when I tried to open them, it was as though I were attempting to gaze directly into the sun. The pain was burning and intense and I didn’t dare try to open my eyes again. Meanwhile, my nose ran, I coughed and coughed,
and I could barely breathe. I sank to the floor and rubbed at my eyes with my hands, only spreading the chemicals.

  As for Iryna, I shouted her name over and over, though it was no use. I heard her shoes clop toward the stairs, then down them, then I heard the front door open and close with a slam.

  I felt around the floor for my phone, then felt the bed. Blind and sick, I pushed myself to my feet, moved across the room, and ran my hands across the surface of the kitchen counter, knocking over empty beer bottles, a small black-silver globe, and a number of file folders from the Turi Ahina trial.

  I went to the sink and tried flushing my eyes with water, to no effect. Blinking vigorously helped, but not much.

  I dropped to the floor again and pushed myself along the cool tiles until I could prop myself up against the refrigerator.

  My cell phone finally sounded from the left pocket of my shorts. I ripped the phone out, opened it, and held it to my ear.

  “Who’s this?” I shouted, coughing violently.

  “It’s Scott. What the fuck happened to you?”

  “I just got pepper-sprayed. What do I do?”

  “Nothing to do but wait it out. At least thirty to forty-five minutes. Longer, depending on how much of that shit you were hit with.”

  “Great,” I muttered between hacks.

  “Who pepper-sprayed you? The hooker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Christ. What kind of kinky shit are you into, Kevin?”

  “Just get over here. We need to find her. I’ve got a sketch artist showing up here at eight, along with a DEA agent expecting his first glimpse of Orlando Masonet.”

  I ended the call. Tried opening my eyes. Too soon. I needed to get out of the kitchen, so I crawled back into the living room. Used the coffee table to push myself to my feet. Still coughing, still unable to breathe.

  Blindly I moved toward the bedroom, made a left into the bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet and knocked dozens of pill bottles down until I thought I had the right one. I sat on the bathroom floor inches from the toilet and popped the top on the bottle. I stuck my fingers inside. They were the Percocet all right. I needed to get them in me and fast to ease the unbearable pain, to hopefully dull my sensitivity to light—a truly intolerable sensation in a well-lit villa in Hawaii.