Blood Money (5 page)

Nick stopped in the foyer and watched as the children’s bodies were brought down from the bedrooms. Attendants from the coroner’s office wearing white jackets and latex gloves carried the small, zippered black bags. Their feet wrapped in surgical booties, the attendants carefully trod down the thickly carpeted staircase. Nick’s stomach churned. He swallowed hard. It was all he could do to prevent himself from heaving last night’s champagne.

Mike Rosa pointed to the study at the rear of the house. The two men didn’t speak as the DA led the way. Nick mustered all his strength and followed.

The bodies of Joe and Christy were in plain view just beyond the open door. Forensics were busy inside the dimly lit room dusting for fingerprints on the books, the mahogany paneling, the phone, the surveillance system, and scraping fibers from the carpet. Other members of the team were outlining the bodies with spray chalk on the Persian Herez carpet. Christy lay face up, wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open as if she were surprised and about to speak. The small dark hole in her forehead was crusted with dried blood, which had trickled onto her blond hair. Joe was facedown just in front of her. His head was turned to one side with his mouth twisted where it pressed heavily against the floor in a coagulated pool of blood. The bullet entrance wound was to his temple. His was a larger hole. Hair and bone were missing. It was definitely not as clean a job as Christy’s. His eyes were squeezed shut as if in pain. His legs were splayed apart and his feet turned inward. A gun lay on the floor to the right of his body.

Rosa rubbed his hands together as always when he was tense. He paced for a few seconds between two Chippendale sofas while Nick looked on. His riding boots squeaked lightly with each step. He had been giving orders nonstop to county police and detectives—coordinating with the attorney general’s office and the State Police while keeping the press at bay.
What a mess,
he thought. Just four hours ago he had been on the trail, riding his favorite horse.

“I’m sorry, Nick. I know how close you were to him.” Rosa’s voice was like sandpaper. It scratched and skipped over the
unthinkable—murder, suicide—Joe had killed his family, the ones he loved most, and then himself. The evidence clearly pointed in that direction. The only question now was why.

Expressionless, Nick stared at the grisly scene. He wanted to pick Joe up from the floor and shake him. “Wake up, Joe! Wake up
,”
was what he wanted to say. Instead he turned to Rosa.

“Nah, Mike. You can’t possibly believe this. Not really.” Nick’s chin trembled as he gritted his perfectly white teeth. “This murder-suicide is crap. Joe would never hurt his family. You know that.” His brown eyes fixed themselves defiantly on the DA. Rosa shifted uncomfortably.

“Look, Nick—the evidence is preliminary, but it looks pretty clear. Joe left a letter of apology on his computer. We’re sending prints to the lab. There’ll be autopsies, naturally, and ballistics will have a report. But it doesn’t look like an outside job.”

“I see,” Nick retorted. “Guilt by computer. You’re doing what you’re supposed to do. You’re being a cop—that’s all. I understand.” He paced. “The number one cop in the county—right? Well I want more than a note left on a computer. What else do you have? Where’s the motive? He was a happy, successful guy. He had a beautiful wife, great kids, a storybook marriage.”

“Nick, you’re going to have to wake up.” Rosa hesitated, almost apologetically. “There were a lot of problems.” The DA’s expression was intense.

Rosa’s face was deeply lined from the outdoor work he loved: his garden, his horses, his dogs. He liked mucking out stalls better than dealing with dead bodies and the bereaved. He sometimes wondered what the hell he was doing in this job—first it was law school and then politics. Then the stress, all the crap and criticism that went along with the job. But then he remembered why. It was because of the slabs of cement which lined the South Philly streets where he had grown up. Where, if you were lucky, you might see some grass daring to peek from the cracks in the sidewalk. Where streets stunk with sewer gas and cooking odors. Where fire hydrants
opened in summer to cool down melting asphalt and desperate kids.

“Joe had problems you don’t know about. He was broke. He was losing everything. He was facing the forced sale of this house—a copy of the sheriff’s sale notice was found this morning in the mail. He was facing prosecution, too…”

“For what?” Nick shouted, stepping back, defiantly.

Levin ran in from the open front door, his black hat tipped back, his black raincoat flapped behind him. He raised his hands excitedly. “Nick, Nick, keep your voice down. Have a little respect. Don’t let them hear you.”

Nick momentarily took his eyes off Rosa. He sensed that he had created a scene, that he had made a spectacle of himself. People were staring. This was not professional, this was not what Joe would have expected of him.

“Calm down, Nicky.” Levin put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “It’s all true. Here.” He pulled a document from his inside coat pocket. “Here’s a subpoena, it was served on us yesterday by the attorney general’s office. We got the State on our ass.” He handed the document to Nick and then nervously shoved it back in his pocket after Nick had read it.

It was like a dose of cold water. “I can’t believe this. What the hell started all this? I thought the firm was solid, I thought Joe was solid.” Nick saw his own future slipping away: his car, his condo, his career. Would he be painted with the same brush? Would he have to stand trial? Would he be disbarred—never get another job in a law office?

“It seems this has been going on for a long time, Nick. Joe was dipping into client funds—stealing from the escrow accounts to pay for his extravagances.” Levin wiped perspiration from his forehead with a stained handkerchief. “It turns out that a couple of clients didn’t want to wait until
he
felt like giving them their money. So they turned him in to the Disciplinary Committee— and the attorney general. And it just snowballed. Marty and I, of course,
didn’t know about this until just recently. He was hiding the mail. He got all the mail first. You know how he came in at seven a.m. And Celia would grab the mail if he wasn’t in and save it for him.”

“And you didn’t know
any
of this? Aren’t you partners? Didn’t you review your accounts?” Nick’s tone was one of total disbelief.

“
That
son of a bitch is on vacation,—took the red eye to Cairo” Levin said referring to Marty Silvio, “climbing the fuckin’ pyramids probably. He manages—some how, some way to dodge shit.” His eyes widened. “I’d like him to be here. With this crap. He’d shit himself.” Levin tipped his hat back and wiped perspiration from his brow with his small pudgy hand. “We turned a blind eye. Life was good and things were going great. Joe was our star so we didn’t rock the boat. Joe didn’t want to hear it when we told him to stop dipping into the accounts.”

Levin looked toward the district attorney. “Mike, what do we do now? You’re a friend. Help us.”

Rosa’s eyes were pained as if he had just put down a favorite horse. One friend dead—his memory forever tarnished—others in trouble. And worse, he had to tear down Nick’s god, his idol. Rosa was unable to help, and he knew it. The attorney general and the Disciplinary Board had their own agendas, and he wasn’t about to mess with
them
. Right now he had to control the situation, protect the crime scene, avoid giving answers, and look as if he knew what the hell he was doing—all at the same time. He had stopped smoking fifteen years ago, but today he bummed a cigarette from one of the detectives, shoved it in his mouth, and continued giving orders.

It was Monday morning, December 28. The doors to the suite were locked, and investigators from the AG’s office were fending off staff, clients, the media, and the curious. The news had hit the streets four days ago, and the networks were still featuring the same story,
ad nauseam
. It seemed never ending. The headlines on the Christmas Eve edition of the newspaper screamed, “Prominent Philadelphia Lawyer Kills Wife, Kids, Self!” A subhead read, “Law Firm Under Investigation for Fraud and Misconduct.” And it just went on.

This was the first day of business after the news broke and clients were beating down the doors wondering what had happened to their cases…and their money. Secretaries, paralegals, associate attorneys—all wanted to go to their desks, finish their work, collect their paychecks and their year-end bonuses—or collect their belongings if they were effectively out of a job. But the suite was sealed, and no one was allowed in except the AG’s investigators. They were going through every piece of paper, carefully logging and boxing files for removal, downloading computer data, client lists, client distribution ledgers reflecting payment on settled cases, firm bills and accounts receivable, banking records, client addresses and phone numbers.

Only three staff members had been allowed inside: Shirley Moore, Joe’s secretary; Celia Lopez; and Harry Levin.

Celia was essential to fielding the hundreds of calls. All telephone lines were lit and blinking. She had been picked up at six a.m. by the investigators and escorted to the office, ordered into the receptionist’s chair, and closely monitored as she did her job. As a busybody and a trusted friend of Joe’s, Celia knew everything that went on in the firm. The investigators had been told this by secretaries and associates whose calls and conferences she
had interrupted or whose private meetings she had been caught eavesdropping on. Celia knew all the clients, their gripes, their cases. She knew the judges, their clerks, and the lawyers. She had become familiar with their personalities and their quirks as well as their plans—where they were going, where they were coming from. She was affable, and she encouraged callers to share personal information, which they were only too happy to do if they needed a sympathetic ear. Celia touched each and every person in or connected with the firm.

The problem was, she knew that she knew too much. And today she was scared. Scared of the investigators from the AG’s office and scared of Silvio and Levin. She struggled to maintain her composure while every line on her board blinked for her attention.

“Yes, Mr. Kane. The firm is temporarily closed. No, not permanently—I said
temporarily.
I don’t know how long sir
.
Yes, your case is still active. It’s preserved. Yes another attorney will… can you hold please?

“Yes, Mr. Connley. Thank you for holding…I’ll page Lieutenant Jones for you. I saw him a second ago…yes sir. Can you hold, my lines are…sir, I can’t help…sir…” A click on the other end; Fred Connley, chief of the fraud unit, couldn’t wait any longer. He was on his way over.

Celia dabbed her eyes, breathed deeply, and pulled her violet cable sweater down to her hips. She pressed another angrily flashing button with a recently sculpted, inch-long red fingernail.

“Yes, Your Honor. I’ll try, Your Honor. Mr. Levin is with his attorney. But I’ll interrupt him immediately. Thank you for holding, Your Honor.

“Mr. Levin, it’s Judge Barnes. He wants to know who will be trying the Riley case next month. He wants to schedule a pretrial with the new attorney. Yes, Mr. Levin, Mr. Maglio was assigned that case. Yes sir.” She paused a few seconds to listen to Levin’s raving, then interrupted him. “I’ll give the judge that message.”

Celia knew better than to relay Levin’s message: “Tell that fucking moron to shove his fucking trial schedule up his ass. Doesn’t he read the papers?” And to tell him that Mr. Levin was busy with Christopher Henley, the best white-collar criminal defense lawyer in the fucking country and that the case would try when he was good and ready. And no, he wasn’t talking to anybody, not the FBI, the President, or God, and certainly not to an idiot like Barnes!

Celia let the Judge’s line flash. She took another deep breath and thought how she’d like to run back—run back in time to Puerto Rico. There she was poor, but happy, and it was safer there than where she was right now.

She took line twenty off hold. “Judge Barnes…yes, Your Honor, I’m so sorry. Mr. Levin is indisposed. He’s in the restroom trying to compose himself. Yes sir, I’ll do that, Your Honor. Mr. Silvio has cut his vacation short. He’s on his way back from Cairo. I’ll have Mr. Silvio call you the moment he arrives. I’ll leave a message on his voice mail. Yes, I’ll remind him of the Riley case and extend your sympathies concerning the Maglios…thank
you
, Your Honor.”

She wasn’t going to tell Harry Levin and Marty Silvio how Judge Barnes had chuckled when he talked about extending his sympathies.

Celia’s line rang. She knew what it meant—it was her turn now. She picked up the receiver, and an unfamiliar voice directed her to the media room.

She put the phones on voice mail and walked slowly to the room used for video depositions. It had been Joe’s favorite room: four TV monitors, four cameras, and four DVD players with surround sound—all the latest equipment—perfect for intimidating with all the right questions. And Joe had loved seeing himself on camera.

What a stupid, thankless job
, she thought. Three layers of cops to go through before she could finally put on her coat and go home. She’d rather have her acrylic fingernails pulled off one by one than to have to answer questions. The AG’s investigators were arrogant
pricks, and she knew that even as smart as she was, she was likely to fall into a trap.