by Sydney Bauer
In the very least, they were a few steps ahead of where they were this time yesterday. They had avoided Petri’s testimony and he had given them Verne. But finding him and building solid evidence against him and his powerful boss was not going to be easy, for men like Verne knew how to disappear.
‘How’s Teesha?’ said Sara, turning towards Tyrone as he walked through Arthur’s office door.
Tyrone had been meant to join them three hours earlier, but when he didn’t show, they assumed he was at the hospital.
‘I saw her last night – good news in fact. Her neurosurgeon says the latest tests show definite signs of brain activity.’
‘That’s great,’ said David.
‘I dropped Delia at the hospital this morning and then I had a last minute breakfast engagement.’
They all looked at him, urging him to continue.
‘Actually, I spent the morning in a very nice hotel room. The Regency Plaza Executive Suite 1025 to be exact.’
‘Come again?’ said David.
‘Now don’t jump to any conclusions,’ Tyrone couldn’t resist. ‘There was no hanky panky involved, in fact my companion was none other than Joe Mannix, and he’s really not my type. He’s on his way up here right now.’
‘What is going on?’ asked Arthur.
‘Well, I guess it all started a couple of weeks ago, when I first saw the banquet guest list. Something – or rather someone – on it didn’t make sense and that’s when I started to put two and two together.’
Tyrone explained how he had noticed Ted Buford’s name on the list and thought it strange given he and Haynes had been enemies for over twenty years. He then told them of last night’s conversation with Buford and the revelation that someone had indeed checked into the hotel under his name.
‘Then there was something David said last Thursday. It stuck in my mind. It was Joe’s latest homicide. Remember, David, the double shooting at the hotel?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, you said Joe was confident he would catch the guy because the maid had given him an ID. I figured if our guy was at the Regency Plaza – and we are guessing he was the mystery man who checked into Suite 1025 – then maybe someone could give us a positive ID too.’
They all looked at each other. It was a good idea.
‘So, this morning I called Joe and arranged to meet him at the Regency Plaza for breakfast with the hotel’s manager – a very helpful guy named Gaylord Brewster. I would have called but I knew you guys would be hard at it and I wanted to see if there was anything there before I got you all excited.’
‘And?’ asked Sara.
‘And according to Brewster, Buford’s suite was definitely occupied last Friday night, and he knows this for sure, because the occupant accepted a bottle of complimentary champagne from one of his room service hostesses.’
‘Someone did see him,’ said Sara.
‘Yes, a young girl named Amber Wells. She apparently told everyone in the kitchen that the Senator from Louisiana was the “hottest piece of ass” in the building. A compliment I am sure sixty-eight year old Ted Buford would appreciate.’ Tyrone smiled again, he was on a roll. ‘Anyway, unfortunately Wells is away for the holidays but she has a shift on Tuesday evening during which Brewster assures us we can speak to her. He is even keeping 1025 free just in case we need it. Joe is having it dusted as we speak.’
‘Verne,’ said David, looking at Arthur and Sara.
‘Could be,’ said Tyrone, Joe having filled him in on Petri’s revelations on the drive back from the hotel.
‘So,’ said Arthur, ‘now we have four people who have seen this guy – Petri, David, Joe and this Amber Wells.’
‘Yes,’ said Tyrone. ‘Petri knows him as Verne so he gives us the name, hopefully Wells can put him at the hotel before the banquet and Joe and David can link him to Haynes following the funeral and the altercation on the tennis courts.’
‘But,’ said Sara, ‘we still don’t have anyone to put him at Delia’s house at the time of the shooting.’
‘No,’ said Joe, walking though the office door to join the conversation. ‘But, there is at least a tenuous link. The shooter used a weapon known as the SIG – P-210, a forerunner to a similar weapon used by the Secret Service.’
‘So Verne was used to using such a pistol,’ said Sara.
‘More than that,’ said Joe. ‘He was trained to kill with it if necessary. Of course, it would be easier if we could get a witness to place him at the scene.’
‘How is Rigotti going with getting us a funeral shot of this guy?’ asked Arthur. ‘If we had a shot by Tuesday, we could show Petri and Miss Wells and in the very least confirm we are all talking about the same man.’
‘I’ll call him again,’ said David. ‘So, all this may go to nailing him as the shooter. But how do we prove it was Haynes who gave the order?’
‘First things first,’ said Joe. ‘Let’s start with Rigotti. We get a shot of this guy, we have something to work with.’
45
Elizabeth Haynes waited until the large, gaudily dressed aunt had left the room and then she walked slowly towards the door and opened it. It was exactly as she had imagined. Quiet except for the beep of the various machinery. Pale green walls, sterile smell, fluorescent lighting, white bedding.
Teesha Martin lay there – still, the only dark-coloured thing in the room. She had IVs in both her hands, tubes coming out of her nose, another larger one from her mouth and a large bandage covering her head which had been shaved.
She did not know why she was here. She simply got up this morning, ate a light breakfast, showered and dressed in a pale apricot summer suit with complementary flesh-coloured shoes and Gucci bag. Then she left via the garden, not bothering to say goodbye to her husband who was in the study, or Agnes who was in the kitchen, got into her silver Volvo sedan, drove to Massachusetts General and followed the ward signs to ICU.
She did not ask for Layteesha Martin’s room, simply walked through the corridors of the intensive care unit looking like she knew where she was going. Within minutes she had spotted Delia Banks through the glass portion of the door to room 10B, after which she took a seat at the far end of the corridor and waited for her to leave.
And so here she was, standing in front of the girl, hoping beyond all hope that Teesha had not given the defence any evidence of their secret – that there was no second letter or email or diary betraying the true nature of their relationship with their daughter.
The shame of it.
Strangely enough, she noticed, that being here now she did not feel the anger that had seethed inside her for weeks and, truth be told, she missed it. She had entered stage 3 – ‘bargaining’ – her grief now playing politician with her brain. She found herself brokering a deal with God. ‘Dear Lord, please exchange teenagers, put Christina in this room instead of the black girl and I will make peace with my daughter, listen to her concerns, stand up to my husband.’
But it was useless, as she knew it would be.
And so, Christina would not get the benefit of these machines and tubes and lifelines. She would not be seen by specialists, not provided any treatment, not encouraged during every step of her recovery.
Suddenly, as it had done so often in the past weeks, her brain made that leap again, back to the other time, and she wondered if Topher Bloom would have cheated death, had he had the same opportunities as this girl before her. But she doubted they had such medical facilities at Khe Sanh in 1968 when 6000 US marines were bombarded by a force of more than 20,000 Vietcong. And she guessed the fire power that sliced into twenty-eight-year-old Topher left little to work with in any case.
Had she killed him too? Probably. Indirectly, but probably. He would not have gone but for her. So yes, she had done it. Cast her shadow on another life.
So why was she here? She had forgotten, which was most likely for the best as she was not sure she had the stomach to remember in any case.
The aunt would be back soon
. She could not be seen here. It was not safe. And so, she took one step forward to look at the dark girl again, her mocha skin and pale palms, her shaven head and long dark lashes.
She made one last prayer that her husband was right, that there was no other piece of evidence damning her to public condemnation. For it was one thing to carry such burdens inside and yet another to wear them out for all to see. And then she backed away from the bed slowly, cautiously, before opening the door, holding her head high and walking confidently back the same way she had come.
‘This is Anthony,’ said Moses Novelli. ‘He’s my eldest, a lawyer like his old man.’
Anthony Novelli stood a foot taller than his father to give David a strong handshake.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Anthony. ‘I guess everyone says this, but I’ve been following the case and I admire your work.’
‘No, they don’t, so thanks,’ said David.
‘And over there by the barbecue is my daughter Donna with her fiance Michael. Donna is the creative one in the family, she is a curator at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. And there is my baby.’ Novelli pointed to a pretty young woman talking to Sofia Novelli in the far corner of the large rooftop terrace. ‘Natalie is second year med at BU. She is the one we’ll all depend on when this rich Italian food catches up with us.’
‘My pop is meant to be on a low cholesterol diet,’ said Anthony Novelli, stealing a cheese stick from his father’s hand.
‘Ahh, kids . . . since when did they become the parents?’
Moses Novelli was the consummate politician, thought David. From the minute the Mayor greeted him at the front door, and led him through his palatial home in the upper class suburb of South End, he was made to feel at home. This was his job, David knew, making people feel comfortable in his presence, but Novelli’s hospitality certainly seemed sincere, meaning he was either very good at his chosen career or the guy was the genuine article.
The house was large and comfortable, clean without being sterile, tidy without looking austere. It was decorated in milky creams with splashes of warm naturals picked up in the original art, plush rugs and comfy chairs covered in cosy throws.
It said money but smelt of everyday life – Sofia’s perfume, fresh flowers from the window boxes, herbs from the kitchen and the inviting aroma of barbecued meat mixed with parmesan cheese and garlic bread wafting from the rooftop terrace.
As ridiculous as it seemed, considering the comparison by scale and grandeur, it reminded David of his home in Newark – a home with a history of family. And it crossed David’s mind what an odd couple they must have made in college – Haynes and Novelli – for they appeared to be of different stock, living by opposing principles.
David entered the roof from the third floor sitting room and was immediately overwhelmed by the feeling of warmth, not just from the midday sunshine but from the smiles and ambiance which permeated this annual gathering of the extensive ‘Famiglia Novelli’. There must have been over a hundred people on Novelli’s roof – young, old, short, tall, family and friends, all eating, drinking, celebrating the holiday.
‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Yes Sir. I’m afraid I skipped breakfast.’
‘Good. Then you have some catching up to do. Sofia!’
Novelli signalled to his wife who stocked up two large plates of sausages and salad and approached them, handing David the bigger of the two.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Cavanaugh.’ Sofia Novelli wiped her hand on the towel over her shoulder before extending her right arm and taking David’s hand.
‘It’s David, please.’
‘David it is. Please enjoy. Moses can lead to the far corner of the terrace. It’s a little quieter over there, and don’t feel obliged to remember everyone’s names along the way.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Novelli.’
‘Uh, uh – you call me Mrs Novelli around here and at least ten people will answer,’ she smiled. ‘It’s Sofia.’
‘Thanks, Sofia . . . for the invitation, the hospitality, the food.’
‘Don’t be silly, you look like you could use a good meal. Just make sure my husband goes heavy on the salad and not so heavy on the pork.’
‘For God’s sake, it’s a conspiracy,’ said Novelli putting his arm around his wife just as she flicked her towel at him in lighthearted rebuke.
‘Get out of here,’ she smiled. ‘Grab a drink from the ice-buckets under the umbrella on your way.’ And Sofia went back to her guests.
Fifteen minutes later after at least fifty introductions – Uncle Vinnie, Cousin Luca, his wife Anna, Aunt Marisa, Grandpa de Pietra and so on – David and Novelli took a seat on some outdoor furniture next to some potted gardenias in full bloom at the corner of the terrace.
‘You have a wonderful home, Mr Mayor,’ said David, relaxing in this man’s company.
‘Today it’s just Moses and thanks, we like it. Been here for almost fifteen years now. The kids are all gone of course which makes us wonder if we should downsize, but it’s home, you know?’
‘Yes I do. I’ve lived in Boston for over ten years but still consider home to be a small, but much loved duplex in Newark.’
‘My point exactly,’ said Novelli putting aside his plate for a moment. ‘But I don’t suppose you’ve been calling me all week to talk family.’
‘Wish I had, Sir.’
‘Hmmm, so do I.’
‘Mr Mayor . . . Moses, I . . . we don’t have much time.’
‘I know.’
‘Let me ask, Sir, given your legal experience, your knowledge of this city. How do you call it? Do you think we have a chance?’
‘Everyone has a chance, son. But if you are asking me if I think you will win I have to say the odds are against you.’
Novelli was known for his straightforwardness, a trait David always admired in lawyers and even more in politicians who, more often than not, built a career on whitewashing and euphemisms. But the Mayor’s words were hard to hear nevertheless.
‘You’ve had a tough week. The State has done a damned fine job of hammering home the facts – the Coastguard, the police, the medical experts. Scaturro is good, very good in fact, and I am afraid next week will be even worse, because they will introduce witnesses to support their motive – people who will call your client a bigot. That kind of hatred is hard to listen to, sometimes even harder than the details of death.
‘It goes against everything that we like to call American,’ Novelli went on. ‘There are corners of this country which seethe with hatred, David, but none of us likes to admit it.’
He was right. Scaturro’s witness list contained at least ten names of people Rayna once knew – or knew of– who could be called to twist the nature of Rayna’s work and lifestyle and push the State’s racist agenda. They were old college acquaintances, ex-clients, mothers of white girls at Teesha’s predominantly white school. None of them appeared particularly dangerous, but put together, they could do some serious damage.
‘And then there is the Washington girl, and of course, that letter,’ said Novelli.
‘Francine Washington is an insecure, confused young girl,’ said David. ‘The fact that the State is using her to support their ridiculous charge is bordering on child abuse.’
‘Strong words, David.’
‘Dire consequences, Moses.’
‘Too true. Too true. But bottom line, she will most likely give their case a nice boost and set the scene for their most potent piece of evidence.’
‘The letter.’
‘Yes, the letter.’
David paused before going on.
Whilst he was comfortable with Novelli, he knew he had to be careful. This man was in the business of winning votes and David was yet to meet a politician who didn’t have an agenda. He was also supposed to be one of Haynes’ oldest friends. Rumours of their recent falling out were rife, fuelled by his no-show at the banquet, but David didn’t want to give too much away just in case Novelli’s loyaltie
s still lay in the past. It was as if the Mayor had read his mind.
‘Rudolph Haynes and I have been friends for many years but – and what I say here, David, cannot be repeated . . .’
‘No Sir.’
‘There comes a time in every man’s life when the fog lifts from his eyes and he sees the world, and those in it, with clarity. Needless to say he does not always like what he sees, especially when he looks at those closest to him.’
Novelli paused before going on.
‘You look at me and see a man of commitment, family, achievement, confidence, but it wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I was content to bask in the glow of others, even when their light was ill conceived. I’ve made mistakes, David, most of them due to my lack of self-esteem. But my days of sycophancy are over and I suppose, somewhat sadly, along with them a good deal of my tolerance. I no longer pander to the conceited, David. I don’t have to and, in all honesty, that feels good.’
David said nothing, just looked directly into Novelli’s eyes and saw the anger, the determination and perhaps even some form of satisfaction in finally being able to speak, if indirectly, of his soured relationship with Haynes. Whatever had occurred between them, it had been serious.
More importantly, David knew Novelli was letting him know he could be trusted and considering time was so short, he also knew he had no choice but to believe him.
‘Forgive me, Moses. But time is a luxury we can’t afford so I’ll be frank. Rayna Martin is innocent. Christina Haynes’ death was a tragic accident. The charge of involuntary manslaughter was preposterous and the charge of murder two is criminal.
‘We believe Senator Haynes is not only responsible for driving the prosecution to press such charges but also – and I too must stress here that my words must never be repeated – in some way linked to the shooting of Teesha Martin.
‘As for the letter, it is a scam – one big lie – or should I say a truth turned into a lie. You and I both know the parents Christina was referring to in the letter were her own. Your old friend is a bigot of the worst kind, Mr Mayor, and I think you know it, and have known it for some time.’
