Courting Trouble raa-9

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Here, too, Gil? Can’t you keep it in your pants at a funeral? With me in the next room?” Jamie’s pretty face was red, her lipsticked mouth contorted. “Who’s this one? Forget it, I don’t care! You promised, Gil! We made a deal!” She turned on her heel and left, letting the heavy door bang closed behind her.

  Anne backed away from Gil, stunned. She tried to process what had just happened. She always believed Gil and Jamie had a good marriage. “What was she talking about, Gil? What deal?”

  “I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Gil answered, his features calm and in control. “Jamie always thinks I’m having affairs, which I’m obviously not. Are we having an affair? No. She’s just crazy.”

  “Bullshit!” Anne had been hit on by too many married men to believe him now. Had she been played? Had Matt been right? Was Gil the liar, not Beth Dietz? “Is Beth telling the truth? Did you force her to have sex with you?”

  “Please!” Gil’s blue-green eyes narrowed. “I never forced myself on anybody, I don’t have to.”

  “You had an affair with her, then?”

  “All right, fine. You’re my lawyer, you have to keep it confidential, right?”

  “Gil, tell me the truth!” Anne shouted, but Gil gripped her arm, angry.

  “Shh, don’t make a big deal. So what? Me and Beth had an affair, we were fooling around for months. But I didn’t make her screw me to keep her job. She wanted to. She hates her husband. He’s an abusive jerk.”

  My God. Anne edged away. What was true? Was it really a consensual affair? Dietz was an abusive jerk. Her thoughts raced, but Gil seemed superbly in control.

  “There’s no basis to the lawsuit, Anne. Beth filed it because I broke off the affair and she wanted to get revenge. My defense is the same as before. This changes nothing.”

  “It changes everything! I asked you more than once if you had an affair with Beth, remember? You lied to me!” Anne couldn’t believe how gullible she’d been. She’d believed him because she’d wanted to believe him. He was her client, her friend. “You told me you were insulted by the question! You made me feel like shit!”

  “I didn’t want you to know about the affair. I was embarrassed and afraid you’d tell Jamie. Or at least you wouldn’t be able to hide it around her. But it still doesn’t make any difference to the lawsuit. I’m telling you, I still didn’t make her have sex.”

  “What deal did Jamie mean? What deal did you make?”

  “She stays with me through the trial, then IPO. I want to be squeaky-clean. Besides, if she waits until after the IPO, she divorces me and gets ten million. If she does it now, she gets zip. Which would you choose? And she’ll lie at trial if we want her to.”

  “We don’t want her to!” Anne couldn’t think fast enough. She didn’t know this side of Gil. How could she have been so stupid? “I won’t put Jamie on the stand to lie for you! And I won’t put you up there either! I don’t want your defense anymore. Find yourself another shill!”

  “Oh, come on, don’t be so emotional.” Gil’s tone was supposed to be soothing, but it disgusted Anne. He reached for her to calm her, and she pulled back. She couldn’t wrap her mind around any of it. She had just kept the case of her career, only to find out she was defending a total sleazebucket. And she didn’t have time to deal with it now. Kevin might already be out there. The memorial service would be starting any minute.

  She turned on her heel, enjoying the rather theatrical swirl to her skirt, and walked out on her client without another word. She had no explanation for her behavior, now that she was a brunette. Mental note: Impulsiveness may not be related to haircolor.

  She hurried down the corridor, past the entrance, and entered the service. The room was paneled, large and boxy, with rows of tan folding chairs in two blocks with a center aisle. Only the first three rows of seats were taken, and Anne took a seat in the back row, for the best view. She tried to get back in control. This was her last chance to catch Kevin. She searched every head, every set of shoulders in front of her. No Kevin. She checked her watch. 11:55. The service was about to start. Were was he? Was he coming?

  Anne checked the room. Judy and Bennie stood in the front, talking together off to the side, and Mary entered and joined them. Matt sat on the right side of the room, next to the Dietzes. Gil was seated two rows behind them, his head bent in an impression of a man with a conscience. Near him sat Detective Rafferty, in coat and tie, and his chain-smoking partner, whose back pressed heavily against the folding chair. The gathering seemed to settle as the last of the stragglers came in. Anne tried to ignore the fact that her mother couldn’t be bothered to attend, her lover had betrayed her, her client had lied through his bleached teeth, and her psycho killer was still on the loose.

  A flower deliveryman came in, and she watched Judy hurry to meet him at the door, check his ID, then wave him to the front of the room, where he set the flowers down with the few others: lilies, mums, and white sweetheart-roses. The white roses were a corporate gift from a client, and the other flowers were from various Center City law firms, and there was one from the gym. None was from friends, because Anne had no friends, and if that wasn’t a graphic enough illustration, no one in the crowd was weeping or even looking mildly bothered.

  She felt an echo of the same emptiness she’d experienced in Willa’s house, looking at her black-and-white drawings. She didn’t want to continue on Willa’s path, closed up and alone, and it was where she’d been going. All around her was proof positive. She resolved on the spot to let her death change her life. But first she had to stop Kevin, once and for all.

  Bennie was already at the lectern. “Good afternoon,” she began, adjusting the black stem of the microphone. “I’m Bennie Rosato, and thank you very deeply for coming to this memorial service. Today we honor a young woman I greatly admire, Anne Murphy. I hired her a year ago, because she struck me as an intelligent, well-trained, and hardworking young lawyer. But, in truth, I didn’t take much time to get to know her, this past year. It was my loss, and not hers.”

  Listening, Anne felt her mouth go dry. This wasn’t the script they had discussed back at the office. Bennie had hated the idea of lying to the people, so she was supposed to keep her eulogy generic and impersonal. On the sidelines, Judy and Mary exchanged looks, and the office staff whispered to each other in their seats.

  “But more recently,” Bennie continued, “I have come to know Anne Murphy, and actually to love her. Her boldness, her courage, and her doggedness. Her resourcefulness, even her recklessness—”

  Suddenly, a young man stood up at the far end of the third row. “Judy Carrier! Ms. Carrier!” he shouted. “Ms. Carrier! You!” He pointed to Judy, standing at the front of the room. “City Beat wants to know, Ms. Carrier!”

  Bennie’s lips parted in surprise, and Judy edged away, appalled. Anne didn’t get it. Was it a joke? Who was this clown? The crowd turned to the young man, who kept shouting.

  “Ms. Carrier, why were you in Anne Murphy’s car the day after she was murdered? What do you have to say for yourself?” The man had leaped from his folding chair and headed straight for Judy before anybody knew what was happening, pulling a tiny digital camera from his jacket pocket. “City Beat wants to know!”

  City Beat? It was the paper Anne had read on the way to the office. The one with that wanna-be journalist, Angus Connolly, with the bush hat. But this guy wasn’t Angus Connolly, and what did he want from Judy, for God’s sake?

  Anne rose to her feet, watching in shock as he snapped pictures, advancing on Judy. Detective Rafferty jumped from his chair and lunged toward the reporter, as did his heavyset partner.

  All of a sudden a second man started yelling from the other side of the row. “Judy Carrier! Carrier! Answer our allegations! What were you doing with Anne Murphy’s car? You killed Anne Murphy! City Beat has the story!”

  What? Anne was stunned. Judy’s eyes widened, her arms pinwheeled, and she tumbled backward into the flowers. Anne rushed to help J
udy, but she saw Gil bolt for the exit with the Dietzes right behind. Matt and Bennie tried to get to the second reporter, who was charging toward Judy, brandishing something.

  “Judy Carrier!” he shouted. “You killed Anne Murphy! We have the proof! City Beat has the proof! An exclusive undercover investigation!” He was shouting as Bennie grabbed him. Matt and two other men piled on, but the young man wouldn’t stop yelling. “Confess! You had her car! We have the proof! You were driving her car the day after you shot her!”

  My God! Anne froze on her feet, her mind racing. These amateurs thought Judy was her killer!

  “You did it!” yelled the first reporter, as Detective Rafferty and his partner forced him to the ground. “You can’t do this! We are the working press! We are the working press! We have rights! Constitutional rights!”

  The service was thrown into pandemonium. People darted from their seats, tripping on chairs. Anne was pushed against the guests when a vivid flash of red at the door caught her eye. A dozen red roses, held by a deliveryman, his face visible over the roses. His hair was dyed matte-black, but his eyes, nose, and mouth were recognizable.

  It was Kevin.

  “Stop him!” Anne screamed above the din, but Kevin vanished in the next instant. “Stop him! Stop that man!” She yelled but her voice got lost in the uproar.

  “No!” she screamed again, then turned around and took off after Kevin. She wouldn’t lose him this time. Not again, never again. She threw herself into the people hurrying toward the exit. Cops charged into the room, blocking her way. She grabbed the short sleeve of one, trying vainly to get his help.

  “Officer, I need you. Come with me!” But the cop was already past her and reaching for the handcuffed reporter being hauled off by the detectives. She’d have to do it herself.

  “Move! MOVE!” Anne shouted at the people running from the room. She found open road for a brief instant, then pressed her way into the hallway, trying to see Kevin over the fleeing guests. Suddenly someone in front of her got pushed back, and Anne almost fell. Someone trounced on her hem. Her hat and sunglasses got knocked off. She looked wildly around, jostled this way and that. Kevin was nowhere in sight. She had lost sight of him. Not again! She felt like crying, like screaming. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes.

  “Hey!”’ she yelped as she was shoved from the side, then felt herself falling backward. She grasped for someone’s handbag on the way down but the woman yanked it away. The next thing she knew she had hit the carpet and was in danger of being trampled. She covered her head with her hands and tried to roll away, with flower petals sticking to her hands and face.

  Red rose petals.

  Anne opened her eyes and squinted through the moving feet. Red petals lay scattered everywhere on the carpet. They had to be from the red roses Kevin had been carrying. He must have run out with them, then dropped them. Black pumps blocked her view and the spike heel of a dress sandal almost speared her in the ear. Ahead, an empty glass vase rolled on its side. Beyond the vase lay a white paper of some kind, bright against the blood-red rug. A small card, the kind that came with flowers. Kevin’s card.

  Anne crawled forward on her elbows, risking life and limb. The heavy rubber sole of a wingtip almost stepped on her nose, but she kept an eye on the card. A straight pin affixed it to a headless rose. If she waited until everyone was gone, the card could be as torn up as the bouquet. She got kicked in the ribs by indeterminate footwear and winced in pain.

  She was only three feet from the card, then two. The card lay just out of reach. She stretched out her hand but a stack heel crunched down on her index finger.

  “Yeow!” she cried, and took one final lunge.

  19

  The interview room at the Roundhouse, Philadelphia’s police headquarters, was as full as a stateroom in a Marx Brothers movie, but far less funny. Detective Rafferty stood against the wall, jacketless, his striped tie loosened from the melee at the Chestnut Club. His partner sat next to him, hunting-and-pecking on an antique typewriter. It read Smith-Corona in script and sat atop a laminated wooden table against the wall. Except for a few chairs, including a steel Windsor bolted to the floor, there was no other furniture in the tight, airless shoebox of a room. It was a dingy green color, scuffed beyond belief, reeking of stale cigar smoke. Judy and Mary stood off to the side, near a smudged two-way mirror, while Bennie stood at Anne’s elbow, acting as her counsel.

  Anne occupied the steel Windsor chair. “No, I’m not dead,” she said, which really seemed sort of obvious. Or maybe it wasn’t. Her forehead bore a girl version of Matt’s goose egg, and her ribs hurt from being kicked around the carpet. Two buttons had been torn from her art dress, and her stapled hem had fallen. On the plus side, she still had her beaded earrings and something else she treasured, tucked into her bra.

  “So the body in the morgue, it’s Willa Hansen’s?” the detective asked.

  “Right.”

  “She has no family.”

  “No immediate family.”

  “What about your family? You don’t want them to know you’re alive?”

  “I haven’t seen my mother in a decade. I never met my father.”

  “Well, well.” Detective Rafferty rubbed his chin, where a five-o’clock shadow was beginning to sprout, even though it was only three in the afternoon. “We woulda figured this out by Wednesday, when the tests come back. Misidentifications happen, but we have procedures to prevent it. The holiday weekend screwed us up.” Rafferty looked at Anne. “You pretended to be dead?”

  Anne was about to answer, but Bennie clamped a hand on her shoulder. “I’m instructing her not to answer that, Detective.”

  “Oh, Christ! Why, Rosato?”

  “’Cause I’m a good lawyer,” she answered. “Ms. Murphy has volunteered to speak with you only because you were about to question Judy Carrier in connection with her murder. Now we all understand that Ms. Murphy is not dead, and that Kevin Satorno shot Willa Hansen believing she was Ms. Murphy. Kevin Satorno is still your shooter, Detective. Find him.”

  “I do have a few more questions for Ms. Murphy, who intentionally deceived us as to her whereabouts, which constitutes obstruction of justice. As does your conduct, by the way, and those of the other ladies here.”

  Bennie didn’t bat an eye. “That’s not exactly the law, but I’ve no time to teach it right now. My client is happy to answer your questions, when I let her. Ask away.”

  The detective returned to Anne. “Run this by me again, Ms. Murphy. You rented the Mustang on Friday night, July first. Late Friday night, you were erroneously reported murdered. Then Judy Carrier was in the car on Saturday and stopped for gas, using her credit card. July second.”

  “Yes.” Anne tried not to look at Judy, who had to be kicking herself. It had happened when they’d gassed up. random, random, random.

  “Then Ms. Carrier left her credit-card receipt in the car, and it’s dated July second.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you parked illegally on Sunday morning, and the car was towed.”

  “Yes.” Now Anne was kicking herself.

  “The rental contract was found in the car, identifying the Mustang as rented to you. The gas receipt with Carrier’s name on it was also found, dated the day after your supposed murder. Are we all clear on the facts?”

  “Yes. But how did these jerks get the receipt?”

  “They were tipped off by the tow yard, who called one of them when the car came in.” Detective Rafferty consulted his skinny notebook. “The yard owner called Angus Connolly because he wrote the story in City Beat. The yard owner sold him the information, photocopies of the rental contract, and the gas receipt. He also contacted the National Enquirer and Hard Copy.” Rafferty looked over steel-rimmed reading glasses at Anne. “Do you have any information relating to that, Ms. Murphy?”

  “No.”

  “So all you know is that you’re alive?”

  “And that Kevin Satorno will kill me if he finds out.”


  Rafferty was shaking his head. The heavyset partner was typing slowly. The newest line of the white interview sheet rolling out of the typewriter read KILL ME IF HE.

  Bennie pressed on Anne’s shoulder to quiet her. “We’re asking you for one more day, Detective. Just one day, then you can go public with it. The world still thinks Anne’s dead. Let’s let them keep thinking it for one more day. If you release this information, you’ll lose any chance of catching Satorno and you’ll place my associate in jeopardy.”

  “I don’t see what difference one day will make.” Rafferty couldn’t stop shaking his head, which Anne didn’t take as a good sign.

  Bennie leaned over. “It won’t be July Fourth weekend, that’s the difference, and it’s all the difference in the world. Like you said, the tests wouldn’t be delayed if not for the weekend. Later, you’ll free up personnel. The holiday will be over, the traffic will settle down, and everybody will be back to work. Think about it, Detective.”

  Rafferty stopped shaking his head.

  “When the world finds out that Anne is alive, the story will explode. Especially after the debacle at the memorial service, with her colleague accused of her murder in front of everyone. Hard Copy, Court TV, CNN, all the networks will pour into town, if they haven’t already. You really think you can handle that kind of deluge today, with two uniforms on duty?”

  “We have more than that.”

  “Not much, and consider, it’s the Fourth of July celebration, in the city that gave birth to the nation. All eyes are on us, Detective. You really want Philly to look bad right now? What will it do for the department? You really want national attention focused on the fact that the department didn’t notice the mistaken ID of a murder victim?”

  Rafferty started to listen, and Anne knew Bennie was throwing anything against the wall that might stick, a time-honored tradition among trial lawyers.