Sheer Gall (18 page)

Chapter Nineteen

I thought it over. “I have a better idea.”

Jonathan Wolf took a sip of his Bass ale and reached for a handful of roasted almonds. “Let's hear it.”

We were seated in a booth in a quiet corner of the bar at the Ritz-Carlton. According to Jonathan, Tammy had called Neville McBride at his office earlier that afternoon to tell him that she'd heard about the murder charge. She wanted to see how he was doing and to let him know that he was in her prayers. It had been a brief call—five minutes tops—and she hung up before Neville was able to find out how to contact her. She had, however, promised to call him again. Jonathan's plan was to have Neville put Tammy in contact with him next time she called.

I took a sip of my sauvignon blanc. “Give her my name,” I said. “Have Tammy call me.”

He scratched his beard pensively. “I don't know.”

“She might be more willing to talk to another woman,” I explained.

“Perhaps.”

“It's worth a try.”

Jonathan's scowl deepened.

“What?” I said.

He shook his head. “After what happened the other night, I'm reluctant to get you more enmeshed in this case.”

I shrugged nonchalantly, although I was touched by this unexpected bit of chivalry. “I can't possibly be more enmeshed than I am already, and you've had very little to do with that. After all, I was here first. I was the one who filed Sally's lawsuit.”

I could see he was resisting the idea.

“Jonathan, all I'm suggesting is that we give Tammy a choice. If she's willing to contact you, terrific. I'd be delighted to stay out of this loop. But if she won't call you, maybe she'll call me. That way you'll still have a shot at finding out what she knows.”

Jonathan stared at the amber ale in his British pint glass. “Assuming she actually calls him again.”

“She told him she was worried about him,” I said. “That makes me think she'll contact him again. And if she does, as skittish as she sounds, she may not want to deal with you.”

He looked at me with a frown.

I gave him a sly wink. “Trust me,” I said. “She might find a woman a little less intimidating than an arrogant, pushy, macho defense attorney.”

That coaxed a reluctant smile out of him. It was, in fact, a lovely smile, made all the more appealing by those bright green eyes. With that beard and those eyes and the yarmulke, he could have been Joshua preparing for the Battle of Jericho.

“Anyway,” I continued, trying to regroup my thoughts, “it would make sense for Neville to refer her to me. I represented his ex-wife, and I'm handling her estate. Thus I'm someone who's naturally interested in talking to her, especially since she's his alibi witness for the night he allegedly assaulted Sally.”

We talked it through again, and eventually Jonathan yielded. He said he would call Neville later that night and explain the game plan.

As we sipped our drinks, he brought me up to date on the criminal case. “The prosecution's case is frayed at the edges, but the center is holding. That's why Tammy may be crucial.”

“What do you mean by ‘frayed at the edges'?”

“Local homicide investigations are a lot sloppier than most people realize. This one is typical.” He paused to finish off his ale. “At some point fairly early on, the police decided that Neville was the killer, and that's when their procedures slipped even more. For example, I think every door in the house was opened and closed by at least five different police officers during the first two days, and none of them wore gloves. As a result, there aren't many clear fingerprints, and Neville's are conspicuous by their absence.”

I smiled. “Sounds like you're planning to peck them to death at trial.”

Jonathan chuckled and nodded. “Welcome to the practice of criminal defense.”

We paid the bill—or, rather, I did, over his protest. I promised to let him pay the next one, and actually found myself willing to entertain the prospect of having another drink with this man.

We walked together toward our cars, reaching mine first.

“Well,” I said, a little awkwardly, “let me know how your conversation with Neville goes.”

He nodded silently. As I started to get into my car, he said, “Are you an observant Jew?”

I paused, eyeing him uncertainly. “It depends on how you define ‘observant.' “ I had no idea where he was headed. “I light the candles on Friday night. I try to go to services on Saturday, although I don't always make it. I say kaddish for my father, I don't work on Rosh Hashanah, I fast on Yom Kippur.”

He nodded silently.

“Why do you want to know?” I asked.

“My daughters and I enjoy having guests share a Sabbath dinner with us. Perhaps you'd care to join us one time.”

“That might be nice,” I said carefully.

He nodded gravely, checking his watch. “Very good,” he said, suddenly formal. “We'll notify you promptly.”

I gave him an amused smile. “Notify me?”

“If Tammy calls. Neville is under orders to contact me immediately, no matter what the hour. We'll notify you as well, so that you can be prepared.” He paused. “Good night, Rachel.”

“Good night, Jonathan.”

I watched him stride away as I tried to sort through my feelings.
Okay, let's concede the dark and handsome part at the outset. Big deal. You're not in the market for a cover boy. As a matter of fact, you're not in the market, period. And don't forget, this guy is pushy and arrogant and domineering and hot-tempered and very intense, and who's looking for that in a package deal? Even worse, he's brilliant and knows he's brilliant. Then again, remember your date with stupid who didn't know it?

I cautioned myself about the probable impact his two little daughters might be having on my feelings. I was just mushy enough to soft-focus his home life into a Jewish version of
Sleepless in Seattle
. Jonathan Wolf was no Tom Hanks, and, for all I knew, his daughters were spoiled little brats.

Still
, I told myself,
you know you're curious to observe Mr. Tough Guy around his daughters, to watch the Lone Wolf with his two cubs. And, you've got to admit, on him that yarmulke works
.

Slow down, Rachel
, I warned myself as I scooted in behind the steering wheel and closed the car door.
One step at time, girl
.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into a space across from my office. I was surprised to see a Shield Security car parked in front of my office building. I was even more surprised at the reason. According to the uniformed guard in the car, Neville McBride had placed an order for installation of a security system in my office as well, and at his expense. Until the actual installation plan was approved by me, Neville had instructed them to post a guard outside from dusk until dawn.

An office security system seemed a bit extreme, but I found myself warming to the concept almost immediately. I sensed that the hand of Jonathan Wolf was somewhere in the background of this transaction, and that was also a pleasant thought.

The guard got out of the car and walked me up the stairs to my office.

“Would you like to come in?” I asked the guard as I unlocked the door. “I can put on some coffee for you.”

“No, thanks.” He turned on the light switch and poked his head inside. He peered around for a moment and then stepped back into the hallway and gestured for me to go on. “I've got a thermos of coffee. The Blues are on the radio, and, frankly, I'm dying for a smoke. It's a nice night. I'll just sit out there in the car, sip my coffee, smoke a cigar, and listen to the game.”

I smiled. “Except for the cigar part, that sounds pretty good.”

He chuckled. “Well, I don't drink and I don't gamble and I don't carouse. Way I figure, a man needs at least one vice. I'll be out front.”

There was a stack of phone messages on the message spike on my secretary's desk. I lifted them off and moved toward the window as I leafed through them. When I finished, I peered through the blinds. I could see the security guard in his car, the window rolled down, cigar smoke curling into the night sky.

Smiling, I walked around my secretary's desk and opened the door to my office. I flicked on the light and gasped. Seated on the edge of my desk with his arms crossed was Junior Dice.

“Where the fuck you been?” he said angrily. He was dressed in black: black turtleneck, black slacks, black boots, black gloves.

I took a step backward and glanced toward the door.

“Where you goin'?” he snapped.

He uncrossed his arms, revealing a black automatic pistol in his right hand. He aimed it at my forehead and smiled. “Don't even think about it, bitch.”

Chapter Twenty

The gun made me flinch.

“Close that door,” he ordered.

I did.

Junior Dice put his foot on the chair in front of the desk and slid it toward me. He pointed the gun at the chair. “Sit down.”

I did. We were six feet apart.

I was staring at an entirely different Junior Dice from the affable charmer in the strip joint. This was the Junior Dice who had done hard time for manslaughter. He leveled the gun at my chest. “Who's the dude?” he said, tilting his head toward the window.

I looked over toward the window. The shades were closed. “He's a bodyguard.” My voice was shaking.

“Bodyguard?” Junior chuckled. “The fuck's he guardin' now? His dick?”

I said nothing.

“Bodyguard? Shee-yit.” Junior eyed my legs as he scratched his neck with the muzzle of the gun. “Your body ain't gonna need no guardin' tonight”—he pointed the gun at me—“so long as you don't pull no shit, you hear?”

I nodded.

“This won't take long,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, struggling to control the tone of my voice.

“I'm gonna explain the facts of life to you, Miss Rachel Gold. You got that?”

I didn't, but I nodded anyway.

“Good.” He walked around to the other side of the desk, careful to keep the gun trained on me the whole time. He reached down, picked up a pack of Kools, and shook out a cigarette. “Pull your chair closer,” he said, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

I noticed for the first time the smell of cigarette smoke in the room. As I moved my chair up to the desk, he lit his cigarette with a gold lighter, inhaled deeply, and exhaled two thick plumes of smoke through his nostrils.

“How did you get in?” I asked.

He snorted. “What you think you got here, girl? Fort Knox?”

I waited as he took another drag and flicked the ash into my favorite coffee mug. There was a liquid hiss as the ash dropped.

I flashed back to my self-defense class. Forget it. The gun in Junior Dice's hand won every time.

Junior Dice shook his head angrily. “Goddammit! Who you think she was? Mother Teresa?”

“Who?”

“Who? Sally Wade, that's who. How well you know her?”

“Not well.”
Maybe never even met her
, I said to myself.

He gave me an incredulous stare. “Not well? Then what the fuck you doin' snoopin' around stirrin' up all this shit? Not well? Goddamn.” He shook his head. “Let me tell you something, Miss Rachel Gold: I've chased cases for some bad motherfuckers in my time, but Sally Wade takes the cake. She was by far the nastiest one I ever dealt with. She fucked me out of my share three times. Three goddam times! The bitch was cold as ice. Talkin' about that poor husband of hers? Murder? Shee-yit. You talkin' justifiable homicide.” He paused to take another drag on his cigarette. “You followin' me?”

“I'm not sure.”

He exhaled twin streams of smoke through his nose and leaned forward. “Maybe it was her old man, and maybe it wasn't. Who the fuck cares? Point is, she had it comin'. The bitch pissed off plenty of folks. Maybe one of her clients. Maybe one of her chasers. Shee-yit, I felt like doin' her myself that last time. Point is, she's dead. Deal with it, woman. You ain't gonna bring her back, and all you doin' now is gettin' the wrong people riled up.”

“Like who?”

“Like me, goddammit,” he said, waving his gun menacingly. “This ain't none of your concern anymore. She's dead, her old man's got his own lawyer, and that makes you the odd man out. You out, so stay out.” He dropped the cigarette butt into the coffee mug, shaking his head in disgust. “Man like me, I'm diversified. I got all kinds of things goin' down right now. My business associates like things nice and quiet. When things ain't nice and quiet, my associates get spooked, and when they get spooked they don't wanna do no business.” He paused to light another cigarette. “I don't want no one spooked.”

My anger was building in spite of my fear. Here you are, I told myself,
held hostage in your own office by this small-time cretin who's trying to bully you off the case
.

“You hear me?” he said.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yes, Junior. I hear you.”

He stood up and came around to my side, the gun still in his hand. He bent down close enough so that I could smell the mixture of tobacco and alcohol on his breath. “Now I ain't laid a hand on you tonight, girl, and I'm goin' peacefully, so you got no cause to go runnin' to Mr. J. Edgar Hoover out there. But let me tell you something, Miss Rachel Gold: you bother Jo-Jo one more time or you keep askin' people about me, and you gonna need a whole lot more protection than that sorry-ass rent-a-cop motherfucker sittin' out there earnin' minimum wage.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Benny shook his head in disbelief. “Rachel, you must be nuts. Guy warns you not to fuck with him, so what's the first thing you do when he leaves? You fuck with him.”

“I did not,” I said irritably as I walked past him to get some more coffee. “I had him arrested.”

“Oh, I see.” He peered through the doorway at Jacki, who was seated at her computer terminal but listening to us. “I'm sure Junior Dice will appreciate that subtle distinction, don't you, Jacki? Rachel didn't fuck with him, she just threw his ass in jail.”

It was close to noon. Benny had called around ten to see what was happening, and when I told him about last night he came right over.

I filled my coffee mug and turned to him. “Benny, the man broke into this office, threatened me with a gun, and scared me half to death. I count at least two crimes there. He deserves to be in jail.”

“Right,” he said in a sardonic tone. “I'm sure he's grateful to be given this opportunity to atone for his sins.”

“You're missing the point,” I said, shaking my head with exasperation. I went back to my desk. “You can't let someone terrorize you in your office and then walk away scot-free.”

“Rachel, you're the one missing the point. They may lock Junior up, but they're not going to throw away the key. What about when he gets out?”

I took a seat behind my desk and looked up at him. “Benny,” I said patiently, “the guy is no fool. He's smart enough to know that he'd be the prime suspect if anything ever happened to me. Putting him in jail is like buying extra life insurance.”

He stared at me, slowly shaking his head. “You're putting a lot of faith in that logic.”

I sighed. “I'm putting even more faith in my getting out of this case.”

Benny came over to the desk and took a seat. “What else do you have left to do?” he asked.

“I'm going to meet with Bruce Napoli's wife this afternoon.”

Benny chuckled. “See if she's got any other tips for jazzing up a dull dinner party. What else?”

“I'm going by Sally Wade's place around seven tonight. Wanna come along?”

“What's there?”

“No idea. That's the point. I've never been there.”

He thought it over. “That's where she was killed?”

I nodded.

He shrugged. “Sure. Why so late?”

“No other time. I've got Bruce Napoli's wife at two o'clock, a pretrial conference at four, my self-defense class at five-thirty. As a matter of fact,” I said, checking my watch, “I'm kicking you out now. I've got to squeeze in some trial preparation. That crazy libel case starts on Thursday.”

***

I met Patty Napoli in the Tea Room at the Junior League. She played bridge there every Tuesday, and, like all such Junior League bridge games, hers followed a rigid schedule: first hand dealt at 11:30 a.m., drink orders placed at 11:45 a.m., lunch orders at 12:10 p.m., lunch served at an adjacent table at 12:30 p.m. When lunch arrives, the ladies stop play, place their hands facedown on the table, and move to the other table. They nibble at their tuna salads and sip their tomato soups until 1:15 p.m., when they return to the card table and resume play until precisely 2:00 p.m.

I timed my Tea Room arrival for 2:00 p.m., and as I walked in I could see various bridge games starting to break up. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have the time to play bridge with your friends for two and a half hours in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. Actually, it sounded delightful.

The Tea Room kitchen was closed, but I spotted a pot of coffee on a hot plate along a side wall. Pouring myself a cup, I scanned the tables. I recognized Patty from her photo and waved. She excused herself and came over.

“I appreciate your meeting with me,” I told her.

“You are quite welcome,” she said, somewhat primly. She glanced at her watch. “We have a few minutes before my afternoon car pools start.”

“Which ones are today?” I asked, hoping to loosen her up with a familiar, nonthreatening topic.

“Well, there's school first, of course. And then after-school activities. Melissa has Brownies today, and that will be at my house. Brucie has soccer practice until five, and then his violin lesson.”

I smiled. “You need a chauffeur's license.”

Two women came over to our table. One was plump and heavily made up; the other was wafer-thin and deeply tanned, with shoulder-length black permed hair. They apologized for interrupting but said it would only take a moment. They had to pick a date with Patty for the planning session for an upcoming St. Louis Zoo fund-raiser at the Hyatt Regency.

“We can't forget our thank-you notes to the silent-auction people,” the plump one declared. “I'll bring my list and we can divide up the names.”

I concealed a smile as I recalled one of Benny's many Junior League jokes. Why don't Junior Leaguers like group sex? Answer: It takes too long to write all those thank-you notes.

I studied Patty as she took a pocket calendar out of her purse. She was the very image of composure and control, devoted mother and volunteer, smartly outfitted as if for a photo spread in
Town & Country
. It was hard to reconcile this Patty Napoli with her carnal tryst in the upstairs bedroom with Neville McBride.

Patty apologized for the interruption after the others left. “So,” she said, “you represented Sally Wade?”

I nodded. “And now I represent her estate.”

She brushed her brown hair off her forehead and glanced quickly around the room. “I see.”

“How well did you know her, Patty?”

“Not well. Not well at all.” Her hands fluttered nervously as she talked. “We spoke briefly at a few law firm functions. Nothing that I can remember now. We were once at the same table for a Red Cross luncheon.”

Might as well cut to the chase. “Patty, who do you think killed her?”

The question made her sit back, as if she'd been slapped. “My goodness,” she said, her eyes blinking. “I certainly don't know the answer to that.”

“Do you think it was Neville?”

She cut her breath. “Well, I certainly was surprised when they arrested him, but I've heard that the police have a strong case.”

“Who told you?”

She giggled nervously, her face reddening. “Oh, different people. Mostly gossip, I'm afraid. As you can imagine, it's become quite the topic here and at the club. It's our own O. J. Simpson scandal.”

“Have the police talked to you?”

“Me?” she asked, eyes widening. “Why in the world would they want to talk to me?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps because of your relationship with him.”

She stiffened, her expression going cold. After a moment, she said, “We have no relationship, Miss Gold.”

“When did it stop?”

“It never began,” she said adamantly. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I was vulnerable that night. Bruce and I were going through a difficult phase of our marriage. I was under enormous strain. I'd had way too much to drink. Way too much.” Her eyes flashed angrily. “Neville sensed that, and he took advantage of me. He violated me. The man is a vulture.” She sat back and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and opened her eyes. “I have never been so humiliated in all of my life. You have no idea.”

After a pause, I asked, “Was Neville married at the time?”

She laughed derisively. “As if that would matter.” She paused, trying to recall the night. “She wasn't there.”

“When did it happen?”

“Three years ago,” she said, closing her eyes again. “February twenty-second.”

There seemed to be no tactful way to do this. “Patty, was that the only time you and he—”

“Yes,” she answered fiercely, her nostrils flaring. “Never before, never again.”

I nodded.

“Of course, that didn't stop him,” she said in disgust. “Last summer when Bruce was out of town at an ABA conference on environmental law, that man had the nerve to show up unannounced at my home one night. He even had flowers and a bottle of champagne.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him I'd call the police if he didn't leave immediately.”

“And did he?”

She nodded darkly.

“Did you tell your husband?”

Patty eyed me coolly for a moment. Then she placed her palms on the table and stood up. “I've said enough, Miss Gold. I have car pools to run.” She picked up her purse. “Neville is a son of a bitch, pardon my French.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “There. I've said it. Are you satisfied? Now please leave me alone.”

She marched out of the Tea Room. I finished my coffee as I replayed the conversation in my head.

Lawyers, like cops and shrinks, learn early on to beware of appearances. While others get a warm, fuzzy feeling at the scenes in those familiar Norman Rockwell paintings, we're taught to look for dark secrets. See the plump, jolly cop seated on the stool at the drugstore soda fountain smiling at the little boy on the next stool? Is that a smile or a leer, or is he simply relishing the protection money the pharmacist just paid him? Look at dear old Dad carving the Thanksgiving turkey with three generations of beaming family members around the table. Is the old guy about to be indicted for securities fraud? Is he perhaps planning to sneak out later for a leather-and-chain rendezvous with Bruno down at the biker bar? And what's the old darling got buried in the crawl space under his kitchen?

Nevertheless, it was nearly impossible to imagine Patty Napoli in the role of criminal accomplice posing as, say, Sally Wade or the elusive Tammy. Although she had been a drama major at Mount Holyoke (according to her Junior League bio), I saw no logical way to connect the motivational dots between the coitus interruptus and the corpus delicti. Revenge? Something even more convoluted? No answer came to mind.

Still, I reminded myself, Sally's death had unquestionably improved Patty's lot. As the wife of the managing partner of a powerful law firm, she became a prominent figure within the law firm's spousal pecking order and thus within her social circle. But was status enough to kill for? In a rational world, obviously not, but who said this was a rational world? Certainly not the daily news. When Mom arranges a contract hit on her daughter's rival for a spot on the cheerleading squad and Junior blows away Daddy with a shotgun because of a strict curfew, no motivation seems too far-fetched.