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Authors: Lisa Scottoline

Corrupted

BOOK: Corrupted
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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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To Laura Leonard and the entire Leonard family, with gratitude for their inspiration, friendship, and love

 

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

—T. S. Eliot,
Little Gidding

 

CHAPTER ONE

Bennie Rosato hadn't taken a murder case in years, but she'd have to take this one. She'd been working late when the call came in, from a time she didn't want to remember and a place she didn't want to revisit. Still, she'd said yes. She couldn't assign the case to an associate, either. Nobody paid her debts but her. And she wanted redemption.

She lowered her head, hoisted her bags higher on her shoulder, and powered her way to Philadelphia police headquarters, near the tangled ramps to I-95 and the Schuylkill Expressway. It was almost midnight in the dead of January, with the sky frozen black except for a full moon, round as a bullethole. There was no one else on the street except a homeless man, rattling a can of coins at the cars stopped at a red light.

Bennie beelined for the building, called the Roundhouse owing to its shape, which was two massive circular sections stuck together like an old-school barbell. The design was no longer innovative, nor was the building, and cracks lined its precast-concrete façade. Its three stories of smoked windows were set lengthwise, and fluorescent lighting from within showed that blinds were broken or missing in every pane.
PHILADELPHIA POLICE DEPARTMENT
, read dark metal letters on the wall next to a mailbox, an overflowing trash can, and a Port-a-John.

Bennie opened the smoked glass door and let herself into an entrance with a wooden shield of the PPD next to a window of bulletproof glass. A young officer came to the window to meet her, wearing a blue shirt and a white UnderArmor turtleneck that revealed the telltale thickness of a Kevlar vest.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked.

“Yes.” Bennie liked him immediately, as she was in her forties and couldn't remember the last time anybody called her miss. “I have a client in Homicide. His name is Jason Lefkavick.”

“Hold on a sec.” The officer consulted an old computer for a moment. “Detective Gallagher will meet you upstairs at the Unit. Go to the door on your left. I'll need to see ID, inside.”

“Sure, thanks.” Bennie entered the massive round lobby, produced her ID, went through the metal detector, then took a grimy elevator to the fourth floor, where the ceiling lights flickered and the floor tile was gray with filth. She passed a bathroom with an open door and a leaking faucet. Running overhead were exposed wires and plumbing wrapped with duct tape.

HOMICIDE
, read an old plaque ahead, and the hallway ended in a closed wooden door with a keypad and a dark window of reinforced glass. She knocked, facing her own reflection. Her hair was a tangle of long blond curls twisted into a topknot by a ponytail holder, and she tried to smooth it in place. She wore only light makeup, now worn off, so her wide-set blue eyes were unlined. She was fully six feet tall, which came in handy in a courtroom, if less so on a date. She hadn't seen anybody since she and Grady broke up. She'd have thought she was dead below the waist, but for the fact that her legs were so dry they itched all winter.

“You must be Bennie Rosato.” The door was opened by a bald detective with brown eyes and a ruddy complexion. He had on a white shirt with a dark green sweater, khaki slacks, and loafers and looked about her age, but was shorter. He flashed a professional smile and extended a large hand. “I'm Mike Gallagher, good to meet you.”

“You too, Detective.” Bennie shook his hand, stepping inside a cramped waiting area with rubbery black benches and two large bulletin boards labeled
WANTED FOR MURDER,
with thirty-odd photographs of men, and one woman.

“Call me Mike. I've heard a lot about you. I know you were a buddy of Azzic's and he spoke well of you.”

“Thanks.” Bennie managed a smile but felt too antsy for small talk. “So do you think I can see my client?”

“Sure, no problem. Follow me.” Detective Gallagher led her past the memorial wall, then into the squad room, which was mostly empty. The only remotely modern appliance was a medium-sized flat-screen television playing football highlights on mute; the walls were a scuffed light blue and the dropped ceiling a grimy white, with more bundled wiring. The gray tile floor was dirty, and crammed everywhere were mismatched file cabinets covered with taped notices about Courtroom Numbers, Phillies tickets, Computer Training for the Forensics Lab, and a bumper sticker that read,
Y
OU
B
OOKIN
'?

“The squad room's the same, I see.” Bennie followed him past the cabinets.

“Still a dump, right? They're talking about moving us uptown, God knows when.” Detective Gallagher stopped in front of the closed door to Interview Room A and slid aside a large barrel lock.

“Did you videotape your interview with him?”

“No, the machine's broken. You'll see it dangling in the corner.”

“How about the audio?”

“We gave up on audio recordings. It sounded like everybody was underwater. The D.A. told us he couldn't use them. Take as long as you like, then come find me. My desk is the first one on the right.” Detective Gallagher gestured to a connecting room behind him. “A word of warning. It's not pretty in there.”

“The room? Why am I not surprised?”

“No, your client. And don't blame us, we didn't do it.”

“What do you mean?” Bennie asked, concerned.

She opened the door, and got her answer.

 

CHAPTER TWO

The last time Bennie had seen Jason Lefkavick, he was only twelve years old, so it made sense that he looked different, but that wasn't the headline. His forehead looked pink and puffy, and over his left eyebrow, a swollen, reddish lump rose with a cut matted with drying blood. His left eyelid had shut to a slit, and the sclera of his eye was blood-red around a sliver of watery blue iris.

“Jason, yikes, what happened?” Bennie closed the door behind her and dumped her bags on the beat-up black table.

“It's okay.”

“Did you see a doctor?”

“The nurse, she came in. It doesn't need stitches.”

“You should see an eye doctor.”

“She said it's fine. It's fine.” Jason shrugged it off.

“Okay, well, good to see you, even in the circumstances.” Bennie appraised him, and he was still short, about five-foot-six, but he'd lost weight and acquired a wiry build. His face had become long and lean, with prominent cheekbones, and his hair, which he'd shaved on the sides, had darkened from its previous sandy brown. Sinewy biceps popped through the armholes of his white paper jumpsuit, and tattoos of Chinese calligraphy, praying hands in blue, a sacred heart, and a blurry barcode blanketed both forearms.

“I didn't know if you'd remember me.”

“Of course I would.” Bennie took off her coat, but static electricity made it cling at the hem, so she unpeeled it from her khaki suit. She set it on the table, which held an open can of Coke and a greasy pile of chicken bones on waxed paper. There was a two-way mirror in the far wall, above two holes that were fist level. You didn't need to be a detective to figure out how they got there.

“Thanks for comin'.”

“You're welcome. How have you been?” Bennie gave him a hug, though she didn't generally hug her clients. Jason hugged her back briefly, and she caught a whiff of chicken, beer, and cigarettes.

“Almost twenty-five.”

“Really?” Bennie said, though she knew that already. She still thought about him.

“You got to be a big deal, huh? Famous lawyer, all that.” Jason smiled, keeping his lips closed, and Bennie remembered that he was self-conscious about his crooked incisors.

“No, not at all.”

“Not gonna lie, I didn't think you'd come.”

“Of course I'd come. I would never not.” Bennie sat down in the hard plastic chair opposite him, realizing that his demeanor had changed, too. He sat back with a belligerent uptilt to his chin, and his manner was more disaffected than it used to be, like a street thug's. If she hadn't known him, she might have been afraid to be alone with him. He wasn't handcuffed.

“Jason, listen.” Bennie felt pressure in her chest, which she'd been carrying for over a decade. “I know it was a long time ago, but I owe you an explanation—”

“No, you don't owe me anything.” Jason cut her off with a hand chop.

“But I'm so sorry for—”

“I don't want to go there. What's done is done.” Jason pursed his thin lips. “Really.”

Bennie let it go, for now. “How's your dad?”

“He died. His heart got him, when I was twenty.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Can we move on?”

“Okay, let's get started.” Bennie bent down and pulled a legal pad from her bag, facing him. They were oddly close because the interview room was so small, its only contents the black table and two chairs, though Jason's was bolted to the floor.

“Look, Bennie, I'm not gonna lie, I can't pay you right away.”

“Don't worry. It's on the house.” Bennie wouldn't have dreamed of asking him for a retainer. She stopped short of saying
I owe you
.

“You don't gotta do that.” Jason ran a hand over his head. “I'm no charity case, yo.”

“Don't worry about it, yo.”

Jason didn't smile. “But you gotta know, I'm not takin' any deals, I didn't kill anybody. They say I did it, they gotta prove it. I didn't do it. I'm not guilty.”

“Good.” Bennie wasn't going to ask him if he did it anyway, no experienced criminal lawyer would.
Still
, she'd never been comfortable with the don't-ask-don't-tell of the defense bar, which was only one of the reasons she'd gotten out.

BOOK: Corrupted
5.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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