Blood Money (19 page)

The court reporter stopped tapping at the keys of her small, oblong machine, and the Honorable Joseph Barnes raised himself from his leather throne and left the bench without even a glance at anyone in the courtroom. He loved “putting it to” the wealthy and the arrogant. His power evened the balance. The money he had given up for the leather throne was worth it. He just needed a bigger throne, he thought.

Nick closed his briefcase and began to walk out of the courtroom. As he approached the double doors, Silvio ran to catch up, breathing heavily.

“Look, Nick, I’m sorry about the blowup. I was only trying to help, and then you got cocky with me.”

Nick turned and gave him a straight stare. “You think an apology is going to coax me back to that office?”

Silvio looked down at his polished oxblood slip-ons. “Nick, come on. Be reasonable.”

“I don’t trust you fucks. I don’t like you fucks. Everything you touch turns to shit or dies.”

Silvio’s conciliatory tone was gone. “Look, you little twerp, you need office support to try this case. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You gonna prep this trial at home with no secretaries, no paralegals? This is a big case.”

“You don’t have to remind me of my responsibility. Nor are you telling me how and where to prep this case.”

“No? Well, it’s the firm’s case—not yours—and I’m assigning it to someone else. You’re fucking fired!”

“No.
You’re
fucking fired.” Nick reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. It was addressed to Silvio and Levin, and the name on the return address was Theresa Riley.

Silvio ripped it open after seeing who it was from, glanced at it, and threw it on the floor. The letter stated that the Rileys were discharging the firm of Silvio and Levin as their attorneys and requested that the firm cooperate in an orderly transfer of the documents to their new attorney, Nicholas Cerrato.

Nick pushed open the squealing door to courtroom 112. “That was only a copy,” he said, smiling. “The original was sent certified, yesterday. I’m sure it’s in this morning’s mail. It must be on your desk by now.”

He walked out into the dingy hall, his heels clicking on the brown and tan vinyl tiles covering the original Victorian mosaic floors. He was joined by two men who had been waiting for him at the elevator. Little Al hit the down button, and Joey Shoes brought up the rear as all three stepped into the elevator.

Nick knew Silvio, the prick, was right. But he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it. He’d been working on his opening statement—now he’d have to stop to prepare motions in limine, a device which would prevent Donna Price from testifying
just in case Asher had found her and was going to spring her on him. He cursed Barnes and wished him cancer. His priorities were constantly shifting. He couldn’t concentrate. The last three nights had been sleepless. He knew he needed help.

The phone rang. Nick checked the time. It was two a.m.

“Yes,” he answered, staring at his fourth cup of black coffee which just wouldn’t go down.

“Nick, it’s Grace.”

This was the last person he needed to call him at this hour—Grace Monahan, horny, no doubt.

“Sorry, Grace, I’m really tired now.” He was sure she wanted to replay Christmas Eve, and he wasn’t in the mood.

“No, I don’t want to go to bed with you if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s really all you care about, Nick. Isn’t it?”

He didn’t need a lecture. “No, Grace, that’s not all I care about. That’s why I’ve been awake the last four days and nights, working on this case—I’m alone on this and…”

“No, you’re wrong. You’re not alone. I’m going to help you.”

“You can’t,” he snapped. He didn’t mean to be curt, but he was so strung out, he couldn’t help it. “You’re working for my former employer, now my enemy. A firm I’m going to be litigating against, no doubt for the rest of my life, if I’m lucky enough to win this case. And if I’m lucky enough to be alive.” Nick couldn’t believe that he had blurted this out to her; the last thing he needed was to have her spread accusations about Silvio and Levin, even if they were true.

“I know. That’s why I quit.”

There was dead silence for a few seconds.

“You quit?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Nick could detect a tremor in her voice.

“Why?”

“Because they are going to try to kill you. The same way they killed Joe and Celia and Maria Elena.”

Nick was stunned. “How do you know this, Grace?” He was careful not to agree. She might be taping their conversation. At this point he was paranoid. He trusted no one.

“I went into Silvio’s office the day you left to see him about cleaning out your desk. I wanted to pack your things and get them to you. He wasn’t in, but I noticed the telephone extension light to your office was lit. I lifted the receiver and I heard them. Margo Griffin and Silvio were in your office. They were talking.”

“How? Were they on the telephone?”

“No, that’s just it. Your office was bugged. All Silvio had to do was hit your line to activate the bug and listen in. Everything you said could be heard in his office.”

“Bugged?”

“Yes, I found it after they left when I went in to clean out your belongings. It was under your desk.”

“What did they say?” His heart started pounding and he immediately became alert.

“Marty told her that you were going to be finished like the others—that your days were numbered. And he was going to make
her
a partner…” She paused.

“And…”

“And then they started making love. I could hear it. It was disgusting. I left his office. I still wanted to get your things so I asked Levin if it was all right. He said fine, after he checked your office for firm property. He said you were only entitled to your fucking coffee cup, your pictures, and your loose change because that’s you would have when they got finished with you. So I have your stuff. I didn’t want to come up without calling you. I’m worried about you, Nick.”

“Thanks, Grace. But I don’t think they’re going to wipe me out literally, just figuratively. You were sweet to do this for me. I’ll send someone for my things. Where are you now?”

Her voice trembled. She was on the verge of crying. “I know that you didn’t want me to do this. I did it for you because I care and you’re in trouble. I know you are.”

“Don’t worry about me—understand? Worry about you.”

“Well, it’s too late.”

Nick was now really worried about her safety. Anyone affiliated with him was marked. They might just as well pick out their caskets.

“Jesus Christ, Grace. What the hell did you do this for?” he scolded.

“I can’t be part of a firm that lies, cheats, steals, and murders— and I’m going to work for you.”

“For
me
?” He was shocked. “Shit, Grace, I can’t even pay you. I don’t have a pot to piss in. Nothing except this condo, my car, and my clothes. Besides, if you’re right, they’re going to come after both of us now.”

Her voice changed. She regained control and said authoritatively. “One—you don’t have to pay me now. I know you need help and you’re going to win this case, so you can pay me later. And two—I’m going to stay with you until this is over so I won’t be alone and neither will you. Three, I have a gun. Four, I have savings and I can support us.”

“Grace, where are you?”

“I’m downstairs in your lobby with a box of your junk. That’s where I am. Can I please come in?”

She sounded tired and exasperated. And she needed a bed, he could tell. And he could certainly use the help. He hit the buzzer for the automatic door lock and let her in.

Shoes had been listening to the conversation. He had taken up residence in the living room, his bare feet propped up on the arm of the sofa. He had been watching
Casablanca
on the classic movie channel.
Just like a broad
, he thought. Pushing her way into a guy’s life. Making herself indispensable and then shackling him with the old ball and chain. He hoped Nick knew better, but obviously he didn’t. He wasn’t like Bogie who knew how to leave ‘em before things got too hot. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” was a line Nick wouldn’t know how to use, or when to use it.

Then she came in. Shoes took a long look at the fivefoot, eleven-inch, well-endowed redhead. Pure Rita Hayworth.
He decided that he wouldn’t know when or how to use the famous line either.

Nick took the carton and quickly helped her out of her coat.

“This is Joe Scarpa,” he said. “A friend of mine.”

Shoes stood up, barefooted, and bowed from the waist. “Just call me ‘Shoes’, ma’am”

Grace looked down at his bare, size-fourteen feet and understood why. “Pleased to meet you, Shoes.”

Nick led her to his study. It looked as if a bomb had hit it. Papers were everywhere.

“Oh my God.” Grace pushed her hair back from her forehead.

“I know. It’s a mess. You want a cup of coffee, a drink?”

“No. Not now. Tell me what you’re working on.” She moved toward the disassembled file.

“The opening.” He gestured toward typed notes up on the computer.

“Here, let me put this back together for you so you don’t go crazy looking for stuff. It looks as though you took a fit in here.” She stooped to pick up papers scattered on the floor. “This is not good,” she mumbled to herself, wondering how he was going to try this case. It was a disorganized mess, which she immediately began to organize.

Nick had fallen asleep at the computer. His head had fallen to one side, and Grace knew that he would have a neck from hell in the morning. She moved his trunk gently forward until his head and arms rested on the desk, and then slid a throw pillow under his head. She didn’t want to wake him. She knew he would try to work instead of resting. And he’d be a basket case, more so than he was now.

Shoes snored loudly in the next room, half on and half off the sofa with his hand on his shoulder holster. His closely cropped black hair stood up on end, like porcupine quills.

Grace sorted the papers on the floor, filing them carefully, one by one, by date in the appropriate folders; all discovery in the discovery file, all correspondence in the correspondence file, all
investigative reports in the…she stopped. She noticed a Post-it on the floor, folded over on itself. Obviously it had been attached to a document in the investigative file. She unfolded it and saw the name: Jane Welles R.N. with a phone number 626-527-0970. Under the number was scrawled,
Follow up ASAP
. It was written in Joe Maglio’s unmistakable left-handed chicken scratch. His script had been so bizarre, it was easily identified. Besides, Grace had done enough work for Joe, had assisted him in putting enough trials together that she knew this was an important but overlooked piece of information.

She quickly looked in the Bell Atlantic white pages. Page 28 had a map of the United States showing the location of all the designated area codes. Page 29 listed all the area codes by state and city. Area code 626 was Pasadena, California. She checked her watch. It would be midnight in Pasadena. She decided to call anyway, even if she woke someone up. She dialed and listened as the phone rang, once, twice—six times. There was a click, and the answering machine came on. “You have reached Ms. Welles and Ms. Lamberti. Please leave a message.” The beep sounded. Grace didn’t want to leave a message. She didn’t want to risk spooking Ms. Welles by telling her who she was and why she was calling. She knew she couldn’t get away with pretending to be a telephone pollster, not at midnight in California, or trying to pump Welles for information—information that would possibly link her to Metropolitan Mercy and the Riley case.

As she started to put the receiver down, she heard, “Hello?” The voice was thick and low, as though the speaker had just been awakened.

“Ms. Welles?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you. But are you Jane Welles, Nurse Welles?”

There was a long pause. The voice seemed more alert. “Why do you want to know? I hope you’re not trying to sell me anything at this hour.”

“No, no. I’m really sorry to call you, but this is an emergency.”

“Is there a problem? Are you from the hospital?” She cleared her throat. “You’re not calling me to substitute? I had off tonight.”

“I’m from Pasadena General,” Grace lied, hoping there was such a hospital. Didn’t all cities have a hospital whose name ended in
General
? “That’s where you work, isn’t it?” Grace prodded, praying that she, whoever she was, wouldn’t hang up.

“No, I work at Saint Francis hospital. Can you please tell me what this is all about?” The voice sounded truly annoyed. Grace was afraid she’d lose her.

“You see, I’m trying to locate Donna Price. Your name was given to me by a friend of hers.”

There was a long pause. “What friend?”

Grace held her breath. “Victor…Victor Manin.”

There was an instantaneous disconnect.

Grace waited about five minutes, and as she expected Nick’s phone rang. She picked it up in the middle of the first ring.

“Hello.”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but I don’t know any Donna Price and I don’t know any Doctor Victor Manin. I have your phone number on my caller ID. If you call me one more time I’m going to the phone company and the police!” Then there was a sharp click.