Clever Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  “It was probably personal, especially if they were sleeping together. Maybe he wanted to punish Nunzio. Maybe he did it because his nickname is the Butcher. You’re attempting the impossible: trying to rationalize the actions of a psychopath.”

  The waiter brought our entrées.

  “When we met in Whitaker’s office,” I said, “you said the FBI has been tailing Persico every day for several months and had logbooks about his daily activities.”

  “That’s right. We do tail him but we alternate agents. Everyone takes a turn.”

  “But those daily logs would show where Persico has gone every day for the past several months, right? So they would tell us if Persico was meeting Isabella at the Midland Avenue apartments every Tuesday and Friday afternoon.”

  Coyle said, “Yes, they would. Unfortunately, I don’t have them with me. I meant to bring them. But I completely forgot.”

  I was suspect and let him know it. “Wait a minute. That’s why we were supposed to be meeting here—so you could show me your entry about Persico being at Isabella’s apartment.”

  “Sorry. I had them on my desk and then I got a call and got distracted and dashed out without them.”

  “You brought your memory with you, didn’t you?” I said in a voice that sounded harsher than I’d intended. “Did you ever follow Persico to the Midland Avenue apartment when it was your turn to watch him—other than the day of the murder?”

  “I can’t help you,” he said. “I watched him mostly on weekends because I’m the only single agent in the New York office. The others like to be home with their families on Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays.”

  I suddenly felt as if I were questioning an evasive witness. I wondered if Jack Longhorn had ordered Coyle to keep the logbooks from me.

  “Is there anything useful about Persico that you do remember?” I said sternly.

  “Lighten up, okay? It was stupid of me to forget the logs. But that’s an easy fix. We’ll just meet again for dinner,” he said. “Besides, the point of this evening wasn’t just for me to show you the logbooks.”

  “What other reason could there be?”

  “I wanted to meet so we could get to know each other as people and build rapport. We’ll need that when your boss finally realizes that he needs our help and asks the bureau to join in.”

  I gave Coyle a puzzled look and said, “I’m not certain my boss wants the FBI to be involved in our murder case.”

  “He might not have a choice but to ask,” Coyle replied confidently. “Your eyewitness and his wife were found dead just a few hours ago. I’m your star witness now.” He had a point.

  “There’s another reason why the two of us should be friends,” Coyle continued. “You don’t have jurisdiction outside Westchester County and I think Tiny Nunzio and his goons are the ones who killed Roman Mancini and his wife—not Persico.”

  “What?” I said, not hiding my surprise. “Why would Nunzio want to kill an eyewitness who could help put his daughter’s killer in prison? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It might not make sense to a regular citizen, but if you knew more about the mob, then it would be obvious,” he replied with a touch of arrogance. “Tiny Nunzio’s only daughter is dead, and not only is she dead, she’s been butchered. And she’s been butchered in an apartment building in Yonkers—his most hated rival’s turf. Nunzio gets up in the morning and reads in the newspaper that Roman Mancini saw the man who killed Isabella. He looked into his eyes. According to the newspaper, the killer and his limo driver were both in the mob. So now Nunzio knows the killer is someone in the Battaglia family. What’s the first thing he’s going to do?”

  Without waiting for me to answer, Coyle continued. “Nunzio is going to send a crew over to get information out of Mancini. He’s not going to wait for the cops to solve this case and make an arrest. He knows how powerful the Battaglia family is in Yonkers and knows they probably got cops on their payroll. Nunzio is going to handle this completely on his own and he is not someone who leaves witnesses behind. He doesn’t care about leaving Mancini alive to testify against Persico, because if Nunzio has his way, there won’t be any trial.”

  While I mulled over Coyle’s theory, he kept talking.

  “What you’ve got to understand is that Nunzio might suspect that Persico killed Isabella. Nunzio might even suspect that Persico was having an affair with her. But rumors and suspicions would not be enough for him. Nunzio’s got to have proof, just like you do. The other family heads are going to demand more evidence than a jury would. If Nunzio made a move against the Battaglia family without getting permission from his own godfather in the Gaccione family and the other families, then he’d be signing his own death warrant and possibly starting a war. Wars between families are bad for business.”

  “What happens if Nunzio gets his evidence?” I asked.

  “If Nunzio can prove it was Persico, then the Gaccione family will present its case to the other families and there will be a sit-down between the Gaccione and Battaglia families to see if bloodshed can be avoided. Persico and the Battaglias might have to pay reparations.”

  “Do you really think Nunzio is competing with us to find Isabella’s killer?”

  “Yes, I do,” Coyle said. “What’s brilliant about all of this is that Nunzio knows that the local law enforcement is going to jump to the obvious conclusion that Persico killed the Mancinis to eliminate an eyewitness. That explains the Italian necktie. Nunzio is playing with you.”

  “He might be, but there’s an obvious flaw in your scenario,” I said.

  Coyle gave me a puzzled look. “Oh, really. Let’s hear it.”

  “Roman Mancini would have told Nunzio anything he wanted to know. There was no need to torture him and his wife.”

  “What makes you think they were tortured?” Coyle replied.

  “Roman’s little toe on his right foot was cut off and someone amputated Maggie Mancini’s right thumb. That suggests torture. But why?”

  Coyle shrugged. “You got to stop thinking like a prosecutor and start thinking like Nunzio. Let’s assume I’m right. Nunzio and his men paid a visit on the Mancinis. The husband and wife both begin squealing as soon as he ties them up. But he wants to make sure they’re telling the truth. So he tortures them. Then he kills them because he knows they can identify him and his men if he lets them live. He then stages the crime scene to make it appear that Persico killed them. The Italian necktie is a dead giveaway.” Having supported his theory to his own satisfaction, Coyle then said, “How’s your linguine?”

  I’d been so enthralled by our conversation that I hadn’t touched it, but I said, “It’s fine.” I really didn’t want to talk about food. “Let’s go back to Isabella,” I said. “Since we are tossing out theories here, what if Persico is innocent? What if Isabella’s husband hired someone to kill his wife and make it look like a mob hit? Marco Ricci is terrified of Tiny Nunzio. What if Marco had the crime scene staged so that Tiny Nunzio would blame Persico and go after him? He might think his best chance at getting Tiny Nunzio off his back is by pitting the two capos against one another.”

  “That strikes me as a good B-movie plot,” Coyle said. “But I saw Persico leaving the apartment at five-thirty. Do you really think someone else had time to slip in there afterward and kill her? I’m telling you, Persico butchered Isabella and I think Nunzio murdered the Mancinis. Two Mafia capos on rampages. It’s as simple as that.”

  Coyle ordered another glass of wine and said, “How long have you been an assistant district attorney?”

  “Nearly three years. How long have you been a special agent?”

  “Almost seven years. My first assignment was in our Detroit field office. I spent four long years there and before you ask me, no, I don’t know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried.” He smiled and I noticed a row of perfect teeth. He really was handsome. Even though my guard was up, I found myself warming to him.

  I said, “Being transferred to the New York field office mus
t have been a big promotion for you.”

  “It was. I jumped over a long list of veteran agents, but there were plenty of good reasons why I got the bump up.”

  “Such as?”

  “I deserved it. Detroit was being torn apart by street gangs. They were out of control and the city was the murder capital of the country. I was on a task force that helped bring down the various gangs’ leaders. The brass in Washington noticed and when they needed a new face in Manhattan, who the mob wouldn’t recognize, they called me up from the minors. They told me to target the Persicos and the Battaglias.”

  “Then it really was your lucky day when you saw Persico on New Year’s Eve going into the Midland Apartments,” I said.

  “A great day for me, not so much for Isabella Ricci. Persico has been a difficult target because he keeps himself pretty insulated. He lets his underlings handle the everyday stuff. Until Isabella’s murder, our task force was feeling frustrated. Nothing stuck on this guy. Which is why helping you is so important to the bureau and our task force. We can’t risk having this case screwed up by the locals.”

  “Screwed up?”

  He either hadn’t realized how demeaning his comment was or didn’t care.

  “Hey, don’t take it personally. Look, no matter how good a prosecutor you are, the truth is we can handle this magnitude of a case better than your office—and I think you know that. We could have protected the Mancinis. And we have the expertise to see things—like how Nunzio is probably behind their deaths. We just are better at this than your office, especially since Whitaker has you and O’Brien handling the investigation rather than the chief of your Organized Crime Bureau.”

  His words stung.

  And he wasn’t finished. “We need you to get Whitaker to invite us into this case,” he said.

  “We need?” I replied. “As in you and Jack Longhorn need?”

  Coyle took another taste of his wine and didn’t answer my question. “I’m going to be frank,” Coyle finally said, “because I like you. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Longhorn wants me to find out from you why Vanderhoot is not in charge of this homicide investigation. He’s not happy that you and O’Brien are handling it.”

  “I bet he’s not,” I said, but I wasn’t going to discuss office politics with him. “But you’ll have to ask Whitaker.”

  I decided to turn the tables while Coyle finished his second glass of wine. I might as well pump him for FBI intel.

  “What’s Persico like?” I asked.

  “A rather boring guy, actually,” he replied. “He’s been married to the same woman for fifty years. They grew up in the same Yonkers neighborhood. Her parents owned a stand at the Fulton Fish Market. His grandfather and father opened the butcher shop. Persico earned his bones when he was still a kid.”

  “Earned his bones?”

  “Committed his first murder. Although nothing was ever proven.”

  “Does Persico have a reputation as a womanizer?” I asked.

  “Not that we know of. But then our files about his early days in the mob are rather incomplete.”

  “Seems a bit out of character,” I said. “Three months ago, this seventy-year-old man suddenly begins cheating. How’d they meet? Where’d they meet? Do you have anything in your files that could help me prove they had a relationship?”

  “You’re talking about a man who is quite comfortable living a double life,” Coyle said. “Persico goes to Mass each Sunday and at the same time, he has hookers walking the street, breaks the arms and legs of people who owe him money, sells dope, has trucks hijacked, deals in contraband cigarettes, and kills people. I doubt he’s one to worry much about breaking his marriage vows.”

  “People cheat all the time,” I said. “Most don’t butcher someone when the romance dies.”

  “Most men aren’t nicknamed the Butcher,” he said. “Only Isabella and Persico know what happened between them in that room, but let’s try to imagine it from his point of view. He meets her. He’s intrigued because she’s younger and the only daughter of his much-hated rival. She’s tempted. Maybe she transfers her daddy complex from Nunzio to him. Maybe she wants to hurt her father. Who knows? But she clings to him and when he wants to end it, she threatens to tell her father. Or she threatens to tell his wife. Pretty typical stuff when people have affairs. Only Persico’s way of dealing with problems is by killing people.”

  “Why cut her up?” I asked. “For a guy who doesn’t like to get his own hands dirty, that seems like a dumb move—especially for someone whose nickname is the Butcher.”

  “Maybe to make the cops believe her plastic surgeon husband killed her. Maybe to humiliate Nunzio. Maybe he just likes cutting people up. Who knows?”

  “Why kill her in an apartment rented by the law firm that represents him?” I said, continuing to play the role of devil’s advocate.

  Coyle shrugged and looked for our waiter. He was weary of my questions. “You want dessert?” he asked.

  I shook my head no. “It’s been a long day. I’m going home to bed.”

  “Alone? I’ll go with you,” he said, and then before I could reply, he said, “Just kidding.”

  But I wasn’t sure that he had been. I looked away, embarrassed. He got the message and said, “I’m sure seeing Roman and Maggie Mancini with their throats cut wasn’t easy. You must be exhausted. Roman Mancini should never have talked to that reporter. You can’t trust them. They’re pond scum.”

  “They’re just doing their jobs,” I said, “and the reporter who wrote that piece happens to be a pretty responsible guy.”

  “You know him?”

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  Coyle leaned back in his seat. “Really? Do you realize your boyfriend is responsible for getting two people murdered?”

  I felt like I needed to defend Will, but I didn’t. I just wanted to go. I was tired. “Thanks for telling me about Persico,” I said, reaching into my purse. I put two twenties on the table. “That should cover my dinner. You’re on your own with the wine.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, ignoring the money.

  “I’m parked directly out front. Besides, I carry a gun.”

  He rose and started to move toward me. I sensed that he was going to give me a hug, so I stuck out my hand and said, “Thanks again. It’s been interesting.”

  “I’ll tell Longhorn that I didn’t get any answers out of you,” he said, with a wink.

  “That won’t surprise him.”

  “And I’ll call you about the logbooks,” he said. “We can meet again. It will be our second date.”

  “This wasn’t a date.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “It actually was.”

  16

  By the time I left Bistro Bistro, it was 10:15 p.m. and it had been a very long day. But I still wanted to talk to my best friend and confidante. Not Will Harris. My mother, Esther. She’s a night owl, so I knew she would still be awake.

  I drove to her house, which was only a few blocks from my own. My mother has an uncanny knack for recognizing sounds. As soon as she hears the engine of my Triumph on her street, she knows it’s me. She was opening her front door as I came walking up her steps. “I have leftover grape leaves with cucumber yogurt in the fridge,” she said. “I’ll pull it out for you.”

  “No, no, Mom,” I protested. My mom always tries to feed me and because she is such a tremendous cook, I often let her. But not tonight. “I just had dinner at Bistro Bistro.”

  “Oh, how’s Will doing?”

  “I didn’t see him. I had dinner with an FBI agent.”

  “You had dinner with someone from the FBI? It wasn’t that horrible Jack Longsteer fellow, was it?”

  “His name is Longhorn, not Longsteer, although I’ve certainly called him much worse,” I replied with a smile. “But no, I met with a special agent named Walter Coyle. He was supposed to be sharing information with me, but he really was trying to see if I would help the FBI get invited
into our murder case. I think he’s also interested in dating me.”

  “And that surprises you? You’re a beautiful woman. What man wouldn’t be interested?”

  “All mothers think their daughters are beautiful. You thought I was beautiful when I had skinny legs, wore my hair in braids, had buck teeth, and fat lips.”

  She replied, “Not always. But you are now.”

  “I got good genes from you and Dad, Ma.”

  It was true. My mother was a natural beauty with huge brown eyes, great cheekbones, black hair, and a great figure. She could have attracted a number of suitors after my dad died from cancer a few years before. But she hadn’t shown any interest in remarrying. Whenever I asked, she’d said, “I gave your dad my whole heart. There’s no room for anyone else.”

  My mother has always been my muse. I admire her, in part, because of the obstacles that she faced as a child. My grandfather had sent my grandmother back to Lebanon after she disappointed him by giving birth to four daughters but not a single male heir. My mother grew up in her uncle’s house in Beirut. He’d treated her well, but he was a product of a culture that didn’t much value women. Despite this, my mom refused to think of herself as a second-class citizen. And she made sure that I never thought of myself that way, either.

  Mom led me into her kitchen, where we always have our best discussions. “How about some baklava?” she said. “I know you can’t say no to that. We’ll sit here and talk about your new case and this mysterious FBI agent who finds you attractive. Does Will know about him?”

  “Okay,” I said. “It’s late and I shouldn’t be eating but I also know you won’t give up.”

  She smiled and said, “Is this a wine or coffee visit, Dani?”

  I’d rather have a cold beer than a glass of wine, and I get my caffeine from Dr Pepper. She was asking me if we were going to have a happy mother-daughter chat, in which case, she’d pour herself a merlot, or if this was instead going to be one of those all-night crying sessions like the one we’d had when I discovered that my first boyfriend, Bob, whom I had always thought I would marry, was cheating on me, in which case she’d make a pot of coffee.