The Vendetta Defense raa-8

by Lisa Scottoline

  “He’s bossy, isn’t he?” Judy said with an embarrassed laugh, and Pigeon Tony cackled from the backseat.

  “My Frankie, he likes you,” he said, and Judy couldn’t help but blush, wondering if it was true. And surprised that she cared enough to wonder.

  Frank jumped into the truck, cranked the ignition, and hit the gas. “Let’s get outta here,” he said, and the huge engine roared into action. They took off, the truck’s wide tires screeching.

  Judy’s face was still warm as she glanced in the large side mirror mounted outside her window. The SEPTA bus disappeared into the distance. “Nobody back there.”

  Frank glanced at the rearview mirror. “Not yet.” He looked over his shoulder. “Pop, do me a favor and lie down.”

  “Here?” Pigeon Tony asked. “Inna seat?”

  “Yes, just do it, okay? Judy, you, too.” Frank’s eyes glittered as they accelerated around the corner, whizzing by rowhouse after rowhouse. People on the street turned and stared. A woman walking her poodle shook her fist. Frank gripped the wheel, controlling the truck with grim determination. Rocks thundered in the back bed, rolling back and forth. “Both of you, lie down!”

  Pigeon Tony obeyed in silence but Judy had never obeyed anything, in silence or otherwise. She gripped the handrail in front of her window, steadying herself as the pickup squealed around the corner. She was starting to believe that Italians shouldn’t be issued driver’s licenses. Next thing they’d want the vote. “Watch out, Frank! Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

  “Lie down!” he shouted, just as an earsplitting crack sounded behind them.

  Judy jumped. Was that a gunshot? It wasn’t possible. It was broad daylight. “What was that?” she said, turning reflexively.

  A black sedan was bearing down on them. A man hung out of the passenger window with a handgun. Holy God. Judy stiffened with fright. Where had the car come from?

  Crak! Another shot rang out, louder than the first. People on the street were throwing themselves onto the sidewalk.

  “Get down!” Frank yelled. He palmed Judy’s head, shoved it into her lap, and held it there. The truck surged forward. “Pop, stay down! They’re shooting at us!”

  “They’re shooting at us?” Judy’s voice got lost in her skirt. She couldn’t believe it. Adrenaline dumped into her system. She tried to stay calm and think. She had no idea where her seat belt was.

  This was attempted murder. She should call the police. Her cell phone was in her backpack, jostling near her feet on the carpeted floor of the truck. She reached for it with a trembling hand.

  Crak! Another blast went off, closer this time. The sound shot through her body, shocking her senses. Her backpack slid out of reach when the truck careened around another corner. Her heart pumped wildly. People on the street shouted and cursed them.

  “Goddamn it! I can’t lose these assholes!” Frank said through gritted teeth. “Hold on!” He wrenched the steering wheel to the right. The tires squealed hideously. Rocks slammed against the truck bed. The truck swerved around the next corner.

  Judy was thrown against Frank’s side, jolting her upright. She grabbed the console for support. The truck scraped a line of parked cars as it barreled forward. Sparks flew past the truck window like firecracker debris.

  Judy glanced back at the dark car. It was only a block away. Close enough for a good shot. “No!” she heard herself screaming. She twisted forward. The truck was racing toward the intersection straight ahead. The traffic light was red. A Mayflower moving van was already nosing into the grid. In a second they would get trapped between the Coluzzis and the van. They would die unless they could beat the van. In a split second Judy read Frank’s mind. “Do it!” she hollered, and Frank floored the gas.

  The truck leaped forward like a runaway bull and thundered toward the intersection. Frank threw an arm over Judy’s body, holding her back like a seat belt. “I got you,” he said, but his words vanished in the blare of the van’s horn, blowing like a Klaxon.

  The truck zoomed toward the van. The van was almost all the way into the intersection. Judy was close enough to see the driver’s horrified face as he tried to stop the van. His brakes screeched. Black smoke came from his tires. His momentum was too great. The opening was narrowing. They wouldn’t make it. Judy’s heart jumped in her chest.

  Frank cut the steering wheel back with a violent jerk. The truck swerved wildly around the van’s monstrous hood, then shot past. Its rear end fishtailed as it bounced onto the sidewalk but Frank yanked the wheel back. Judy reached instinctively for Frank’s arm across her body. The truck crashed into the parked cars on the opposite side of the narrow street.

  “Fuck!” Frank torqued the wheel, regained control of the truck, and tore down the street. The expressway on-ramp lay just ahead. They zoomed toward it.

  Judy almost cried with happiness. Safe! Tires skidded and metal crashed on the other side of the van behind them. She looked back. The van blocked the intersection completely, its driver moving and unhurt in the cab. What about the Coluzzis? Were they dead? Judy hoped so. They were killers.

  “We did it!” Frank shouted as the truck swerved down the street, ran another red light, and flew onto the ramp for the expressway, eating up the fast lane out of the city. He drove with an eye on the rearview mirror and shifted quickly in his seat to get a view of the back. “Pop, you okay back there?”

  “Si, si!” Pigeon Tony squeaked from the backseat, and they both laughed.

  “Good!” Frank checked the rearview mirror again. He turned to Judy, his brown eyes bright, and broke into a grin. “How about you?”

  “I’m alive,” she said, and it felt wonderful. Relief flooded her system. Her breathing eased. Her blood pressure returned to normal, for a lawyer. She wanted to call the police. Frank’s arm felt good against her side and he showed no inclination to remove it, now that its purpose had been served. “You gonna move that arm?” she asked with a smile.

  “Not unless you tell me to.”

  “Since when do you listen to me anyway?”

  He laughed, and they took off.

  The truck traveled away from the city under a cloud-covered sky, turning to a dark, muggy evening. Pigeon Tony snoozed in the small backseat, which fit him perfectly, and Frank drove with his arm resting across Judy’s body, making her entire left side feel warm and good. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt like this, when someone’s simple touch could set her tingling, and in any event, she had never met a man like Frank. She slid out from behind his arm only to retrieve her cell phone and call the police.

  This time Judy bypassed 911 and called Detective Wilkins directly, since he had made the mistake of giving her his card. Lucky for him he was in. “Detective,” she said, “I want to report an attempted murder. Of my client, of his grandson, and of a lawyer I like a lot.”

  “We’re on it.” His voice sounded flat. “South Philly, right?”

  “Yes. We were at the crime scene and were chased several blocks by the Coluzzis. John, we think, and a man named Jimmy Bello, who used to work for his father. They shot at us three times. They tried to kill us.”

  “We have impounded the vehicle, which crashed into the van. It’s totaled. Unfortunately the perpetrators got away. How do you know it was John Coluzzi? Did you see him?”

  “Wait a minute. They got away?” Judy shook her head, and Frank looked over from behind the wheel. Concrete highway walls were a blur in the background, the slabs darkened with earlier rain. “How did they get away?”

  “I’m already looking into that. We moved quickly once we got the call. Residents called nine-one-one, dispatch got eleven calls, and we were at the scene not five minutes after the collision. The perpetrators had already fled the scene.”

  Judy frowned. The scenery whizzed by. Frank looked pissed at the wheel. His arm was long gone. Their second fight. She couldn’t give up. “But you know who the car was registered to. You can trace that and arrest Coluzzi, right? Or at
least Bello?”

  “No so fast. It was a stolen car, owned by a rabbi in Melrose Park. Got pinched three months ago. Why do you keep saying it was John Coluzzi? Can you identify him?”

  “I saw them,” Judy said, suddenly flashing on the man in the passenger seat with the gun. “At least one of them.”

  “Was it John Coluzzi?”

  She closed her eyes as the truck barreled down the highway. She couldn’t remember more. She had seen John Coluzzi only at the courthouse. It had happened so fast. “Not for sure, not yet. I saw a white male. With hair.”

  “What color hair?” Detective Wilkins asked.

  “Brown.”

  “Anything else?”

  Judy thought hard. “No,” she had to admit. “Didn’t anyone see them run away?”

  “The only ID is two white males, one heavyset, but we have no suspects as yet. We have uniformed officers canvassing the neighborhood.”

  “‘Nobody knows nothin’?’ Are you buying that, Detective?”

  “What do you want from my life, Ms. Carrier? We’re on it. These are major crimes. We’re there. We’ll call you when we pick up the perps.” Detective Wilkins didn’t sound unconcerned, and Judy softened. He wasn’t the enemy. The policeman was your friend, right? She turned to Frank.

  “Can you identify them? Did you see anything?” she asked.

  “Sure. Gimme the phone.” Frank took the cell phone from Judy. It looked small in his hand. “Detective, here’s my description. Got a pen?” Frank paused a minute. “The two shooters, one was John Coluzzi and one was his man, Jimmy Bello, because Marco don’t have the balls. You go see John, you’ll see a couple guys that look even worse than usual. Those are the bad guys.” Frank handed the phone back to Judy with a smile. “Thanks, counselor.”

  Judy took the phone but couldn’t manage a smile. “Detective, what if I could come down to the Roundhouse and look at some mug shots. Wouldn’t that help identify them?”

  Frank shook his head over the steering wheel. “No, you’re not doing that.”

  The detective was saying, “We do have some shots of members of the Coluzzi family and some associates. It would help if you came down, but I’m not promising anything.”

  Judy said, “I’ll do it.”

  Frank was shaking his head. “No you won’t.”

  The detective was still talking. “When do you want to come down? I’m on night tour this week. I’m here all night.”

  “I’ll call you later,” she said, because Frank was already reaching for the cell phone. He took it from her hand, snapped it closed, and tossed it onto the dash.

  “You’re not going down there.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll get yourself killed.”

  “They’re not after me. I’m just the lawyer.”

  Frank snorted, resting a finely muscled forearm on the steering wheel. The truck sped west. “Those bullets they were shooting, were they going around you?”

  “They were trying to hit Pigeon Tony,” Judy said, but she was barely convincing herself. “Besides, if I go down to the Roundhouse, I’d go alone. They wouldn’t come after me alone.”

  “Of course they would. You don’t get it, do you? What do you think is happening to your car right now?”

  Judy’s heart jumped. “You think they’ll hurt it?”

  “No. I think they’re too nice to hurt it.” Frank laughed, but Judy wasn’t kidding.

  “What will they do to it?”

  “To your Bug? After they pull its little legs off or before?”

  “If they so much as touch that car, I’ll—”

  “Watch it.” Frank raised a finger in mock admonishment. “Of course, if they do anything to your car, you will be free to pursue all appropriate legal remedies.”

  Judy still wasn’t laughing. “Now I’m really mad,” she said, and meant it.

  Chapter 18

  When Frank’s truck finally came to a stop, it was twilight, the stars just beginning to shine in the country sky, winking behind a thin veneer of dusk. They were back in Chester County, parked in thick grass in front of an abandoned springhouse, painted white. It was on the same property as the construction site, on the far side of the meadow. It had rained here, stirring up the gnats, which flew in dizzy knots outside a windshield dotted with raindrops. Birds chirped loudly, filling the damp air with sound, none of which woke up Pigeon Tony, who snoozed in the backseat.

  Judy pushed the button to roll down the truck window. “You think he’ll be safe here?”

  “No doubt.” Frank put on the emergency brake and wiped dark hair from his forehead. “This is a seventy-five-acre property, and the springhouse is in the middle of it, if you look on a topo. A topographic map.”

  Judy looked around. Not a handgun in sight. They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, if not paradise. “But where is the house? I mean, don’t springhouses provide water to houses?”

  Frank pointed past her. “It used to be over there, about fifty yards, but the owners tore it down. They’re building a new house on the far side of the meadow. Come on, I’ll show you.” He climbed out of the truck and closed the door softly enough not to wake his grandfather. Judy followed suit, feeling finally safe again when her clogs hit the grass.

  “This is better than people shooting at you,” she said, and Frank moved toward her, extending a large hand.

  “Am I fun or what? Here, step into my office. It’s the best part of my job.” He took her hand with confidence, and Judy let him. Her hand nestled happily in his, and she liked the simple connection to him as they walked across the grass. It was long enough to tickle her bare ankles and drench the toe of her clogs, but she felt too good to mind. She didn’t know exactly when all the hand-holding and leg-pressing had started, but she was sure that bullets were flying at the time. Frank gestured to the oak trees on their left. “Hope you like what I’ve done with the place. I don’t mean to brag, but those trees over there, they’re two hundred years old. And green is my favorite color.”

  Judy smiled. “I was guessing mauve.”

  “Nuh-uh. Mauve is for bricklayers.”

  “My office has law books.”

  “Too bad.” Frank moved easily through the grass, eyeing a tan fieldstone as they passed. “At least they burn easy.”

  “It also has bookshelves and accordion files and a credenza.”

  “A credenza! Wow.” Frank nodded. “Mine only has the sun.”

  Judy was enjoying being somebody’s straight man for a change. “Plus I have e-mail, voicemail, and two phone lines, right on my desk.”

  “I have a backhoe, a pickup, and a grandfather. And that used to be all. Now I have something far greater.” Frank squeezed her hand, and Judy didn’t ask him what he meant, though she had a guess. She didn’t want to make a horse’s ass of herself or go too fast. She liked him too much. She was in definite like. She glanced at him, hoping for some meaningful interlocking of eyes, but he was looking down at the grass. “See?” he asked, and pointed.

  “What?” All Judy saw was wet grass.

  “That’s the footing wall.” Frank nosed the grass with the toe of his big boot, lifting the damp sod and exposing a tan stone. “Valley Forge fieldstone, indigenous to this area of Pennsylvania. This is where the old farmhouse was. See how the grass is lighter, in a line, all around? You can still see the footprint of the house. The stone stays put.” He pointed in a line that made a square, and Judy followed his arm, only slightly distracted by the biceps revealed by his polo shirt. It was so pleasant to be standing here, their hands linked loosely, listening to his voice. Its richness told her he loved what he was talking about.

  “The farmhouse was built in 1780,” he continued. “I saw it last year, before they tore it down. White stucco over centuries-old fieldstone. The foundation was thicker than any I’ve seen. The windowsills were deep enough to hold two men. The house would have stood forever. It fought to stay up, I swear.” Regret tinged his tone, and she understo
od.

  “Why did they tear it down?”

  “It didn’t have a family room. Or a weight room. Or a place for a spa.”

  Judy was appalled. “It was historic.”

  “I’m a professional. I’ve learned not to judge my clients. How about you?”

  Judy laughed. “Enough said.”

  “History doesn’t matter to some people. They want media rooms, hollow doors, and a three-car garage.” Frank shrugged. “Anyway, I like their taste in walls. They went to Ireland, and they liked the walls there. Ireland has all dry-laid—they use them for sheep—and England, that’s the place where it started. They’re the same everywhere and they have been for hundreds of years. And the only ingredients are stone and gravity. They’re fun to build. Amazing to build, actually.”

  “How so?”

  Frank paused. “They clear the head, at the same time they engage it completely. Any wall has that effect. Winston Churchill, every chance he got during the war, retired to his country house to build a brick-and-mortar wall, did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “It’s true. But it’s not always a hobby. In Italy, which of course has the best stonework, the farmers learned to make stone walls for fencing because there weren’t enough trees around. Italian masons, when they came to America, built half the dry stone walls in New England and New York. I’ll take you out to Westchester County someday. The walls there match the ones you see in Italy.”

  “Have you been?”

  “To Italy? Twice. I went through the hill towns, built almost entirely of stone. Castlenuovo, Spoleto, Pontito, Calascio, Ostuni.”

  It sounded like a menu, but Judy didn’t say so. She was thinking about the Lucia family, and the past. “Did you go to the town where your grandfather came from?”

  “Of course I went to the village. It’s right outside Veramo, in Abruzzo. I met all my cousins, they’re still there. It was great.”

  “It must have been.” But Judy was wondering about the case, and a missing piece. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt Pigeon Tony at the clubhouse. “I have to ask you something, about your grandmother, Silvana. About her murder.”