by Dave Daren
“We really need to nail down the description of the guy she left with,” Liz murmured as she polished off a cinnamon sugar donut.
“I’m hoping Anthony will recognize him,” I replied. “If he doesn’t, it’s going to be a lot tougher to find this guy.”
“What makes you think Anthony will be able to identify him?” she asked.
“Anthony said that Francie’s friends thought she knew the guy, though they didn’t recognize him,” I explained. “Now, it’s possible it was someone from her office, but after looking at some of Francie’s posts, I’d say her girlfriends probably know most of her other friends. They know Anthony, for example, even though he doesn’t spend a lot of time with them. So I wondered what type of people would Francie know well enough to go home with but who her friends wouldn’t recognize.”
“Someone from the old neighborhood,” Liz mused. “Someone she didn’t keep in touch with like she did with Anthony.”
“Maybe someone she wasn’t as close to, but someone both she and Anthony knew,” I added. “From what I can tell, Francie wasn’t the type of person to leave a party with someone she didn’t know very well.”
“Which would probably be someone she’s known for awhile,” the blonde attorney said. “Rather than someone from an office where she hasn’t been working that long.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“I’d hate to think that someone she thought was a friend could do this,” Liz remarked.
“Especially if she wasn’t even the real target,” I replied. “If she was killed just to get to Anthony, and Salvatore, that’s really cold blooded.”
“It seems convoluted for the Mafia,” Liz pointed out. “Don’t they usually just drive people out into a field and shoot them?”
“Which makes me think there’s a lot more going on here,” I said. “For some reason, no one wants to move against the Febbo’s directly.”
“But what would getting Anthony locked away in prison for the next thirty years accomplish?” she asked.
“Still working that out,” I admitted.
“Of course, the other option is that it’s a lot less complicated than secret Mafia plots,” my co-counsel said. “It’s possible she was killed for some reason entirely unrelated to the Febbos. It may have nothing at all to do with Anthony or his father.”
“That would be great,” I replied. “But that convenient phone call to the police still bothers me.”
“It screams Hallmark mystery movie of the week,” Liz agreed. “It also suggests someone was waiting for Anthony to get there.”
“What if he had run?” I pondered. “Instead of trying to help her?”
“I’m sure another anonymous call would have pointed them in Anthony’s direction,” she replied.
We were working our way through our interview list when my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen and didn’t recognize the number, but the ID said it was the Clerk of Court.
“Hunter Morgan,” I said.
“Mr. Morgan, you’re listed as counsel for one Anthony Lamon,” a woman’s voice said.
“I am,” I agreed.
“We need to get a signature on one of his release documents,” the woman continued. “Is there an email where I could send that?”
“His release documents?” I asked in confusion.
“Yes, sir,” the woman stated. “He posted bail and we have the other paperwork, but we’re missing one of the sheets.”
“He posted bail,” I repeated as I looked towards Liz.
“Yes, sir,” the woman said with a more exasperated tone. “I have the document in pdf, but if you’d prefer a fax, I can do that too.”
“No, email is fine,” I replied.
I rattled off my work email then promised to return a signed copy as soon as I saw my client and obtained his signature. The clerk didn’t sound convinced by my promises, but since she wasn’t threatening to send the sheriff out to arrest him for not signing all the paperwork, I figured it was a low priority on my to-do list.
“Lamon posted bail?” Liz asked.
“He did,” I replied. “Though I don’t know how. He said he didn’t have that kind of money.”
“Someone has it,” Liz pointed out.
I tried calling Lamon’s number, but the call went straight to voicemail. I tried two more times over a ten minute stretch, but no one ever picked up.
“Maybe we should check his apartment,” Liz suggested. “You know, just to make sure he’s okay.”
“I doubt he’d appreciate having his lawyers turn up unannounced,” I said, though I felt a niggle of doubt as well.
“It’s on the way back to Manhattan,” she pointed out.
“I’ve still got some time before I need to head back,” I said after another check of my watch. “I’ll try calling him again in half an hour, and if he doesn’t respond by then, then we can stop at his apartment.”
The leggy blonde nodded and we turned our attention to the state’s evidence. As the half hour wore on, we both started to glance at my phone more than the laptop, and I finally had to admit that we weren’t going to get anything else done until we had figured out where our client was.
We packed up our equipment and tossed the empty coffee cups and donut bag into the garbage can. I dialed Lamon’s number one more time as we walked back to the front door, but there was still no answer.
“Let’s take a cab,” Liz suggested once we were outside.
“This isn’t really a hotspot for cabs,” I laughed.
As if to prove me wrong, three green cabs turned onto the street and Liz quickly hailed the first one.
“It seems we are destined to take a cab,” Liz noted as we slid into the back seat.
I read off the address for Lamon’s apartment and the cab shot across two lanes of traffic to make a left-hand turn. Liz and I glanced at each other, and then Liz quietly fastened her seatbelt. I did the same as the driver swerved around a woman pushing a stroller, and then drove through a bike lane to avoid crashing into the back of a bus.
It was a fast trip to the apartment, which was the only good thing about the journey. I practically threw the bills at the driver as we scrambled to get out of the car, and he shot away again as soon as the back door slammed shut.
“That’s why I prefer the subway,” I muttered as I watched the car nearly clip the side of a delivery truck.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Liz teased.
I shook my head but we both turned to look at the building that Anthony Lamon called home. It was on a moderately busy street, filled mostly with brownstones that had been converted to apartments. There was a bodega on the corner and a Jamaican take-out joint across the street from that. A few pedestrians had witnessed our dramatic arrival, but most of the residents were probably at their jobs.
We walked up the steps to the front door and stepped into what would have been the mudroom originally. A second set of locked doors blocked us from access to the apartments, but a row of mailboxes with buzzers provided access if we could find someone to let us in. I tried Lamon’s apartment a couple of times, and though we could hear the buzzer somewhere in the distance, no one answered the call.
“Shall we do the New York thing and just press the buzzers until someone lets us in?” Liz suggested.
We were saved from having to be that annoying person when one of the other tenants arrived. It was an older man in a Mets cap with his right arm in a sling. He had a bag of groceries in his other hand, but he couldn’t manage the door and the groceries at the same time.
“What on earth happened to you?” the blonde asked as she flashed innocent blue eyes at the man while she held the door open.
“Chasing the grandkids around,” he sighed. “I shoulda stayed in my lawn chair. Hey, but who are you here to see?”
“Anthony,” I replied as I took the grocery bag so he could find his keys.
“Tony?” the man said as he studied us. “I don’t think he came home last night.”
“He didn’t,” I replied. “And that’s why we’re worried.”
“And who are you?” the man asked. I noticed that he’d found his keys but he still hadn’t opened the door.
“I’m his attorney,” I replied. “I helped him out last week and we were supposed to meet this morning.”
“That parking ticket?” the man asked. “Tony told me about that. That was pretty good work you did. Don’t tell me the cops are harassing him again.”
“We don’t know,” I said. “We just want to check on him.”
The man considered us for a moment, then finally opened the door. He let us step inside, then watched as we trudged up the stairs to the third floor. We found Lamon’s apartment, and I knocked on the door. Again, there was no answer, and I wondered if he had decided to go into work.
I put my hand on the doorknob and gave it a slight twist. To my surprise, the door wasn’t locked and I exchanged wary glances with Liz. If there’s one thing no New Yorker would ever do, it’s leave the house without locking the door.
“I’ll dial 9-1,” Liz whispered. “I’ll hit the last one if we find something inside.”
I nodded as she pulled out her phone, then cracked the door open. It was surprisingly quiet on the hinges, so I pushed it open enough to look inside. There was a battered sofa, a flat screen TV on a stand, and a kitchen table for two tucked into a corner. I started to step inside, then stopped when I heard someone else moving around inside.
“Someone’s inside,” I whispered to my co-counsel.
She nearly pressed the last one on her phone, but I covered her hand with mine.
“Let’s see who it is,” I added as I moved quietly into the living room.
I set my briefcase quietly on the floor by the sofa, then waved for Liz to step inside as well while I studied the layout. Just around the corner from the front door was the tiny kitchen and a short hallway. I could see the headboard and pillows on the bed in the room at the end, which meant the bathroom was the door on the right. The sounds I had heard came from the bedroom, and I signalled Liz to stay in the living room as I crept towards the bedroom.
I was nearly there when I stepped on one of the old wood floorboards and the whole apartment seemed to creak. The sounds from the bedroom abruptly ended, and I saw Liz peer down the hallway towards the bedroom. I knew what was coming, but I was still startled when a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway to the bedroom. All I had time to register was that the stranger was male with unruly dark hair and a large mustache. We stared at each other for a heartbeat, and then we both charged forward.
Chapter 6
Despite what Hollywood would have you believe, two bodies colliding together is not painless nor does it lend itself to lots of punches or kicks. The stranger and I smashed into each other with enough force to knock us both backwards. We both recovered quickly, but then we were locked together in a spinning mass as we each tried to gain the upper hand without getting strangled. We slammed into the walls a few times, and then we were in the bedroom. I had a second to register the mess the interloper had made, and then he brought an elbow close to my throat and I had to bend backwards to avoid it.
I landed on the bed, and when the man lunged towards me, I managed to kick out and land a blow to his groin. The man staggered back, and as I tried to untangle myself from a pile of clothes and blankets, my opponent staggered away down the hallway.
“Shit!” I heard Liz yell out. “I’m calling the police!”
I heard the door crack against the wall as it was yanked open, just as I finally made it to my feet. I ran towards the living room, but I could already hear the footsteps on the stairs.
“Hunter!” Liz cried as I bolted past her. “Just stay here! He won’t tell you anything even if you catch him.”
I finally stopped to catch my breath, then turned to look at the other attorney. She didn’t look scared exactly, but definitely anxious. She still had the phone in her hand, but she hadn’t dialed the last one.
“I thought you were calling the police,” I huffed as I heard the door at the front of the building slam shut.
“I will,” she said defensively. “I just thought we might want to see what he was up to before we let the police in here to mess everything up.”
“Well,” I said as I looked around. “I’ve never been here before, so I have no idea if anything is missing.”
“We can still look,” the dusky-haired attorney asserted. “And I’ll take pictures. If we find Anthony, he can tell us whether our burglar took anything.”
I nodded as Liz started to take pictures of the living room. While she did that, I stood in the doorway and looked at the room. There were a few items that could have been out of place, but they were small things, like a TV remote on the floor and a book on one of the chairs, that could have been left there by Lamon when he was in a rush.
As Liz moved towards the bedroom, I followed behind her. She took pictures of the kitchen and the bathroom as well, then moved into the bedroom. I realized that it was not the huge mess I had been expecting. The pile of clothes I had become tangled up in was laundry that Lamon hadn’t put away yet, and though the closet was open, the shirts still hung neatly on their hangers and the shoes were still carefully lined up on the floor.
“What the hell was he doing here?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” Liz replied. “He could be a friend sent to get clean clothes.”
“Then why didn’t he call the police?” I pressed.
“Well, we haven’t done that yet either,” she pointed out with a glint of mischief in her sky blue eyes.
I heard the front door open again, and the neighbor with the Mets cap talking to someone. I retreated to the door to Lamon’s apartment, then stepped onto the landing. I peered over the edge of the stairs and saw the neighbor talking to two police officers, a man and a woman. They were both average height, though the man had a head that looked too big for his thin neck. The woman looked like Ana from Lost, but with shorter hair and a meaner scowl. The woman was looking up the stairs as the neighbor described the sounds he heard, and when she spotted me, her hand moved towards her gun.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I called down. “We came to check on our client and found a stranger going through his things.”
“Sir, I need you to walk slowly down the stairs,” the woman cop ordered.
“Of course,” I agreed. “Let me tell my associate to join us.”
“What the hell was going on up there?” the neighbor demanded.
“We walked in on someone tossing the place,” I replied as I stayed in view of the cops. “Liz, the police are here.”
I heard my co-counsel’s kitten heels click across the floorboards in the apartment, and then a moment later, she joined me on the landing.
“Oh,” she declared in her best little old me voice when she saw the two officers. “What a relief you’re here.”
“You both need to come downstairs, right now,” the female cop reiterated. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
We both walked slowly down the stairs, our hands upraised the entire time. The neighbor looked like he wasn’t sure whether he still trusted us, but Liz managed to look happy to see the officers by the time we reached the bottom, with her neat bob slightly mussed and her blue eyes sparkling from unshed tears, and the neighbor quickly tossed out whatever doubts he had been having.
“I heard someone go banging out the door just before you got here,” the neighbor told the cops.
“ID,” the male cop requested in a laconic voice.
Liz and I both slowly reached for our wallets, mine in my jacket, Liz’s in the purse she still carried on her shoulder. I found mine first and handed over my drivers license. The male cop studied it while we waited for Liz to dig through her purse. She finally produced the matching wallet and handed her license to the cop as well.
“You say the tenant is your client?” the cop demanded.
“He is,” I replied. “We�
��re attorneys.”
“He can afford two attorneys?” the male cop asked in disbelief.
“It’s pro bono,” Liz said with a dazzling smile.
“A pro bono case with two attorneys,” the male cop said suspiciously.
Liz and I both nodded, but we refused to say anything else.
“Right, attorney-client privilege,” the female cop said in an overly dramatic voice.
“Go on up and check,” the male cop ordered. “Make sure it’s clear.”
The female cop nodded and started up the stairs. When she reached the top, she pulled her gun from her holster and I saw her slowly enter the apartment. The rest of us waited in silence for several heartbeats, and then the cop reappeared on the landing.
“It’s clear,” she shouted down. “There’s a couple of briefcases in here.”
“Those would be ours,” I called back.
“Figured as much,” she replied as she headed back into the apartment.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you were here,” the cop asked.
“We were concerned,” I said. “Mr. Lamon hadn’t returned my calls.”
“So you came by to check on him,” the cop snickered.
“Something like that,” I said.
There was another long, drawn out silence and then the cop pulled out his notepad and wrote down our names and license numbers. He then returned the licenses to us, and signalled us to wait a moment more. We could hear the female cop’s heavy boots as she descended the stairs, and I glanced in her direction as she stomped down the last few steps and joined us once again.
“Can’t tell if anything’s missing,” the female cop declared.
“What about you two?” the male cop asked.
“Same,” I replied.
The cop shook his head, then seemed to debate what to do next. “Did you get a look at the guy?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “Dark hair, dark eyes, thick mustache. About my height.”
“He had on jeans and a hoodie,” Liz added.
“That narrows it down,” the female cop huffed.
