Rough Justice

by Lisa Scottoline

  “No riders,” the paramedic barked. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and his short-sleeved uniform showed a knot of biceps as he tried to close the truck’s thick door. “This is a snatch and grab. We got rules.”

  “She’s my best friend!”

  “I don’t make the rules.”

  “I have to go with her!” Before the paramedic could stop her, Judy jammed her arm inside the doors and climbed into the truck. “I’m not moving,” she said, and crouched against the inside wall of the truck. “Sorry.”

  “Have it your way,” the paramedic snapped, “only because I can’t leave you in the friggin’ snow,” He slammed the doors closed and twisted the lock. “Rock and roll!” he yelled over his shoulder, and the rescue truck lurched off with its siren screeching.

  Inside the lighted truck, the paramedics set to work instantly, a feverish team. The muscular one cut the sleeve of Mary’s parka and sweater, felt with knowing fingertips for a vein, and stuck an IV into the crook of her elbow. “Possible gunshot wound to the left lung,” he shouted to the driver over Mary’s still, bundled form. “Grade Two shock. She’s losing one thousand to two thousand cc’s. She’ll need two, maybe three units when we get to the dance.”

  The other paramedic checked Mary’s vital signs. “Respiratory rate, thirty. Blood pressure, ninety over fifty. Heart rate, one-thirty.”

  The driver palmed a crackling radio and repeated everything into it. Judy couldn’t make out the crackled response. She couldn’t tear her eyes from Mary as the paramedics moved around her. The skin on her face looked rubbery. Whiter than snow. Bloodless.

  Judy’s teeth began to chatter and she folded her arms against her chest. She huddled in the corner of the speeding truck. It was heated inside, but Judy had never felt so cold in her life.

  28

  Long Beach Island looked like a witch’s index finger on Marta’s map and sheltered a stretch of New Jersey coastline from the Atlantic Ocean. The map’s scale showed that the island was about twenty miles long and only half a mile wide at some points. Smaller and skinnier than Marta expected.

  She followed the green minivan down a wide, snowy street that seemed to run the length of the island, north to south. The street was empty, though the storm had been lighter here, too. A blackish-gray sky shed only a dusting of snow. Marta guessed the island was deserted because of the winter, not the storm.

  Marta’s truck rattled down the street, trembling in the strong gusts from the Atlantic on the right and the bay on the left. The street must have been the main drag in summertime because it was lined with darkened stores advertising boogie boards, bathing suits, and suntan oils. Marta drove past shell shops, Laundromats, and restaurants. The signs were evidence of more food than any human could consume: BURGERS FRIES RIBS SHAKES PIZZA and the no-frills, BREAKFAST. A placard on a toy store simply said BUY IT, and Marta gave it points for honesty if not specificity. She kept the minivan in sight and drove through a town actually named Surf City.

  The minivan and truck traveled up the island, due north. Steere’s beach house was in Barnegat Light, and Marta checked the map with her flashlight. The town was at the northernmost tip of the island, where the minivan was heading so fast.

  Marta accelerated to keep up. The traffic lights had been turned off. She passed easily through a commercial district and into an area that looked residential. Scrub pines reappeared by the roadside, their needles lined with snow. Evergreens lined the road like Christmas trees on display. Junky beach shops were replaced by houses of different shapes and sizes; saltboxes with weathered siding sat next to spacious modern homes on stilts, with multiple decks and large glass windows. Wooden signs in a snowy divider told Marta the towns she was passing through: NORTH BEACH, HARVEY CEDARS, LOVE-LADIES.

  Marta traveled behind the minivan for ten minutes, then twenty. The truck was freezing without a working heater and she wiggled her fingers in her gloves to keep her blood circulating. The windshield wipers had finally met a snow they could handle and pumped madly in pride. Marta stretched her neck, aching from the accident, and felt her goose eggs, sore from Bogosian. She was as beat up as the pickup but somehow her senses felt alive. Urgent.

  Marta watched the homes pass on either side of the street, illuminated only by the truck’s headlights. They cast little light, and Marta figured she’d crunched a headlight in the accident. The houses loomed large in the darkness and almost all were empty. They were about four and five deep to the beach and fewer than that to the bay. The farther out Marta drove, the larger and emptier the houses.

  In ten blocks the houses became mansions and more modern. There were showplaces with whimsical paint jobs, their pinks and yellows bright even in the dark. Stark white contemporary homes sat far from the road, directly on the beachfront. The construction looked new and the homes custom-built. One white one reminded Marta of her glass beach house on Cape Cod, except the lots were bigger here and dotted with snowy vegetation. She sensed she was getting closer. If Steere had a house on the island, it would be in the most exclusive location.

  Marta followed the minivan another five blocks, where it turned right onto a cross street and headed toward the ocean. Marta followed it to the street and stopped at the corner. She shined the flashlight up at the street sign. Steere’s street; it was the address she remembered from his tax form. Marta had been right. She switched off her headlights so Alix wouldn’t see the truck and turned right.

  Marta coasted down the street, looking for the minivan. She was almost at the end of the street when red taillights flared on the right, near a snowy curb. Then they went dark. Marta waited in the pickup, slumping low in the beaded seat. A figure got out of the van, black raincoat flapping and dark hair blowing in the light snow. Her face was clearly visible in the light from the open van door. It was Alix Locke for sure.

  Marta sank lower in her seat. In the distance stood Steere’s house, which was unexpectedly different from the modern houses on the way. The back of the mansion faced the street, but Marta could see it was old and graceful, with Victorian buttresses and cantilevered towers. Three stories tall and covered with dark gray shakes, it sat farther from the main road than any of the other houses. Marta guessed it had been built on a bulge in the island. Pine trees, beach grass, and snow-covered dunes surrounded the mansion, partially concealing it. Marta could understand why Steere loved the house — and why he might use it to hide something important.

  She watched Alix climb a dune and head toward the house. When Alix was out of sight, Marta parked the truck a distance from the minivan and cut the ignition. What was Alix up to? Marta grabbed her forge hammer and flashlight and was about to get out of the truck when she remembered the pritchel. She might need more protection than the hammer.

  Marta flicked on the flashlight and turned around to root through Christopher’s tool chest for the pritchel. After some digging, she pulled out a long pointed spike with a tip as sharp as a dagger. The pritchel, just as Christopher had described it. A crude tool of heavy black iron. “Do you have this in navy?” she said to no salesperson in particular, then pocketed both tools, tugged on her gloves, and climbed out of the pickup.

  Marta caught a faceful of snow whipping hard off the ocean and ducked her head. She was unprepared for the wind’s force and the depth of the darkness around her. It was pitch black and the stormy sky permitted only the faintest moonglow. She cast the flashlight’s beam to the glittery surface of the snow and walked toward the minivan, boot-deep in powder. Marta reached the minivan and shone the flashlight inside to make sure it was empty. It was, so she followed Alix’s footsteps to the dune, the snow groaning underfoot.

  Marta came to the dune and clambered up it. Her ribs ached with each step, and snow and ice bit her cheeks. The wind blew stronger the higher she went. The sea air smelled of brine and storm. Marta climbed to the pearly crest of the dune and when she reached it ducked to brace herself against the wind buffeting her face and drumming in her ears. She stuck the flashlight in
her pocket and peeked over the dune.

  Dunes coated with snow rolled in sensuous, milky mounds to Steere’s Victorian mansion and to the gray-black sky, horizonless in the storm. Between the dunes dipped a valley of alabaster, crossed by the windswept shadow of a woman. Alix, her hair flying sideways, hurrying to the dark mansion.

  Marta crouched on the summit of the dune and her bruised ribs screamed in protest. She waited and forced the pain from her mind. She couldn’t risk going yet. She’d be exposed on the open dunes, and if Alix saw her, it would be over. Marta hunkered down in the snow like a soldier in a foxhole. Not that she knew anything about foxholes, but she had a vivid imagination. You had to, in criminal defense.

  She watched Alix climb the next dune. As soon as Alix disappeared over the far side, Marta stood up and sprinted down the dune, half tumbling and half sliding. She reached the bottom of the white bowl between the dunes and ran ahead to the next, climbing up, up, up the side, running as fast as she could in Alix’s footsteps, spraying snow behind her. When Marta scuttled to the crest, she threw herself down on the elbows until her chest stopped hurting.

  Steere’s mansion in the dunes stood stately and graceful, especially close up. It had stature, style, and class; qualities Steere could only buy. A vast expanse of incandescent snow encircled it like a warm cloak, and beyond the mansion churned the black Atlantic. Snow sprinkled from the sky like superfine sugar from a spoon and dissolved on contact with the dark, angry ocean. A light snapped on at the back entrance to the mansion, drawing Marta’s attention. There was a security light mounted at the house’s back entrance and one over a three-car garage. The lights must have been motion-sensitive and they illuminated the entire back of the house.

  Marta watched as Alix fumbled with a key chain and let herself in the back door. The back door slammed closed with a sound lost in the roar of wind and surf. Marta stood up and ran toward the beach house, the wind drumming in her ears.

  29

  Mayor Walker’s staff called his private bathroom the Frank L. Rizzo Memorial Can, but not in public. The bathroom had been built with donations from friends of the former mayor, who evidently wanted their hero to dump in style. The walls were covered in white marble veined with gold and the toilet was elevated on a matching pedestal. The counter surrounding the sink was marble, too, and all the fixtures were gold-plated. The total effect was Rome under Nero, a good analogy for Philly under Rizzo.

  Mayor Walker hated the bathroom, but detonating the Rizzo head would cost him every vote in South Philly. He closed his eyes to the white marble and washed his face with cold water, trying to stay alert even though it was well past midnight. “Talk to me, Jen,” he said between splashes. “What’s the latest?”

  “Steere’s lawyer, DiNunzio, is in the hospital.” Jen stood in the doorway and rested on the marble jamb for support. She’d barely taken her Imitrex in time and her head hurt worse than a hangover. Jen had so much to do, but all she wanted was to lie down.

  “DiNunzio gonna live?”

  “Doubtful. I drafted an obit and put it in the podium with your speech. It’s Insert A. If she’s dead by showtime, put it in.”

  The mayor paused. Jen could be so cold. “It’s too bad. Local boy?”

  “Local girl.”

  “Oh, right. Where was she from?”

  “South Philly. Went to Penn Law, yadda yadda yadda, friend to all, yadda yadda yadda, sorely missed. It’s in the bio, on the podium. DiNunzio was the one with that stalking thing a while ago.”

  “She was? I won’t mention it.” The mayor let cold water run down his cheeks. “Did you double-space the speech?”

  “Of course.”

  “You used the font I like, the big one?”

  “Humanist.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, Humanist is the font.”

  The mayor colored. “Good. Now what else?”

  “Richter is still missing, and they haven’t picked up the suspect in the security guards’ murder. The other lawyer is fine.”

  “Judy Carrier, right?”

  “Right.”

  The mayor grinned. When you’re hot, you’re hot. “So Carrier can proceed with the Steere case.”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.” He rinsed his face and slurped water from cupped hands. He didn’t know why everybody hated Philadelphia tap water. They called it Schuylkill Punch, but it tasted great to the mayor. “Carrier a Philadelphian, too?”

  “Not native.”

  “Then she doesn’t count, not with these voters.” He straightened up, snapped off the gold faucets, and snatched a fluffy white hand towel from the marble rack. He felt better already. If Steere still had a lawyer, his chances of a mistrial were low, considering that the case had already been submitted to the jury. Maybe he’d be convicted after all.

  The mayor toweled off, deep in thought. Steere’s lenders must be getting nervous. When would they call his notes? If Steere’s properties went at auction, the city could buy them back at bargain prices. Or maybe the banks would sell them to reasonable businessmen; thieves he could deal with, not a prick like Elliot Steere. “Steere’s a prick, you know that?” the mayor said.

  “I know.” Jen nodded. She’d listened to variations on this theme for years. The mayor was obsessed with Elliot Steere. He’d insisted the D.A. charge Steere with murder and ask the death penalty. The mayor always let his emotions get the best of him. That was why Jen was hedging her bets.

  “Take the Simmons Building, for example. A hundred-fifty-year-old building, one of the most beautiful in this city. Historic building, all sorts of history. Important history, Philadelphia history, you know? Nice white arches, like the old Lit Brothers. Steere buys the building for two mil, watches it fall apart, then sells it to Temple for ten mil.”

  “Sounds like a good deal to me,” Jen said, but she knew the mayor wouldn’t agree. Not that she cared. She had to get out.

  “Maybe so. Maybe it was a good deal. But you know what? The man didn’t love the building,” the mayor said, wagging a wet finger. “The man did not love the building. If you’re gonna own a building like that, you gotta love it. It’s not like toilet paper. That’s a prick for you. You understand? Only a prick would do that.”

  “Yes.”

  The mayor wondered if Jen were really listening. “Can you put that in a speech?”

  “That Elliot Steere is a prick? I don’t think so.”

  The mayor shook his head. That wasn’t what he meant and she knew it. Sometimes he didn’t like Jen very much at all. She did good things for the city, though. The literacy program, the blood drive, the organ donor thing. All on her own initiative, back when they were at the D.A.’s office.

  “Are we done yet?” Jen asked. “The press is out there waiting.”

  The mayor rubbed his face red. “Where’s our friend Alix Locke?”

  “Gone, thank God.”

  “She has a hard-on for me, Jen. She won’t quit until I’m a civilian again. She’s trying to screw up my chances for reelection, single-handed. What did I ever do to her?” The mayor dropped his towel on the edge of the marble sink, and Jen picked it up and hung it on the marble towel rack.

  “Don’t start with this, okay?” Jen ran her manicured nails through her dark hair. She was drained. She had to go. It was getting later and later. “The reporters are waiting. There’s more of them since the DiNunzio shooting. Let’s feed the animals and go home.”

  “Any national press, or just local?” The mayor leaned close to the mirror and fingered the stubble on his chin, trying to decide whether he had to shave.

  “Local so far. CNN is on the way, but they’re having trouble in the snow. You should shave.”

  “Again? I shaved twice today. My face is killing me. I get those little red bumps.” The mayor shuddered, but Jen plucked a disposable razor off the shelf and handed it to him.

  “Shave. We have company. Come on. We have to go. They’re waiting.”

 
“If CNN shows up, I’ll shave. How’s that for a deal?”

  Jen sighed. “Listen, we have to go. I have to go.”

  The mayor was appraising his reflection. He saw a strong, vibrant man, full of energy and passion. A figure of commitment, intelligence, and integrity in the prime of his political life. Courtney called him a total stud, but his wife didn’t use words like that. Maybe because she was a different generation. “Jen, I have to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  The mayor tilted his head down slightly. “Am I going bald?”

  30

  Judy slumped in a chair in the hospital waiting room and stared at the stale blood on her palms. She felt sick to her stomach. She couldn’t get all the blood off when she’d washed. It had dried to black and caked in the lines and creases of her palms, limning each wrinkle with a line as fine as a sable brush’s. Her lifeline was painted with the blood of her best friend.

  Judy stuck her hands between her legs so she wouldn’t look at them anymore. It didn’t help. Mary’s blood stained her snowpants, from where she had cradled her in the snow. Judy looked around the room for distraction. A TV was on, mounted high in a corner of the empty waiting room, which was reserved for surgeries. The volume was turned off on the TV, but Judy could see it was a never-ending update on the blizzard. The snow fell on the TV screen just as it fell outside. A reporter interviewed a bureaucrat in a tie and a ski hat. Then the screen showed a picture of huge dump trucks salting the highway.

  Judy couldn’t focus on the screen. Her thoughts kept returning to Mary. Lying on the ground, bleeding. She was in surgery now. They were doing everything they could, a doctor had told her, as had one of the nurses, an older woman. Everybody was doing everything they could, Judy kept telling herself over and over, like a mantra. She would repeat it to Mary’s parents and her twin when they came. But the DiNunzios were old, and Judy worried they couldn’t take a shock like this.