Courting Trouble

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Yeow!” she cried, and took one final lunge.

  19

  The interview room at the Roundhouse, Philadelphia’s police headquarters, was as full as a stateroom in a Marx Brothers movie, but far less funny. Detective Rafferty stood against the wall, jacketless, his striped tie loosened from the melee at the Chestnut Club. His partner sat next to him, hunting-and-pecking on an antique typewriter. It read Smith-Corona in script and sat atop a laminated wooden table against the wall. Except for a few chairs, including a steel Windsor bolted to the floor, there was no other furniture in the tight, airless shoebox of a room. It was a dingy green color, scuffed beyond belief, reeking of stale cigar smoke. Judy and Mary stood off to the side, near a smudged two-way mirror, while Bennie stood at Anne’s elbow, acting as her counsel.

  Anne occupied the steel Windsor chair. “No, I’m not dead,” she said, which really seemed sort of obvious. Or maybe it wasn’t. Her forehead bore a girl version of Matt’s goose egg, and her ribs hurt from being kicked around the carpet. Two buttons had been torn from her art dress, and her stapled hem had fallen. On the plus side, she still had her beaded earrings and something else she treasured, tucked into her bra.

  “So the body in the morgue, it’s Willa Hansen’s?” the detective asked.

  “Right.”

  “She has no family.”

  “No immediate family.”

  “What about your family? You don’t want them to know you’re alive?”

  “I haven’t seen my mother in a decade. I never met my father.”

  “Well, well.” Detective Rafferty rubbed his chin, where a five-o’clock shadow was beginning to sprout, even though it was only three in the afternoon. “We woulda figured this out by Wednesday, when the tests come back. Misidentifications happen, but we have procedures to prevent it. The holiday weekend screwed us up.” Rafferty looked at Anne. “You pretended to be dead?”

  Anne was about to answer, but Bennie clamped a hand on her shoulder. “I’m instructing her not to answer that, Detective.”

  “Oh, Christ! Why, Rosato?”

  “’Cause I’m a good lawyer,” she answered. “Ms. Murphy has volunteered to speak with you only because you were about to question Judy Carrier in connection with her murder. Now we all understand that Ms. Murphy is not dead, and that Kevin Satorno shot Willa Hansen believing she was Ms. Murphy. Kevin Satorno is still your shooter, Detective. Find him.”

  “I do have a few more questions for Ms. Murphy, who intentionally deceived us as to her whereabouts, which constitutes obstruction of justice. As does your conduct, by the way, and those of the other ladies here.”

  Bennie didn’t bat an eye. “That’s not exactly the law, but I’ve no time to teach it right now. My client is happy to answer your questions, when I let her. Ask away.”

  The detective returned to Anne. “Run this by me again, Ms. Murphy. You rented the Mustang on Friday night, July first. Late Friday night, you were erroneously reported murdered. Then Judy Carrier was in the car on Saturday and stopped for gas, using her credit card. July second.”

  “Yes.” Anne tried not to look at Judy, who had to be kicking herself. It had happened when they’d gassed up. random, random, random.

  “Then Ms. Carrier left her credit-card receipt in the car, and it’s dated July second.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you parked illegally on Sunday morning, and the car was towed.”

  “Yes.” Now Anne was kicking herself.

  “The rental contract was found in the car, identifying the Mustang as rented to you. The gas receipt with Carrier’s name on it was also found, dated the day after your supposed murder. Are we all clear on the facts?”

  “Yes. But how did these jerks get the receipt?”

  “They were tipped off by the tow yard, who called one of them when the car came in.” Detective Rafferty consulted his skinny notebook. “The yard owner called Angus Connolly because he wrote the story in City Beat. The yard owner sold him the information, photocopies of the rental contract, and the gas receipt. He also contacted the National Enquirer and Hard Copy.” Rafferty looked over steel-rimmed reading glasses at Anne. “Do you have any information relating to that, Ms. Murphy?”

  “No.”

  “So all you know is that you’re alive?”

  “And that Kevin Satorno will kill me if he finds out.”

  Rafferty was shaking his head. The heavyset partner was typing slowly. The newest line of the white interview sheet rolling out of the typewriter read KILL ME IF HE.

  Bennie pressed on Anne’s shoulder to quiet her. “We’re asking you for one more day, Detective. Just one day, then you can go public with it. The world still thinks Anne’s dead. Let’s let them keep thinking it for one more day. If you release this information, you’ll lose any chance of catching Satorno and you’ll place my associate in jeopardy.”

  “I don’t see what difference one day will make.” Rafferty couldn’t stop shaking his head, which Anne didn’t take as a good sign.

  Bennie leaned over. “It won’t be July Fourth weekend, that’s the difference, and it’s all the difference in the world. Like you said, the tests wouldn’t be delayed if not for the weekend. Later, you’ll free up personnel. The holiday will be over, the traffic will settle down, and everybody will be back to work. Think about it, Detective.”

  Rafferty stopped shaking his head.

  “When the world finds out that Anne is alive, the story will explode. Especially after the debacle at the memorial service, with her colleague accused of her murder in front of everyone. Hard Copy, Court TV, CNN, all the networks will pour into town, if they haven’t already. You really think you can handle that kind of deluge today, with two uniforms on duty?”

  “We have more than that.”

  “Not much, and consider, it’s the Fourth of July celebration, in the city that gave birth to the nation. All eyes are on us, Detective. You really want Philly to look bad right now? What will it do for the department? You really want national attention focused on the fact that the department didn’t notice the mistaken ID of a murder victim?”

  Rafferty started to listen, and Anne knew Bennie was throwing anything against the wall that might stick, a time-honored tradition among trial lawyers.

  “Detective, we all agree that Anne Murphy was doing nothing but trying to save her own life, and hide from a man who had tried to kill her in L.A. You really want to charge her with obstruction, Detective? You really want to take this woman and hang her out to dry, for all the country to see, on Independence Day, in Philadelphia?”

  Rafferty groaned. “You saying the women’s groups gonna be on me now? Why does everything have to be ‘woman this, woman that’?”

  “It’s not a woman thing, it’s a victim thing.”

  “I’m not a victim,” Anne blurted out, and Bennie said:

  “Shut up.”

  Rafferty was shaking his head again. “I don’t like being threatened, Rosato.”

  “Nether does Anne Murphy, and neither do I. All I ask is one day, one lousy day. I’ll turn her in on Tuesday morning, and we’ll break it to the press together. Hold a news conference, all of us making nice. Safeguarding victim’s rights, after we catch the bad guy.”

  Rafferty’s gaze slid toward his partner, who had stopped typing at FINDS OUT. “What do you think, Beer Man?”

  Anne didn’t need an explanation for the nickname.

  “Tuesday isn’t one day from now,” the partner said. “It’s Sunday, so Tuesday is two days.”

  Bennie didn’t hit him. “It’s right after the holiday weekend. Tuesday morning, bright and early.”

  Rafferty looked like he was thinking about it. “I don’t know if I have the authority to do something like this.”

  Anne opened her mouth to say Bullshit, but Bennie buried strong fingers in her shoulder. “Let me talk to your captain, then,” Bennie said. “Let me make my case.”

  “Can’t. He’s in the emergency room at Templ
e. Broke his ankle in a softball game.”

  “The lieutenant then. I’ll talk to him.”

  “He’s down the shore, at his house in Longport for the weekend.”

  “The inspector?”

  “He’s at PAL parties, for the neighborhood kids. He goes to thirty of them today. Sack races and roasted marshmallows. Fireworks, the whole thing.”

  “Only you and me working today, huh?” Bennie shrugged. “Then I guess you have the authority, Coach.”

  “Maybe.”

  “The real question is, what are you gonna do with those clowns in stir, those so-called reporters?” Bennie frowned. “I want them charged. They ruined our chance to catch Satorno and they attacked Carrier. Murphy almost got stampeded because of them.”

  “Right,” Judy added. “And now everybody in the city thinks I’m Anne’s killer.”

  “Don’t come cryin’ to me.” Rafferty gestured at Anne and Judy. “You girls brought it on yourselves. You sent out the flyer. You whipped up the media, you told ’em to go get the big scoop. You shoulda known that you were gonna get legit reporters—and knuckleheads like those kids—all riled up.”

  Judy looked down, and Anne’s fair skin turned pink. Unfortunately, the detective was making sense. Anne was happy she didn’t have to speak for herself, for once. Mental note: Nothing wrong with the term “mouthpiece.”

  “That doesn’t excuse what those two men did, Detective,” Bennie answered, angry. “What is this, trial by tabloid? If they had evidence relating to a murder, gas receipts and such, then they should have turned it over to you.”

  “Like you did?” Rafferty snorted. “You had knowledge that Murphy was alive. Did you call us?”

  “Please. I wasn’t trying to make money, or get famous. I was trying to protect my employees, which is hardly the same thing, and we did call you in time. If you’re not going to charge those two assholes, you’d better keep them away from me.” Bennie was almost spitting-mad. It was like having a mother grizzly for a lawyer.

  “Cool it, Rosato. They’re kids. The one with the jungle hat, he’s cryin’ like a baby.” His high forehead creased deeply. “The real question is what you’re gonna do for me, if I let your girl stay dead.”

  “Anything. Almost.”

  “This is what I want.” Rafferty turned and pointed a finger at Anne. “No more amateur cop, you. We got the resources. We got the expertise. We got a homicide fugitive squad, joint with the Feds, and they’re all over it. We link up with all the states, all the networks. We’re the cops, you’re not, get it? So, no more, young lady!”

  “Agreed.” Anne didn’t add, But I flushed him out with a bunch of flowers.

  “No running around, no funny hats, no happy horseshit, understand?” The detective shifted closer, and his pantleg slid up, giving Anne a glimpse of an ankle holster holding a dark-handled revolver. A .38 caliber Smith & Wesson, not a knock-off. She wished she had one of those babies, but knew it wasn’t the right thought at this moment.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “This is for your own good, Miss Murphy. Fugitive apprehension is a dangerous business. If I catch you outta line one more time, I’m lockin’ you up. Got me, counselor?”

  “Understood,” Anne said. She did understand. Next time, she wouldn’t get caught.

  The detective eyed her warily, then Judy and Mary. “You read me, ladies?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mary.

  “We’ll be good,” said Judy.

  “We got a deal?” Bennie asked, but she already knew the answer.

  Half an hour later, the lawyers were running the media gauntlet outside the Roundhouse, barreling in mourning clothes through reporters, cameras, videocams, shouted questions, and klieg lights. Bennie broke the throng with a strong arm, clutching Anne’s elbow. Judy and Mary flanked them like a moving offensive line.

  Anne had kept her head down, wearing Judy’s sunglasses and a canary-yellow PAL baseball cap they stole from a desk in the squad room. They’d made it to the curb, grabbed a cab, lost the newsvan that gave chase, and ended up back at Rosato & Associates, piling into Bennie’s office. Anne had been in here so rarely she couldn’t help looking around when she was supposed to be off with the others, making the requisite coffee.

  Overstuffed tapestry-covered chairs in tones of pink-and-claret ringed Bennie’s desk, and the desk chair was of cherry wood, covered with buttery, burgundy leather. The rug was a nubby Berber, and the office was even more cluttered than Anne’s, with law books, papers, case files, and exhibits cramming the bookshelves and covering the large desk and countertops. Certificates and awards from the federal and state bar associations and civil liberties groups blanketed the walls, and Anne wondered if she’d receive even one of those awards in her career. But first she’d have to live long enough. She made it her business to do so. The secret in her bra would help. Not that secret, the other secret.

  “Our luck has to get better, doesn’t it?” Judy breezed into the office and handed Anne a cup of coffee, which she accepted with thanks from her somewhat bedraggled colleague. Judy’s black skirt and clogs were drenched with flower water, and she’d lost an earring in the melee. The remaining silver teardrop dangled from her ear and it caught the sunlight as she took the seat next to Anne. “We agreed in the coffee room, the memorial was a fiasco.”

  “I’m sorry, Judy,” Anne said. “I hate that everyone will think you’re a murder suspect, even for a day.”

  Judy waved it off. “The cops will make a statement that I’m not under suspicion.” Bennie and Mary came into the room bearing coffee, and took their seats, Bennie in her cozy desk chair and Mary next to Judy.

  “But nobody will believe it,” Anne countered, and Mary’s face went red.

  “I should have checked for pocket cameras.”

  Bennie shook her head, taking a sip of coffee. “He was posing as a guest, they both were, and we never thought to search the guests. We weren’t worried about the press, we were worried about Kevin.” She took another quick sip. “And I should have thought about the rental car, when you told me it had been towed. Everybody keeps the papers in the car, they’re temporary registration. I just didn’t think of it.”

  “Me neither,” Anne said. “Look, let’s not get crazy over it. It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just one of those things that happen.” She thought about explaining random, then decided against it. It would make her look ditzy, like memorizing most of I Love Lucy. Okay, all of I Love Lucy. Then she remembered her conversation with Gil and his admission of his affair with Beth. She couldn’t keep it from them. They were all on the same side now, and girlfriends didn’t keep secrets, Anne knew from TV. “Guys, there’s something we should discuss,” she began, and told them the story. When she had finished, the women were uniformly stony-faced.

  “The man is a slimeball,” Judy said.

  “A pig,” Mary said.

  “A liar,” Anne said.

  “A client,” Bennie said.

  “Not anymore. I told him to get another lawyer,” Anne shot back, and Bennie set down her coffee mug in surprise.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “You’re fired.”

  Ouch.

  “I’m kidding, but you shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Bennie, Gil lied to me. For almost a year, over and over. You think I didn’t cross-examine Gil about Beth Dietz? I’m not that naive.”

  “Then get over the fact that he lied to you. Clients lie. People lie. They want others to think better of them than they are.”

  Anne squirmed even on the soft chair. “He cheated on his wife.”

  “Since when do you have standing to assert that? You her lawyer? This a divorce action?” Bennie’s blue eyes flashed. “You’re a very smart girl, Murphy, so think analytically. Reason it out. The man is right when he says that it changes nothing, in terms of his lawsuit. And you’re right when you say you don’t put him or the wife up on the stand. I won’t h
ave you suborning perjury.”

  “I should tell him to go to hell.”

  “No, you have no business speaking that way to a client. I’m sure he knows you were only blowing off steam. What you do now is tell him how to win this lawsuit, because that’s what he’s paying you for. Strike that. Me for. Even better.” Bennie grinned, but couldn’t coax one from Anne.

  “So what do I do, Bennie? How can I win this case? Matt is totally right. He has the facts.”

  “Matt’s a genius,” Judy said. “A legal genius. He’s Louis Brandeis with hair, Earl Warren with muscles, Felix Frankfurter. With a frankfurter.”

  Bennie and Mary laughed, but Anne was trying not to. “Forget I said that. Leave Matt out of it, okay?”

  Judy giggled. “Anne, when we said to beat his pants off, we didn’t mean it literally.”

  Anne pretended to ignore her. “Bennie, what do I do? Not with Judy, who is completely hopeless, but with Gil.”

  “Now it gets interesting.” Bennie picked up her java diva mug again. Everyone in the office knew who it belonged to. “He tells the truth.”

  “A novel defense strategy,” Judy interjected, but Bennie had had better practice at ignoring her.

  “You put him up, and he says there was an affair, but that it was consensual. You get all the details from him, like how they got together, how it all happened. Times they met, what they did. See if there are any cards she sent him, any notations of their meetings on calendars, any time they went to hotels or restaurants. You want evidence that it was an affair. You will prove it was an affair, and you’ll win.”

  Anne shuddered. “Sounds ugly.”

  “It is.” Bennie nodded. “Ask Clarence Thomas.”

  “I still believe Anita,” Judy said.

  “You know what’s really interesting about this development?” Mary asked, and they all paid attention, because she usually left it to others to advance legal theory. She cleared her throat. “What’s interesting is what Matt knows. In other words, has his client lied to him, like Anne’s client lied to her? Does Matt think the affair was consensual or forced?”

  “Forced,” Anne answered quickly. Too quickly, she realized, because the others were watching her. They wanted inside information. Pillow talk. Maybe this was why you weren’t supposed to share pillows with opposing counsel. “I don’t think he’d bring the case if he knew it was a lie.”