Rough Justice

by Lisa Scottoline

  Judy tried to settle down. She’d have to have it together if she was going to see the DiNunzios. She eased back into the chair and crossed her legs, avoiding the stain on her pants. She laced her fingers together, then folded her arms. She would have called her parents but they were traveling again. Judy looked around the room. Her gaze had nowhere to rest.

  Judy caught sight of the TV and sat bolt upright in disbelief. The screen said SPECIAL REPORT above a photo of Marta, superimposed against the offices of Rosato & Associates. There was a photo of blood smeared on the elevator at the office, then two quick photos of the security guards in the building. What? What was happening? Judy couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  A TV anchorwoman came back on. Her lip-sticked mouth was moving but no words came out. The TV was on mute. Judy leapt from her chair and hurried to the TV. She was tall enough to reach it but she couldn’t find the buttons. Where was the volume control? She yanked a chair under the TV and clambered up on it.

  Up close, the anchorwoman’s face was flat and large, the colors the ersatz hues of television. Her eyes were the blue of sapphires, her lips a supersaturated pink. She kept talking silently, opening and closing her mouth. Judy looked everywhere on the TV console. Where was the volume?

  Film of Marta came on, talking in front of the Criminal Justice Center. Behind her was its modern stained glass. It must be file footage from the Steere trial. Judy was panic-stricken. Had something happened to Marta? Was she shot, too, like Mary? What about the security guards? Judy searched frantically for the TV buttons. No controls. She groped the console. Cool, seamless plastic. Fuck! Where was it?

  “Where’s the volume?” Judy shouted, though she knew the floor was empty. There hadn’t even been a receptionist at the desk when she came up to the floor. “HEY!” she shouted. No one came running but she didn’t want to leave the TV. Maybe it was remote-controlled. Judy twisted on the chair and scanned the room for the remote. The coffee tables, the end tables, and the seats were bare.

  On the TV screen, Mayor Walker was giving some sort of press conference. His face looked grave behind the microphones and a podium with the city seal. To his left stood his chief of staff, looking equally somber. At the top of the screen it said LIVE. What were they saying? Did it have to do with Marta? With Mary?

  Judy spotted a small plastic panel under the screen and hit it to see if it would pop open. It didn’t. She hit it again but the panel still wouldn’t open. She hit it harder, pounding with her fist until the lid came up. Tiny dials protruded from a recessed compartment, and Judy twisted them back and forth with bloodstained fingers. The fake colors on the TV switched from flesh tones to hot orange, from royal blue to black. Judy still couldn’t hear the TV. Where was the fucking volume?

  On the screen, the police inspector was being interviewed, standing in front of the Roundhouse in the snow. What was going on? A commercial came on. The news report was over. No! Was someone shooting them all? Who was behind this? Steere? Judy couldn’t let him. She’d fight back. She needed to hear. She hit the TV panel until the lid broke off, then pounded it harder, cracking it into sharp plastic shards, straight through the fucking panel. Smashing it, destroying it, obliterating it. Killing all the phony colors with the force of her might and her will and her pain. Raging until her hand was covered with blood and finally it was her own.

  Judy sat in her chair with her hand packed and bandaged with gauze. She’d taken three stitches and refused a sedative. She’d scrubbed her snowpants and washed her face and hands. A nurse had brought her an antibacterial soap and it had taken off most of the blood on her good hand. She felt drained, her emotions spent. She watched the scene around her with an odd detachment.

  Bennie Rosato had arrived, in jeans and a sweater, her large face un-madeup and drawn. She made sure Judy was okay, then sat trying to comfort Mary’s mother, an elderly, birdlike woman with teased hair. The mother sobbed as she sat with Mary’s father, a short, bald man whose laborer’s body had gone soft. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he was comforting his wife.

  With them sat Mary’s sister, Angie. Angie was Mary’s identical twin. Her hair, though shorter, was the same dirty blond, and her eyes were as brown and large as Mary’s. Her mouth was a perfect match, full and broad. Judy liked looking at Angie. It was as if Mary were in the waiting room, whole and healthy again.

  Angie was speaking in low tones to her parents and to Bennie. The four of them sat huddled close together, a nervous, weepy circle. Judy couldn’t hear from where she was sitting, but she watched Angie’s lips move like the anchorwoman’s on TV. The DiNunzios were on mute, in two dimensions. Everything around Judy seemed distant. She wanted to keep it that way. Let Bennie comfort Mary’s parents, she would know what to say. Judy had to figure out what to do.

  31

  Marta dashed down the snowy dune behind Steere’s house and ran toward the left side of the house. The security lights blasted her with light as soon as she reached their invisible ambit. She picked up the pace, sprinting beside her leaping shadow, spraying snow with each bound past the house’s back entrance. As tempted as she was to follow Alix into the mansion, it was too risky. Lights were going on inside, and Marta needed to see what was happening.

  She made it to the shadow of the side wall and turned the corner. The security lights blinked off. It was dark again. Marta leaned against the house, breathing hard. Her ribs speared her insides. She hadn’t exercised this much all last year. Wind and snow gusted off the ocean and whipped through Marta’s hair. Her eyes stung with snow and salt and she clung to the rough shakes of the wall, blinking. Snow buried her gloved fingers and stuck to the wooden shakes in splotches. Snowdrifts reached to her knees.

  She had to keep moving. Marta inhaled deeply, steeling herself for the familiar rib pain, and ran through the snowdrifts alongside the house, sliding a hand along the wall so she wouldn’t fall. The windows were high and light poured over Marta’s head from the house. She hurried along the wall, reached the front of the mansion, and peeked around the corner. The facade of the house was even grander than the back and its frontispiece was an immense wraparound porch. A bank of arched windows dominated the front wall and light shone through them, illuminating a living room.

  Bookshelves filled the room, showcasing fussy leather volumes of red and brown. Victorian couches and antique chairs surrounded a carved mahogany coffee table. There wasn’t a TV in sight; it wasn’t Steere’s taste, maybe it was a decorator’s or Alix’s. On the other side of the fireplace was a darkened dining room and a kitchen presumably beyond; Marta had shopped for enough old houses to know. Alix was nowhere in sight, at least from a parallax view. Marta would have to move center to get a better look. Small dunes nestled in front of the house, and Marta spotted one that sat about thirty feet from her. Wind off the ocean roared at the dune and blew snow from its crest in a frosty fan.

  Marta scrambled for the dune and was in front of the porch when she was jerked back suddenly. Her coat was caught on a wooden fence. She pulled but it wouldn’t come free. Marta was in plain view of the living room, standing in a square of light. She tugged her coat and looked at the window, then froze.

  Inside the house, entering the living room from another entrance, was Bogosian. Marta almost screamed. Bogosian was right across the porch on the other side of the glass. He could see her if he looked out to sea. His head was swiveling left and right. He was looking for something. Someone.

  Marta panicked. She yanked her coat with all her might, but it was still caught on the post. She was totally exposed, struggling with the fucking fence. If Bogosian spotted her she’d be dead. She tore at the coat and was about to slip it off when the fence shuddered violently and the coat came free. Marta fell backward into a chilly snowdrift and lay still as a dead snow angel, her thoughts feverish.

  Where had Bogosian come from? Had he driven here? Where was his car, the garage? Marta hadn’t bothered to look for tracks in the snow, she’d been too distracted by Alix.
She hadn’t seen Bogosian following Alix, so he must have been here already. Waiting. Maybe he’d figured Marta would try to search Steere’s beach house. Or maybe he’d arranged to meet Alix here.

  Marta was too frightened to answer the questions. Snow froze her neck and fell behind her ears. She lay perfectly still so she wouldn’t draw Bogosian’s attention. Still, she had to find out where he was. She gathered her courage and peered over her boots at the house. The living room was empty. Where was Bogosian? Was he coming after her? She could make a run for the truck.

  She started to go, then stopped. Bogosian stood on the stairway to the second floor. Marta shivered with fear and cold. She flashed on the bloodied security guards. She had to get a grip. What was Bogosian doing? She had to see.

  Marta flopped over, chin in the snow, and crawled the few feet to the small dune. She crouched behind it, wind pummeling her back. Her hair lashed her cheeks and she shoved it away with a snowy glove. The surf crashed on the beach, a deafening white noise. Bogosian was motionless in the middle of the staircase. He seemed to be squinting up the stairs.

  Marta looked up to the second floor of the mansion. A light blinked on in a far window, where a bedroom would be. It was too high for Marta to see inside. On the stair, Bogosian cocked his head like a pit bull, his large hand resting on the banister. Whatever was going on, it didn’t look like Bogosian and Alix had arranged to meet here. An ominous feeling rumbled in Marta’s gut.

  The light in the second-floor bedroom snapped off. A split second later, a light appeared in the window next to it. Alix must have been going from one room to the next. Marta craned her neck but still couldn’t see anything. What was going on? She had to move back if she wanted to see upstairs.

  Marta edged from the dune toward the ocean, low as a snow crab. She backed against another dune and ducked behind it. From her new perspective, she could see Alix’s head and shoulders in a room on the second floor. Alix appeared to be searching for something in an exercise room, with a Stairmaster and a Lifecycle. Marta watched as Alix opened a cabinet in the room and rifled its contents. White towels and Evian bottles fell to the floor. What was Alix looking for?

  On the stairs, Bogosian took a step up, running his gloved hand on the banister.

  Marta looked up again. The exercise room went dark. In the next minute a light went on in the middle of the second floor, where a set of French doors opened onto a wooden deck. The French doors gave Marta a full view and she could see Alix was in a home office. She was tearing open file drawers and ransacking them. Papers sailed to the carpet. Alix kept searching. What was she looking for?

  A sudden movement on the stairs caught Marta’s eye. Bogosian eased his Magnum from his shoulder holster.

  My God. Marta looked up at Alix. She was still searching the files, on her knees in front of the file cabinet.

  Bogosian started up the stairs with his gun drawn. Did he know Alix was up there? Did he mean to kill her? Why? Marta didn’t know what to do. Panic constricted her chest.

  Alix was tearing at a cardboard box with her nails. She kept clawing at it, then grabbed a scissors from a desk and slit it with the scissor blade.

  Bogosian reached the top of the stairs. Marta felt her heart thundering though her thick coat. What could she do? She had to do something. She couldn’t let Bogosian kill Alix. No one was around. It was the middle of a blizzard. Marta couldn’t make it inside the house in time if she tried. She rose to her feet, unsteady in the fierce wind.

  Alix was kneeling in front of the cardboard box, reading its contents. Bogosian appeared in the office doorway and aimed his gun point-blank at her forehead. A wave crashed loud as a thunderclap, and Marta heard herself screaming even over its roar.

  32

  Snow swirled around the steel skyscraper that served as a platinum setting for the city’s largest and most expensive law firm, Cable & Bess. Light sparkled from its emerald-cut windows like a diamond choker strung around the building’s neck. A sterling-haired attorney sat in a corner diamond talking on the telephone. A trim sixty-two, John LeFort remained composed and professional, even though it was past midnight and on the phone was the fifth unhappy banker he’d spoken with. All of them were lenders of LeFort’s client Elliot Steere.

  “I assure you, the Steere debts are under control,” LeFort was saying. He ran a forefinger over one of his dark eyebrows, which sheltered his light eyes and fine features like a sturdy roof. A Harvard graduate, LeFort was the consummate banking lawyer, so he didn’t judge his clients. Some became rich, some failed, and all tried again.

  “The debts are not under control, to my mind,” the banker responded. This time the banker was Morris Barrie at First Federal. LeFort had dealt with Mo Barrie many times over the years and knew him well. The men spoke the same language, so this conversation, which could otherwise be ugly or profane, would be quite civilized.

  “We’ll need another waiver, Mo,” LeFort said evenly. He always used the term “we” when referring to his clients, to encourage their creditors to think of them as a team. A team they couldn’t quit.

  “I’m not so sure, John,” said Mo, who at this point was showing worrisome signs not only of quitting the team, but of selling the franchise.

  “Another month on the principal payments would do it.”

  “We’ve rolled over the one-month waiver six times. How long can we keep waiving? Steere owes both past and current principal payments on his outstanding loans.”

  “It’s a temporary situation,” LeFort soothed. His gaze wandered over his desk, which was stacked with squared-off correspondence and legal pads. A Waterford pen and pencil set and black-and-white photographs were the only personal touches; LeFort much preferred black-and-white portraits to color. “We’re meeting the interest payments. We’ll resume principal payments as soon as the acquittal is in, any day now. The bank retains the properties as collateral. The debt is secured.”

  “I’m at a loss to see how. I reviewed the leases, and those properties can’t generate the cash to resume principal payments, with the interest and taxes. The purpose of the investment was the resale of the properties. Steere’s legal position makes that untenable, perhaps impossible.”

  “Our legal position is sound.”

  “Sound, you say? His defense lawyers are dropping like flies. One vanished and one shot. It’s been on every broadcast. My wife thinks they jumped ship, for God’s sake!”

  LeFort laughed, not so loudly as to be impolite. Bunny was a hysteric, everybody knew it. “Remember that the jury is deliberating. They have the case. I sat in the courtroom, I saw the closing, and I can tell you that in my judgment they will acquit by the end of business tomorrow.”

  “So you say, but Steere’s refinancing brings the debt above conservative appraisals — above anybody’s appraisal — of the liquidation value of the property. On paper, these nine buildings are valued at ninety-three million. They’re probably not worth sixty million, and our exposure is growing.”

  “We’re almost out of the woods, Mo.”

  “John, the committee is concerned. Deeply concerned. Every hour the jury takes to reach its decision decreases the salability of the properties. If the jury is hung, this could go on for another year. Then we can’t wait for the best offer. We’ll have to liquidate.”

  “You won’t have to liquidate.”

  “I don’t mind telling you, I’m out on a limb at this point. Personally, I mean.” Mo sighed, and there was the musical chink-clink of ice cubes against crystal. LeFort knew what that meant. Glenfiddich, the elixir of downside analysis.

  “I wouldn’t worry overmuch, Mo.”

  “How can I not? I’ve lent you more than the properties are worth in a fire sale. No, more than they’re worth, period. The committee will have my head for this one.” Another clink, then the sound of a discreet sip. “John, if Steere has any hidden resources, hidden assets, he should bring them into play. Anything in Switzerland, the Isle of Man, the Caymans. God, man, now
is the time. Concealing them is no longer—”

  “There’s no concealment,” LeFort assured him. There was nothing to hide. Steere’s net worth was by any measure negative, he was so extraordinarily leveraged, but no one with whom Steere did business could admit as much. In other words, if Steere weren’t so in debt, he’d be broke. LeFort no longer found it ironic that massive debt was as potent as massive wealth.

  “I know we’re not the only lender,” the banker said. “Not the only note. We certainly don’t want to be the last one to call.”

  LeFort flinched when he heard the C word. Some thought cancer was the ugliest C-word, but banking lawyers knew better. “Calling the notes is a lose-lose proposition; you know that, Mo. You don’t want to send us all into bankruptcy court for the next three years. The bank would have to settle for an embarrassing fraction. Stay the course and you’ll come out in clover.”

  “John, my back is to the wall this time.” There was another clink, then ice rattling hollowly. The bottom of the tumbler. LeFort guessed Mo would pour another, and he did. So what John had been hearing around the club was true.

  “Don’t forget,” LeFort added, “you have Steere’s personal guarantee on the refinancing.”

  A laugh, and a gulp. “What’s the personal guarantee of a convicted felon worth?”

  LeFort stiffened. This conversation was growing tiresome, and he’d already had four others like it. It was time for hardball. “Are you calling the notes, Mo?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Good. Then we’ll need thirty more days.”

  “I can’t do that, John.”

  “If you can’t, then call the notes.”

  “I can’t do that either,” the banker said, frustration clear in his voice. “If Steere’s intention is to sell the properties to the city, I would urge him to entertain reduced offers now. We had two calls today from the mayor’s office. They want those properties, John. They said fifty million was the starting point.”