Nick reeled. He turned his head. He’d seen death before. He’d seen mangled corpses, shot, stabbed, burned—but nothing like this. She was more than a mess. Her hair was a tangled mass of coagulated blood. Half her face had been torn off by the rough road surface. There were so many broken facial bones that there was hardly a nose or cheek. One eye was gone, and her jaw was so twisted it almost touched her left ear. He turned and vomited heavily on the white tile floor. He wiped his mouth with back of his hand. He screamed with a rage he had never known before.
Kirby waved the attendant away and the room went dark. He said nothing. He couldn’t find any words.
“
They
did this,” Nick’s voice cracked. He was barely able to speak. “
They
knew what she had, and they fucking killed her for it. Squashed her like an insect.” He turned and walked through the double doors past the man who was still chewing on his candy bar. Kirby quickly followed.
“Look, I know this is a bad time—a terrible time.”
“Yes it is, Mr. Kirby. It sure is.” Nick pulled his coat collar up and walked out of the building toward the parking lot.
“Mr. Ceratto, can you stop for a minute?” Kirby hobbled slightly from the pain in his arthritic knees. He couldn’t keep up with the fast-walking younger man. “I’d like to talk to you, sir, just for a minute.
Nick turned to him, reaching into his coat pocket for the keys to his red Boxster. “I don’t have time to talk,” he snapped. “I have work to do.” He squeezed the plastic tab on his key chain, and the car door locks clicked open.
“You’re right, you know.”
“Right about what?” snapped Nick, standing against the low sports car.
“About
them
.” Kirby took a cigarette out of the pack from the pocket in his threadbare coat. He lit it with one click from the cheap Bic lighter. His lined face was illuminated briefly by the flame, and Kirby’s honesty became apparent to Nick in that one moment. He held the pack out to Nick, who took one and put it in his mouth. He drew on it heavily as Kirby lit it for him.
Kirby examined the face in the flame. It was young and determined, much like his when he was young. Kirby was not a believer in coincidence. He feared that the young trial lawyer might be next.
“So, now what?” Nick blew the smoke past Kirby’s face.
“Don’t know. It’s all in the hands of Ms. Gates. Depends on what she wants to do.”
“No. It’s not. It’s in my hands now. And I know what I have to do.”
Silvio refused to answer the phone. He had turned off the ringer so he wouldn’t hear Celeste’s whining, telling him to remember to lock the front door and feed the cat he had hated ever since she brought it home as a kitten, ten years ago. He had planned to poison it but decided against it after thinking about how she would complain about missing it, being lonely, how her life was meaningless. Celeste was on a retreat with her group, the Ladies of the Blessed Sacrament. They were praying for him in San Francisco, three thousand miles away, for one whole week. If he had believed in God, he would have thanked him.
Margo Griffin couldn’t stand the ringing anymore. Silvio hadn’t budged as he lay on the bed next to her. She grabbed the receiver, saying nothing as she lifted it to her ear in case it was the “holy one.”
“Hello,” a heavily accented male voice said. “Hello?”
“Yes?” She was careful to say nothing more.
“Is Mr. Silvio there?”
“Asleep,” she answered curtly.
“Mrs. Silvio, I gather?”
Margo didn’t respond.
“Sorry for disturbing you, but I must speak with Mr. Silvio. I’m calling from Tel Aviv.”
“Hold.”
Silvio lay with his back to her. Margo reluctantly shook his large, hairy shoulder. She knew how difficult he was to wake, and how pissed he could get when he was awakened.
“Marty, wake up. Marty.”
“What?” he asked, giving her an elbow in the stomach as he flopped over.
“Ouch, you bastard,” she said, holding her hand over the receiver. “Some asshole insists on speaking with you. He says he’s calling from Tel Aviv.”
Silvio bolted upright and grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”
“Mr. Silvio, I know this is very late your time and I’m sorry for the call. My name is Ari Miller. I’m with international accounts at the Bank Naomi. I must inform you, sir, that someone posing as a branch examiner obtained access to your account, the Midas Limited account in particular.”
“How the hell did this happen?” Silvio went for the cold, damp cigar left from the night before.
“Well, sir, it was a woman, very beautiful. And she, well…” he stammered. “She used her charms to convince one of our managers to give her access to the account without consulting me first. She knew about the numbered Swiss accounts and their transfers to the Midas accounts. I’m sorry to say that she downloaded the account information onto a disc, so we were told.
“That’s a disgrace!” Marty yelled. “What kind of security do you have there? That woman could be a thief—could pilfer our accounts—could be a terrorist, for Christ’s sake.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. We have fired the person responsible for the security breach and have assigned new account numbers and double security codes for Midas.”
“I ought to move the account,” Silvio yelled, reaching for the yellow disc on the night stand and kissing it.
“Please don’t do that, sir. We guarantee nothing like this will ever happen again.”
“I’ll have to think about it and ask my partner what he wants to do…”
“Sir, one more thing; when we questioned the young man we fired, he told us she also printed out the material from the disc, and then made a phone call to Philadelphia. I don’t know if that means anything?”
“Do you have the print-out?” snapped Marty.
“No, I’m afraid she took it with her.”
“Fuck!” he said, spitting a piece of cigar into an empty glass. Rudi had only given him the disc, nothing more, and now he was worried. “Are you sure about the print-out? About the papers?”
“Yes. Why would the man mention the print-out if she only had a disc? He was with her all the time.”
“Great. Just fucking great.” Silvio’s mind raced. What to do? What to do?
“Sorry…” Miller was about to go into another apologetic litany, but Silvio didn’t let him.
“You’re dead, Ari Miller. I’ll see you’re fired, too, you incompetent fuck!” and Silvio slammed down the receiver. He walked around the bed, balls-naked, to his jacket on the floor. He fumbled in the inside pocket for his cell phone and quickly accessed a number. Margo watched Silvio’s anxiety build. She didn’t know what was going on, and she knew better than to ask.
“Hello there, Mr. Silvio. What brings you to the phone so late, another job?”
Silvio heard classical music playing loudly in the background. “Could you turn that down? I need to talk to you.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t like Bach? I could switch to Mozart.” Rudi laughed loudly, enjoying the knowledge that he was annoying the piss out of Silvio.
“Listen, I don’t have time to play games, you sadistic bastard. It’s late. I’m tired. I know you don’t sleep, so just turn that music the fuck down so we can talk.”
The sound quickly died. “Good,” Silvio said. “Now, you gave me a disc from the girl’s bag, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You said that’s all there was in it besides girl stuff, clothes, makeup?”
“Right. That was it. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“I want the bag. Where is it?”
“I burned it.”
“You sure you burned it?”
“Of course. I always burn evidence.”
“I just got a call from a bank in Tel Aviv where she was before her
accident
. They told me she was carrying documents—papers as well as a compact disc. Now I need those papers.” He grabbed a dry cigar from the box on his dresser and paced the floor.
“Look, there weren’t any papers in that bag. She was only carrying the disk. I’m telling you,” he laughed. He could sense Silvio’s blood pressure rising, while he enjoyed his own detachment.
“Rudi, don’t hold out on me and try any funny stuff.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t think of blackmailing you, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’re a good customer,” Rudi said patronizingly.
“If you’re lying to me, you fuck, I’ll kill you myself.”
There was a menacing chuckle on the other end, and then the music became audible again. “Boss, don’t ever threaten me—please. See, I like you and I wouldn’t want to have to shove that cigar up your ass just before I break your neck.” Rudi hung up and turned to the sweet young thing he had found on the street. He caressed her naked breasts and then bit her left nipple. Her screams drowned out the music. Oh, how he loved his job.
Thank you, Mama.
Silvio could not sleep. He continued to pace, ignoring Margo’s pleas for him to go back to bed. She watched. He paced. He finally sat on her side of the bed and put his arms around her.
“Ceratto’s going to be on trial in less than a week. I want you on the case with him.”
“Me?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about the Riley case.”
“You will,” he said menacingly. “I want you to get real close to him in the next few days. I want to know everything he’s doing, everything he’s thinking. I want to know what’s on his desk and what’s in his desk. Everything.
“What are you looking for, Marty?”
“Documents. Bank transactions from an Israeli bank.”
“Israeli bank?” Her nose wrinkled in curiosity.
“Look, I can’t tell you everything now. Just look for bank records. There won’t be a name on the account. And possibly an envelope with an Israeli postmark. In the wrong hands, those documents could kill us.” He put his hand lustfully on her knee. “I want you to spend time in Ceratto’s apartment. I want you to comfort him. Got it? He’s just suffered a great loss.”
“You and Harry are in trouble again, aren’t you?” she asked.
Silvio lay back, resting his large frame against the twisted pillows.
She put her arms around his thick shoulders and pulled him close. “You know I’ll do anything for you, Marty.”
Mike Rosa had just finished a weeklong murder trial. It was just after the jury had come in with a death penalty verdict that he’d heard the news of Maria Elena’s death. It hit him like a ton of bricks, but he grieved privately, wondering if it was his punishment, the one he had expected, the one his Catholic upbringing had taught him to expect. And then got back to work.
It became all too clear that all the deaths were connected, and all were murders. Rosa was reminded by the video Maria had played for him that Joe was left-handed, yet the powder burns were on his right hand. Celia Lopez was Joe’s most trusted employee besides Ceratto, and she was dead. Maria Elena, Joe’s cousin and vindicator, who had a tape providing a motive, speculative as it might be, for Silvio’s and Levin’s involvement in Joe’s death, was dead herself.
Rosa ordered the Maglio case off the back burner and called his best investigators together: “Leave no stone unturned,” he said. “I want hard evidence, and I don’t care how much it costs or how long it takes.”
Nick Ceratto had escorted Maria’s body back to San Lorenzo and into the capable hands of Ennio Correlli, funeral director
par excellence
. Correlli threw up his hands after seeing her. He said for the first time in his life he could do nothing. “
Niente
.” She was irreparable. Like a sculpture hacked to pieces by a madman. So they wrapped her in linen and buried her with the rest of the Maglio clan in the family hillside tomb. At the funeral, Maria’s parents spat on Nick, accusing him of being responsible for her death. He couldn’t argue with them. He felt guilty, guilty as accused. He stayed at the tomb after everyone had left and prayed for her forgiveness and help. He stayed until the caretaker was about to lock the gates of the cemetery. Then he kissed her tomb and vowed to return when
he had vindicated her and Joe. And when he had put Silvio and Levin on death row.
Nick’s mission was now clear. There was no turning back even if it cost him everything—including his career—and maybe his life. Kirby could offer him no help. Gates wanted to bury the Lopez murder, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to find any connection between it and Maria Elena’s death. She wouldn’t embarrass her department by conducting an investigation of Silvio and Levin, her political supporters and the firm to which she referred civil cases—cases brought by the victims of the criminals she prosecuted. But only the cases where there were deep pockets, like hotels where there was poor security resulting in rape, death, or both.
Seven hours after leaving San Lorenzo, Nick was back in Philadelphia. He had made a call to be picked up by some old friends. His friends were dressed in suits and long black coats. They were Vincent DiCicco’s men, and they dressed to command respect.
Their greeting consisted of an exchange of looks only. Then the men started to walk along the brightly lit airport corridor without saying a word. The six-foot, five-inch Joey “Shoes” positioned himself in front of Nick with “Little Al” behind. Their heads turned to and fro as they walked with a quick pace. Their peripheral vision was excellent, a requirement of the job. Soon they were down the escalator to the ground level and out the double glass doors. A black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows was waiting at the curb. As soon as the men were inside, it sped off, north on I-95 to the Penn’s Landing exit and then north on Columbus Boulevard to the La Gondola, a restaurant on the Delaware river owned and operated by Vincenzo DiCicco, better known as Don DiCicco, capo di capi, boss of the Philadelphia crime family, prime suspect, sometimes arrested but never convicted. His businesses were all
legitimate
—at least the visible ones were. He paid taxes, gave to charities, voted—and was despised by Muriel Gates. He called her a frustrated lesbian and the press ate it up. She called him a murdering thug, and the
press ate that up, too. Frequently their pictures were side-by-side on the front page of the Philadelphia Daily News.