House Witness

by Mike Lawson

  “Yeah, all right,” Justine said, and she gave him Ortiz’s flight information.

  DeMarco hated to lie to Justine—well, maybe he didn’t really hate it—but he was going to question Edmundo Ortiz. He wanted to know what Fields had done. He wanted proof that Fields had done something. And after the Rosenthal trial, if he could convince Ortiz to testify against Fields, he was going to find some way to track her down and have her arrested for witness tampering. Ella Fields had become his white whale—and he was going to bag that whale.

  DeMarco met Edmundo Ortiz in baggage claim at JFK. He was a small guy—five five or so, with graying dark hair and a thick black and gray mustache—but one of those small guys who looked as if he could bench-press three times his weight. Edmundo Ortiz had done nothing but hard work all his life.

  DeMarco explained that he worked for the DA’s office, and started off by telling Edmundo that the state of New York was very grateful that he had come back to testify at Rosenthal’s trial.

  “I’m just doing my duty,” Edmundo said, but he didn’t sound proud. He sounded nervous—and maybe guilty.

  DeMarco explained that he was taking him to a hotel and that Edmundo would stay in the hotel until the trial. He said that the ADA would meet with him before the trial and go over his testimony but that other than that, he could just relax.

  “Think of this as a vacation,” DeMarco said. “Eat room service, watch TV, swim in the pool. But you can’t leave the hotel. Okay?”

  Departing the airport terminal, DeMarco asked, keeping his tone casual, “What were you doing out in Alaska?” Edmundo had flown in from Anchorage.

  “I’m a cook on a fishing boat, a crab-fishing boat. When the ship docked at Anchorage, I called the lady, the prosecutor, and told her I needed a ticket to fly back if she wanted me to testify.”

  “A crab-fishing boat. Wow. I’ve heard that can get pretty hairy sometimes. I mean if you have a storm or something.”

  “It wasn’t too bad, at least not so far this year. It’s a good job.”

  “How’d you get the job?”

  Edmundo paused. “A friend told me about it. I applied.”

  DeMarco felt like making a buzzer sound. Lie!

  DeMarco didn’t ask anything else while they were in the cab. At the hotel, as Justine had told him, Edmundo had a reservation under the name “Manuel Rivera” and the bill was charged to a city credit card that Justine used. His room was nothing fancy: queen bed, no view, no minibar, small TV. DeMarco hoped he wouldn’t go stir-crazy inside the room.

  “Now,” DeMarco said, “I gotta ask you something, Mr. Ortiz, and you need to be straight with me.” He took a photo of Ella Fields from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and said, “Did this woman make you leave New York so you wouldn’t testify at Toby Rosenthal’s trial?”

  Edmundo studied the photo for a long time—time he was most likely using to decide what he planned to say. “No. I have never seen her before,” he said.

  Lie! DeMarco hammered away at him for the next ten minutes, saying how it was good that he was willing to testify but it was important to know if someone was tampering with witnesses. DeMarco didn’t threaten him and he didn’t treat him like a criminal; he just kept saying how important it was to do the right thing, just like it was important that he tell the truth at Rosenthal’s trial. He emphasized how much he admired him for being willing to take time off from his job, fly all the way from Alaska, but as good as all that was, he needed to say if the woman in the photo had coerced him in any way.

  DeMarco couldn’t budge him. Edmundo wouldn’t look him in the eye; he just kept shaking his head and softly saying, “No, no, she never talked to me.”

  DeMarco finally gave up. He told him again that he needed to stay inside the hotel until the trial, and this time Edmundo asked him why.

  “For your own protection,” DeMarco said. “You’re an important witness in a murder trial and, well … Just stay in the hotel.” He could see that he was scaring him and he thought: Good. Let him be scared.

  DeMarco went to the hotel bar, ordered a beer, and spent a few minutes mulling over where things stood. Then he called Justine.

  “I’ve been thinking about something,” he said. “Who’s the better witness, Rachel Quinn or Edmundo Ortiz?”

  “Quinn, of course. For one thing, Quinn actually saw Rosenthal shoot DiNunzio. Then there’s the fact that Quinn, being a lawyer herself and having a better command of English than Ortiz, will be better able to handle Slade’s cross-examination. Plus, if you go back and look at statements they both made when they were first interviewed and at the lineup, Quinn was more positive about ID’ing Rosenthal.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” DeMarco said.

  “Why are you asking this?”

  “I think it would be smart to watch Quinn until the trial. As long as no one knows where Ortiz is except you and me, he should be safe enough. But Quinn …”

  “Quinn lives in an apartment with a doorman and her office in the Financial District has more security than I do here at the courthouse.”

  “But when she’s not in her office …”

  “Do you think Fields will try to kill Quinn?” Justine said.

  “I don’t know,” DeMarco said, and he reminded Justine of the witness in Minnesota who’d been killed in a so-called hit-and-run accident.

  “Come on, DeMarco, we’re not dealing with the Mafia here,” Justine said.

  “People like David Slade and Ella Fields are a lot brighter than the Mafia guys I’ve encountered, and Toby Rosenthal’s father has money coming out of his ears. So I think they’re a bigger threat than your average wiseguy. We need to keep Rachel Quinn under surveillance until the trial, and that means I’m going to need some help. I’ll pick her up when she gets off work today and make sure she gets home okay, but I can’t watch her twenty-four hours a day. On top of that, keep in mind that I’m not carrying a gun.”

  “Okay, you watch her today and put her to bed, and I’ll get somebody to help you tomorrow.”

  “Good,” DeMarco said.

  47

  Ella set up a meeting with Carmine Fratello at a bar near his apartment, one of those dark, dingy places that would go out of business as soon as its regular clientele, all folks in their seventies and eighties, passed away. Fratello was dressed in a bright Hawaiian shirt and jeans that made his ass look wider than the bumper on a Greyhound bus. Ella was wearing the long red wig she’d worn every time she’d met with him. She was really nervous about being out in the open now that she knew the cops had her photo, and every time she went outside she wore different-colored wigs, sunglasses, and hats.

  She was already at the bar when Carmine arrived, and when he sat down he said, “So what’s up, doll? Don’t tell me you wanna go over my testimony again.”

  “No. I need a couple of things from you. And I need them fast.”

  “Okay,” Carmine said.

  “First, I need a gun.”

  “Whoa!” Carmine said.

  “I want a revolver, small enough to fit in a purse but with stopping power.”

  Ella didn’t know anything about guns other than what she’d seen in movies or read in novels. She knew she wanted a revolver only because you didn’t have to worry about shell casings being ejected and revolvers supposedly malfunctioned less often than automatics. But she and Bill had never owned a gun, and she’d never fired one.

  “I got a thirty-eight with a three-inch barrel,” Carmine said. “It’s untraceable. I bought it from a guy who stole it from another guy.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Ella said. She didn’t care if the gun was traceable or not. After she used it, she would immediately dump it someplace it would never be found.

  “You can have it for, oh, let’s say, eight hundred.”

  She figured Carmine was ripping her off and expected her to haggle over the price, but all she said was, “Fine.”

  “So what else you need?” Carmine said.

>   She told him.

  “Jesus,” Carmine said. “Are you serious?”

  “Does it look like I’m serious, Carmine?”

  “That’s going to cost you. I mean, it’s going to cost you a lot.”

  “I figured that. And I’m willing to pay you five to set this up. But I need everything ready to go by this evening.”

  “Then I better get going,” Carmine said. “I’m going to have to make some calls.”

  Ella removed one of the newly purchased prepaid cell phones from her purse. “Use this phone when you make the calls. Don’t use your own phone.”

  “Okay. I’ll get back to you in a couple of hours. But don’t be surprised if I can’t line this up, not this fast.” Carmine paused, the gears in his small brain clearly spinning. “I know this one guy, this Jamaican … Anyway, what number do I call you at?”

  Ella told him, and handed him the five thousand.

  Carmine rose from the table, then he laughed. “Never in a million years would I have ever expected all this when I first met you. You are one dangerous broad.”

  48

  DeMarco was waiting outside Rachel Quinn’s office building. He was dressed casually—jeans, a faded blue polo shirt, running shoes. He also had on sunglasses and a dark blue baseball cap. He wasn’t trying to disguise himself; he was just dressed comfortably for following someone. As far as he knew Ella Fields had no idea who he was and what he looked like, but if Rachel saw him, she’d probably recognize him because of the damn cane. He was hoping she wouldn’t see him, however, because if she did he’d have to explain why he was following her, which he didn’t want to do. He didn’t want to tell her that he was worried that Ella Fields might try to kill her.

  Rachel came out of the building at six forty-five dressed in a sharp-looking dark blue suit, the skirt stopping just above her knees. She looked professional, yet at the same time sexy. She was able to wave down a cab five minutes after she stepped outside.

  DeMarco now had to scramble to find his own taxi. Fortunately, he spotted a Wall Street big shot who was just about to get into a cab. The guy was dressed in a three-thousand-dollar suit, blabbing on a cell phone as he opened the rear door of the cab, and DeMarco pushed him out of the way. DeMarco held up his DA investigator’s credentials and lied, “NYPD. Police business. I need this cab.”

  “Hey!” the big shot said. “You can’t—”

  DeMarco slammed the door shut and told the cabbie, “Follow that cab, the one that just pulled out. Go!”

  Rachel’s cab dropped her off at her apartment building, and she chatted briefly with the doorman before she went inside. DeMarco paid his cabbie and took up a position on the street half a block from the entrance to her building. There was no place else for him to go; there weren’t any bars or coffee shops or restaurants nearby where he could sit and see the entrance.

  He wondered how long he would have to stand there. Most likely Rachel was in for the night and wouldn’t go out again, but he’d have to wait at least until dark, maybe nine-thirty or ten. He noticed it was a nice evening, a good evening for taking a stroll, and he thought: Dear Lord, please don’t let the woman be a jogger. If she went for a run he’d never be able to keep up with her.

  DeMarco thought briefly about what he would do if he saw Fields. If Fields walked into Rachel’s building, he was going to have to follow her in and stop her. He couldn’t let her knock on Rachel’s door and shoot her when she opened it. And if he stopped her, he’d search her whether she liked it or not, and if she had a gun, he’d detain her and call the cops. If the gun wasn’t registered or if she wasn’t licensed to carry, she could be arrested, and that would maybe get her out of the way until after the trial.

  If Rachel came out of the building, and if he saw Fields following her, then he’d call the cops and he’d stick with Rachel until the cops arrived. If Fields didn’t go near Rachel, he probably wouldn’t do anything. But if Fields approached Rachel, then he’d stop her and search her to see if she was carrying a weapon. It occurred to him a second time that it would be good if he were carrying a weapon.

  But he didn’t see Ella Fields. There were a lot of people on the street at seven-thirty at night—folks bustling home from work, people walking their mutts, domestics trudging home after a day of tending to the kings and queens of Manhattan—but he didn’t see any tall, gorgeous blondes with short hair.

  Then he noticed a car parked halfway up the block. A woman was sitting in the car, but the car was too far away for him to make out the woman’s features. Whoever it was had long red hair and was wearing sunglasses. DeMarco also noticed that the woman’s parking spot allowed her a good view of the entrance to Rachel’s building.

  Ten minutes passed and she was still sitting there. Maybe she was just waiting for someone—but DeMarco decided to take a closer look.

  Ella was focused on the entrance to Quinn’s apartment building, and she barely noticed the guy with a cane walking down the sidewalk in the direction of her car. Then she thought: Cane! Shit, could that be DeMarco? When Janet had given her DeMarco’s name, she’d done a quick Google search for a photo of him, but “Joe DeMarco” was too common a name. But the guy met the general description Janet had given her, the big thing being the cane. So was it DeMarco, and was he here for her?

  But then the guy limped by without even glancing in her direction, and she watched in the mirror as he continued down the street and turned a corner.

  Thank God.

  When DeMarco had been about twenty yards from the parked car, he thought: It’s her! It’s Fields! She had red hair that came down to her shoulders—probably a wig—and big sunglasses that covered a good part of her face, but it was her. He was sure. DeMarco hadn’t slowed down or looked directly at her; he’d just kept walking. But as he’d walked, he’d noted the license plate number on Fields’ car.

  He’d walked to the end of the block, turned the corner, and immediately punched the plate number into his phone so he wouldn’t forget it.

  Then he called Justine. She didn’t answer. Goddamnit! He left a voice mail saying: “Ella Fields is sitting in a car outside Quinn’s apartment. I need a cop down here right now.”

  Ella smiled. Rachel Quinn had just stepped out of her apartment building. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse, shorts, and running shoes. Her dumb little dog was on its leash.

  Ella looked in the rearview mirror and didn’t see the guy with the cane. Good.

  When Rachel started walking in the direction of her favorite ice cream shop, Ella started the car.

  DeMarco peeked around the corner after he called Justine—and saw Rachel come out of her building with a small dog on a leash.

  Aw, shit!

  She started walking north. He glanced over at the car where Ella Fields was sitting, and she was still sitting there, following Rachel with her eyes. DeMarco started walking fast to catch up to Rachel, and at that moment Fields’ car pulled away from the curb.

  DeMarco started running, holding the cane in his hand. He needed to catch up with Rachel in case Fields tried something.

  He was about to call out to Rachel, but Fields drove past her without even slowing down. DeMarco stopped running and bent over and placed his hands on his knees. His right leg felt as if it was on fire. He’d been afraid that Fields was going to pull out a gun and shoot Rachel as she drove by, but she hadn’t. She’d just continued down the street in the same direction Rachel was headed and was soon out of sight.

  DeMarco called Justine again. He wanted a cop—Fields could still be somewhere in the neighborhood—but again Justine didn’t answer. He sent her a text: Call me!

  DeMarco fell in behind Rachel. Because of the dog, she wasn’t walking that fast, and he eventually caught up with her and fell in about thirty yards behind her. He had the passing thought that she looked great in shorts.

  He hadn’t known that she had a dog—but he was willing to bet that Fields knew. And maybe that was why Fields had been parked near Rach
el’s apartment, because she knew that Rachel was going to take her pet for its evening walk. But why did she take off as soon as Rachel started walking?

  For all he knew, Fields could have driven to some spot where it would be easier for her to take a shot at Rachel. Or maybe she’d driven toward some intersection where she could run Rachel down, although Fields would have to be madder than a hatter to attempt a hit-and-run with all the people on the street, all of them with cell phone cameras.

  DeMarco looked down the street, ahead of Rachel, but he didn’t see any sign of the gray Camry that Fields had been driving. Maybe Fields had taken off, but still: Why had she been sitting outside Rachel’s apartment?

  As he walked—his leg hurting like a motherfucker—he thought about telling Rachel that Fields had been outside her apartment, but decided not to. There was no point in alarming her, and by tomorrow, if Justine kept her word, there would be guys with guns looking after her.

  DeMarco wondered how far she was going to walk—he hoped not far—and wished she’d slow down. He also wished that Justine would return his call. An unarmed man with a bad leg wasn’t an ideal bodyguard.

  A mile later—DeMarco still about thirty yards behind her—Rachel went into an ice cream shop.

  And less than three seconds after she stepped inside the shop, a car door opened. The car was parked right in front of the ice cream place.

  DeMarco didn’t notice if it was the gray car Fields had been driving—and the reason he didn’t notice was that he was completely focused on the person who stepped out of the car. It was a tall, slender woman, and she was holding a gun down by the side of her leg—but he couldn’t see her face because she was wearing a black ski mask.