by Dave Daren
“What evidence?” I asked as I finally allowed my frustration to creep into my voice.
“Evidence that directly ties your client to Ms. Mott’s murder,” Ordman sniffed.
“There is no such evidence,” I replied. “And that I can prove. I can also prove that some of your so-called evidence was added to the apartment later.”
There was another long pause, though I could still hear Ordman’s breathing on the other end of the phone. He took another sip from the can, a sound which was strangely magnified by the phone, and then I heard him set the can down with a hard thud.
“Is that so?” Ordman said calmly, though I thought I could detect a twinge of panic there as well.
“We have photos,” I explained. “Taken immediately after we confronted the burglar. Some of your evidence is not in the apartment.”
“It’s easy enough to alter an image,” Ordman replied.
“And easy enough to prove it wasn’t altered,” I said.
“What are you suggesting?” Ordman snapped.
“It took a long time for the police to search my client’s apartment,” I replied calmly. “And items appeared that weren’t there before. It should be obvious what I’m suggesting.”
“Even if it did take the police longer than usual to search the apartment, your client could have easily returned at any point during that time frame,” Ordman pointed out.
“Except that he didn’t,” I replied. “And why would he leave evidence if he had returned?”
“According to your client,” Ordman said. “He never returned. And he left the evidence because he thought the police had already checked the apartment.”
There were so many things wrong with that statement, but Ordman clearly had his marching orders. He wasn’t going to back down, no matter how ridiculous his arguments became.
“And several witnesses,” I said. “Several witnesses will attest that he never returned.”
“Yes, about those witnesses,” Ordman chuckled. “Let me guess, a mother trying to protect her son, sisters trying to protect their baby brother, members of the father’s gang, and the man who is the father’s lieutenant by dint of his loyalty to anyone with the name Febbo. I’m sure the jury would be convinced by that.”
“There are other witnesses,” I insisted.
“I’m sure there are,” Ordman replied. “But your problem is how to prove where your client was twenty four hours a day for nearly a month.”
“I don’t need to prove it,” I said. “I just need enough jurors to not believe your version of the story.”
Ordman took another long sip from his can as he considered that particular bit of reality. We were at an impasse, and I was curious to see if he really wanted to pursue his attacks on me.
“I have no reason to doubt my witnesses,” Ordman finally said.
I sighed as I realized that Ordman was determined to see this through.
“I’m sure your witnesses are telling the truth,” I replied. “What they know of it. But all they can say is that they saw us leave the apartment. That’s not much to build a case on.”
“Evidence was missing after you left,” Ordman insisted.
“What evidence?” I demanded in an exasperated voice. “Are you really going to argue in front of the judge that two attorneys at their client’s home should have opened their briefcases and allowed the police to search them?”
“I am,” Ordman replied in a cold voice.
“No judge will agree with that,” I snapped.
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” Ordman said.
Ordman hung up, and I was left staring at the blank screen on my phone. Frustrated, I dropped the phone onto the sofa and debated the best way to counter Ordman’s claim. I had no idea what evidence he thought we had removed, or how he even intended to prove that anything had been removed. Neither of the police officers had been inside the apartment before that day other than that initial safety check, as far as I knew, and I doubted the downstairs neighbor could positively say that something had been removed. So who did that leave?
While I tried to work out Ordman’s angle, the phone rang again. It was an international number, and it took me a moment to recognize the code for London. I gave a little whoop, and promptly answered the call.
“Oh, good,” Liz declared when she heard my voice. “I don’t know why I’m always convinced that I’ve somehow dialed incorrectly when I have to use country codes.”
“I am so glad you called,” I replied.
“Asha sent me the DA’s motion but I didn’t read it until a few minutes ago,” she said apologetically.
“You’re busy, I know,” I assured her. “I actually just got off the phone with Ordman and I was trying to figure out his strategy.”
“What did Ordman say?” the tawny blonde asked. I could picture her at her new desk, her head tilted to one side the way she did when she talked on the phone, and her blue eyes focused on a point on one of the walls while she worked through the puzzle.
“He’s going to claim that we removed evidence in our briefcases when we were at Anthony’s apartment in Queens,” I replied. “He says he has witnesses, though I’m not sure who that would be. The police officers can testify that we didn’t let them search our briefcases, and the downstairs neighbor can admit to letting us in the building and then calling the police when he heard the fight, but I doubt he can testify as to whether something was taken from the apartment.”
There was a long silence as Liz sorted through what I’d learned from Ordman.
“He’s only asked for you to be removed,” she noted. “But it sounds like he’s going to suggest that we were both involved.”
“It does,” I agreed. “And I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” she laughed. “I’m a big girl. I can handle shits like Ordman.”
“I never doubted it,” I replied.
“So, he must have someone who will claim that something was taken,” she mused.
“That would have to be someone who had a reason to be in the apartment before we arrived,” I pointed out.
“That’s a pretty narrow list,” my co-counsel replied. “And a pretty narrow time frame.”
“I can’t come up with anyone who would have been there and who would then turn around and tell the DA that they had seen whatever this alleged evidence is in the apartment,” I sighed.
“Smells like another set up,” Liz replied. “Someone is really determined to keep Anthony out of the way.”
“I told Ordman that we could show that evidence had been added after we were there, but he didn’t seem impressed,” I said. “He seems really certain that this mystery witness will clinch the deal.”
“I already sent an email to Asha,” Liz replied. “She’s going to have color copies of all the pictures I took printed out and she’ll have the firm’s regular expert sign an affidavit stating that they haven’t been altered in any way and that the date and time are accurate. I’ve already prepared an affidavit for myself stating that I took the pictures and that they’re a fair representation of what we saw that day.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That should help.”
“Asha should have everything ready before the hearing,” she sighed. “I just wish I could be there in person. I’d love to kick Ordman’s ass.”
“I’ll see what I can do about that,” I laughed. “But seriously, thanks for helping with this.”
“You’ll let me know who the mystery witness is?” she asked.
“I will,” I assured her. “Though I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s another Marinello type. Someone who can be easily bribed to claim that something was removed from the apartment before the police searched it.”
“It’s all very confusing,” she sighed. “First, they add evidence, and now they’re trying to say we removed evidence.”
“I still think there’s different parties at work here,” I mused. “Each trying to take advantage of the other’s actions.”
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“So who did what?” she asked.
“I think the Serbians--” I began.
“Whoa, whoa,” she protested. “What Serbians?”
“Ah, yeah, sorry,” I said. “That’s something I’ve been looking into since you left. The Serbians are apparently now trying to take over the Mafia.”
“Are you serious?” she asked.
“I am,” I assured her. “But they’re not going about it in the usual bloody way. They’ve been insinuating themselves into the families and working their way up the ranks. At some point, it will become bloody when the Serbs make their final power grab.”
“Christ,” Liz muttered. “I’m suddenly very glad I’m in London.”
“And it’s not just the Mafia,” I added. “I’ve got a resource who claims the Serbs have people inside the police, the DA, and even the mayor’s office.”
“Well, that would explain the confusion in the DA’s office about who added or took away evidence,” Liz murmured.
“That’s what I think,” I agreed. “I also think it was the Serbs who hired Marinello.”
“That makes sense,” Liz mused. “He wouldn’t have to worry about disrupting the balance between the families because the Serbs aren’t family.”
“I’m not sure what they offered him,” I replied. “I would guess a substantial amount of money but I haven’t been able to find it if they ever paid him.”
“So who killed Giorgio?” she asked. “The Serbs or his own family?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “The location would suggest the Serbs might have been making a statement, but since they’ve been flying under the radar this long I can’t imagine why they would suddenly want to make a statement.”
“Maybe his family, then,” she suggested. “For breaking faith with the family and working for the Serbs.”
“Maybe,” I replied. “But I can’t totally discount the Febbos. Not that I want to believe our client would allow such a thing.”
“But someone loyal to the Febbos might have made the decision on their own,” she said. “As a show of loyalty to the new capo.”
“But then why not boast about what they had done?” I asked.
“Who says they haven’t?” she responded. “Do you really think Anthony would tell you if someone had come to him and said that the Marinello problem had been solved?”
I thought back over Anthony’s behavior since the news of Marinello’s death had spread.
“He definitely didn’t know when I called to tell him,” I said a moment later. “I would swear to that. He was at a meeting of the family capos that day trying to work on a truce.”
“Maybe someone approached him later,” she suggested.
“Maybe,” I mused. “But he was really upset by Marinello’s death. Aside from the problems it made for his own case, he seemed genuinely concerned that the murder could send the families into another war.”
“What about Kroger?” she asked.
“Normally, I’d say yes,” I agreed. “Mostly just as a way to keep Anthony busy and away from the business. But the murder was a huge risk for the business, and if his goal is to take over, I don’t think he would want to put it in danger like that.”
“So we’re back to the Serbs or one of the other families,” she said.
“That’s my feeling as well,” I replied. “But I guess I’ll know more after the hearing tomorrow.”
“This sounds like a mess, Hunter,” Liz sighed. “And messes involving the Mafia don’t usually end very well for anyone.”
“They’re fighting for their survival and I’m not even sure they realize it,” I replied.
“Even more reason for you to be careful,” my co-counsel replied. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise,” I agreed. “No rides with strangers.”
“Good,” she replied.
I heard something that sounded like an old-fashioned PA system in the background, and then Liz sighed.
“Gotta go,” she said. “We’re apparently having a fire drill.”
“Now?” I asked in surprise as I tried to remember what time it was in London.
“It was supposed to be earlier in the day, but the alarm wouldn’t go off,” she snickered. “They just installed some high-tech fire equipment and no one could figure out how to manually activate the alarm.”
“Go,” I chuckled. “I’ll call you after the hearing tomorrow.”
Liz hung up but I had to admit that our conversation had helped. I had been angry and even a bit worried after talking to Ordman as I tried to work out what he had planned, but Liz had managed to convince me that I was more than up to the challenge even if my co-counsel hadn’t used those exact words.
I started to draw a chart of the various people, groups and organisations that were involved in the case and how they linked together. I had some notion that if I could figure out who Ordman was helping, I could work out what he was going to present at the hearing. It turned out to be a complicated list, and I soon moved to the floor just to find enough room for all the links.
I was staring at the complicated map I’d created and trying to figure out ways to simplify it when I heard the phone ring again. I was tempted to ignore it since I really wanted to work on my defense, but since my brain hadn’t come up with any solutions for narrowing down my list of suspects, I picked up the phone and answered the call.
“Mr. Morgan,” a breathless voice whispered. “I’m following your instructions and calling you, instead of waiting.”
It took me a moment to identify the voice, but when I did, I was on full alert.
“Geraldine?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s me,” she confirmed. “And I wanted to let you know that someone is in Francie’s old apartment.”
“Did you see who it was?” I asked as I found my shoes and started to slip them back on.
“No,” she admitted. “I just heard someone in the hallway and didn’t pay any attention until I realized that they had gone into one of the apartments across the hall. I opened the door just to confirm that, and I’m quite sure it’s Francie’s apartment, not Wendy’s.”
“I’m on my way,” I said as I grabbed up my car keys. “But you should call the police.”
“Nonsense,” she insisted. “They won’t listen to me. Or they’ll just tell me it’s the maintenance man. But I know it’s not Julio. I know what his steps sound like.”
“Then just stay inside your apartment,” I replied as I locked my apartment door and sprinted down the hall. “Don’t confront anyone.”
“I’d never do that,” she assured me. “You’ll call me when you arrive? So I can let you in?”
“I will,” I agreed. “Look, I’m almost to my car. Will you call if the person leaves?”
“Of course,” she said and then hung up.
I prayed the drive to Queens would go smoothly, and I almost dialed 9-1-1 to report the break-in. But I didn’t think Geraldine would appreciate me calling in the police on her behalf, and I was really curious to know who was mucking about at a crime scene. Besides, everything the police had done in the case to that point didn’t inspire any confidence in the department.
I did a quick check for traffic, and then pulled out of the garage. The tires squealed as I made the corner, and I had to smile. I may not have a Dodge Viper at my disposal, but my old Volvo could still haul ass when I needed it.
Chapter 27
I managed to avoid the worst of the road construction, and only hit one small batch of traffic. Otherwise, the trip to Queens was smooth and quick, and I even found a spot a block away from Francie’s building. I pulled into the spot just before a guy in a white Acura could claim it. The guy honked in protest, but I was already out of the car and running towards the building while he was still rolling down his windows to yell at me.
I skidded to a halt in front of the door, but no one answered when I pounded on the glass, so I gave up and called Geraldine’s number instead.
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sp; “I’m here,” I said as soon as she answered.
“Good,” she replied, “because the other person is still there.”
The door buzzed, and I yanked the door open. I sprinted past Julio as he emerged from the business center and skipped past the elevator. I charged up the stairs, and finally stopped to catch my breath for a moment at the third floor. I walked as casually as I could down the hallway, then stopped outside Francie’s apartment. The fresh yellow tape was gone again, and as Geraldine had warned, I could hear someone moving around inside. I twisted the door knob as slowly as I could and wasn’t at all surprised to find that the door was unlocked.
I eased the door open and checked inside. I didn’t see anyone right away, and I realized the footsteps I’d heard had been heading for the bedroom. I stepped inside as quietly as I could and followed the sounds of someone opening drawers in the bedroom. I was almost there when the person stopped whatever the hell they were doing. I froze in place, and the interloper must have as well. There was no sound for several seconds, and then footsteps ran across the bedroom floor.
There was little time to do much more than brace myself as a bulky form filled the doorway. I raised my fists, then saw the gun in the other man’s hand. I really needed to finish the paperwork for my own license, I decided, if I made it out of the apartment alive.
“You’re the fracking lawyer,” the large shape declared.
The stranger stepped forward and I recognized Detective Archer, the man who had taken control of the Febbo investigation. He was the epitome of a goon, with a large, slightly rounded body, a thick neck, and a pale head topped with greasy brown hair. I’d never seen him with anything other than an angry squint on his face, though the lip curl of distaste was new. For a moment, I wasn’t sure he would lower the gun.
“Nice to see you, Detective Archer,” I replied. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” the detective snapped. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I asked first,” I said as I fell back on that old playground defense.
The detective chuckled, a mirthless sound, but he lowered the gun and tucked it into a holster on his belt buckle.
