She laughed sadly and shook her head. “No.”
“Were you afraid for your life?”
“No.”
“What about the rock?”
“I threw the rock, not Corbin. Just like the kid said.”
“Did Goyle pay you?”
“Not yet. We were waiting for the police investigation, and then the trial, to end.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Goyle?”
“The night of the shooting. He … thanked me for a job well done.”
The small room went silent. Jessie’s gaze flicked to Aidan Hughes, who sighed.
Jessie pushed a legal pad across the table to Raines. “Write all of that down.”
42
With Brooke Raines’s statement in hand, the Philadelphia police department and district attorney’s office moved in a swift, coordinated attack. As with the takedown of any large-scale criminal enterprise, the goal was to make key arrests and lock down all potentially significant evidence before the perpetrators had time to cover up their crimes or flee.
With each individual arrest and each discovery of physical evidence, the case against the whole became stronger, and more bad guys became caught in the web. In some ways, the sequence was like a series of flipped dominoes—Brooke Raines to Luther Goyle to an array of co-conspirators inside and outside of CBL Capital Partners, LLP.
Speed and secrecy were of the essence. From start to finish, the arrests and seizures took under six hours.
Jack Woodside was at brunch with his parents. The venue was Parc, an upscale French bistro on Rittenhouse Square. He’d chosen it because the food and ambiance were superb, and he could have alcohol with his eggs. He sipped his Bloody Mary, enjoying the bite of the spicy drink as he regarded the two people he loved most in the world. They were getting on in age—his father would be eighty-two in January—but with the fortune he’d amassed through CBL, he’d been able to provide for them. They lived as comfortably as was possible given their ages and health, and this, more than any of his other successes in life, warmed him with self-fulfillment and pride.
“You seem awfully happy today,” his father said. “Things going well at work?”
Jack smiled as he forked potatoes into his mouth. Things were going very well at work—and were about to get even better once the city council vote went down in favor of the land purchase for the new prison. That deal would move ten million dollars into CBL’s accounts, and a hefty portion of that would flow to Jack’s personal fortune. When he’d founded the firm with Dave Whittaker fifteen years ago, he’d never imagined they’d reach this level of financial success. But then, Luther Goyle hadn’t been in the picture back then. Jack had no problems with Goyle’s methods. He respected the lawyer’s intelligence and flair for creative problem-solving. He only wished Dave could feel the same way and enjoy the success they’d all achieved.
His smile must have faltered, because his mother said, “Something wrong, Jack?”
“It’s nothing. I was just thinking about a friend.”
His father lifted a hand and pointed his fork past Jack. “Speaking of friends, I think some of yours are coming over to say hi now.”
Jack sighed, put down his silverware, and hurriedly finished chewing. He hated being disturbed while out of the office—especially when he was spending time with his parents. He twisted around in his chair, preparing to deflect whomever was approaching with a polite but terse hello.
Three men were weaving between tables as they moved toward him. Jack did not recognize their faces. They wore suits and ties, but not nice ones. As one of them navigated around a chair, his suit jacket lifted for a second, revealing a holstered gun on his hip. Jack’s stomach flip-flopped and sudden indigestion sent a surge of Bloody Mary burning up his throat.
“Jonathan Woodside?” the man in the lead said.
“Jack,” he said. An automatic response. Meanwhile, his brain scrambled for traction. What should he do?
“Please stand up. You’re under arrest.”
He heard his mother gasp. He heard his father’s brittle voice ask, “What did he say?” He heard a murmur of voices as word spread through the crowded dining room.
“What … what is this about?”
The cop’s flat stare revealed no emotion. “Stand up.”
Jack grabbed his Bloody Mary and finished it in one long, urgent slurp of the thick liquid. He felt the vodka hit him almost immediately. He was glad. He had a feeling it might be the last drink he had for a long time.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the cop said. “Anything you say or do—”
“I want my lawyer,” Jack said as he rose from his chair. “Luther Goyle.”
“You can have a lawyer,” the cop said back. “But you might need to pick a different one.”
Dave Whittaker’s attention was divided as he attempted to play with both of his sons at the same time. No easy task with a two-year-old and a seven-year-old. The seven-year-old wanted to teach him the intricacies of the Pokemon trading card game. The two-year-old wanted him to be “an ogre” and chase him around the house. Playing with both of them demanded multitasking skills far beyond anything he’d mastered in his investment management career.
The two-year-old, frustrated that Dave was still sitting on the couch and not lumbering after him and making ogre noises, swiped a handful of Pokemon cards from his brother’s collection. As his little hands bent the cards, the seven-year-old wailed with dismay.
“Maybe we should watch a movie,” Dave said. Staring at the TV screen wasn’t exactly the ideal way to interact with his children, but it was one of the few spots of common ground they could both enjoy.
And frankly, Dave wasn’t in much of a playful mood today. He was aware of the looming city council vote—couldn't get the thought out of his head, actually—and all he wanted to do was pretend Luther Goyle, CBL, and all of their schemes didn’t exist. He’d thought staying home today, and keeping the kids home with him, would help him shut out the outside world for at least a few carefree hours, but it seemed his conscience would not even grant him that minimal respite.
“Guardians of the Galaxy!” the seven-year-old said.
“No!” the two-year-old said. “I no want to watch it!”
Dave sat back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes as the battle intensified. He was about to make his own selection—maybe a classic Disney cartoon would help ease his mind—when the crisp chime of the doorbell rang through the house.
The doorbell? Were they expecting anyone today?
His wife’s footsteps moved toward the door. A moment later, she stood in the family room, flanked by an unfamiliar man and woman, both dressed in suits. No introductions were necessary. Dave didn’t know their names, but he knew why they were here.
“Dave….” his wife said, her voice uncertain.
“It’s okay.” Dave rose from the couch. To the two strangers, he said, “Can we do this in another room, away from my kids? Please?”
His wife said, “Dave, what’s happening?”
The man nodded and gestured toward the kitchen. To his wife, Dave said, “Stay with the kids, okay?” Then he followed the cops into his kitchen.
“David Whittaker, you are under arrest,” the woman said. Dave recognized the Miranda warnings from countless movies and TV shows. They blurred into a meaningless litany, like a prayer he’d heard so many times during his life it became background noise at church. Instead of paying attention to his rights, he looked around his kitchen—at the cabinets, the coffee maker, the fridge, the colorful placemats where the kids ate. He was about to lose all of this. Every little thing he’d taken for granted. He was about to lose it all.
“Mr. Whittaker?” the male cop said. “Do you understand your rights?”
Dave nodded. A tear ran down his face and touched the corner of his mouth, salty and cold. He wiped his eyes. “Okay if I say goodbye to my wife and kids?”
“Yes,” the female cop
said. “But please make it quick.”
Operating under the power of several warrants, police searched the premises of CBL Capital Partners, LLP, as well as the private home, phone records, and bank transaction records of Luther Goyle, Jack Woodside, and Dave Whittaker Among the wealth of evidence and information uncovered were the identities of two career criminals, Ike Roels and Benjamin “Benjy” Flaxman. Mugshots of the two men, taken fourteen months earlier in upstate New York, were shown to former detective Mark Leary, who identified them as the men who attacked him in the parking lot of his office building. The two detectives in charge of the investigation of that assault, Matthies and Mannello, offered Leary the opportunity to accompany them to observe the men’s arrests.
“Professional courtesy,” Matthies explained. “Thought seeing us slap the cuffs on the scumbags might help those bruises heal faster.”
“Thanks,” Leary said. “I appreciate it. So where are these fine gentlemen?”
Mannello offered a shark-like grin. “That’s the best part.”
It turned out Ike Roels—he was the giant—and Benjy Flaxman—he was the twitchy knife-wielder—were creatures of habit. When they weren’t running errands for Luther Goyle, they spent most of their time and money at a strip bar called Heartbreakers. The detectives and Leary drove there in separate cars, met at the entrance, and headed inside together.
After Matthies and Mannello introduced the doorman to their PPD badges, Leary and the detectives walked inside. It took Leary’s eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. Heartbreakers had a typical strip bar ambiance—dark and cavernous, thrumming with bass-heavy music, and smelling of perfume and baby powder.
“Is there anything more depressing than a strip club at 11 in the morning?” Mannello said. His partner guffawed.
Leary scanned the room. The place was mostly empty. Only one dancer worked the runway, and she looked like she might be in her late forties. She didn’t dance so much as pace listlessly from one end of the runway to the other. Her body seemed to sag everywhere except her chest, where two breasts shaped like beach balls jutted out. No one seemed to be looking at her, much less tipping her. A middle aged man sat alone at the bar, staring glumly into his drink. At a nearby cocktail table, two young-looking guys looked more interested in talking to each other than watching the naked woman.
“Depressing is one word for it,” Leary said.
Two men who did not look depressed were sitting at a table at the other end of the room. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Leary made out the general shapes of the men—one a massive giant, the other shorter and scrawny. The skinny one had his fist wrapped around the wrist of a waitress. The men seemed to be taunting her as she tried to break free. Leary couldn’t hear them, but he could see they were laughing.
“That them?” Matthies asked him.
“I think so, but I can’t tell for sure from this distance. It’s too dark.”
“No problem,” Mannello said. “Hang by the door here. We’ll bring them over and you can give us a positive ID.”
Matthies glanced at Leary and winked. Then the two detectives headed toward the thugs. Leary didn’t need the wink. He had a pretty good idea what the detectives had in mind, and he was looking forward to it.
“Hey, assholes.” Mannello’s voice carried across the club as he and Matthies approached the table. Leary saw the detectives flash their badges. Flaxman lost his grip on the waitress, who darted away. The big one, Roels, stood from his chair.
“The fuck do you want?” Roels said.
“We want to arrest you,” Matthies said. Before he could get another word out, Flaxman made a run for it. It was a clumsy attempt, since he was boxed in by tables and chairs and could have easily been stopped. But neither detective made a move to block him. He rushed past them, looking gleefully proud of his own slick moves as he raced toward the exit.
Leary extended his left arm and let Flaxman’s momentum propel him full-force against it. Leary’s arm connected with the man’s throat, vibrating with the force of the collision. The man flipped into the air and landed on his back. He spasmed there like a beached fish, kicking the floor, gasping for breath, and clutching at his throat.
Leary crouched, rolled the skinny man over onto his stomach, and planted his knee in the center of the man’s back. Flaxman struggled, but Leary pinned him to the ground, then shoved the man’s face against the sticky strip club floor.
One bloodshot eye swiveled to look at him. “Y-you?”
“Good to see you, too,” Leary said. “It’s like a big, happy reunion. Now how about you tell me where my wallet is?”
Across the room, Mannello was securing Ike Roels with handcuffs. Matthies looked at Leary with a expectant look.
Leary gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “It’s them.” Matthies grinned.
“I’m really going to enjoy this,” Fulco said.
Jessie grinned. “This job does have its perks.”
Together, they entered room 400 of City Hall, followed by six officers of the PPD as backup.
They knew Luther Goyle was personally attending today’s city council meeting. The meeting was open to the public, and also recorded for broadcast. Although there was no particular need to arrest Goyle in public, Jessie couldn’t deny a certain poetic justice in arresting him during the vote that had motivated his crimes.
The chief clerk was in the midst of reading the text of a proposed bill. Jessie spotted Goyle sitting in the back, where his oversized frame looked uncomfortable in a narrow chair. His gaze was focused on the chief clerk, and his fleshy face bore a look of greedy anticipation. Jessie nudged Fulco.
Fulco nodded. “I see him.”
They would need to weave their way through the crowded room, disrupting the formal setting in order to reach Goyle. A wooden gate separated the proceedings from the spectators. On one side of the gate, the city council president oversaw the proceedings from a raised podium that faced the wooden desks at which the city council members sat. A stenographer tapped at her keyboard like a court reporter. On the other side of the gate was the gallery, where Goyle sat with other members of the public to observe the meeting, crowded together in small chairs.
“Lead the way,” she said.
Fulco grinned and stepped forward.
Goyle’s gaze ticked toward them and she saw his eyes widen with recognition.
So you know who I am. Good.
The chief clerk was reading in a robotic monotone. “To the president and members of the council of this city of Philadelphia, I am today transmitting to the council the following bill, and I am submitting herewith for consideration by your honorable body a resolution authorizing Philadelphia to expend an amount not exceeding ten million dollars….” Jessie realized he was reading Goyle’s bill. His voice cut off abruptly as Fulco, badge in hand, pushed through the crowded room toward Goyle. Jessie followed him.
“Excuse me,” the chief clerk said. “Please settle down—” The president tapped his gavel to emphasize the chief clerk’s command. They did not stop walking.
Goyle stood from his chair. His gaze seemed to slide from one direction to another, looking for an escape route. Not finding one, he stood frozen in place.
“Luther Goyle,” Fulco said in a voice loud enough to be picked up by the room’s microphones, “you are under arrest.”
There were audible gasps around the room, including from several of the council members. A few of the spectators moved away from Goyle as if from someone with a contagious disease. A deputy sherif emerged from the back wall and stepped forward to assist. Fulco circled behind the large man, handcuffs ready. “For the murder of Corbin Keeley,” he continued.
“This is…. This is ridiculous,” Goyle said. He stepped away just as Fulco got close. His fleshy wrists momentarily evaded the handcuffs. “This is defamation. I’ll bring a lawsuit.” Spittle flew from his lips.
“Go ahead and do that,” Jessie said as she moved in closer.
“What’s
wrong with you?” Goyle said. His face contorted with fury. “First you prosecute a woman for shooting a man—a monster—in self-defense, and then you come after me? A pillar of the community?”
“You can drop the story,” Jessie said. “Brooke Raines gave us a complete confession. We know Keeley never touched her.”
Goyle grimaced. His teeth flashed. “So what? He still beat up his wife and God knows how many other women. You’re worried about justice for him? What kind of woman are you, to fight for a man like that?”
“I guess I’m the kind of woman who doesn’t believe people like you should get to decide who lives and dies—especially when you have a profit motive.”
Fulco yanked Goyle’s right hand behind his back, then his left, and cinched the handcuffs around Goyle’s wrists. Goyle’s face drained of color.
“Um,” a voice said into a microphone. The city council president looked uncertain as to how to proceed. “Maybe we should adjourn for the day.”
“No!” Goyle bellowed. “Vote on the prison bill!”
Jessie said, “Don’t worry, Luther. There’s a prison in your future. It’s just not the one you expected.”
Jessie nodded to Fulco, and together, they took Goyle away.
43
Chance Resta emerged from his house and stood on his lawn, arms crossed over his chest. He glared at Leary. “What the hell do you want?”
Leary considered turning back. He was too tired to fight. He wondered why he’d come here at all. “I just thought, now that Lydia Wax is dead and CBL’s involvement has been exposed….”
Resta scowled. “I hope you didn’t come here looking for a thank you. You’re three years late, Leary. Three years! You expect a high-five?”
Leary looked at the grass. “I don’t know what I expected.”
“I’ll admit you might not be a totally worthless shitbag,” Resta said. Then he smiled, apparently to show he’d been kidding the whole time. “Come on in, man!”
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