Blood Money (24 page)

“Don’t have no heart attack on me. I’m wit’ DiCicco,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I’m Jake—’Jake the Shake.’ Ever hear of me? They call me Shake because I’m the best shakedown artist in Philly—” he laughed—”maybe even in New York.”

Nick stared incredulously at the man, his mouth agape, wondering what the fuck DiCicco was up to. He had never mentioned Jake. And Nick had never heard of him.

“I’m here to protect youse,” he said apologetically. “I shoulda said somethin’ when you opened the door, but the phone was ringin’. Sorry.” He grinned and shook his head. “I’m really sorry.”

Nick blew out the air stored in his lungs for a fast escape. “Why the hell did you have the lights out?”

“Cause
youse
had them out, and I didn’t want nobody to know I was here. Capish?” The round, overweight man pulled himself out of the chair, puffing as though he had just run ten miles. His bald head was moist and glimmered as he walked under the recessed ceiling lights. His jowls shook as he plodded heavily toward the kitchen, carrying the awesome weapon with its muzzle pointed up.

“I’m hungry. I been here all day wit’out eatin’ nothin’. You got anything to eat in here?” he said, peering into an almost empty refrigerator.

“Shoes went to get something at the Wawa. Hoagies I guess. I don’t know.” Nick pulled off his tie. “You know Shoes?”

“Yeah. You mean Scarpetta wit’ dem big feet always getting in da way?” The man laughed.

“Help yourself to what’s in there.”

“I need a bed now,” Grace said, heading straight for the bedroom. She disappeared into the darkened room and collapsed into an instant, deep sleep, damp clothes and all. In a few seconds she was comatose.

Jake plopped himself onto a kitchen stool, hips hanging over the sides of the seat. He had found some leftover pasta, which he was intently devouring. For him, this was simply an appetizer, pending whatever was coming from Wawa. Nick excused himself and headed for the shower.

The hot water felt good on his naked body. His muscles begin to relax.
If only life felt this good all the time
, he thought. A good meal, a great bottle of wine, sex, and a hot shower. He was easy to please. Forget the competition, the greed, the dark side of human nature. If only he could tell Judge Barnes to relax, get laid, and forget about the Supreme Court—forget about the Riley trial. If only
he
could forget about the Riley case. He decided he would request a meeting with Barnes, privately, at eight thirty in the morning. Nick knew that Barnes always showed up at eight or earlier to whip his courtroom into shape. He was obsessed with punctuality and time—a proper time for recess and a proper time for lunch and a proper time for breaks—the show
would
go on according to schedule. That meant that every court employee who had the misfortune to be appointed to Barnes’s courtroom had to arrive at least half an hour early in order to inspect the courtroom, make sure all the chairs in the jury box were placed in a straight line, equally spaced apart. To make sure the bible was positioned so that
it faced the witness to be sworn in. To make sure the sound system was set to the proper volume, not too loud, not too soft.

Barnes had the only courtroom in the city where his official court reporter was set up and sitting in her place, properly attired in a navy blue suit, ten minutes before Barnes made his entrance. His secretary, Mary, always made sure his robe was spotless and that his coffee was hot. Similarly, his bailiff had to be dressed in a starched white shirt, navy blue wool suit, and maroon tie with a scales of justice tie pin placed dead center.

Nick would have to convince the Nazi that the case should not go forward, that it was a fraud, a setup, and that the plaintiff didn’t die as a result of negligence but as a result of premeditated murder. And he would have to do it without Donna Price. What chance did he stand? Little or none, he thought. But it was worth a try. Even if the judge thought it was just more legal shenanigans.

He turned toward the shower head. The water ran down his face and he closed his eyes tightly, relishing the feel of the light sting of the spray. Somehow a shower cleansed the mind as well as the body. He felt his strength and confidence returning. Things started to fall into perspective. He moved his head slightly to the right, away from the direct force of the water, and opened his eyes. For a second he thought he saw a figure in the mirror over the vanity. He rubbed the water from his eyes to see if they were playing tricks on him. They weren’t. It was moving toward the shower. The figure stopped at the linen closet. Nick could see a dark object in the figure’s hand. He recognized it as a gun with a silencer. He squinted, pretending not to see the figure. He knew that if he didn’t move quickly, he’d be dead. He turned off the shower and opened the door.

The figure stepped back. Nick spotted him in the mirror as he grabbed for a towel. He started to dry himself while facing the shower, purposely keeping his back to the figure whose reflection he could now see on the chrome shower head. His heart raced and the blood pounded in his head. He could hear it whooshing
through his brain as he scanned the reflected scene. Suddenly he turned and simultaneously ducked as the figure fired two shots— pop! pop! He lunged and tackled the would-be assassin, and the huge figure fell backward with a thud as his head hit the sharp edge of the marble Jacuzzi, spurting blood everywhere. The man’s chest heaved once, and his eyes opened wide in a fixed stare. His skull was split open like a ripe watermelon.

Nick’s instincts continued to rule. He crawled to the dropped gun, picked it up, stood, and shot the man between the eyes at close range. Maybe he was already dead and maybe not. He was taking no chances—and no prisoners—a lesson he had learned well on the streets. He dropped the gun, wrapped a towel around his waist, and ran into the bedroom, praying that Grace had not been harmed.

He saw her lying on the bed, still in her damp clothes. He walked quietly to her while he prayed to God. She was breathing. He pulled the blankets back. No blood.
Thank God
, he thought as he stroked her damp hair. She had been lucky that he was target number one. Maybe God hadn’t abandoned him after all. He tried to think of a prayer of thanks, but he couldn’t remember one.

He went into the living room, poured himself a double scotch, and was dialing 911 as Shoes arrived. Nick nodded toward the bathroom. Shoes took one look, checked the body still bleeding on the marble floor, shook his head, and walked back out to Nick, who had just finished reporting the killing.

“Where the fuck you come from?” Shoes yelled. “Nebraska? How could you let this guy get in here? This big hunk of salami ain’t no Italian. He’s a Russki-red Commie fuck. I
know
this guy.” Shoes pulled Shakes’s wallet from his jacket pocket and threw it, opened, on the floor. The driver’s license showed the man’s fat face, grinning broadly over the name Vladimir Cherobin.

Nick shook his head in disbelief. “I guess I’ve been away too long. You’re right. What’s the matter with my head?”

Shoes pointed his index finger at Nick. “You better come back and hang on the corner once in a while and get some fuckin’ street
smarts back in your brain—” pointing angrily at his own head—”or you’ll be dead in a year. Capish?”

Nick ignored the absurd mandate but wondered how he could have been so naïve. How out of touch he had become! How easily manipulated. He never would have let this happen before his transformation. Trust a man he found sitting in the dark in his apartment? With a gun! What had he become? He had no answer.

“Mr. Ceratto.” Ralph Kirby touched the brim of his worn, halffrozen Kangol cap. Melting droplets of snow fell on the red Herez carpet. “May I sit down?”

“Please make this short, Detective. I’ve been traveling all night, I haven’t had any sleep, and I have to start a trial tomorrow morning at eight o’clock—” Nick checked his watch—”just six hours from now.”

“Sure, sure, I understand. You need your rest, and I know judges don’t like waiting—especially for lawyers.” Kirby chuckled. “But there’s the simple matter of a dead man lying on your bathroom floor—that you shot.” The detective paused, took off his hat, and shook the melting snow off onto the rare carpet.

“I gave the police a detailed statement. The man was in my apartment when I returned. He said that he was a bodyguard from the service I was using, and then he came after me when I was in the shower. I saw him, tackled him, grabbed his gun, and shot him.”

“His head was smashed.” Kirby put his hand to the back of his own head.

“Yeah. He must of hit his head on the way down.”

“Ah—before or after you shot him?”

Nick looked squarely into the detective’s wise, squinting eyes. “After.”

“Of course, of course. You wouldn’t shoot a helpless man, bleeding to death on the ground, would you?”

“No. That would be unreasonable force.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong on the law.” Kirby scratched his head. “But wouldn’t that be
murder
?”

“Detective Kirby, are you accusing me of murdering this piece of shit, or are you just playing your usual games?”

Kirby laughed, shaking his head. “Of course not, Mr. Ceratto. Of course not. What makes you even begin to think I would do such a thing? I’m just trying to understand—to gather all the facts. I don’t make such accusations—ever. That’s the DA’s job.”

“Is that all then?” As Nick showed Kirby to the door, the black zippered bag containing the body was wheeled past them. The crime lab had finished with the photographs, prints, and samples and sealed the bathroom door with yellow tape.

“I hope you have another bathroom. I’d hate to see you go to court like this.” Nick rubbed his hands across his chin. The stubble was as obvious as the bags under his eyes. “You’ll need to look your best. Maybe I’ll be there. What courtroom?” Kirby’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes, the Sean Riley case. I know—Judge Barnes, right?”

“Yes. Good night, Detective.”

“One more thing, please, Mr. Ceratto. I’m really sorry. The young lady, Ms. Monahan…?”

“She was asleep in the bedroom. She’s still asleep. She’s

exhausted.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I won’t wake her now. But I’ll need to talk to her. And to you, too. You’ll have to come down to homicide as soon as you’re out of court.”

“I’ll tell her.” Nick waved his hand toward the open door. The coroner’s men were in he hall with the body, waiting for a down elevator.

“Was there anyone else in your apartment?”

“No.” Nick was quickly losing patience and irritably rubbed his upper lip.

“But wasn’t there another person traveling with you, ah, from the protection service that you retained—a Mister…?”

“Scarpetta,” Nick interrupted. “He had gone to get sandwiches when this happened.”

“And…?”

“He wasn’t here during the attack.”

“But after?”

“He came back and left to see if he could find a cop on the street while I dialed for help.”

“He didn’t touch the body?”

“He may have. I don’t know. I was busy dialing 911.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. Now, get out—please.”

“I’m sorry. I know you’re tired. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” Kirby clapped his damp hat onto his head. “Good luck tomorrow—oh, by the way…”

Nick sighed.

“Did you know that the Maglio and Lopez cases are active again?”

“No,” Nick said flatly, covering his surprise.

“Yes, Gates and Mike Rosa—you know, the Montco DA—are working together on them. They think there might be something to them—a connection. You know, with that beautiful girl—what was her first name?”

“Maria Elena.”

“Yeah. See, she was a cousin…”

“I know.”

“Well, you’re in luck. You were concerned about the investigation on this case—or the lack of interest.” Kirby smiled and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His knees were aching. “I’m proud to say I’m the man they’ve assigned to the Lopez and Maglio cases. Funny thing, I was cleaning out my desk— I’m about to retire soon, you know, and I thought I’d get a head start with going through all the junk—and what did I find?” Kirby put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small key. “This.”

“So. What’s the significance?” Nick stared at the key with a perplexed look.

“Remember I asked you about a small key. You know, when I talked to you on the phone after the Lopez death. You know. After I met with you in this apartment? When I delivered the videotape.
Raiders
?”

“I guess,” Nick said vaguely. “So what’s the deal?”

“This was in her safe-deposit box along with the tape. I lost track of it in all the junk on my desk, and now I found it.

“Great. It was obviously important to her,” Nick said, sarcastically.

“Bingo.” Kirby laughed hoarsely. He tipped his hat as he turned to leave, reaching for the ever-present hard pack of Marlboros carefully tucked in his inside coat pocket. He waited until he was outside the door of Nick’s condo before lighting up. Then he cupped the cigarette carefully in his right hand so as not to set off an ultra-sensitive smoke alarm. All this
No Smoking
, here, there, everywhere. It was unconstitutional, he thought as he entered the down elevator. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, wasn’t that the guarantee? He shook his head as he walked into the cold outside and made his way to his salt-streaked car. He put the tired heap in gear and headed toward Graymont Street and his two-story row house, his cold dinner, and his sleeping wife.