Feared

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Hey, hi.” Paul scanned the room with his pale blue eyes, and Mary introduced Bennie, Anne, and Judy, sitting with Jim on the opposite side of the table.

  “Paul, I know your family from way back. Your sister Teresa went to Goretti with me.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Mary rolled out a black ergonomic chair and gestured Paul into it, while she sat down catty-corner to him.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Oh, I just thought I’d call you in. You don’t know us, but we’re the lawyers for London Technologies in this antitrust lawsuit. We meet from time to time to discuss it, but when I saw you going by, I wanted to say hi.”

  “Oh, hi,” Paul said slowly.

  “I remember your family. The youngest of seven, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You live next door to the Machiavelli family, don’t you?”

  Paul hesitated. “My parents do, I guess. I don’t live there now. I live in West Philly. Powellton.”

  “Right, near the Drexel campus.” Mary kept her gaze on him, in her best deposition mode, which is like being someone’s best frenemy. “You probably know Nick Machiavelli, he’s a lawyer in town.”

  “Um, yes, I guess I heard of him.”

  “But you knew them from the neighborhood, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I mean, I knew of the family.” Paul swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple prominent in his long neck.

  “But you’ve met Nick, haven’t you? You must have. His family lives next door to yours. He’s about my age, he’s your sister’s age. He went to Newman when we went to Goretti.”

  “Oh yeah, I think I know him.” Paul frowned, glancing again at Jim and Sanjay, and Mary could see that he was too young to be a good liar, which came with practice, or a law degree.

  “You probably see Nick from time to time when he goes home. He visits his mother all the time. She still lives in the same house, just like my mother. So South Philly, right?”

  “Yeah, I think she still does live there.”

  “And your mom, right? She still lives there, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, my father passed eleven years ago.”

  “I know, I was at the wake. You don’t remember, you were too little. But I went to pay my respects, for Teresa.”

  “Oh.” Paul flushed under his freckled skin and Mary could see she had struck a chord, namely guilt, which always worked with her people.

  “Nick goes home to visit his mother all the time. He brings all the neighborhood kids presents. He even gives out turkeys on Thanksgiving day, in the church parking lot.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Mary blinked, feeling for him. “You and your family probably got one of those turkeys, didn’t they, Paul?”

  “Yes.” Paul swallowed hard, looking down at his fingernails, which were bitten off at the end of long, slim fingers.

  “We did, too.” Mary put her hand on his arm. “I know what it feels like to need a hand, from time to time. But it’s not a crime to have less money than somebody else. Most people have been there, or they will be at sometime in their lives.”

  Paul nodded, downcast, but didn’t raise his head.

  “And it’s not even a crime to have somebody put you through college. I would’ve taken that, too. I had student loans until about last week.” Mary chuckled, patting his arm, though she didn’t take her hand off. “And somebody who’s really your friend, who really wants to help you, steps up and doesn’t ask something in return. It’s not a gift when somebody gives it expecting something in return.” Mary paused to let the words sink in. “Is it?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “So.” Mary moved her hand and let the moment pass. “Now’s your chance to talk to us and come clean. I know you want to, because I know how you were raised. You were raised just like Teresa and me. We all believe in the same things. Sometimes we lose our way, but we can forgive each other if we just come clean.”

  Paul sighed heavily, his skinny chest rising and falling in his T-shirt.

  “All you have to do is answer my questions and tell the truth. Okay, Paul?”

  “Okay,” Paul mumbled, then after a moment, he raised his head, looking at Jim and Sanjay with glistening eyes, his young forehead wrinkling into agonized lines. “I’m really sorry. I really am. I had to do it. I didn’t have a choice.”

  Sanjay didn’t answer, glowering, but Jim nodded. “We understand. Let’s straighten this out now. Let’s clear the air.”

  “Okay.” Paul nodded, jittery, then wiped his eyes, leaving pinkish streaks on his face.

  Mary smiled at him in an encouraging way. “I know this is hard but we’re going to get through this and we’re gonna make it better. So let me just ask you, is Machiavelli putting you through Drexel?”

  “Yes,” Paul answered, with a deep sigh.

  “How did that come about, did he approach you at some point and offer?”

  “Yes, when I was a junior at Newman. My mom could barely afford the tuition in high school. I was on the assistance program. I didn’t think I’d ever go to college. There was no way.”

  “I understand.”

  “And he didn’t tell me I had to do anything for it, that was what was amazing. It was like Santa Claus.” Paul flushed again. “But it was like a miracle. He said he would foot the bill, full ride. And he did. He does.”

  “How does he do that, physically?” Mary hadn’t figured that out yet and was dying to know.

  “Some company of his pays the tuition bill directly.”

  Mary could have guessed as much. “What’s the name of the company?”

  “Dilworth Corporation, LLC.”

  Mary made a mental note and she knew that Bennie, Judy, and Anne would never forget the name. In fact, if they could get on the phone to Lou now, they would have. “And Dilworth Corporation pays Drexel directly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever done any favors for him before this one?”

  “No,” Paul answered, after a moment.

  “But I’m guessing that one day, probably sometime in October or November, he came to you and asked for a favor, isn’t that right?”

  “He called me, yeah.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said I know you do some computer stuff, can you go try to get an internship with this company, London Technologies? Say you’ll work free.” Paul glanced at Jim and Sanjay again, his lower lip puckering with regret. “I really am sorry guys, I mean it.”

  Sanjay didn’t reply, and Jim merely nodded.

  “Paul, what did Machiavelli ask you to do, specifically?”

  “A couple things.” Paul looked down.

  “Which were?”

  “Basically, let him know what’s going on around here, about the lawsuit with Home Hacks and EXMS.” Paul began picking his fingernails. “Like if the lawyers ever come in and meet, let him know. Try and hear something. Make copies of anything that the lawyers send and get it to him, like that…” Paul let his sentence trail off, and Mary waited for him to finish, knowing there was more.

  Sanjay interjected sharply, “Paul, did you give him our code? For the software?”

  “Yes,” Paul admitted, hanging his head.

  “Oh God.” Sanjay grimaced. “That’s it! Game over!”

  Jim shook his head in disgust. “So they’ll become us, once they drive us out of the market.”

  “Not so fast, gentlemen,” Mary said, to them. She needed more information from Paul, so she resumed the questioning, in the same quiet tone. “So Paul, you gave him the code for the data integration software?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember when you did that?”

  “The first week I worked here.” Paul looked down, still picking his fingers.

  “Did you give him anything else with respect to the software?”

  “Bug fixes, patches, and code that I wrote for 2.1.”

  Sanjay shook his head
, saying nothing. Jim rubbed his forehead.

  Mary asked, “Other documents about the software or anything like that?”

  “Emails, but we don’t work that way.”

  “So most of the documents were on the lawsuit?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were they, emails or letters, things like that, relating to the lawsuit?” Mary glanced at Anne, whose green eyes flashed with anger.

  “Yes.” Paul looked up, pained.

  “How did you give him these documents? You didn’t email them, did you?”

  “No, nothing by email. He didn’t want anything traced.”

  “You didn’t meet Machiavelli directly, did you?”

  “No. He sent somebody to meet me, and I gave them to her.”

  “Who was she?”

  “I don’t know. She was short. Cute. Hot. I think she was, like, his assistant or something.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No, we never even talked.”

  “But she met you in person?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often did you meet her in the past six-month period?”

  Paul paused, in thought. “Probably ten times.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Always in the same place, Rittenhouse Square at lunchtime. On a bench. She would be eating her lunch, and I would sit down and put the documents inside a newspaper, then get up and go.” Paul rolled his eyes. “It was like I was CIA or something, like a spy.”

  Mary thought it sounded exactly like Machiavelli’s modus operandi. He probably had a network of these kids, doing his bidding in all sorts of enterprises, with him pulling the strings on an interconnected web of favors, like a second-rate Godfather. She felt appalled by the theft of business information, but she really wanted to focus on John’s murder. “Did you ever go to Machiavelli’s office and meet anybody else who worked for him?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been to his office?”

  “No.”

  “So the only contact you had lately with Machiavelli was when he made you this offer?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the only other contact you ever had with Machiavelli is through this woman?”

  “Yes.”

  Mary thought it over, because it wasn’t helping on the murder case. “Did she ever come with anybody in his organization, whom you think he used for security?”

  “No, she always came alone.”

  “How did you arrange the drop-offs?”

  “She texted on a burner phone. It was never the same number.”

  “Okay, so, Paul.” Mary leaned back, linking her fingers together. “I’m not well-versed in this area of the law, but I know enough to say that what you did is unlawful. It’s industrial espionage and theft of trade secrets. You probably know that, too, don’t you?”

  “I had to do it,” Paul said, stricken. “I owed him, and he said I owed him. He said I had to pay him back for the tuition he paid, plus interest. I don’t have that kind of money, I don’t have any money.”

  “You didn’t sign a contract to that effect, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Then he lied. If he offered you tuition money, he’s legally considered a volunteer, and you owe him nothing. Did you keep any notes of what you told him?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re going to need a lawyer.”

  “Where am I gonna get a lawyer?” Paul practically wailed. “I don’t have the money for that. Can you be my lawyer?”

  “No, I can’t be your lawyer and neither can any of us, because we represent London Technologies.”

  “Um, can I just ask you a question?” Paul asked, with a new fear in his eyes. “Are you going to tell my mother?”

  Mary blinked, not completely surprised. Italian-American mothers and sons were connected not by an umbilical cord, but a bungee cord.

  “Dude,” Sanjay chuckled, dryly. “I think Mommy’s going to find out. If we sue you or prosecute you.”

  “Oh no.” Paul’s lips parted, stricken. “She doesn’t know anything about Machiavelli.”

  Mary didn’t get it. “But she has to know that he pays your college tuition.”

  “No, she doesn’t, she would kill me if she thought I took money from Machiavelli.” Paul’s words sped up as he got more upset, and Mary touched his hand, not wanting him to panic and shut up.

  “But who does she think pays your college tuition? She had to see the checks, didn’t she? Or some kind of receipt?”

  “Yes, she saw a check once, but they say Dilworth, so I lied to her. I told her that Dilworth was an IT company in Center City, like, IT consultants? I told her I work for them part-time during school. I said they have a tuition payment program, and she believed it. She would never let me take the money if she knew it came from him.”

  “Why?”

  “She hates his guts. My whole family does. All her friends hate him, too.”

  “They live right next door—”

  “That’s why. Machiavelli’s mom still lives in their house and she didn’t want to move, so Machiavelli wanted to make it bigger. He tried to buy my mom’s house, but she said no.”

  Mary knew it rang true. Many wealthier South Philly residents, including the Philly Mob, would buy a few rowhouses, then knock out the interior walls to make one big house, though the façade remained unchanged. Partly it was to keep a low profile, but not even a mobster could convince his mother to move. Mary had tried to get her own parents to move to Center City or the suburbs, which they viewed as moving to Pluto.

  “Her house is only worth about $75,000, and he offered her $200,000, then he raised it to half a million, then a million dollars. In cash.” Paul’s eyes flared in giddy wonder. “But she still wouldn’t take it. She won’t move. My dad passed in that house, and she thinks his spirit lives there, like, his ghost. She’s not going anywhere for any amount of money.”

  “Really.” Mary could see that Sanjay’s mouth had dropped open, but she was getting a hunch. “I’m going to bet that what Machiavelli did next was threaten her.”

  “Yes.” Paul’s expression darkened, his face falling. “She started getting phone calls from some guy, saying ‘she better move if she knew what was good for her.’”

  “Oh no.” Mary shuddered. “So what happened?”

  “My brother Joey moved back home in case anything happened, and, like, a week later when my mom was out, some guy came over the house, beat Joey up, and put him in the hospital.”

  “Ugh.” Mary recoiled, but it could have been exactly what she was looking for. She felt her heart beat quicker. “Do you know who the guy was?”

  “No, I wasn’t there.”

  “Didn’t you ever hear his name?”

  “They called him Stretch. I don’t know his real name or his last name.”

  “Why do they call him Stretch, is he tall?” Mary asked, though she should have known better than to make sense of South Philly nicknames.

  “I don’t know. I never saw the guy. I was young when it happened.”

  “Did your mom or Joey call the cops?”

  “No, we don’t snitch.”

  Mary let it go. “So then what happened?”

  “After Joey got out of the hospital, he called Machiavelli at his office and told him that Stretch could beat him up every night, but it wouldn’t make any difference, our mom would never sell. So he bought the houses on the other side of his mom’s house. My mom’s the only holdout on our side of the street, I think.” Paul’s forehead buckled. “I felt bad taking his money for tuition after what he did to Joey, but it was the only way I could go to college. I figured what my mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.”

  “Do you think Joey would remember Stretch? Can we call him?”

  “No, Joey’s in Afghanistan. Third tour.”

  “What about your mom? Think she knows anything about Stretch, like his real name?”

  “Don’t know.” Paul frowned, his ey
ebrows sloping unhappily down. “Are you really gonna tell her about me?”

  “No, you are.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Cullen Avenue, read the sign on the street where Machiavelli’s mother and Paul’s mother lived, but Mary didn’t want to use the front entrance, to avoid being seen by Machiavelli’s mother or Machiavelli, in case he happened to be visiting. She directed the cab to go around the block, since Paul’s family had the corner property, with a side door on the cross street, Evergreen. Of course there were no evergreens in sight, only the typical block of redbrick rowhouses, gum-spattered sidewalks, and dirty gutters, though there was plenty of parking because there were fewer families, since Machiavelli’s mother, Flavia, occupied the west side exclusively, except for the Patriocas.

  Mary and Paul got out of the cab, beelined for the side door, and entered his house through the back, greeted by a noisy hubbub. Older women filled the kitchen, laughing, talking, and having a great time as they baked cookies, pasted magazine pictures on homemade greeting cards, gift-wrapped hand-knitted baby hats and receiving blankets, and packed paper plates, water bottles, and soda in brown-paper bags. The kitchen was warm with the aroma of fresh coffee and baking chocolate chips, and there were so many fluffy heads of gray hair that it looked like a stormfront had rolled in.

  Paul moaned under his breath. “Oh Jeez, I forgot. She’s got the Rosary Society today. Please don’t make me tell her in front of everybody. It’ll embarrass her.”

  “Paul!” “Paulie!” “Yo, Paul!” The older women came clucking toward Paul and Mary with open arms, a moving mass of bifocals, painted sweatshirts, and polyester pants, wearing slippers loose enough to accommodate bunions. “How you been, Paul? You got so tall!” “And who’s that? Mary DiNunzio!” “Mare, you’re havin’ a baby?” “Look, Lil, she’s havin’ a baby!” “How’s your parents, Mare?”

  “Great, thanks!” Mary recognized her clients Margie Moran and Ann Butchart, accepting their fragrant hugs, which smelled of fading rosewater and hot glue gun. “Margie, good to see you! How’s that new boiler working out? Ann, how’s your shoulder? Better after the operation? Lorraine, is Brian doing okay at Pathway? It’s one of the best schools around.”