Conviction of the Heart (6 page)

She just might be.

She had a quick tongue, even in casual conversation, and a quick mind as well. Dinner had been a many-course delight, not on the table, but in the conversation. Unlike most attorneys he knew, she wasn’t egotistical and arrogant, but warm and amiable, broad in her interests as he, and not afraid of controversy.

He wanted to know more about her family. She’d revealed she had children from a previous relationship, daughters, but said very little else. His attempts to expand that area of conversation were gently rebuffed by a change of subject, and he hadn’t pushed hard. There would be time.

The ringing of his phone shook him from his daydreaming. On the second ring, he hit the speakerphone button so he could keep working.

“Lieutenant Sansone.”

“Nick? That you? I can’t hear you.”

Police Chief Sam “Butch” Reickert’s querulous voice rattled across the speaker. Nick grimaced, knowing Reickert could hear him just fine. The chief put on the same act any time he detected use of the speakerphone, no matter who was on the other end of the line. He hated the thing.

No point in pursuing this battle. Nick picked up the receiver with a tolerant grin. He liked Reickert. A long-time friend of the family, the man mentored Nick’s career since he first put on his uniform. Now, twenty years later, Reickert was Chief, and Nick was lieutenant in charge of the general detective bureau. The mutual respect had only grown, and Nick owed the man a debt of gratitude.

“Sorry, Chief. My hands were full,” Nick explained. Not exactly a lie. Not like the old man could see him, anyway
.

Reickert chuckled.
“
It’s lunchtime. I’m sure you weren’t that busy.”

With a nervous glance for a tiny red light at the corners of his ceiling, Nick wondered, not for the first time, if Reickert had a secret video camera installed in the office. Reickert’s reputation included a little paranoia, as did the mental outlook of most police officers. It certainly was possible.

“What do you need, Chief?”

“Vice is short this month, one officer out on comp and another on maternity leave. Dick asked me if we could spare any officers to fill in for a couple of weeks. Just on a temporary basis while they finish this task force to clean up the prostitutes in the east end.”

Nick considered the request. Already pushed to cover current cases, the budget kept all the department heads from hiring anyone for at least another six months. “When does he need them? Now?”

“ASAP, Nick. Sooner we get this sweep wrapped up, sooner you’ll have your men back.”

Nick glanced over to the erasable vacation schedule tacked to his wall. Only one officer had time marked off. He could probably send one man, maybe two. As long as it was only a couple of weeks. Even as he agreed, a small cold sting poked the “should-be” in his head. It would take longer. It always did.

“I can find someone. If my guys are deep into cases, maybe I can take a couple of shifts myself just to help Vice cover.”

“Good man. Get rid of that speaker, son. It annoys people.”

The jovial warmth in Reickert’s tone made Nick smile. “I hear you, Chief,” he said before he set the receiver back in its cradle.

Somewhat fortuitous or downright creepy? He’d just been thinking he spent too much time in the office, and Reickert handed him a vice assignment. Prostitute pops provided male officers with one of two roles, johns on the hunt or backup for female officers posing as ladies of the evening. Nick was happy to do either. Street busts meant quick turnaround, the exchange of offer and acceptance in a few words between hooker and john. The city had started impounding cars used for solicitation, and that put some dollars in city coffers and won commendations.

The down side, of course, embodied risk. These patrols often took place in areas like Homewood, or along Liberty Avenue, where gang activity and heavy drug use created situations that were often volatile and dangerous.

In recent years, the department spent more time busting Internet prostitution rings spawned off Craigslist and the classified ads of the City Paper. Advertisers boldly teased their wares, believing that because they were anonymous on the Net, they couldn’t get popped as fast as on a street corner. The Pittsburgh police did their best to disabuse these criminals of their beliefs.

Either way, Nick might volunteer. A bit of the old days would be good for him.

Nick’s former patrol partner, Hank Ferguson, peeked in the door. The man, who’d lost most of his hair and the paunch he’d hauled around for sixteen years on the force to a recent bout of chemotherapy, wore a brown polo shirt and slacks. Nick guessed Hank wasn’t wearing a suit because he was buried in paperwork and knew he’d get no street time.

“You got thirty minutes for a bite, Nicky?”

Nick eyed his desk. He didn’t. But he needed to get some air. “Sure, Hank.” He grabbed his jacket from behind the door and followed him out.

Before they left the squad room, Nick caught sight of the major cloud on the office horizon. The Three Amigos, three officers in their mid-twenties. Individually, each of the three malcontents performed well as officers, properly motivated. Together, they resonated off each other, compounding their bad attitudes, steeped in inner city piss and vinegar.

Emilio Vasquez, a Puerto Rican from the Bronx, stood three inches over six feet, once firm muscle sliding over into fat, in much the same way his work ethics softened as he contemplated the options for someone not born a white middle-class male in a city like Pittsburgh.

Jojo Washington hailed from the city of Atlanta, raised up by a single mother under some of the toughest conditions a boy could face. Somehow, that education by fire produced a wiry young man who now felt the world owed him a living.

Clara Malron—pronounced the Creole way, with a long O and accent on the second syllable, she was quick to remind people—was the slender peasant-shaped daughter of Haitian immigrants, who’d worked hard to overcome economic and educational deficits. Of the three, she seemed most likely to move up like a rocket through the ranks.

Washington and Malron carried twelve months’ seniority over Vasquez in the department and had worked under Nick for nearly twice that. Vasquez complained from the beginning about the assignments he received, blaming management for giving the “island boy” less than glamorous duties, and whipping up racist sentiment among those in the lower echelons. Before long, Nick started hearing similar bitches across the board.

Although he addressed the concerns immediately, in group settings as well as one-on-one, they hadn’t ended. The simmering dark eyes of Jojo Washington verified their persistence as Nick and Hank left the office.

“Hey, man,” Washington said. “What’s up with this robbery detail?”

Nick remembered he’d assigned him to investigate a string of convenience store stick-ups, the latest one early that morning. Nick straightened his shoulders, his feet set a foot apart. Fully in command mode.

“What about it?”

“You think because I’m black that I can catch a black kid who stuck a gun in some clerk’s gut?”

Looking at their three stone faces, Nick summoned patience from a place in his heart. “No, Jojo, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I decided to send you because I need to know what the clerk knows before she goes off shift. I thought I should send someone to the Sheets to talk to her. That’s what I do. You’re the one who needs to go talk to her. That’s what
you
do. You’re the lucky guy.”

“Man, I don’t believe this shit.” Washington turned away, not before Nick saw the exaggerated roll of his eyes. At the desk behind Washington, Vasquez smirked. Malron picked up her jacket and walked off without a word.

“And, Jojo, I want that data compiled by end of shift.” Nick waited a long moment for an acknowledgement that finally came as a grunt, then he went out the door with Hank. They took the stairs, six floors. Nick nearly ran down. The movement, the impact with each stair, shook Nick, jostling the irritation around his brain. He was very careful not to treat those three unfairly. Who wouldn’t be, with department affirmative action lawyers breathing down his neck? Sometimes he really wondered if all the hard work he’d put into that promotion was worth the hassle of dealing with whiny crybabies.

Hank lagged back, finishing the descent two flights behind.

“What’s got into you, Nick? You can’t let them under your skin.” Hank limped over, breathing hard. “They’re just blowing smoke, like young guys do. You keep your cool, give your orders, they’ll come around.”

“Maybe.” Nick held the door for Hank, and they walked several blocks to Peppi’s.

“No maybe about it. If they don’t straighten up and fly right, kick ’em to the curb,” Hank scolded as they got a table. The waitress had long experience with this pair and showed up with two iced teas, no sugar, no waiting.

Hank passed up The Roethlisburger, number seven on the menu, which Nick knew he dearly loved, but the sausage and burger topped with egg and cheese was off his diet list. He ordered a salad, disappointment practically dripping off his long face. Nick took one, too, to keep Hank company. After the waitress gifted them with her flirty smile and a little flip of her skirt, she headed back to the kitchen. Hank returned to his lecture. “Have you talked to Reickert about it?”

Nick shook his head, watching out the window for wrongdoers, his vigilance built of long habit. “What’s he going to do? No sense in my complaining. I wanted to be the lieutenant, so now I’ve got to handle the situation.”

All the same, Nick realized, Reickert might have handed him the solution to his problem. His request for extra men might separate the rabblerousers long enough to defuse the situation. Indeed it might.

He had his plan in mind before the meal hit their table.

Chapter Seven

Suzanne didn’t hear from Maddie Morgan for nearly a week.

With the papers prepared and ready for signature, she’d nearly written the case off as one of those that so often resulted in reluctant reconciliation when she found a bruised and battered Maddie Morgan waiting on her office doorstep.

“What happened?” Suzanne demanded, herding Maddie inside after a quick look to make sure the assailant wasn’t lurking in the hall. If Morgan had followed his wife, they could have a brawl right in her lobby before the police could ever arrive. But no one was there.

Maddie didn’t speak until they were settled in Suzanne's office. She trembled as she sat in the chair, chewing on her lip, a scarf tied over hair she hadn’t bothered to comb. Her blouse and slacks didn’t match each other or her shoes.

“I don't care where I go,” she said, her affect and tone flat. “I'm done with him.” An emptiness in her eyes said more than her words.

“I was concerned when you didn’t call,” Suzanne said. Maddie’s blotchy purple cheek, the eye nearly closed from the swelling, turned Suzanne’s stomach. She could imagine the force necessary to cause such injuries, the blinding pain Maddie must have felt at the hands of a man who professed to love her.

“I’m so sorry. I should have. The first few days after he got back, he didn't bother me. He just went to the office and stayed there late. But yesterday he came home before the children got off the bus, and he was furious.”

“About you? We haven't sent him the papers yet.”

“Rocco saw my car when I was here the other day. Greg accused me of having an affair when he left town.” Maddie began to cry, her throat choking with tears. Suzanne could barely understand her. “He took his gun out of his drawer a—and laid it on the table in front of him. He m—made me sit down at the table. God, I was scared. I knew I was going to die, and my kids would come in and see it.”

Maddie's fingers shredded the worn hem of the lavender blouse. Suzanne set the box of tissues closer. Her mind clicked ahead into action. With a threat and an injury within the last twenty-four hours, she had grounds for the protection order. But first she should hear the rest of the story.

“He looked at me across the table. He just stared. His eyes were like lasers. I thought I would burst into flames. He said, ‘No other man will ever have you. I'll kill you first, so you better not even think about it.'” A little whimper escaped her lips, and she covered them with her hands, as though it would keep her from telling too much. “Then he stood up and picked up the gun with his left hand. I was watching the gun, and I never saw his right hand coming at me. I went right off the chair.” She looked away. “I should have left then, but the children weren't home from school. I didn't want to go without them.”

“That's a wise choice,” Suzanne said, “but we could always get the children later. If something happens to you first, you won't be there to care for them.”

The silence stretched out, taut like a thread. Still Suzanne waited.

Maddie reached for a tissue and wiped her face, patting her injured cheek with caution. A ragged breath spurred her to continue. “Greg wouldn’t leave. He sent me to my room. When the kids were ready for dinner, Greg ordered pizza and told them I had a headache. He was Mr. Wonderful Dad and they loved it.”

“You didn't call the police?”

“Not while he was home. I would have been dead before they arrived.”

“Did you go to the hospital this morning?”

Maddie shook her head. “I just wanted to see you. I asked my neighbor to drop me on Carson Street because my battery was dead. She thinks I'm at the dentist across the street.”

“You must go to a doctor today, either yours or the emergency room, and get a medical record made of this.” Suzanne indicated Maddie's face. “I can take you now for your protection order.”

Suzanne pulled out the file, showing Maddie both the protection order request and the divorce papers she’d prepared. Maddie had to take hold of her writing hand with the other to steady it while she signed the papers, but she did it. When she was done, she stared at the black scrawl, intently, like it was a poisonous bug or something dangerous.

“Do we have to file for divorce?” she asked.