“Hello,” an accented voice answered. It was female—rich and full with an air of concern about it.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Henry with the state police.” He held his identification up to the camera lens.
“Officer, is everything all right?” she asked in an alarmed tone. It had been a horrible night. The Christmas party had been over long ago. Joe hadn’t called her. He wasn’t home and undoubtedly he had been drinking. She quickly zoomed in on the officer’s
identification and zoomed out to view the immediate area. She recognized a state police vehicle. It looked authentic.
“Is it my husband? Is he hurt?” she asked the shadowed figure.
“There’s been an accident, ma’am,” he said in a stoic tone that indicated that he had repeated the same phrase a hundred times.
“Oh my God!” There was a pause and then a slight sob.
“May I come in, ma’am?” he asked politely.
Silence—he was about to repeat his request when he heard the lock click open. The heavy iron gates swung wide. He got back into the car and started slowly moving along the circular drive. He saw the gates automatically close behind him in his rearview mirror. He was in.
Step one complete
.
The mansion was brick—a three story expanse that seemed never ending. It had been built in 1890 in the Greek revival style and had once belonged to the Monroe family. Henry Monroe of coal, banking, and department stores had spared nothing in the construction of
Woodmere
. A row of white Ionic columns flanked the massive twelve-foot double doors and supported a portico that ran the length of the second floor.
Woodmere’s
classical symmetry shimmered in the beams of the lawn lights.
But Rudi was not there to admire the mansion and paid it little attention. He slipped from the driver’s seat. His boots crackled on the frozen Belgian block as he walked to the front door. He didn’t have to ring. Christy opened the door and he stepped in.
Step two complete.
“Evening, ma’am,” he said politely, touching the brim of his hat, which glittered with droplets of melting ice. He wiped his feet deferentially on the oriental runner just inside the door.
Christy moved back toward the staircase which spiraled upward three stories to a glass dome. She took hold of one of the dark walnut handrails for support. The polished, white marble floor reflected her tall silhouette wrapped in long black velvet. Her robe was carefully tied at her narrow waist, and her silver-blond hair fell softly about her shoulders. Christy’s expression was pained and her
ice blue eyes shimmered with tears. But she would not cry. She fought to remain outwardly calm although her legs were shaking.
Rudi admired her poise and found her physically beautiful—in fact exquisite.
What a pity
, he thought.
“Can we sit for a minute, ma’am?” he asked. He sounded professional yet concerned— the perfect combination. He should have been an actor, he thought. No, he quickly changed his mind.
This was more fun.
She wanted to avoid the news. Her instinct was to run, but instead she softly said, “Follow me,” and led him toward the study.
He followed her closely through the hall guarded by massive Canton vases and bronze sculptures of nude male and female forms posed on marble pedestals.
A thousand books—old and new—looked down on him from the shelves covering the study walls. Her back was still turned.
“Are the children asleep?” he asked.
She swung around and faced him, her mouth agape and her eyes wide. Her expression had changed from apprehension to terror. “How do you know about the children?” she whispered.
What a shame
, he thought as he pulled the slim 25-caliber automatic from inside his unbuttoned jacket and fired once. Only the spit of the silencer could be heard as Christy fell, a surprised expression locked into her features and a small hole in the center of her forehead oozing a steamy trickle of red onto the polished wood floor.
Step three complete.
He had no remorse about the children. They were all the same to him—especially in their sleep. Joseph Junior and Melissa barely moved as he shot them each one in the back of the head. But Christy was different. She was a work of art. He was glad that his bullet hadn’t shattered her beautiful face. Only a slight entrance wound and then out the other side. He had purposely planned it that way the moment he saw her. Joe Maglio had been a lucky man.
From the children’s rooms he quickly moved back down to the study. He looked briefly about the bookcases, impressed by the
authors: Homer, Virgil, Voltaire, Julius Caesar, Sartre, Marquis de Sade, St. Augustine, Dickens…
He located and moved to the security system set between two massive bookcases. It was now eleven thirty p.m. The screen for the front monitor showed the gate closed. The other three monitors—one showing the rear of the property and horse barns and the other two showing either side of the property— reassured him that no one was about. He popped out the tape that had been recording all that day, and put another in its place. The tape had been doctored so that it would appear to have been running without recording images or time. He knew about the system, about the placement of the cameras. Silvio had warned him. And he knew exactly what to do.
Step four complete..
Five minutes later the front gates opened. Headlights shone down the drive and stopped behind the police car.
Rudi watched the monitor, waiting patiently while sitting on the brocade love seat beneath a first edition of
A Tale of Two Cities
, and slowly sipped a Remy Martin Louis XIII from a cut crystal balloon snifter. It was Baccarat. The Maglios had good taste
,
he thought as he tilted the snifter, watching the glints reflected from the facets of crystal.
Grace Monahan had left an hour ago. It was eleven a.m. Christmas Eve, and Nick had a vicious hangover. He had promised himself after his last bacchanalia that he wouldn’t mix scotch with champagne ever again. Even if it was the best, it still hurt afterward. Two aspirin and four cups of black coffee later, he decided to return Joe’s call. He played back the message. All he could hear was “Prick!” then a thud. He knew that Joe was pissed—really pissed, and he didn’t look forward to hearing him yell and curse—something he heard frequently and was used to. He looked out his living room window thirty floors above. Society Hill, a miniature colonial village in the midst of urban Philadelphia, sparkled in the clear post-winter storm air. He looked down on Head House Square at the tiny cars moving busily on Second Street. He breathed deeply. Oxygen helped.
He dialed Joe’s home. There was no answer. Maybe they were Christmas shopping, he thought. He had heard about Christy’s penchant for shopping marathons. “And last-minute for her,” Joe had said, “could turn into an entire day.”
After the beep, “Yo, boss—sorry about last night. The only excuse I have is Grace.” He paused and chuckled, “Enough said.” Then he decided to try Joe’s cell phone. A metallic voice told him to leave a message. He was relieved not to have to put his head in the lion’s mouth. Joe had obviously turned his phone off.
A warm bath would be just the thing—this time without Grace. He ran the water in the marble Jacuzzi. He could still smell her perfume on his towels and thought about their night together. He hardened briefly and then sank into the quiet bliss that only a warm bath, or the womb, could supply.
The phone rang loudly, echoing across the black marble bathroom. Nick woke with a start. His watch said that it was one p.m. He shivered slightly from the now cool water as he reached for the wall phone. A few lingering Vitabath bubbles clung to the hair on his arm and crackled slightly as they exploded.
“Hello.” He tried hard to sound as if he were alive.
“Nick?” Harry Levin did not quite recognize Nick’s voice.
Nick closed his eyes, thanking God it wasn’t Joe. “Yeah.”
“This is Harry.”
“Yeah, I know. How you doin’. Is everything OK?”
Nick wasn’t used to being called at home by Levin. In fact, he had little contact with him at the office. There was a pause and a sigh. “No, Nick, I’m afraid not.”
Nick rose in the tub, water dripping from him. Everything about him was shriveled— even his dick. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s been an incident at Joe’s house…”
“What happened?’ Nick’s eyes opened wide. He stepped out of the tub grasping a towel that he wrapped around his waist while pressing the phone to his ear with an hunched shoulder.
“Nick…they’re gone…” There was a pause and a purposeful sigh.
“What do you mean—gone?”
There was silence on the other end.
“Harry, what do you mean they’re ‘gone’?”
“I mean dead. All dead. Joe, Christy, the kids.”
“What the fuck?” Nick felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He tried to catch his breath. “Harry…how do you…know… who, who told you…” he stuttered, closing his eyes.
“I got a call from the state police and drove out right away.”
“I’ll be right there.” Nick was already in the bedroom, pulling clothes from the walk-in closet.
“It’s not necessary. The place is crawling with cops—state, local, crime lab people, the media—even CNN. The whole fucking world. You won’t get through. Stay home, Nick. I’ll call you in a little while.”
“Like hell I will,” Nick fired back. “Listen, Harry, I want to be there.” He gulped as his throat tightened. “Joe was like my father. I have to be there. I’m leaving now.”
Levin tried to speak, but Nick cut him off.
“I said now! Don’t let them move him.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I want to see him.”
“OK, OK. Just get a hold of yourself and drive carefully. You hear? It’s still bad on the roads.”
“Yeah.” Nick disconnected and let the sobs come.
Levin was right. The media and the cops
were
crawling around
Woodmere
like ants. Nick arrived to barricades, yellow tape, TV trucks, lights, ambulances, and hordes of people in and out of uniform. Neighbors, dogs, and yes, the miniskirted anchorwoman in a red suit with perfect makeup, looking wide-eyed into the camera. Her brightly painted mouth moved nonstop.
Nick tried to duck under the tape but was immediately stopped by a beefy, baton carrying, gun toting cop—one of Montgomery County’s finest. The cop said nothing. He just blocked Nick with his body—legs apart, arms folded over his chest, and a scowl on his face.
Nick hated most cops, especially ones like this. He had run into this type before in his past. He would have liked to curse him out—hit him in the kneecap with a bat. Maybe in the balls. But his sense of reason overtook his temper. He had been taught well.
Joe always said, “With cops you talk real nice first. Then if they try to fuck with you, you get nasty. Use your mouth. Remember you’re a lawyer now—not a punk. And always
smile.
It confuses them. They’re not too smart.”
“Officer, my name is Nick Cerrato. I’m one of the decedent’s partners,” he lied. “I may be able to assist the detectives inside.”
The cop didn’t move or change expression.
Nick started to lose it. He felt the blood mounting to his face.
Control, control, control
, he mentally commanded himself.
“Officer, is Mike Rosa inside? Or one of his assistants?” Nick knew the Montgomery County district attorney casually, but Rosa had been a good friend of Joe’s. They had been classmates at Penn Law School. Rosa was a frequent guest at Maglio dinner parties, where Nick had met him. Nick and Rosa had instantly hit it off, both having been raised in South Philadelphia’s Italian neighborhoods and both having risen above their blue collar roots.
“He called me and wanted me to come right away. Can you find him? Tell him I’m here?” Nick asked earnestly.
You motherfucker
, he thought.
At that moment Harry Levin walked out of the house with Rosa. As the two paused to talk in the doorway, the DA spotted Nick and gave him a nod and a wave to come on over.
The cop stepped aside and Nick ducked under the tape. The cameras started clicking away at what appeared a new development.
An anchorwoman chased after Nick. “Sir, sir—did you know the Maglios? Are you one of the attorneys in the firm? Do you have any information on the murder-suicide?” She pushed a mike close to his stubbled face.
“Murder-suicide?” Nick stopped short. He turned to the breathless woman in the red suit.
“That’s what they’re saying, sir. Do you have anything to add?”
“Yeah. Fuck you.” He gave her the finger with both hands as he walked toward the front door. Sometimes your roots caught up with you.
The house looked as undisturbed and as elegant as ever—except for the bodies. The floral arrangements were fresh. Pink and yellow roses, Dutch iris, and baby’s breath peeked out from cut crystal vases. Poinsettias lined the bottom of the stairs. A gigantic Christmas tree twinkled with bee lights and antique ornaments. Presents were elegantly wrapped and orchestrated in layers under the tree. The “Hallelujah Chorus” from Haydn’s
Messiah
played softly through discretely hidden wall speakers. The setting was belied by the grisly scene in the study.