Moment of Truth

by Lisa Scottoline

  Mary streaked ahead with Paige running beside her. Trevor was gaining on them, a half a block away. The alley was steps ahead.

  “Faster!” she screamed to Paige, who was lagging. They were at the alley. “Go!” she shouted. She grabbed Paige’s sleeve and shoved her into it. Another crak sounded, closer this time, and she almost jumped out of her skin. She prayed the alley was the right move. It was too dark to see if it had an end. Had she steered them wrong?

  It was dark inside and Dumpsters overflowed on either side. They ran through trash and frozen garbage. Mary didn’t hear footsteps or gunshots behind her. Were they safe? She could see lights at the end of the alley. People!

  “Help!” she screamed and so did Paige. The people at the end of the alley looked up, two young men in white uniforms. They were smoking outside the screen door of a restaurant kitchen. Golden light shone through the screen and the aroma of roasting lamb wafted into the night. Mary ran closer and heard voices inside. They were safe! Trevor couldn’t shoot them in front of witnesses. She ran flat out, and even Paige put on the afterburners.

  “Let us in!” Mary shouted to the uniformed men, but they turned and ran off down the other end of the alley. In the City of Brotherly Love, you’re on your own. She ran straight for the door with Paige, threw open the screen, and darted inside, fumbling for the main door and slamming it closed behind them.

  “Quoi?” said a startled sous-chef, from behind a glistening stainless steel counter, but Mary was bolting the door locked.

  “Call nine-one-one!” she called out, but Paige had snatched her cell phone from her handbag and was flipping it open.

  Mary sagged against the door, her chest heaving. Relief flooded over her so powerfully it brought tears to her eyes. She was never so happy to see such a scummy metal door. Trevor couldn’t shoot through it even if he tried. The kitchen was warm and safe, filled with pungent smells and snotty cooks. She was alive. Paige was alive.

  Mary didn’t know how she had picked the right alley, but she whispered a silent thanks to anybody who was listening.

  48

  Jack and Brinkley rushed into the lobby of the office building, and Jack knew from the security guard’s terrified expression that she recognized him. A young woman, she seemed to age on the spot.

  “I know you two,” she said. She backed away, her hand hovering at the gun holstered to her hip. “You’re that lawyer who killed his wife.” Her frightened eyes shifted to Brinkley. “And you’re that cop who pushed that guard around. I read about you in the newspaper. Either of you give me any trouble, I’ll shoot you down.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jack said, grabbing the edge of the desk. “We won’t hurt you. We won’t hurt anyone. We need to see Mary DiNunzio.”

  “She’s not here.” The guard looked nervously from Jack to Brinkley and back again. “She’s gone.”

  “When?”

  “None of your business.”

  “She may be in danger. Tell me when she left.”

  The guard got more nervous. “About ten minutes ago. What kind of danger?”

  Brinkley was already backing up to go. “Was she alone? Or was she with a young girl?”

  “A girl. They left together.”

  “You know where they went?” Jack asked, heading out with Brinkley.

  “No, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell either of you. That’s for damn sure.”

  49

  It wasn’t long before three squad cars arrived at the restaurant kitchen and Mary gave the cops a brief statement, then insisted on Paige and her being taken down to the Roundhouse. Mary wanted to see Captain Walsh and bring the whole case to light. En route she called Jack on Paige’s cell phone, at the hotel number he’d left on Paige’s answering machine. She couldn’t reach him but left a message telling him to meet them at Captain Walsh’s office. This time she didn’t care how she looked. Okay, maybe she did.

  She pressed the END button, stumped. She wasn’t sure she should go to Walsh without Jack, but they were in the back of the squad car. She couldn’t wait any longer anyway. Trevor was trying to kill her and Paige. She let the cruiser whisk them to the Roundhouse, where she was ushered in to see Captain Walsh for the second time that day. He greeted her with “long time, no see,” and their meeting went downhill from there. She’d told him the whole story, from Paige’s drugged memories to Trevor shooting at them, but he wasn’t having any.

  “Look,” Captain Walsh said, from behind his bare desk. He looked more exasperated than he had earlier that day, if that were possible. “We’ll do for you what we’d do for anybody, Ms. DiNunzio. Somebody chases you down the street with a gun, that’s attempted murder, and we’re on it.”

  “Not somebody. It was Trevor.”

  “You’re not listening.” Captain Walsh looked at Mary, his dark eyes frank and concerned. “We’ll investigate, question witnesses, canvass the neighborhood, and see if anybody saw anything. We’ll tell you as soon as we know anything about the shooter.”

  “But it was Trevor. It had to be.”

  “How the hell do you know? The shooter was wearing a ski mask, you said.”

  “Who else would it be? It’s not like he tried to rob us. It was target practice, for God’s sake. Right out in the open.”

  “Like I said, we’re on it, but that’s no proof it was Olanski. You know how many knuckleheads run around this city with guns? Did you see the last amnesty day? They turned in enough weapons to arm a small country.”

  “But he was shooting at us. It was directed, not random.”

  “We get that once a month. Guy takes a shot for no reason, drunk or high. In summer, it’s the fish and gun club. Last week we had a guy, you must’ve read about it, takin’ shots at people he thinks are Hispanic. We got him on ethnic intimidation.”

  “This wasn’t a hate crime, take my word,” Mary said angrily, and the captain’s eyes hardened.

  “I took your word once already, Ms. DiNunzio, when you told me Paige here killed her mother. But she didn’t. Now you’re tellin’ me the boyfriend did it and she just thought she did it.” Walsh hunched over the desk, his shoulders powerful beneath his shirt, which had lost its starch. “How the hell do you expect me to believe you? You can’t tell a straight story one minute to the next. You think this is some kind of game?”

  Mary took it on the chin. “Look, I was wrong, I’m sorry. I thought Paige knew the truth, but she didn’t. Now she does. We both do.”

  Paige raised a hand like a schoolgirl. “Captain, it was Trevor. He had a body like Trevor. The way he ran was like Trevor, too. I’ve seen him play lacrosse.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Newlin, but we can’t rely on that. This is what I have to go on.” The captain held up the police incident reports, shaped like common traffic tickets. “All it says here is that the shooter was around six feet tall. We don’t know if he was white or black. We don’t even know if he is a he or a she. I can’t pick up anybody because he plays lacrosse.”

  “Why not?” Mary broke in. “Not to arrest, just to question.”

  “Ms. DiNunzio, you of all people should know that. You’re a criminal lawyer, right?”

  “Of course.” Mary figured she qualified by now. Not only had she studied, she’d been shot at.

  “This kid has one of the highest-priced lawyers in the city, after you. The lawyer got him bail when they had him red-handed, pushing powder. You think he’s gonna let me talk to the boy on this evidence? No way.”

  “You won’t even try? He just tried to kill us. He did kill her mother.”

  Walsh’s gaze shifted from Mary to Paige and back again. “With respect, we have the man who we believe committed that crime. He’s Jack Newlin and he’s going to trial for it.”

  “He didn’t do it!” Mary cried, fighting the urge to pound the desk. She was in danger, Paige was in danger, and it was all her fault. “He’ll explain it to you. I phoned him and he should be here any minute.”

  “Well, he isn’t, and I have real work to
do.” Walsh squared the incident reports at the corners. “I think we’ve talked enough for one day, Ms. DiNunzio.”

  “You won’t wait?”

  “No.” Walsh stood up behind his desk. “Thank you very much for your time. It’s always a pleasure to talk with you. You have any more theories, feel free to call.”

  “Are we being thrown out?”

  “Don’t take it personal,” the captain said, as he came around and showed them the door.

  A sea of reporters surged toward Mary and Paige the moment they set foot outside the Roundhouse. They had undoubtedly picked up the news of the attempted shooting on police scanners and were waiting in force. “Ms. DiNunzio, any comment?” “Paige, Paige over here!” “Were there any injuries?” “What did he look like?” “Come on, gimme a break, Mary!”

  There were TV cameras, microphones, steno pads, and handheld Dictaphones hoisted high above the crowd. Strobe lights seared through the darkness, temporarily blinding Mary. She felt paranoid, unsteady, and her eyes swept the crowd. Could Trevor be out there in the throng? Was he pointing a gun at them even now? He wouldn’t be that bold, would he?

  Mary grabbed Paige’s arm and pushed their way through the parking lot to the curb on Seventh Street, where they ran into a wall of parked news vans. WPVI-TV. KYW. WCAU-TV. She couldn’t see the street and shoved between two vans to reach it. She waved her arm frantically. They had no hope of getting a cab in this part of town and the buses ran few and far between this late.

  “Mary, do they have a suspect?” “Mary, who do you think it was?” “Paige, does this mean the end of your career?”

  Mary pumped her hand wildly in case a cab appeared in the traffic trickling onto the expressway. Suddenly a small dark car shot from the line and sped right toward them. Mary’s breath stopped and she jumped back in fear. The car skidded to a stop right in front of her, and just when she was about to scream, she saw that it was a black man at the wheel. She wasn’t afraid of black men, only white preppies. Then she recognized the driver, despite his cowboy hat and sunglasses, behind the wheel of an ancient black VW Beetle.

  “Get in!” Brinkley called out. “Now!”

  Mary grabbed Paige and they ran around to the passenger side and practically leapt inside, with Paige hopping into Mary’s lap. Strobes flashed as they slammed the door and sped off, with a news van giving chase. Reporters rushed to their vans and cars, taking off after them into the night.

  “All right!” Brinkley shouted. The Beetle accelerated toward the expressway. “Now where to, Newlin?”

  “Let me think,” Jack answered, popping out of the backseat. “The press is probably at my hotel and they staked out your house and Mary’s office.”

  “Dad! You’re here! Hey, what happened to your face?” Paige turned around, grinding her back into Mary’s nose, and Jack leaned forward in the speeding car to give his daughter a quick kiss. Mary hid her shock at his being there and tried to look attractive with a sideways nose. She couldn’t see his face because of his daughter’s back but she knew he was the handsomest beat-up guy ever.

  “I’m okay. Had a small problem at the prison, but I’m fine now. I’m so glad you’re safe, honey,” Jack said, but Mary figured he was talking to Paige.

  “Thanks to Mary, Dad. She saved my life.”

  Mary flushed, glad of the plug, then struggled for breath. Models were heavier than they looked. All that Evian weight.

  “Hold the lovefest, people!” Brinkley said, as the VW tore up Callowhill. “Where we goin’? Any ideas?”

  “How about Jersey?” Jack offered. “We can lose ’em in Cherry Hill.”

  “Too far. I know where they won’t find us,” Mary said, with difficulty, since her mouth was buried in Paige’s leather coat.

  “Where?” Brinkley asked, and Mary pointed around Paige.

  “Turn left at the next light.”

  “Yeehah!” Brinkley shouted, and the Beetle bucked forward.

  50

  Davis, still in running clothes, stared open-mouthed at the TV in his office, over his messy desk of documents and notes. The Chief had called him from a union dinner and told him about it. On the screen was a reporter with a perky hairdo, holding a microphone. In the background was the curved shape of the Roundhouse and the reporter was saying, “A man in a ski mask reportedly chased the two women, Paige Newlin, daughter of the slain Honor Newlin, and her attorney, Mary DiNunzio, for several blocks, firing at them. Police are currently investigating to determine the reason for the shooting. Back to you, Larry.”

  Davis switched the channels with the remote, catching as many reports as he could. Then he flicked off the TV with the remote, eased back into his chair, and downed the last of his Gatorade. What the fuck? Who could be shooting at the daughter? Davis thought about it logically, his brain humming since his run. It had helped him to plan the Newlin case and he’d returned to the office to go through the documents from Tribe & Wright. He had almost finished reading them when he’d gotten the call about the shooting.

  He tossed the empty Gatorade jug at the wastebasket, but it missed. Who was the guy in the ski mask? It led to the next question. Well, who would want the daughter dead? Answer: whoever benefits from her death. Well, who benefits? Then Davis remembered something he had read before his run. It hadn’t seemed significant at the time but it certainly was now.

  He flipped through the papers on his desk, looking for it. There it was, at the bottom. The document describing the trust fund that Honor Newlin had set up for her daughter. He yanked it out and flopped it on top of the stack. It wasn’t long, maybe five pages, and its terms reiterated the fifty million Paige was set to receive, in scheduled increments. But there was one sentence that had caught his attention. Davis ran a finger down the smooth page until he found it: “In the event that Paige Newlin shall die before receipt of any portion of her inheritance under the terms of this trust, the remaining amount shall revert to her surviving parents. …”

  Davis read it over and over. It was too good to be true. Follow the money, stupid! Under the mother’s will, when the mother dies, the kid inherits. But under the terms of the trust, if the daughter died before she could inherit, the fifty million went to the surviving parent. In this scenario, that would be Jack Newlin. It didn’t sound like the Honor Newlin that Videon had described, but she must never have thought it would happen.

  Davis sat up in his chair, his foot wiggling with nervous energy. So the only way Newlin could get the wife’s money was to kill the wife, then the kid. Then all of it, read all of it, comes to him. Davis clapped a palm to his forehead at the thought. Could Newlin have planned it this way? He’d have to! You’d have to be an estates expert to rig this result, will-to-trust. Fifty mil! God, this case was fun!

  Davis grabbed the phone and his thoughts didn’t break stride. Newlin was out on bail at the time the shooting occurred. Perfect! Motive plus opportunity! It had to be Newlin in the ski mask!

  The phone rang on the other end and as soon as a voice picked up, Davis said, “Gimme the Chief.”

  51

  “Oh Deo! Oh Deo!” Vita DiNunzio sobbed. She reached for her daughter the moment she got in the door, and Mary regretted instantly that she’d brought everybody here. The DiNunzio kitchen couldn’t fit Mary, Paige, Jack, and Brinkley, in addition to her parents, shamelessly hysterical that their daughter had been shot at. Having a weeping mother wrapped around her waist wasn’t a good look for Mary.

  “Let’s all calm down,” Mary said, giving her mother a final hug and gentling her into a chair. Fresh coffee percolated on the stove and its aroma filled the kitchen. The table had been set with two mismatched cups and saucers. Her parents were just about to down their thirty-fifth cup of coffee before her mother went to bed. In the morning they would discuss why they couldn’t sleep. “Everything’s fine now. We’re safe.”

  “Completely safe,” Jack added, but her mother’s lips trembled at the sight of Jack’s swollen cheekbone.

  �
��Oh Deo,” her mother moaned. She took off her thick glasses, set them on the table, and dropped her small face into a knobby hand. Even her silver hair, teased into curls, swoops, and swishes, drooped sideways, listing like the top of a soufflé. Mary wondered if they had smelling salts. For hair.

  “Mom, it’s fine,” she said, patting her mother’s hand. “We’re all fine. Me and Paige, we’re fine. Fine, fine, fine. We even have a detective here to protect us.” Mary handed her mother her thick glasses and made her slip them on, then gestured to Brinkley. “Look. See. Exhibit A. A real detective.”

  “A detective?” her mother said. She wiped her eyes with a napkin, leaving a reddish streak on her parchment-thin skin. Her eyes were as round as milky brown marbles behind the lenses, emphasizing their utter lack of guile, and Mary had to smile. If her mother was surprised at having a black man in her kitchen, it didn’t show. They used to have her father’s black crew home for lunch all the time, to the neighbors’ disapproval. “You a detective, with the police?”

  “Yes,” Brinkley answered succinctly, from against the wall, and Mary’s eyes flared at him with significance.

  “Maybe you could elaborate, Detective,” she prodded.

  Jack laughed. “Reg, tell Mrs. DiNunzio how safe we all are because you’re here.”

  “Yes, well.” Brinkley’s head bent to fit under the low ceiling and his arm cracked the Easter palm behind the switch plates. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Mrs. DiNunzio. I have a gun.”

  “A gun? Oh Deo!” her mother wailed, and her father hovered. He kneaded her shoulders through her house-dress until she got used to the notion of a Glock in a house with twenty-five crucifixes, two statues of the Virgin Mary, and a candle for emergency novenas. “A gun!”

  “Coffee anyone?” Mary asked airily, and bustled over to the stove and grabbed the pot. She was just about to go for the cups when Jack opened the cabinet, grabbed a bunch, and began setting them on the table with a happy clatter. How could she have ever thought him a murderer? He reminded her so much of her father, who was still consoling her mother as she segued into Act III of La Traviata. Soon the wheezing would start. “Dad, I’m sorry about this, but would you mind going up and taking Mom with you?” Before her hair explodes. “We need to talk some business, and it might upset her.” Call me crazy.