Bennie’s thoughts turned to DiNunzio and Carrier. She had hand-picked the two lawyers and trained them. How were they involved with the guards’ killings? Where were they, for God’s sake, and what did it have to do with the Steere case, if anything? Could they be in jeopardy themselves?
Bennie’s firm was under attack. There was blood on her walls. Her reputation, her name. If anybody was going to get to her firm it would have to be through her. This time she had to fight back. Adrenaline pumped in her bloodstream. She couldn’t wait for the thaw to begin an investigation. She would begin now. Herself. Nobody knew police procedure better. Nobody had as much at stake. Bennie looked again at DiNunzio’s notes. Heb Darnton/Eb Darning.
It was a starting point.
20
Mayor Peter Montgomery Walker paced the length of his huge, cherry-paneled office, in front of a remarkably bare mahogany desk. It was his show desk. The desk he used was in his private office behind the secret paneled door. It was where he kept his confidential papers, basketball hoop, and soda fountain. “We gotta get ahead of this, people! Steere’s lawyers are missing and two men are dead!” he fumed. “We got a murder case and a blizzard here! We’re not handling either of them!”
Large windows flanking the desk reflected the mayor’s rolled-up white shirtsleeves and flying rep tie. He had the stamina to rant for twenty minutes; he jogged three miles a day by the Schuylkill River. His aides thought he ran to keep fit, but he ran because he liked the sun on his face and he loved the river drives. The mayor thought no city in the country had a nicer entrance than Philly’s. It was prettier than Chicago’s, even. “I will not lose this election because of the goddamn weather!” he shouted as he paced. “Or because of Elliot Steere!”
The deputy mayors shriveled in their club chairs against the wall. An aged secretary edged toward the mahogany door out of the office. Only the mayor’s chief of staff, Jennifer Pressman, looked relaxed, leaning against a cherrywood credenza that held softball trophies and photos of the mayor’s family and friends. One of the photos showed Jen with the mayor when he was the district attorney and she was his assistant. A tall, thin beauty with long dark hair and a slim-fitting matte gray suit, Jen watched the mayor from behind glasses with lenses round as quarters. She knew how to handle him from way back; let him bitch.
“Where’s the crime lab reports? Where’s the coroner’s report? I want answers, sports fans! Why do I have to beg? Don’t I look familiar?”
Jen didn’t reply or even react. She had ridden the mayor’s coattails to this job and as chief of staff had the managing director reporting to her, as well as the heads of all major departments. She had hired most of the top administrative employees, managed the high-profile literacy campaign, and continued the blood and organ donor drive she’d started at the D.A.’s office. Jen checked her watch. Almost midnight. Her cool hid the tension she felt inside. She had to go, but getting out of the office soon was out of the question. Stress, coffee, and no dinner. Ingredients for a migraine.
“And who’re the detectives on the Steere case? Where the hell is Michael?” The mayor raked back his hair with an angry swipe and reflexively checked his hand to see if any had fallen out. His wife thought his bald spot was getting bigger, but his mistress disagreed. “Jen, do we know where Michael is?”
“The chief of police is at an FOP dinner with the inspector,” Jen answered.
“Wonderful. Where’s Sam?”
“He’s at the Doral at a meeting. All the managing directors of major cities are there. He’s the keynote speaker.”
“The Doral? He went? He knew the Steere case was going to the jury!”
“He had a command appearance.” Someday Jen would tell the mayor that his aides made themselves scarce in a crisis because of hissy fits like this one. The phone jangled in the scheduling office. The fax machine beeped in the secretary’s area. Jen was beginning to see little pinpoints of light in the distance. Oh, no. It was her early-warning sign.
“Where’s Tom Moran? He should know what’s going on with Steere! Do the murders affect the court case? Can Steere move for a mistrial?”
“Moran’s trying to get here, but the plows haven’t gotten to East Falls yet.” Jen pushed up her glasses, as if that would stop the lights in her mind. The mayor didn’t know about her migraines, none of them did. It wasn’t the kind of information you publicized if you wanted to get ahead in politics. “He’s in touch with City Hall Communications. We can get him on the phone if you want.”
“I don’t want him on the phone, I want him here! Goddamn it, why does he have to live in East Falls? From now on, everybody rents apartments in town! Get the same goddamn apartment if you have to!” The mayor stormed back and forth. “What’s Moran doing at home anyway?”
“They had the new babies, remember?” Jen tried to ignore the telephones and faxes. A light began to flicker behind her left eyeball, frantic as a candle in a hurricane. “They’re twins, and you’re the godfather,” Jen added, and one of the junior aides, Jack O’Rourke, started to giggle. Idiot, Jen thought. She didn’t mind that he was stupid, only that he didn’t know how stupid he was. The flickering behind her eye intensified.
“I can’t be the godfather, I’m the mayor! I’m up for reelection in November and I’m further behind in the polls than last election! The writing’s on the wall, people! Can you read silently while I read aloud?” The mayor charged across the red patterned Oriental. He only wanted to fix the city he loved and he couldn’t catch a break. He hadn’t gotten the Philadelphia Renaissance off the ground because of Steere. He wanted that prick in jail forever. It was the only way to shake loose those properties and win the election.
“I have a thought, sir,” O’Rourke chirped up. “What if Steere’s lawyers killed the security guards? What if they killed the guards and ran away with the suspect? Like a conspiracy.”
“What?” The mayor bit his tongue not to tear the kid a new asshole. The kid never said anything worth hearing, but he was Frank O’Rourke’s son and the mayor wasn’t above a little patronage if it got the job done. He was trying to keep this city afloat, and assholes like Elliot Steere were boring holes in the boat. Suddenly he whirled around on his wingtips and folded his arms with his back to his staff.
The aides exchanged glances behind the mayor’s back. They tried not to laugh out loud as the mayor went into The Cone of Silence. It was their nickname for Mayor Walker’s little quirk, and Jen usually found it funny. Not tonight. There was too much to do and the pinpoints in her head were spreading into large blotches of white light, like holes burning in a paper lantern. She needed to get her Imitrex injector from her desk. Her office was just across the hall. It would take her three minutes.
The mayor finally turned around, looking calmer. Redness ebbed from his face, and he stood still. “We should talk to the press, Jen,” he said, his voice almost back to normal. “Take the high road on Steere. Two men are dead. Say we’re doing everything we can. We’ll make sure the Steere case goes forward and justice is served. Write that up for me. Got it?”
“Yes,” she said, but she didn’t know how she could possibly whip up a speech. The nausea was starting, and after that would come the pain. Unbelievable, immobilizing pain. She’d have to lie down in a dark room. She’d be totally and completely fucked.
“The headline is the new snowplows, Jen. Announce the snowplows right up front. Say that we were responsive. All the streets will be plowed, no matter how narrow. Is the press outside?”
“In the hall,” Jen managed to say.
“Is Alix Locke still out there? I want her in on this. She’s the one who made the stink about the goddamn plows.”
Jen nodded, but even that hurt her head. “She’s been out there since the murder story broke. She wouldn’t go away. She’s bitching that we’re not releasing the police report.”
“Why? She knows we don’t release until the investigation’s over. What is it with Locke? Why is she always in my face? I t
hought she was a Democrat.”
“She’s a reporter. Doing her job. Being a bitch.” Jen’s brain flooded with light. She was sick to her stomach. The pain was starting.
The mayor’s secretary reappeared at the door. “Mr. Mayor,” she said, her lined face alarmed. “Alix Locke is insisting on speaking with you. She won’t take no for an answer, sir.”
“Tell her to wait until the press conference like everybody else!” the mayor boomed, and his voice reverberated like a rifle shot through Jennifer’s brain. Then the phone started ringing again.
“When it snows it pours,” O’Rourke said, but none of the staff laughed. Least of all Jennifer, who bolted for her office and her Imitrex injector.
“I’ll announce the conference,” she said.
21
Christopher Graham wedged his powerful frame into the tiny chair in his hotel room and set his green bottle of Rolling Rock on his leg. Christopher hated conjugal visits. Like Mr. Fogel had said while they were playing cards on the last visit: “Neither of us has anybody to conjugate.” Tonight Mr. Fogel wasn’t up for cards, so Christopher sat alone and took another swig of Rolling Rock. The jurors were allowed one alcoholic beverage a night.
“This one’s for you,” Christopher said, hoisting the bottle in the silent hotel room. His gaze wandered listlessly over snow flying outside the window, the double bed with the polyester comforter, and the TV on its swivel stand. The hotel would pipe in a cable movie for free during the conjugal visits — tonight’s was Jurassic Park — but Christopher kept the TV turned off. Beside him on the steel cart sat the remains of his dinner: fried chicken and Spanish rice, with ice cream for dessert. Christopher had come to hate fried chicken on this jury. Not as much as he hated chairs that were too small, though, and not half as much as he hated conjugal visits.
Christopher took another sip of beer. He found the whole notion of a conjugal visit distasteful, like the jurors were animals. Like the wives were mares in season, being brought to a stallion, coaxed into trailers for the trip to be covered. And the male jurors acted like animals all day the day of a conjugal visit. They didn’t pay attention in court, shifting in their chairs and checking their watches. They reminded Christopher of stallions restless at the first hint of spring; throwing their heads back, prancing around the pasture. Even geldings got frisky come April and wouldn’t stand still for shoeing.
Christopher rested the beer bottle on his thigh, making a wet ring on his heavyweight jeans. The TV came on in the next room, and a woman’s laughter floated through the thin walls. Oh, man. Here we go again. It was Isaiah Fellers and his fiancée. Every conjugal visit for two months, Christopher would hear them talking and giggling, then the TV would blast and the headboard bang against the wall. The ruckus would rattle the flower picture over his bed, and Christopher would retreat to the bathroom to hide from the noise.
“Don’t move!” a man in the dinosaur movie said through the wall. Then came the moaning of Isaiah’s fiancée.
Christopher took another swig of beer and closed his eyes to the sounds. He thought love was better than that. He liked horses and their ways, but he wasn’t an animal. Lainie never understood that. She used to whisper things in bed she thought would arouse him, but he wanted her to be above that. She was his wife. Then six months ago, Lainie had found another man and left the house. Didn’t take anything, not even the curling iron she used on her bangs every day. He knew she’d come back someday, at least for the curling iron. She was real picky about her bangs.
“REEEAAAHHH!” somebody bellowed on the other side of the wall, and Christopher wasn’t sure if it was the dinosaur or the woman until it ended in “BBAAABBBEEE.” Christopher shook his head in wonder. No woman had ever made a sound like that with him. Either he hadn’t been with enough women, or none had loved him that much.
Christopher thought of Mrs. Wahlbaum. She always smelled nice on visit day and seemed more alert. He’d met her husband, Abe, a tall, thin man with gray hair. Mrs. Wahlbaum held her husband’s hand when she introduced him to Christopher; she was happy just to stand next to him. Christopher wondered if a woman would ever feel that way about him.
“RRRREEEHHHHHOOOO!” somebody shouted, and Christopher gave up trying to screen it out. He got up with his Rolling Rock, went into the bathroom, and flicked on the fan to mask the noise. The fan whirred to life, and Christopher sat on the tub’s edge in the dark. He closed his eyes and soon Marta’s face floated up to him out of the darkness. She was standing at his side, and Christopher imagined himself introducing her to someone, like Mrs. Wahlbaum did her husband. Marta’s face would light up when she looked at him. Even her blue eyes would smile. It was plain to see that she adored him.
“RRRIING!” came a sound, barely audible over the whirring of the fan. Must be the movie. Christopher shook it off. “RRRIIIINNNG!” it sounded again, and he realized it was the telephone. Who could be calling? He left the bathroom and hurried to the phone. “Yup,” Christopher said into the pink receiver.
“This is the sheriff downstairs. Your wife is here to see you.”
Christopher was struck dumb Lainie? Why had she come? She’d never come before. Only one of two things Lainie could have wanted from him, since he didn’t have the curling iron. Either she wanted to get back together or she wanted to get a divorce.
“Should I send her up?”
“No. I mean, sure. Thanks.”
Christopher hung up the phone and caught sight of himself in the mirror over the dresser. He didn’t look surprised at all, he was good at not showing his feelings. Lainie used to complain about it, but there was nothing he could do. It was just the way Christopher was. It was his nature.
Christopher finger-combed his thick, dark hair with his fingers and checked his beard for crumbs. He smoothed down his flannel shirt and tucked it into his jeans. He didn’t look half bad. He’d noticed one of the jurors, Megan, looking at him from time to time. He patted his stomach, still trim. Take it or leave it, Lainie. There was a knock at the door and he hustled to open it.
“Special delivery for Mr. Graham,” said the uniformed sheriff. He grinned as he stepped aside.
“Hi, honey,” said the woman standing there, who looked a lot like Lainie. She had hair like Lainie and clothes like Lainie, but she wasn’t Lainie. “It’s been a while, Christopher,” the woman said softly.
Christopher looked at her eyes. They were clear blue and smiled up at him from the doorway. He’d know those eyes anywhere. “It sure has,” he replied without hesitation.
“And away we go,” said the sheriff, who did a Jackie Gleason out the door and left Christopher alone.
With Marta.
22
The blizzard blew, but Judy stood on the snowy stoop and knocked on the door of a rundown brick rowhouse catty-corner to the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge. Judy knew somebody was home because she could hear voices inside, and light shone through a ripped paper shade. She craned her neck to peek though the tear and almost fell off the stoop. She knocked again. No answer.
Standing on the sidewalk, Mary spotted a moving shadow on the paper shade. “Somebody’s in there,” she said, from a snowdrift on the sidewalk.
“Hello?” Judy knocked again. “Hello?”
The associates waited but nothing happened. Snow fell in gusts. The neighborhood was dark and quiet. Three houses so far, and no one was answering. The wind whistled down the street, buffeting Mary’s face and sending frosty tendrils twirling toward her. Her cheeks were frozen and her nose leaked like a preschooler’s. Her fingers were so numb she couldn’t keep the poles and skis together.
Judy pounded on the door again. “Hello? Please come to the door. It’ll just take a minute.” Still no answer. She turned away and tramped down the steps. “What do you think, Mare?”
“I think we keep at it.”
“Why won’t they answer?”
“Because it’s a snowstorm? Because it’s late? Because you’re a lawyer? I don’t know for sure.”
“Am I scary-looking?”
Mary appraised her. A yellow knit ski hat, fringe of wet blond bangs, canary parka, and snowpants. “No, you look like a banana.”
“Maybe I need a new rap. Begging isn’t working. You got any ideas?”
“How about ‘Prize Patrol!’”
“You’re no help.” Judy turned and lumbered through the snow to the next house. Mary followed, hoisting the slippery skis and poles up. A ski slid down into the snow, and Mary bent over to retrieve it. It was maddening trying to keep the skis in order. They were the wire hangers of sports equipment.
Judy climbed the stoop of the next house, 412. The two front windows had a brown curtain in them. She knocked on the front door, and a kid’s face popped up under the hem of the curtain. A small, black boy with a smooth head. Judy waved at him, and he waved back.
Mary watched from the sidewalk as Judy waved at the boy again and he waved back again. It was cute, but it wasn’t progress. “Jude, you know sign language for ‘open the door’?”
“Can you open the door a minute?” Judy called out, knocking, but the curtain dropped and the boy vanished.
Damn, Mary thought, and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her borrowed parka. Suddenly the door opened a crack and a woman stood there in jeans and a sweatshirt, with her hand shielding her face against the blowing snow. The little boy hugged her knee and buried his face in her thigh.
“Excuse me,” Judy said, “I hate to bother you. Did you know Heb Darnton or Eb Darning, the homeless man who was killed here last spring, under the bridge?”
Rough Justice Page 13
