by Dave Daren
“I’ll call it in,” the male cop said. “But if there’s no one here to file a complaint, then they won’t bother with sending anyone to investigate.”
“I’ll file a complaint,” the neighbor declared. “I live in this building, too.”
The male cop nodded then pointed his companion towards the open door to the neighbor’s apartment.
“Why don’t we get started on that report,” the female cop suggested as she led the man back to his apartment.
When the two were out of sight, the male cop turned to look at us again.
“Okay, you can go,” he said. “But I will hunt your asses down if I find out you’re to blame for this.”
“We need our briefcases,” Liz stated as she met the cop’s stare with her own steely gaze.
“Yeah, yeah,” the cop said. “I need to check them before you leave, make sure you’re not stealing anything.”
“We have confidential files in those,” I replied. “There’s no way you can look inside.”
“Besides, a closed briefcase is not ‘plain sight’,” Liz added for good measure.
“I hate lawyers,” the cop mumbled as he waved us up the stairs.
We quickly retrieved our briefcases and then returned to the main floor. The neighbor’s door was still cracked open, and it sounded like he was in the middle of a long monologue about every crime that had ever occurred on the block. The second cop stood just outside the door to the apartment, and he gave us a quick look as we crossed to the door to the old mudroom. We managed to slip outside before he could say anything, and we hustled to the end of the block before either of us spoke.
“It’s probably too much of a coincidence that someone was going through our client’s apartment,” my tawny-haired co-counsel sighed as we stopped on the corner.
“I wonder what he was doing,” I said. “It didn’t look like anything was missing.”
“Maybe adding something,” Liz suggested.
“What, like a bloody knife or a bag of heroin?” I asked.
“Well, it would be a nice way to nail down his guilt,” she pointed out. “At least, as far as the police are concerned.”
I glanced back towards the building, then looked at Liz.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that the police haven’t been there yet?” I asked. “I know it was late when he was arrested last night, but shouldn’t someone have been by already to at least do a check for potential weapons?”
“It is weird,” she agreed.
The light finally changed and we started to cross the street, but a black Chrysler 300 pulled up in front of us. One of our fellow pedestrians started to curse at the car, but the passenger window rolled down to reveal a scowling man with a wicked scar from eye to chin and the pedestrian quickly decided to brave crossing the street without the benefit of the crosswalk.
“Mr. Morgan,” the passenger said as he turned his flat brown eyes on me and attempted a smile. It only made him look more gruesome and I felt Liz twitch in response.
“Do I know you?” I demanded.
“You do not,” the man said politely. “My name is Victor Nunzio. We have a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Anthony Febbo.”
I stiffened at the use of the name Febbo, as did Liz.
“I don’t believe I have a client named Anthony Febbo,” I replied as casually as I could.
“Let’s not play games, Mr. Morgan,” Nunzio said as he finally ditched the smile. “Anthony may be calling himself Lamon these days, but we both know his name is Anthony Febbo.”
“All right,” I said as the light changed again and the car behind the Chrysler honked its horn.
The driver’s door opened and a man in khakis and a polo shirt stepped out of the car. He was younger than the passenger, and definitely spent a great deal of time at the gym. He also sported a handgun on his waist and a Clint Eastwood squint. The other driver stopped honking and drove around the Chrysler, as did the cars behind that one. Apparently satisfied that the message had been delivered, the driver slowly climbed back inside the large car and a moment later the sound of the local traffic report filtered out from the open window.
“Mr. Febbo appreciates all that you’ve done for him,” Nunzio said after we watched the driver’s show. “As does his family. That’s why we’re here. Mr. Febbo senior would like to talk to you and express his appreciation in person.”
“I’m sure we could set up a meeting,” I said.
“Perhaps at a restaurant,” Liz added in her serious professional voice.
“Mr. Febbo would like to meet with you now,” Nunzio replied. “He has some important information to pass along.”
“Then he should make an appointment,” I reiterated.
“It don’t work that way,” the mobster replied with real menace.
“How did you know where I was?” I finally asked.
“Same way everyone knows these days,” Nunzio replied. “We pinged your phone. Anthony gave us the number.”
“You’ve seen Anthony?” the dusky blonde attorney demanded.
“He’s at his parents’ house,” Nunzio assured her. “And if you want to talk to him, you’ll have to talk to him there. He’s not planning on coming back into the city anytime soon.”
“So Salvatore paid the bail,” I guessed.
Nunzio made another attempt to smile but said nothing.
“I have a meeting this afternoon,” I said as I glanced at my watch.
“I’m sure you can reschedule,” Nunzio insisted.
“I’ll call you as soon as I’m back in the city,” I said as I turned towards Liz.
“Are you kidding?” she huffed. “Do you really think you’re going to get rid of me that easily?”
“Anthony mentioned he had two attorneys now,” Nunzio replied before I could. “His father would prefer to thank you both.”
Liz gave me a grim smile as she opened the rear door.
“You first,” she said. “It’s easier to slide across in pants than in a skirt.”
I shook my head, but I knew I was going to take that ride. The second request would continue on whether or not I was there, and while I would probably draw flack from Noble and Ovitz for my absence, I could truthfully say that I had been sucked into a meeting with another client at the last minute. What I didn’t want was for Liz to be drawn into this, but it was clear that she intended to be a part of the meeting as well, and short of knocking her out in the middle of the sidewalk, I had no way to prevent her from joining me.
So we both slid into the backseat, which was covered in a soft and supple leather that filled the air with a subtle perfume. There were TV screens for each passenger, along with an array of cupholders and various buttons with mysterious purposes. Everything about the car, from the wood trim to the multiple-speaker sound system, spoke of money and comfort. And as the car eased through a red light and navigated around a large pothole, I had to admit that I had never had such a smooth ride in my life.
The ride brought us to the LIE, and from there we ventured into the wilds of Long Island. We drove past exits with familiar names like Syosset and Bethpage, and around the Brookhaven National Laboratory. At Riverhead, we turned onto a small two-lane road that led us past a vineyard and a pair of family farms before we turned again, this time onto a street lined with large, stately homes.
The Chrysler turned into a curving driveway lined with oak and chestnut trees. The foliage was thick enough to hide the house until the car passed the last tree and we found ourselves in front of a mansion that looked like it had been flown in directly from the Bay of Naples. There was the fountain with the semi-nude woman in front, the red tile roof, more Corinthian columns than I felt like counting, and two square towers on either end. The stucco had been painted a pale yellow, except the towers which were a terra cotta color.
The car stopped in front of the massive wood doors, and as we stepped out of the backseat, one of the doors swung open and a man with a bad toupee and a gray tracksuit bounded down the four steps to
greet us. He waved to Nunzio and the driver, who pulled away from the scene without acknowledging the new arrival. He tried to keep the smile on his face, despite the snub, and snatched my hand for a handshake before I could pull away.
“Welcome, welcome,” the man said. “I’m really happy to meet you.”
“Um, okay,” I replied. “I’m Hunter Morgan, and this is my associate, Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Oh, forgive me, I should have introduced myself first,” the man said as he finally released my hand and started up the steps. “I’m Michael Lamon.”
“Anthony’s uncle,” Liz guessed.
“On his mother’s side,” Uncle Michael agreed with a vigorous nod that threatened to dislodge his hairpiece. “Gulia called me earlier to tell me about Anthony’s legal difficulties, and I came over to comfort her. I must say, I was impressed with what you did for him on that trumped up assault charge.”
I shared a glance with Liz, but didn’t say anything in response.
“Ah, here we are,” Uncle Michael said as we stepped inside a massive foyer.
It was two stories tall and featured a sweeping staircase, a massive chandelier that looked like it had been stolen from Versailles, and more nude statues scattered around the room. The corners were occupied by potted palms, which provided the bulk of the color in a space that featured a black and white marble floor and white walls. As we drank in the sight, another door opened and a man with black hair and Anthony’s ears strode toward us.
“Mr. Morgan, Miz Bennet, thank you for coming,” the man said. “I’m Salvatore Febbo, Anthony’s father.”
“I wasn’t aware we had a choice,” the leggy blonde standing next to me murmured as Salvatore grasped our arms rather than our hands.
“One always has a choice,” Salvatore assured her. “But please, come in and meet the family.”
Salvatore swept us towards the open door while Uncle Michael followed in our wake. We found ourselves in a sun-filled room with a view of a terrace and acres of rolling grass. There were no statues though the room was certainly large enough to accommodate several. There were, however, clusters of chairs and tables and a black Steinway grand piano shined to within an inch of its life. Most of the furniture looked like it had been built several centuries ago, and the flattened cushions and faded fabric did not look comfortable. Fortunately, the family was gathered on a more modern set of chairs and sofa just behind the piano.
Anthony stood up as we approached and he managed to look both angry and bashful. He greeted us with a quiet ‘hello’, then looked towards his father.
“You’ve met my father,” Anthony finally said when Salvatore refused to speak. “And Uncle Michael. This is my mother, Gulia Febbo.”
We turned to a Gulia, a stunning woman even in her late fifties. Her brown hair was still thick and glossy and her gray-green eyes sparkled with mischief. Her brilliant smile revealed dimpled cheeks that were fresh and rosey enough to be the envy of women everywhere.
“Welcome to our home,” Gulia said with only the faintest accent. “Anthony only just told us how much you’ve done for him or we would have had you out sooner.”
“Just happy to help,” I said inanely.
“And these two are my sisters, Ella and Cathy,” Anthony added as he motioned towards the other two women in the room. They were pretty, but not beautiful like their mother. It was as if they had each received only a small portion of their mother’s beauty, like Ella’s lustrous hair or Cathy’s dimpled cheeks, but none had the complete package.
“Annie, that’s my other sister, said she’d try to be here for dinner,” Anthony said as we finished shaking hands.
“Dinner?” I asked in surprise. Of course, my stomach rumbled at the very thought of food, and I realized all I had eaten all day had been the cereal and donuts.
“Of course,” Gulia insisted. “Didn’t Victor tell you?”
“He mentioned a meeting,” I replied.
Anthony rolled his eyes and slumped back in his spot on the sofa. Gulia looked surprised at first, then disappointed. I had no doubt that Victor would be properly chastised, and I also had no doubt that Gulia would be the winner in that showdown.
“Well, I did want to meet with you,” Salvatore declared. “Perhaps Miz Bennet would enjoy a stroll with the ladies? The garden’s quite nice right now.”
“Ms. Bennet is my co-counsel for the current matter,” I replied, careful not to say too much since I had no idea how much Anthony had really told his parents, or how much he wanted them to know.
“And we can discuss that as well,” Salvatore said. “But I would first like to talk about the traffic incident.”
I glanced at Liz, and while she would normally have been put off by the apparent sexist attitude, I saw a speculative look cross her face as she studied the Febbo women and something sparked in those blue eyes. She turned towards me with a forced smile and nodded.
“I would love to see the garden,” my co-counsel agreed as she gave Salvatore a pleasant smile.
“Anthony, you come with us,” Gulia insisted as she stood up. “And Michael, perhaps you can find some of that lemonade and meet us outside?”
With the marching orders now given, Gulia and her children stood as one and started towards the French doors that led to the terrace. Liz waggled her eyebrows at me, then joined them on the sunlit expanse of smooth stone. While Uncle Michael retreated through yet another door, Salvatore signalled me to follow him. We returned to the foyer, then climbed the stairs to the second floor, where three long hallways confronted us, one towards the left, one towards the right, and one straight ahead.
Salvatore strode straight ahead, where a dark red carpet muffled his steps and a long line of painted portraits watched us pass by. Many of the portraits featured people in clothing from four or five hundred years ago, and I wondered if the paintings were really that old or if they had been commissioned as part of the interior design plan. It was hard to be sure without a more careful examination, but Salvatore set a fast pace and I wasn’t sure he would stop if I did. Not such a big deal, normally, but I didn’t want to get lost in the Febbo home, and when Salvatore suddenly turned down another hallway, I was glad I had decided to stick with him.
Salvatore finally stopped in front of a closed door, and looked back over his shoulder, probably to make sure I was still there. I gave him my stupid grin, just to let him know I had kept pace, and he frowned as if he might be having a few doubts about my brain power. He hesitated while I simply stared at him, and then he finally opened the door to his inner sanctum.
The office was not what I had expected given what the rest of the house looked like. It was about the size of the bedroom in my apartment, with forest green walls and recessed lighting. The desk was a modern piece with a peanut shaped surface made from a single large piece of wood. Bookcases lined the wall though most of the shelf space was taken up with knick knacks and oddities that probably held some meaning for Salvatore. There were also plenty of framed photos of the Febbo family down through the years on proud display next to the door where Salvatore could see them easily from his chair behind the desk.
“Sit,” Salvatore instructed as he moved around the desk to the maroon leather chair that sat in front of the window.
I obeyed and took a seat in one of the twin guest chairs that sat in front of the desk. The chair was wonderfully comfortable, and as I settled into its embrace, Salvatore shuffled a few pages of paper around his desk until he found a remote control. He pressed a few buttons, and then a whirring sound came from the credenza that sat against the wall just to my right. I glanced over in time to see a TV emerge from the depths, and once it was in position, the TV clicked on.
I recognized the face of a local reporter, but Salvatore quickly changed the channel. A European soccer match appeared with two unseen but excited announcers describing the action in Italian.
“Do you like football?” Salvatore asked as he watched the players streak down the field after a loose
ball.
“I played when I was a kid,” I replied.
“But you don’t watch?” he pressed.
“Sometimes,” I said with a shrug. “It isn’t the first sport I’ll look for.”
Salvatore watched the game for a few more minutes while I looked around the room again, then wondered why we had come up here. After the team in red scored to the consternation of the announcers, Salvatore turned off the volume and finally turned towards me again.
“You’re a clever man,” Febbo declared. “That’s the impression I have from Anthony.”
“Thank you,” I replied because I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Tell me, what do you think would have happened if you hadn’t gotten the assault charge dismissed?” he asked.
“I would have worked towards a settlement,” I replied. “Preferably one with the same result, though we might have had to accept a lesser assault charge and paid a larger fine.”
“And if it had gone to trial?” Febbo asked.
“I would have spent a lot of time talking about the police officer’s injury,” I said, “and the fact that he was back on the job so quickly. Raise questions about whether there really was an assault.”
Febbo nodded and looked at me again for several seconds.
“And this current business?” he asked. “What do you make of that?”
“I believe Anthony when he says he found Francine already dead,” I replied. “We haven’t had a chance to start our own investigation yet, but I think we can put together enough evidence to clear Anthony and maybe steer the police in the right direction.”
“You’ll talk to people,” Febbo mused.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“May I ask, who will you interview?” Febbo asked.
I pondered the question for a few moments while I tried to think of the best response.
“Mr. Febbo…” I began.
“Call me Salvatore,” he urged.
“Salvatore, I know you mean well, but you aren’t the client,” I explained. “I can’t discuss the case with you.”
“But I will be paying the bills,” Salvatore replied.
“No,” I said as I shook my head. “Anthony made it clear that he would only accept my help if you weren’t involved. I can’t go back on that.”
