Running From the Law

by Lisa Scottoline

  And he was upping the ante.

  * * *

  It used to be that the billboards along I-95 North had directions to Sesame Place in Langhorne, and Big Bird pointed the way with a feathery index finger. Now the billboards advertised the casinos in Atlantic City. POKERMANIA. HIGHROLLERS. QUARTERMANIA. The Casinos took in $350 mil last month. Bigger business than Big Bird, any day.

  I was still in gardening disguise, driving to the home of my favorite motorcyclist, Tim Price. He’d been ignoring my calls, but the shorter tone on his machine signaled he’d been retrieving his messages. I was hoping I could scare him with pruning shears during my interrogation, and if that failed, federal court litigation. I was organizing my threats when I got a call on the car phone.

  It was Lieutenant Dunstan, from the Radnor police. “I’d like you to come in to the station, Ms. Morrone.”

  I had expected he’d still be unhappy with me. The radio news was already reporting that a lawyer had found the murder weapon. “Look, Lieutenant, I’m sorry about this morning. I know I should have notified you I was going to the crime scene—”

  “It’s not about that, Ms. Morrone,” he said tightly.

  “What then?” I passed the billboard for Trump Castle. SLOTS OF ACTION. SLOTS OF MAGIC.

  “We have some information for you.”

  “About the knife?”

  “No, as I told you, the testing will take some time. It’s about the shooting at your father’s store.”

  My pulse quickened. “Is there a lead?”

  “The Philadelphia police called here, after they couldn’t reach you. They found the man who they believe did it. He was found dead, out by the airport.”

  Dead? “Who was he?”

  Papers rustled on the other end of the phone. “A thug, in and out of jail.”

  “How do they know he’s the one who did it?”

  “He had a gun on him, a nine-millimeter Beretta, that ballistics matched to the bullet found in the young man who was killed.”

  Poor LeVonne. “They can do that?”

  “Sure. When a bullet lodges in soft tissue, it maintains its integrity. They match the markings, like engravings.”

  So they had LeVonne’s killer, who was himself dead. I felt a bitter sort of satisfaction.

  “The shooter’s name was Danny Suri. His last known residence was in Port Richmond.”

  Also in Northeast Philly, not far from the motorcyclist’s. “Could this Suri have known Tim Price? Have you met with Price, Lieutenant? Have you questioned him?”

  “We haven’t been able to locate him for questioning, but we investigated him thoroughly. He has no prior criminal record.”

  “Did you know he was living with Patricia Sullivan?”

  “Sure we did. We checked him out, Ms. Morrone, regardless of what you suggested at the preliminary hearing. We knew about Price as soon as we found the motorcycle. A woman couldn’t drive a 750, not in a BMW.”

  Sexist. “Why not?”

  “She wouldn’t be strong enough to hold it up at a stoplight.”

  Oh. “Could Price know this Suri? Is there a connection?” I passed a billboard that said BET THE PONIES BY PHONE—PHILADELPHIA PARK. Underneath was an 800 number.

  “We have no evidence of any connection. Suri was a thug with a long criminal record. Assault, aggravated assault, two robbery convictions by age twenty-five.”

  “But why would Suri rob a butcher shop? My father made next to nothing, and it showed.”

  “There’s evidence of drug use. He was in and out of rehab, for cocaine use.”

  I remembered what Paul had told me. “Price did cocaine, too. Maybe they met each other in some rehab place?”

  Dunstan paused on the other end of the line. “The Philadelphia police say Suri’s services were for hire.”

  “What services?”

  “He roughs people up.”

  “But who would hire somebody to hurt LeVonne?” It didn’t make sense. Then I thought of what my father had said in the hospital. LeVonne gave his life for me. LeVonne didn’t call me in. Of course. “Lieutenant Dunstan, what if Suri was hired to hurt my father? Rough him up? Even kill him?” I heard my voice sounding panicky.

  “Why don’t you come to the station? I prefer not to discuss this over a mobile phone.”

  A stall, I’d used that trick myself. “Do you have evidence that connects Suri to my father in any way, Lieutenant? Or to me, or the Hamilton case?”

  “We have no evidence like that at this point. That would be speculating, Ms. Morrone.”

  “So speculate.”

  “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  But I would. “It’s not your father, Lieutenant.” My hand knotted around the steering wheel. Had somebody tried to harm my father and killed LeVonne in the process? Did somebody want me distracted, warned off the case? Was my father in danger, even now? Rage swept through me, and fear. I floored the gas pedal, cut a swath through the grassy median, and picked up the highway going south, back toward the city.

  “Ms. Morrone?” It was the lieutenant, right in the middle of my felony-level moving violation.

  “I have to go, Officer,” I said, hanging up. My thoughts raced along with the car. Would Paul do such a thing? Would Fiske or Kate? And how did Price know Suri? How did any of them know Suri? I couldn’t puzzle it out anymore and I didn’t want to. It was time to end it.

  Time to flush the killer out. Nobody would threaten my father again. Nobody would kill another innocent.

  I flew toward the city and in no time got a bead on William Penn, standing atop the clock tower of City Hall, one of the most beautiful buildings in my hometown. I’d known that clock tower all my life, visited it with my father as a child. He used to take me up the skinny elevator inside the tower and we’d pass behind the huge yellow clock face, past the oiled brass gears as they ground time forward. The dark innards spooked me, and I would hold tight to my father’s hand. Now someone had attacked him, threatened him.

  I had to do something about it, but the first order of business was to make sure he was safe. I called his room and told Cam to stay with him, that I’d explain later. I hung up the phone, lost in thought, blowing past billboards and exits. The speedometer needle edged upward and the engine surged in response. I wished my brain worked as good as this car. I needed a plan.

  YOU GOTTA PLAY TO WIN, read a billboard for the Pennsylvania Lottery.

  “Damn straight,” I said, but the slogan stayed with me. Resonating.

  You gotta play to win. I knew how to play games. I knew how to win. If the killer was playing a game, then I would play, too. And I would win. It took me until the Callowhill exit to figure out how. I would go with my specialty.

  A bluff.

  24

  My father snored loudly as Sal, Cam, and Herman watched over him, like the three wise men in retirement. I sat down and explained my plan to them, scanning their tense, lined faces for the resistance I had expected, but they proved me wrong. They had lived through Depression and World War. Herman had even survived the Bulge. There was steel in them, no matter how frail they appeared, and they were ready to avenge my father and LeVonne. They thought the bluff would work.

  “Then Monday it is,” I said.

  Herman folded his arms. “Why wait ‘til then? Why not now?”

  “I want it to happen at the busiest time. It’s dead there on the weekends.”

  “Bad choice of words,” Cam said, without mirth.

  Herman nodded. “All right, Monday. We got LeVonne’s funeral on Sunday anyways.”

  We fell silent a minute. Only Sal hadn’t said anything yet. His forehead had fallen into customary creases of anxiety and he’d shed his Burberry in favor of short sleeves and chalky elbows.

  “You in, Mr. Livemore?” I said to him. “You said you wanted to do more lawyer stuff.”

  “This ain’t exactly what I meant, Ree.”

  “I know. Still, you game?”

  “I don�
�t think this is such a good idea. You could get hurt.”

  “That’s what I need you for. You three are my protection. My backup.”

  “You don’t want to tell your father?”

  “Are you kidding? He hates when I work late, you think he’d want me to do this?”

  “How about the police?”

  “I don’t think they’d go for it. Besides, we’re all we need, Sal. You know anybody who plays better poker than us?”

  Cam smiled, so did Herman. Sal’s eyes lingered on my father, but he didn’t say anything.

  I couldn’t wait for an answer. I picked up the hospital phone and dialed what I knew would be the motorcyclist’s answering machine. The tone was short, the kid was still retrieving his messages. I left the message laying out the bluff. This message he wouldn’t ignore, if he were the killer. I hung up the phone and Cam smiled.

  “Way to go, kiddo,” he said, and Herman nodded.

  Sal folded his knobby arms, still looking at my father.

  “Uncle Sal?” I asked.

  “I’m in,” he said after a minute. “I’m in.”

  “Good.” I got up to go. “Then I’m outta here.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  “The Hamiltons. Let the game begin.”

  25

  Kate answered the door, distracted. Her half-glasses perched precariously atop her nose and a Nikon Sure Shot hung around her neck. “Oh, Rita. Come along, dear. Come see what I’m up to.”

  Planning another murder? This woman needs a job.

  “You’ve never seen this, I believe,” she said. “Not all of it anyway.” She led me into her large country kitchen with custom pine cabinets and sparkling white countertops. Stacked everywhere were decorative plates, vases, and cups in the same colorful pattern as those displayed on the kitchen walls. No bloody knives were in evidence, so I relaxed.

  “What are you doing, Kate?”

  “How’s this for a project?” Spread out on a rustic pine table was a piece of black velvet, and on top of it sat a plate. “I’ve been wanting to get to this for a long time,” she said, then leaned over the plate and snapped a picture.

  “You’re taking a picture of a dish?” Definitely needs a job.

  “Not just any dish, it’s Quimper. French faience. Pottery that’s made in Brittany.” She picked up the dish, turned it over, and showed it to me. On the back was a black squiggle. “See this mark? It’s a P, for Charles Porquier. He introduced the first mark of the house. This lone P is an extremely rare signature.”

  “Why are you photographing it?”

  She set the plate down with care and took a picture of the P. “For insurance purposes. I have a hundred and fifty pieces, if you include the knife rests, the wall pockets, everything.” She waved at a hutch crammed with plates. “The collection is worth, oh, sixty thousand dollars.”

  If I had been drinking coffee I would have spit it out, but she hadn’t offered me any.

  “You seem tired, dear.” She removed the plate from the velvet and returned it to the hutch. “How is your father? Improving?”

  It reminded me of my purpose. “He’s fine, thanks.”

  “I’m so glad. This must be quite a stressful time for you.”

  “For you, too. The reporters everywhere, Fiske in trouble. Actually, I’ve been working on a way to solve this murder. I came to tell you and Fiske about it. Is he around?”

  “Upstairs in his library.” She removed a plate from the wall, dislodging it slowly from its hooks, and set it down on the velvet. “Fiske got himself in trouble, dear. He’ll get himself out of it. He’s formulated a plan of his own, he’ll tell you about it.”

  I didn’t know if I’d heard her correctly. “What?”

  “Isn’t he the one who started this? With his little affair?”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Affair?”

  She smiled tightly over her glasses. “He has a midlife crisis, so he trifles with his secretary. It’s not exactly unheard-of.”

  So she knew?

  “Don’t look so surprised, dear. Of course I knew he was having an affair. I’ve lived with the man for forty years, married him right out of Bryn Mawr. Never even finished my degree.” Her tone sounded bitter, but I couldn’t read her expression because she bent over and stuck a Nikon in front of her face. “This piece is my absolute favorite,” she said from behind the camera.

  “You knew, but you never let on?”

  “No. In fact, when he told me about it this morning, I acted very surprised. Aren’t men foolish?”

  “He told you, this morning?” What was going on?

  “Oh yes. It’s all part of his grand design. Endgame, he calls it. Will you look at the work in that plate? It’s all hand-painted, you know.” She picked up the plate and held it up. Orange and blue flowers ringed the border and in the center was a peasant woman in a white cap and full orange skirt. “Isn’t she lovely?”

  Frankly, no. The woman’s face was crudely painted, with only one or two lines to represent her features. “She looks kind of blank, don’t you think?”

  “Naïf.”

  “What, she looks naive?” I was projecting.

  “No. It’s the style. Naïf. Primitive.”

  Enough with the fucking dishes. “How did you know about Fiske?”

  Her face dropped even its tight smile and she set the plate down. “He was like a young man again, happy as a lark. That’s why I think it was the first time he … strayed, because I hadn’t seen him so happy.”

  Ironic. I thought of Paul. He’d cheated and he still wasn’t happy. “Did you tell Fiske you knew?”

  “No.”

  “You weren’t angry?” Angry enough to kill?

  “No.” She shrugged in her thin cotton sweater.

  “You didn’t think about breaking up?”

  She snapped another photo and looked up at me. “Why would I, dear? Fiske and I grew up together. We’ve built a life, a home. Why would I throw that away? Why would he? I knew he’d get over it.” She turned away and flipped the plate over, back to business.

  So Fiske didn’t tell her he’d loved Patricia, and she wouldn’t admit it to herself anyway. I eyed the plates hanging on the kitchen walls, seeing them as if for the first time. Each one depicted a man or a woman standing in profile, with the men facing right and the women facing left. Kate had hung the dishes in pairs, so the men and women faced each other. Still, their faces remained unsmiling and expressionless. She could put them together, but she couldn’t make them happy couples.

  Nobody could.

  “Ah, Rita,” Fiske boomed as I entered his library. “Good to see you.”

  I hadn’t seen him this happy since his arrest. What a screwy family. “Fiske, how are you?”

  “Fine, just fine, thanks. I’m in control now. I’m not stepping down. I told the chief judge.”

  “Good. I stopped by because I have something to discuss with you. Kate said she’d be up in a minute—”

  “Do you know why I like the Royal Game, Rita?” He waved exuberantly at the chessboards resting on the long polished table.

  Huh? “What?”

  “Chess. I like it because of what it teaches us about battle, about conflict. It originated as a game of war, you know, in India, in the sixth century. One of the grandmasters, Lasker, said that chess was a fight in which the ‘purely intellectual element holds sway.’”

  “Really.” Between him and Kate it was a regular university around here.

  “It didn’t occur to me until today, until I saw the headline calling me ‘embattled.’ I thought, that’s what I am. In battle.” He looked up and smiled. “In battle.”

  I get it. “Fiske, listen—”

  “There’s power in these pieces, properly used. Take this one, for example.” He held up the White Queen. “She has the greatest range, the greatest striking power, on an open board. A full twenty-seven squares at the center of the board.” He twisted the piece between his thumb and forefin
ger. “She may take from one or two squares away, but she may also take from a great distance. Then she is the most effective. You don’t see her coming, she blind-sides. Just like a woman, eh?” He set the Queen down and laughed, but I didn’t.

  “Fiske—”

  “Do you know what Ben Franklin said about chess, Rita? That it can teach us life lessons.”

  Wrong. Chess is not life, poker is life. When games collide.

  “I have Franklin’s essay right here. I was reminded of it after I saw the headline.” He reached for a book on the shelf behind him and thumbed through it. “Here we go. Franklin, in The Morals of Chess, writes that chess teaches us perseverance, for one ‘discovers the means of extricating one’s self from an insurmountable difficulty’ and ‘one is encouraged to continue the contest to the last.’ Isn’t that wonderful, Rita?”

  “I guess.”

  He snapped the book closed. “Well, I’m extricating myself. The King is powerful, too, and although his striking distance is shorter than the Queen’s, he takes justly. Face-to-face, not from a distance. Each time he attacks, he places himself at great risk, simply because of his proximity. Nevertheless, he looks his enemy in the eye—and he takes.” Fiske inhaled as if inspired. “Did you know that in the endgame, the King cannot be mated in the middle of the board? He must be driven to the edge. Now I ask you, why should I permit myself to be driven to the edge?”

  “You shouldn’t.” It had finally happened. Fiske had turned into a White King.

  He slammed the book to the table so hard the chesspieces wobbled. “But I have, Rita! By the press, by the chief judge, by Julicher, by every women’s group in the city. By every minor player on the board. And I’ve had it! So I’m fighting back, and I’ve already made the first move.”

  “Telling Kate?”

  He paused. “Why, yes. She told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “An aggressive gambit, my own application of the Sicilian defense. Do you know what she said, my lovely wife? She was terribly hurt, but she said she’d forgive me.”