“That bitch? You know I would. I was going to slap her, but she ran out into the street and got into a cab so I just came home.”
“Did you and Donnie have a fight that night?” I asked.
“Naw, I never said nothing. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, where would me and Chucky go? I needed time to think so I fixed dinner and said I’d been with my mom. And you know what really got me? That night, Donnie wants to screw because it’s New Year’s Eve and all. He hadn’t even showered. But we didn’t do it ’cause the cops showed up. Donnie was up most of the night trying to find out what was going on.”
“Did he tell you anything that night about Isabella Ricci?” I asked.
“He said he didn’t know her.”
“Did he ever mention her husband, Marco Ricci?”
“Was Donnie screwing him, too?” She feigned a smile and said, “I’m just joking.” But I could tell how hurt she’d been by her husband’s infidelity.
I said, “Your husband met Isabella and Marco at a sex party in Scarsdale.”
She didn’t seemed shocked. “He told me about them swingers parties yesterday. Told me he’d gone a few times but he didn’t mention names. Said he had to get some sexual relief for his blue balls. He blamed me.” She let out a sigh and added, “I guess this marriage is over—if he has the guts to come home again. He was pretty scared that you was going to arrest him for that murder.”
“Are you absolutely sure there is no way that your husband could have come back to this building that afternoon and gone into Isabella Ricci’s apartment between the hours of two o’clock and six?” I asked.
“I just told you he was screwing that woman in the hotel all afternoon. You can ask her. He was cheating on me. Ask that bitch or ask the babysitter or my mom. She can tell you that I was watching him ’cause I told her all about it.”
Chucky stirred, distracting her. “My kid’s gonna wanna eat soon.” She walked over to the playpen in the corner and rubbed his tummy, coaxing him back to sleep. When she returned to her seat, she said, “I thought that waitress bitch might tell Donnie about me going after her at the subway. But when we was fighting yesterday, he didn’t say nothing about me following him. I don’t think he’s got a clue about me catching him.”
“Why didn’t you tell him?” I asked.
Rachel shrugged.
“You’re his alibi,” O’Brien said.
“Yeah, I know. But he doesn’t know that. He was probably thinking that bitch was his only chance. He was probably thinking she wouldn’t tell anyone they was together ’cause she’s married and all.”
“You want him to suffer?” O’Brien asked.
“Why not? Look what he’s done to me and Chucky. He deserves to be in jail, don’t he?”
“Not for murder,” I said. “If he’s innocent.”
“Oh, he didn’t kill that woman,” she said. “But he hurt me and Chucky with his screwing around.” She hesitated and then asked, “Is that dead woman the reason he moved us into this apartment building?”
O’Brien said, “We think so.”
“We’ll need to speak to him when he gets home,” I said. “I’d like you to tell him that. And to call us.”
“You going to arrest him?” she asked.
“Not if you’re telling the truth,” O’Brien said.
“The hotel will have records, plus the babysitter, plus the woman he was with,” I said. “As long as they substantiate your story, he’ll be in the clear.”
“Then I wish I’d never told you about his alibi.”
Hell hath no fury.
32
“I think she was telling us the truth,” I said as we were riding back to White Plains. “But we’ll know for sure after you investigate her story and track down the other woman and babysitter.”
“If we’re eliminating Donnie Gilmore as a suspect in Isabella Ricci’s murder,” O’Brien said, “who’s left except Nicholas Persico?”
He was right. We were running out of other suspects. It seemed more and more likely that he was the killer. But my gut was still telling me that we were missing something.
“There’s still a big loose end,” I replied. “We still don’t know who Isabella Ricci was meeting with every Tuesday and Thursday at her love nest. That person could be the key to solving this homicide.”
“You said an FBI agent followed Persico’s limo to the Midland Apartments by mistake once,” O’Brien said.
“That’s right. He was following Persico’s limo but Persico wasn’t in it.”
“What’s that tell us?”
“That Isabella’s mystery lover might be someone in Persico’s own family,” I said.
“That’s right,” O’Brien replied. “He wouldn’t give his car to just anyone.”
“You know anything about the Butcher’s family?”
“He’s got a couple of sons who are definitely not peas in a pod. Names are Francis and Paul. One’s legit, the other’s as vicious as his old man. I’m sure the FBI has big files on ’em, or at least one of ’em. Now that you and Coyle are so buddy-buddy, you should ask him.”
“We’re not buddy-buddy. It’s a purely professional relationship.”
“I’m a detective, Dani. Don’t bullshit me—or yourself.”
When we reached our office, I took O’Brien’s advice and telephoned Coyle.
He sounded excited to hear my voice.
“Did you check your logbooks to see if there were any details about who was meeting Isabella at the Midland Apartments?” I asked.
“I sure did and we got nothing. Sorry.”
“What can you tell me about Persico’s family?”
“Nothing over the phone, but I’m free tonight if you’d like to have dinner,” he offered. “I can brief you about the Persicos.”
I thought about Will and hesitated. We were still a couple.
“Listen,” Coyle said, “you can’t turn down the man who saved your life. I’m a hero, remember? They said so on television.”
“Then how can I refuse?” I replied.
I suggested we meet at 7 p.m. at Bistro Bistro, where we’d met the first time. The instant I hung up my phone, it rang.
It was Miss Hillary Potts and, as usual, she was curt. “The district attorney wants to see you in his office right now,” she said.
“Any idea why?” I asked.
“I’m certain he will explain it when you arrive here. He wants you here immediately.”
I wasn’t going to get any hints from her so I thanked her, hung up the phone, and started for the door, only to have my phone ring again. I thought Miss Potts was calling me back for some reason so I grabbed it.
“Dani, don’t hang up,” Will said. “I know you’re angry, but we can work this out. I deserve that much. How about dinner tonight? Roberto’s.”
“I have other plans.”
“We can’t resolve this if you refuse to talk to me. Change your plans. Please! We’re talking about us and our relationship. This should be a priority.”
“It’s work. I can’t. And don’t lecture me about priorities.”
“I’m just saying our relationship is more important than your work.”
“How about your work? If I told you that we needed to talk and your newspaper deadline didn’t matter, would you drop everything and show up?”
“That’s different, Dani. News doesn’t wait for anyone. But let’s not fight, okay? Just meet me tonight at seven.”
“No. I have other dinner plans.”
“Are you meeting Agent Coyle?”
“I told you it’s work. If it’s with him or someone else shouldn’t matter.”
“But it does matter if it’s him. Work is talking to him in an office, not across a table during a romantic dinner.”
“I didn’t say anything about a romantic dinner. It’s a business meeting.” I hesitated and then said in an icy voice, “What’s wrong, Will? You afraid you can’t trust me?”
“Coyle’s tryin
g to break us up.”
“He’s not breaking us up, you are.”
“It’s not just me,” he replied in an irritated voice.
I replied, “You’re the one who hid things from me.”
“You’re the one who’s getting flowers from another man. This conversation is pointless,” he said bitterly. “Have fun on your date.” He hung up.
Now I was furious. My phone rang again and I assumed it was Will calling back to either apologize or complain some more. I grabbed the receiver and said, “Now what?”
“In my office, now!” Carlton Whitaker III said.
The fact that the district attorney had called me personally meant that this meeting was really important.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I replied. “I’m coming right now.”
“You should have been here ten minutes ago.”
Then he hung up on me, too.
PART FOUR
FOOLS
RUSH IN
A grand jury would “indict a ham sandwich,” if that’s what you wanted.
—NEW YORK CHIEF JUDGE SOL WACHTLER
33
The district attorney and his three chiefs were waiting when I walked into his office and it was clear from the first words out of Whitaker’s mouth that I was not summoned to offer an opinion, but merely to listen.
“I want you to go before a grand jury this afternoon and get an indictment against Persico for the murder of Isabella Ricci,” Whitaker announced.
“I’m not sure we can win it,” I said.
Whitaker leaned forward from behind his desk and said in a stern voice, “I wasn’t asking, I was telling. You indict him this afternoon or I’ll replace you with someone who will.”
Chiefs Steinberg, Myerson, and Vanderhoot all smiled. I knew that Vanderhoot, in particular, was enjoying this. Of the trio, Myerson was the only one I respected as a trial attorney and, apparently, he felt some respect toward me, too. He asked, “Why aren’t you ready?”
“We still don’t have a motive, for one thing,” I said.
“We win cases all the time without a motive You know that,” he replied.
“We still don’t know who Isabella Ricci was meeting every Tuesday and Thursday in that apartment,” I said.
“That shouldn’t matter,” Myerson said, “as long as you prove that she was murdered in the apartment and Persico was there. Whether they were lovers or just happen to be in the same place at the same time should not be an insurmountable obstacle to getting a conviction.”
“We don’t have any physical evidence—no murder weapon, no fingerprints, no hairs or fibers,” I said.
“Miss Fox, I’ve heard you tell your peers that you loved circumstantial cases,” Whitaker chimed in.
Having played the role of a devil’s advocate, Myerson now changed tactics and began telling me why I could appear later today and get an indictment. “We already have a sitting grand jury and you should be able to get them to issue an indictment without any problems based on three pieces of evidence.”
“I’m all ears,” I replied without enthusiasm.
“You show them the photos of Isabella and the murder scene. That’ll sicken and outrage any juror. They will want someone to pay. Next you tell them that you want to indict Nicholas Persico. His face was all over the front page of the paper the other day when we brought him in for the lineup.”
I thought, Yep, you four arranged that ruse nicely. But I didn’t say anything because he was still talking.
“The jurors are going to know Persico is a member of the Mafia and that his nickname is the Butcher. They will look at those horrific, graphic photographs and think that only someone as vicious as a mobster could have done that to Isabella Ricci.”
“And what is my third winning component?” I asked, although I felt certain about what was coming next.
“Agent Coyle,” Myerson said. “We’ll get him out here this afternoon. He’s clean-cut, all-American, a stellar FBI agent, and he is going to get up on that witness stand and tell the jurors that he followed Persico to the Midland Apartments on the day of the murder and that he personally saw the Butcher go into that building at two-thirty and saw him leave later that afternoon at five-thirty. By the time Coyle testifies, you’ll already have established the time of death. Coyle will then testify that he saw Persico hurry back to his shop to change his clothes before going home. That should be more than enough to get him indicted.”
Myerson was correct and I thought about telling him that he should take charge of the case, since he was in a rush to get Persico indicted. But I knew that insubordination would simply make everyone angry and get me removed from the case. Instead, I decided to ask why they were so intent on having me indict Persico today, given my qualms.
“Myerson, you make a convincing argument,” I said, intentionally flattering him. “But why today?”
“Because I said so,” Whitaker said, staring at me.
“I told you she’d fight this,” Vanderhoot said. “There are plenty of other prosecutors who could do a better job. I say let one of them do it.”
Steinberg shot Vanderhoot an unhappy look and said, “The district attorney and I both feel Ms. Fox is the right person for this case, given all of the work she’s already done.”
That was probably true, but I also assumed Steinberg had pushed Whitaker to keep me on this investigation for the same old reasons: women voters liked reading about me.
“And if I can’t move forward today?” I asked.
Whitaker raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get too big for your britches, Miss Fox. The fact that a mobster kidnapped you has garnered you a lot of emotional sympathy and support in our community. But it also could be used as justification for removing you from this case—and your job—given your need to recuperate after such an ordeal.”
There was a reason why Whitaker had survived as district attorney for as long as he had. He knew how to play hardball. I was one step away from the unemployment line. All Whitaker had to do was announce that I was leaving because I’d been traumatized by the kidnapping. He’d look like a merciful boss.
Sitting there, I began doubting myself. Maybe they were right. Maybe Persico was the killer. Did I have any real evidence other than a nagging gut?
Looking directly at Whitaker, I said, “I serve at your pleasure, Mr. District Attorney. I will present this case to a grand jury as quickly as possible.”
“No,” Whitaker declared. “It will not be as quickly as possible. It will be this afternoon. Myerson will contact the FBI and make certain that Coyle is over here by two o’clock. After Persico’s indicted and arrested, I want you to get an expedited trial scheduled. It will be good for the community to get all of these homicides put to bed quickly.”
And good for your poll numbers, I thought.
With that little pep talk, I was shown the door, leaving the four men behind, no doubt, to discuss how best to exploit Persico’s indictment. I headed across the street to get Whitaker’s steamroller gassed up and ready.
34
In New York state, a grand jury is comprised of twenty-three jurors who are selected at random. It only takes twelve of these ordinary citizens to issue an indictment, which is also called a “true bill.” Jurors say no to only about 7 percent of cases presented to a grand jury. Such is the confidence the public puts in the police and prosecutors.
If they only knew.
Out of fairness, New York law states that anyone being accused of a criminal charge can appear before a grand jury on his own behalf as a witness before jurors. But I wasn’t worried about that. The idea of Nicholas Persico showing up in a grand jury room was far-fetched. He would be playing on my home turf, and anything he said could be later used against him. And if he perjured himself, additional changes could be filed. There was absolutely no reason why Persico would come forward, especially since he was paying a hefty retainer to his mouthpieces at Gallo & Conti.
Grand jury sessions are one of the few procedures that
are held in secret. It would be up to me to show that a crime had happened and identify who had done it. I could use witnesses and present evidence. The jurors would then decide if there was reasonable cause to believe, and legally sufficient evidence to establish, that the individual had committed a felony. Once a grand jury had issued an indictment, the matter would be assigned to the criminal division of the Westchester County Court.
Despite the rush, I wasn’t worried about appearing before the grand jury that afternoon. I’d presented cases before plenty of them. Myerson and Vanderhoot also had been busy getting everything set up for me. When it came time, I entered the grand jury room and outlined my case. I called a Yonkers detective to describe the murder scene and then handed out color photographs of Isabella Ricci’s body. Several jurors looked physically ill. Next came the medical examiner to establish the time of death and then Agent Coyle appeared to nail the coffin shut on Persico. It took less than an hour for the jurors to issue a true bill.
By four-thirty, the grand jury had been dismissed for the day, Myerson and Vanderhoot were congratulating each other, and Coyle was waiting for me in the hallway outside the grand jury room.
“We might as well move up our dinner date,” he suggested. “I’m assuming you still want to hear about Persico and his kids. We can use the extra time to talk about what happens when the Butcher actually goes on trial. It looks like we might be seeing a lot more of each other since I’m your star witness.”
I checked my watch and said, “I need to get some things squared away at my office. I could meet you at the restaurant by five-forty-five.”
He smiled and quipped, “Knowing you, that means six o’clock.”
“I’ll try to be on time,” I said as I walked away.
Back at my office, I checked the ever-growing pile of pink call-return slips on my desk. I drew a deep breath and was about to make some calls when O’Brien rapped on my door and saved me.
“You get the Butcher indicted?” he asked.
“He’ll be arrested within the hour. The arrest warrant is being typed up now. You and Yonkers detectives should make the arrest. Notify his lawyers when you’re at his door.”
Clever Fox Page 20
