The Wrong Man (44 page)

“Of course I did,” she said. “Would you… do that?”

I didn’t answer. I breathed onto the glass and watched it fog up.

“What’s wrong, Jason? Did something…”

Her sentence trailed off. In the reflection off the window, I could see her standing by the couch. Joel’s treatise on “Gin Rummy” was resting there, open to the executive summary.

“I thought seriously about saying yes,” I said. “I really did. I love this city, but I would have considered leaving it for you.”

“You still can,” she said.

True. I still could, after everything.

“I have unfinished business,” I said. “Gin Rummy is still out there. I have to find Kathy Rubinkowski’s killer.”

“That’s not your job. You did yours. Leave the rest to someone else.”

I nodded. That was the same thing I’d been trying to tell myself.

“Help me out here,” Tori said to me. “Because this is sounding suspiciously like an excuse to blow me off. And if that’s what you want to do, I’d rather you just said that.”

I could see where she might think that. I’ve heard a lot of women complain that men are afraid of confrontation when it comes to breakups. They hide behind stupid reasons. But that wasn’t the case here.

I watched her in the reflection. It was somehow easier to do it this way. She reached down and picked up the three-ring binder Joel had put together.

“Joel got me started,” I continued. “He identified a long-time hit man named Peter Ramini. Apparently he was a big deal when Rico Capparelli was the boss. He would still make the most sense, even with his brother Paul at the helm.”

“So I’m reading,” she said, holding the summary in her hand.

“Right. But ultimately, Joel rules him out,” I said.

Tori didn’t answer. She was reading what Joel had written.

I had a copy of the executive summary rolled up in my hand. I unrolled it and read the pertinent part. “‘Nearly five years ago, Peter Ramini was diagnosed with a disorder known as “essential tremor,” an involuntary shaking disease that, in his case, has left him with a nearly permanent tremble in his hands. Ramini’s nickname, “Pockets,” stems from the fact that he almost never lets anyone see his hands. In fact, federal agents believe that his disorder is unknown to virtually everyone within the Capparelli family.’

“So,” I said, “it’s not Peter Ramini. He probably can’t even hold a gun in his hand.”

“So it seems.” I saw Tori toss the binder back onto the couch. “Tell me what this has to do with you and me.”

I turned and faced her now. “Funny thing. Joel did bios on the main suspects in the body of the report. According to Joel, ol’ Peter never married or had kids. He had a brother Joey who died young. Joey left behind an eight-year-old daughter. Peter’s niece.”

Tori blinked. She started to answer but thought better of it. Her eyes darted about the room and into the hallway.

“She’d be twenty-seven today,” I said.

“You don’t say.”

“Her name is Ginger,” I said.

The temperature dropped in the room. Tori watched me for a long time. Her features had hardened. She was still wearing the long coat and her hands were hidden inside the pockets.

“No, it isn’t,” she said. “It’s Victoria. Victoria Virginia Ramini.”

She removed her right hand from the pocket and produced a handgun.

“Unfortunately, my aunt was also named Victoria, so they called me Virginia. And ‘Virginia’ became ‘Ginger.’ I always hated that nickname, for the record.”

“And now you’re Tori Martin,” I said. “So ‘Tori’ comes from ‘Victoria.’ What about ‘Martin’? Just a name you dreamed up?”

“My mother’s maiden name.”

“Ah. Came in handy. Let me see if I have this right. You killed your husband, went into a little spiral, then came up for air with a new name—Tori Martin—and better yet, a new job helping Uncle Peter kill people. He gets the contracts, but he can’t fulfill them personally with shaky hands, so he farms them out to you. Nobody knows it’s you. Nobody would even suspect you. And the cops and the FBI, they may like Peter for the various murders but they can’t prove it. No prints, no trace evidence—hell, Peter’s probably twenty miles away with an alibi when the hits go down.”

Tori studied me before answering. “Actually, he likes to watch. He’s weird like that. I don’t know if he’s protective of me or he wants to stay close to things, even if he can’t pull the trigger himself. But he watches every one of them. Do you want to psychoanalyze my uncle some more, Jason?”

I didn’t. Tori kept the gun at her side but watched me closely. I was behind my desk. She knew I owned a gun. She didn’t know where it was. Not that she seemed particularly worried. She had proven herself to be an expert shooter. She could put one between my eyes before I could get anywhere near my desk drawer.

“So the Capparellis see that Lorenzo Fowler’s getting nervous, maybe
getting some loose lips,” I say. “They find out he’s made an appointment with me, an outside lawyer, someone the Capparellis don’t use. So they want someone close to me. Someone who can find out what I know. And that someone is you. You and those goons stage a little scene at Vic’s so I can intervene and play the hero. And then you do a masterful job of playing hard to get, but ultimately you and I become close. I share everything with you. I tell you everything, and you tell them everything.”

I laughed at a memory. “You even saw me investigating the identity of Gin Rummy and talked me
out
of pursuing that angle. I actually
thanked
you for your intelligent insight. You must have thought I was the most pathetic mark you’ve ever—”

“Don’t say that.” Tori’s eyes welled with tears. “You don’t know how I feel about you.”

“You’re right, I don’t. Because everything was a lie.”

“Not everything.”

I took a couple of deep breaths. I moved slightly to my right, within reach of the desk drawer. I couldn’t tell how closely Tori was noticing.

“Why did you tell me you shot your husband five years ago?” I asked. “That was true, right?”

She nodded.

“Why did you tell me that? Why would you reveal something truthful about yourself that could expose your secret?”

She cocked her head, blinking away tears. “Because I wanted to share it with you.”

She said it as if it were an obvious answer. I shook my head. I was furious and humiliated and confused.

“If you’re going to tell me that my actions didn’t make sense, Jason, I won’t disagree. I didn’t plan this nearly as well as you think. I was supposed to become your friend and keep an eye on things. Everything that happened after that, it just happened.”

“Bullshit.”

“Move away from the desk, Jason. And keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t make something happen here that doesn’t need to.”

“I’m turning you in,” I said.

“No, you’re not. You could have already done that.”

“I still can.”

“If you call the police, I can’t protect you.” Tori walked toward me, cutting the distance between us in half before stopping. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for me to keep you alive? My uncle pleaded with Paulie to spare you. And when he couldn’t stop it from happening,
I
stopped it. I’ve known Sal and Augie most of my life. I killed two of my
friends
in that alley.”

I took a breath. Anger and embarrassment had clouded my thoughts, but I did see her point. She did save me in that alley when those two goons tried to kill me. Clearly, she had gone against the Mob’s wishes there. The top brass had ordered a hit on me and Tori had jumped in and stopped it.

“This job with Uncle Pete—I only killed people who deserved it,” she said to me. “People who robbed and murdered and cheated and did all kinds of bad things. Anyone I killed shouldn’t have been too surprised when it happened.”

“Kathy Rubinkowski,” I said.

She nodded. “I was told she was blackmailing her boss, that she’d found damaging information and was looking for a million dollars. I didn’t know anything about Randall Manning or Global Harvest. I just took the assignment from my uncle. As soon as I found out the truth, I did everything I could to help you figure out your problem.”

“Everything but turn yourself in. You could have just raised your hand and the case would’ve been over.”

“And if I had, the worst terrorist attack in the country’s history would have taken place.”

I laughed harder than was warranted. My emotions were riding a roller coaster now. I was raw and exposed and looking for a way to make it hurt less. But as my mother used to say, I was born at night, but not last night.

“So you’re the killer with a heart of gold.”

“No,” she said. “I’m someone who made bad choices that I have to live with. Someone who wants things to be different now. I can be different, Jason. I…”

I waited her out. I was pretty much done with my end of the conversation.

“I love you,” she said.

“No.”

“Yes. I do, Jason. You’re strong and decent and ethical and, yes, you’re damaged but you have this tremendous heart, this sense of right and wrong that I’ve never known. All I’ve ever known in my life are people looking for an angle, people who hurt and kill you if you don’t go along with them. But not you. I didn’t know people like you existed. I can be that person, too. I’m more than what I’ve been so far. I can be better at—at life, I guess.”

“That’s touching.”

“What you won’t read in some silly little report is that I was totally messed up after I shot my husband. I started into drugs—painkillers at first, then cocaine. I was a train wreck. I could only do one thing well, and that was shoot a gun. I’d been shooting since I was seven, and I could do it better than anybody. So my uncle’s career was falling apart when he got diagnosed with tremors, and my life was falling apart. Okay? So we helped each other. He got me straight, and I kept him in business. But he promised me it would only be bad people. Only people who were already dirty. And now I want a new life, and I want you in it.”

“You killed Kathy Rubinkowski, and you framed Tom Stoller—”

“I didn’t frame anyone. I had nothing to do with that. I just pulled the trigger and kept walking. I was told to leave behind the spent shell casing so it wouldn’t look like a professional hit. So I did that. The rest—taking her valuables and dumping them in the park with a homeless guy—I didn’t do it and I didn’t know about it.”

I thought about that for a moment. “Then who?”

“It was Lorenzo,” she said. “At my uncle’s direction. He knew this shooting would draw some attention, I guess. A nice white girl in a yuppie neighborhood? So he took extra precautions to make it look more like a garden-variety robbery gone bad. Lorenzo, he already knew about my arrangement with Uncle Pete. Only he and Paulie and Paulie’s errand boy Donnie knew. So he had Lorenzo cover my tracks. I didn’t know, Jason. I swear.”

I shook my head. “But then you
did
know. And you were going to let Tom—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I was never going to let him go to prison. If it had come to it, I would have confessed. Or something. I would have done something. I would
not
have let that poor guy go to prison.”

I watched her carefully, trying to read her, sure that my normally reliable instincts had failed me. “That’s easy to say now.”

She wiped tears away with the back of her hand. Her left hand. The gun hand remained still at her side. “You don’t believe me,” she said. “If you don’t believe that, then I guess we’re done.”

I didn’t answer. My throat was full and my stomach was churning.

She let out a bitter breath. “I wondered if this day was going to come. Believe it or not, I thought if it did, I could make you understand. I thought you’d give me a chance.” She shook her head and took another breath. “I guess that was dumb.”

I reached for the desk drawer.

“Don’t do that, Jason. Please.”

I opened it up.

She raised her gun.

“Jason, don’t.”

I removed a business card for Detective Frank Danilo, the lead on the Rubinkowski murder. I placed it on the desk, picked up the receiver of my office phone, and dialed the number.

When the police station operator answered, I said, “Detective Frank Danilo, please.”

“Hang up the phone, Jason.” Tori stared at me, the gun trained on me. We watched each other as I waited for Danilo to come on the line—probably just a few seconds but elongated by the tension. A twitch of Tori’s finger and my life was over.

“Please don’t do this,” Tori said. I stared into the barrel of the gun as the voice of Frank Danilo came over the receiver.

“Detective, this is Jason Kolarich,” I said.

Tori’s eyes narrowed. Her gun held steady. I’d be dead before I realized she pulled the trigger.

“Yeah, Jason. What’s up?”

I loved Tori, too. I knew that for certain this afternoon, when I put everything together. I always measured love by pain. What I felt when my wife and daughter died was so consuming that it crushed me and rebuilt me into something vaguely resembling my former self. This was not that kind of pain. This was poison through my blood, something that grabbed and twisted my insides and stole my breath. I loved her, and at this
moment I believed that she loved me, too. That was supposed to make it easier. It made it worse.

“Kathy Rubinkowski’s killer is named Victoria Virginia Ramini,” I said. “She’s the niece of Peter Ramini. She now goes by Tori Martin. She’s Gin Rummy, Detective.”

I slowly placed the phone back in its cradle. Closed my eyes. Took a breath.

When I looked up, Tori Martin was gone.

Many thanks to Dr. Ronald Wright, forensic pathologist extraordinaire, for his delightful explanations of how people are hanged, shot, strangled, and otherwise fatally maimed—and doing so with an infectious laugh. Thanks to Dan Collins, my favorite federal prosecutor and friend for life, for telling me as much as he could about domestic terrorism without having to arrest me. Thanks to everyone at Putnam and Berkley, all of whom are charged in some manner with the task of putting up with an author who misses deadlines and is sometimes spacey: Ivan Held, Leslie Gelbman, Neil Nyren, Rachel Kahan, Victoria Comella, Michael Barson, Lydia Hirt, and my new discovery, Sara Minnich. You guys rock.