Rage of Angels (3 page)

Jennifer had counted on her salary from the District Attorney’s office but that, of course, was gone forever. She could forget about severance pay. She had not been severed; she had been beheaded. No, there was no way she could afford to open her own office, no matter how small. The answer was to find someone with whom to share offices.

Jennifer bought a copy of
The New York Times
and began to search through the want ads. It was not until she was near the bottom of the page that she came across a small advertisement that read:
Wanted:/Prof man sh sm off w/2 oth/prof men. Rs rent.

The last two words appealed to Jennifer enormously. She was not a professional man, but her sex should not matter. She tore out the ad and took the subway down to the address listed.

It was a dilapidated old building on lower Broadway. The office was on the tenth floor and the flaking sign on the door read:

KENNETH BAILEY

ACE INVEST GA IONS

Beneath it:

ROCKEFELLER C LLECTION AG NCY

Jennifer took a deep breath, opened the door and walked in. She was standing in the middle of a small, windowless office. There were three scarred desks and chairs crowded into the room, two of them occupied.

Seated at one of the desks was a bald, shabbily dressed, middle-aged man working on some papers. Against the opposite wall at another desk was a man in his early thirties. He had brick-red hair and bright blue eyes. His skin was pale and freckled. He was dressed in tight-fitting jeans, a tee shirt, and white canvas shoes without socks. He was talking into the telephone.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Desser, I have two of my best operatives working on your case. We should have news of your husband any day now. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for a little more expense money…No, don’t bother mailing it. The mails are terrible. I’ll be in your neighborhood this afternoon. I’ll stop by and pick it up.”

He replaced the receiver and looked up and saw Jennifer.

He rose to his feet, smiled and held out a strong, firm hand. “I’m Kenneth Bailey. And what can I do for you this morning?”

Jennifer looked around the small, airless room and said uncertainly, “I—I came about your ad.”

“Oh.” There was surprise in his blue eyes.

The bald-headed man was staring at Jennifer.

Kenneth Bailey said, “This is Otto Wenzel. He’s the Rockefeller Collection Agency.”

Jennifer nodded. “Hello.” She turned back to Kenneth Bailey. “And you’re Ace Investigations?”

“That’s right. What’s your scam?”

“My—?” Then, realizing, “I’m an attorney.”

Kenneth Bailey studied her skeptically. “And you want to set up an office
here
?”

Jennifer looked around the dreary office again and visualized herself at the empty desk, between these two men.

“Perhaps I’ll look a little further,” she said. “I’m not sure—”

“Your rent would only be ninety dollars a month.”

“I could
buy
this building for ninety dollars a month,” Jennifer replied. She turned to leave.

“Hey, wait a minute.”

Jennifer paused.

Kenneth Bailey ran a hand over his pale chin. “I’ll make a deal with you. Sixty. When your business gets rolling we’ll talk about an increase.”

It was a bargain. Jennifer knew that she could never find any space elsewhere for that amount. On the other hand, there was no way she could ever attract clients to this hellhole. There was one other thing she had to consider. She did not have the sixty dollars.

“I’ll take it,” Jennifer said.

“You won’t be sorry,” Kenneth Bailey promised. “When do you want to move your things in?”

“They’re in.”

Kenneth Bailey painted the sign on the door himself. It read:

JENNIFER PARKER

ATTORNEY AT LAW

Jennifer studied the sign with mixed feelings. In her deepest depressions it had never occurred to her that she would have her name under that of a private investigator and a bill collector. Yet, as she looked at the faintly crooked sign, she could not help feeling a sense of pride. She was an attorney. The sign on the door proved it.

Now that Jennifer had office space, the only thing she lacked was clients.

Jennifer could no longer afford even the Steak & Brew. She made herself a breakfast of toast and coffee on the hot plate she had set up over the radiator in her tiny bathroom. She ate no lunch and had dinner at Chock Full O’Nuts or Zum Zum, where they served large pieces of wurst, slabs of bread and hot potato salad.

She arrived at her desk promptly at nine o’clock every morning, but there was nothing for her to do except listen to Ken Bailey and Otto Wenzel talking on the telephone.

Ken Bailey’s cases seemed to consist mostly of finding runaway spouses and children, and at first Jennifer was convinced that he was a con man, making extravagant promises and collecting large advances. But Jennifer quickly learned that Ken Bailey worked hard and delivered often. He was bright and he was clever.

Otto Wenzel was an enigma. His telephone rang constantly. He would pick it up, mutter a few words into it, write something on a piece of paper and disappear for a few hours.

“Oscar does repo’s,” Ken Bailey explained to Jennifer one day.

“Repo’s?”

“Yeah. Collection companies use him to get back automobiles, television sets, washing machines—you name it.”

He looked at Jennifer curiously. “You got
any
clients?”

“I have some things coming up,” Jennifer said evasively.

He nodded. “Don’t let it get you down. Anyone can make a mistake.”

Jennifer felt herself flushing. So
he
knew about her.

Ken Bailey was unwrapping a large, thick roast-beef sandwich. “Like some?”

It looked delicious. “No, thanks,” Jennifer said firmly. “I never eat lunch.”

“Okay.”

She watched him bite into the juicy sandwich. He saw her expression and said, “You sure you—?”

“No, thank you. I—I have an appointment.”

Ken Bailey watched Jennifer walk out of the office and his face was thoughtful. He prided himself on his ability to read character, but Jennifer Parker puzzled him. From the television and newspaper accounts he had been sure someone had paid this girl to destroy the case against Michael Moretti. After meeting Jennifer, Ken was less certain. He had been married once and had gone through hell, and he held women in low esteem. But something told him that this one was special. She was beautiful, bright and very proud.
Jesus
! he said to himself.
Don’t be a fool! One murder on your conscience is enough.

Emma Lazarus was a sentimental idiot
, Jennifer thought.
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…Send these, the homeless, tempesttossed, to me.” Indeed! Anyone manufacturing welcome mats in New York would have gone out of business in an hour. In New York no one cared whether you lived or died. Stop feeling sorry for yourself!
Jennifer told herself. But it was difficult. Her resources had dwindled to eighteen dollars, the rent on her apartment was overdue, and her share of the office rent was due in two days. She did not have enough money to stay in New York any longer, and she did not have enough money to leave.

Jennifer had gone through the Yellow Pages, calling law offices alphabetically, trying to get a job. She made the calls from telephone booths because she was too embarrassed to let Ken Bailey and Otto Wenzel hear her conversations. The results were always the same. No one was interested in hiring her. She would have to return to Kelso and get a job as a legal aide or as a secretary to one of her father’s friends. How he would have hated that! It was a bitter defeat, but there were no choices left. She would be returning home a failure. The immediate problem facing her was transportation. She looked through the afternoon
New York Post
and found an ad for someone to share driving expenses to Seattle. There was a telephone number and Jennifer called it. There was no answer. She decided she would try again in the morning.

The following day, Jennifer went to her office for the last time. Otto Wenzel was out, but Ken Bailey was there, on the telephone, as usual. He was wearing blue jeans and a veeneck cashmere sweater.

“I found your wife,” he was saying. “The only problem, pal, is that she doesn’t want to go home…I know. Who can figure women out?…Okay. I’ll tell you where she’s staying and you can try to sweet-talk her into coming back.”
He gave the address of a midtown hotel. “My pleasure.” He hung up and swung around to face Jennifer. “You’re late this morning.”

“Mr. Bailey, I—I’m afraid I’m going to have to be leaving. I’ll send you the rent money I owe you as soon as I’m able to.”

Ken Bailey leaned back in his chair and studied her. His look made Jennifer uncomfortable.

“Will that be all right?” she asked.

“Going back to Washington?”

Jennifer nodded.

Ken Bailey said, “Before you leave, would you do me a little favor? A lawyer friend’s been bugging me to serve some subpoenas for him, and I haven’t got time. He pays twelve-fifty for each subpoena plus mileage. Would you help me out?”

One hour later Jennifer Parker found herself in the plush law offices of Peabody & Peabody. This was the kind of firm she had visualized working in one day, a full partner with a beautiful corner suite. She was escorted to a small back room where a harassed secretary handed her a stack of subpoenas.

“Here. Be sure to keep a record of your mileage. You do have a car, don’t you?”

“No, I’m afraid I—”

“Well, if you use the subway, keep track of the fares.”

“Right.”

Jennifer spent the rest of the day delivering subpoenas in the Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens in a downpour. By eight o’clock that evening, she had made fifty dollars. She arrived back at her tiny apartment chilled and exhausted. But at least she had earned some money, her first since coming to New York. And the secretary had told her there were plenty more subpoenas to serve. It was hard work, running all over town,
and it was humiliating. She had had doors slammed in her face, had been cursed at, threatened, and propositioned twice. The prospect of facing another day like that was dismaying; and yet, as long as she could remain in New York there was hope, no matter how faint.

Jennifer ran a hot bath and stepped into it, slowly sinking down into the tub, feeling the luxury of the water lapping over her body. She had not realized how exhausted she was. Every muscle seemed to ache. She decided that what she needed was a good dinner to cheer her up. She would splurge.
I’ll treat myself to a real restaurant with tablecloths and napkins
, Jennifer thought.
Perhaps they’ll have soft music and I’ll have a glass of white wine and—

Jennifer’s thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. It was an alien sound. She had not had a single visitor since she had moved in two months earlier. It could only be the surly landlady about the overdue rent. Jennifer lay still, hoping she would go away, too weary to move.

The doorbell rang again. Reluctantly, Jennifer dragged herself from the warm tub. She slipped on a terry-cloth robe and went to the door.

“Who is it?”

A masculine voice on the other side of the door said, “Miss Jennifer Parker?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Adam Warner. I’m an attorney.”

Puzzled, Jennifer put the chain on the door and opened it a crack. The man standing in the hall was in his middle thirties, tall and blond and broad-shouldered, with gray-blue inquisitive eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a tailored suit that must have cost a fortune.

“May I come in?” he asked.

Muggers did not wear tailored suits, Gucci shoes and silk ties. Nor did they have long, sensitive hands with carefully manicured nails.

“Just a moment.”

Jennifer unfastened the chain and opened the door. As Adam Warner walked in, Jennifer glanced around the oneroom apartment, seeing it through his eyes, and winced. He looked like a man who was used to better things.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Warner?”

Even as she spoke, Jennifer suddenly knew why he was there, and she was filled with a quick sense of excitement. It was about one of the jobs she had applied for! She wished that she had on a nice, dark blue tailored robe, that her hair was combed, that—

Adam Warner said, “I’m a member of the Disciplinary Committee of the New York Bar Association, Miss Parker. District Attorney Robert Di Silva and Judge Lawrence Waldman have requested the Appellate Division to begin disbarment proceedings against you.”

The law offices of Needham, Finch, Pierce and Warner were located at 30 Wall Street, occupying the entire top floor of the building. There were a hundred and twenty-five lawyers in the firm. The offices smelled of old money and were done in the quiet elegance befitting an organization that represented some of the biggest names in industry.

Adam Warner and Stewart Needham were having their ritual morning tea. Stewart Needham was a dapper, trim man in his late sixties. He had a neat Vandyke beard and wore a tweed suit and vest. He looked as though he belonged to an older era, but as hundreds of opponents had learned to their sorrow through the years, Stewart Needham’s mind belonged very much to the twentieth century. He was a titan, but his name was known only in the circles where it mattered. He preferred to remain in the background and use his considerable influence to affect the outcome of legislation, high government appointments and national politics. He was a New Englander, born and reared taciturn.

Adam Warner was married to Needham’s niece Mary Beth, and was Needham’s protégé. Adam’s father had been a respected senator. Adam himself was a brilliant lawyer. When he had been graduated
magna cum laude
from Harvard Law School, he had had offers from prestigious law firms all over the country. He chose Needham, Finch and Pierce, and seven years later became a partner. Adam was physically attractive and charming, and his intelligence seemed to add an extra dimension to him. He had an easy sureness about himself that women found challenging. Adam had long since developed a system for dissuading overamorous female clients. He had been married to Mary Beth for fourteen years and did not approve of extramarital affairs.

“More tea, Adam?” Stewart Needham asked.

“No, thanks.” Adam Warner hated tea, and he had been drinking it every morning for the last eight years only because he did not want to hurt his partner’s feelings. It was a brew that Needham concocted himself and it was dreadful.

Stewart Needham had two things on his mind and, typically, he began with the pleasant news. “I had a meeting with a few friends last night,” Needham said.
A few friends
would be a group of the top power brokers in the country. “They’re considering asking you to run for United States senator, Adam.”

Adam felt a sense of elation. Knowing Stewart Needham’s cautious nature, Adam was certain that the conversation had been more than casual or Needham would not have brought it up now.

“The big question, of course, is whether you’re interested. It would mean a lot of changes in your life.”

Adam Warner was aware of that. If he won the election, it would mean moving to Washington, D.C., giving up his law practice, starting a whole new life. He was sure that Mary Beth would enjoy it; Adam was not so sure about himself. And yet, he had been reared to assume responsibility. Also,
he had to admit to himself that there was a pleasure in power.

“I’d be very interested, Stewart.”

Stewart Needham nodded with satisfaction. “Good. They’ll be pleased.” He poured himself another cup of the dreadful brew and casually broached the other subject that was on his mind. “There’s a little job the Disciplinary Committee of the Bar Association would like you to handle, Adam. Shouldn’t take you more than an hour or two.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the Michael Moretti trial. Apparently, someone got to one of Bobby Di Silva’s young assistants and paid her off.”

“I read about it. The canary.”

“Right. Judge Waldman and Bobby would like her name removed from the roster of our honorable profession. So would I. It reeks.”

“What do they want me to do?”

“Just make a quick check, verify that this Parker girl behaved illegally or unethically, and then recommend disbarment proceedings. She’ll be served with a notice to show cause and they’ll handle the rest of it. It’s just routine.”

Adam was puzzled by something. “Why me, Stewart? We have a couple of dozen young lawyers around here who could handle this.”

“Our revered District Attorney specifically asked for you. He wants to make sure nothing goes wrong. As we’re both aware,” he added dryly, “Bobby’s not the most forgiving man in the world. He wants the Parker woman’s hide nailed up on his wall.”

Adam Warner sat there, thinking about his busy schedule.

“You never know when we might need a favor from the D.A.’s office, Adam. Quid pro quo. It’s all cut and dried.”

“All right, Stewart.” Adam rose to his feet.

“Sure you won’t have some more tea?”

“No, thanks. It was as good as always.”

When Adam Warner returned to his office he rang for one of his paralegal assistants, Lucinda, a bright, young Black woman.

“Cindy, get me all the information you can on an attorney named Jennifer Parker.”

She grinned and said, “The yellow canary.”

Everybody knew about her.

Late that afternoon Adam Warner was studying the transcript of the court proceedings in the case of
The People of New York
v.
Michael Moretti.
Robert Di Silva had had it delivered by special messenger. It was long past midnight when Adam finished. He had asked Mary Beth to attend a dinner party without him, and had sent out for sandwiches. When Adam was through reading the transcript, there was no doubt in his mind that Michael Moretti would have been found guilty by the jury if fate had not intervened in the form of Jennifer Parker. Di Silva had prosecuted the case flawlessly.

Adam turned to the transcript of the deposition that had been taken in Judge Waldman’s chambers afterward.

DI SILVA
:
You are a college graduate?

PARKER
:
Yes, sir.

DI SILVA
:
And a law school graduate?

PARKER
:
Yes, sir.

DI SILVA
:
And a stranger hands you a package, tells you to deliver it to a key witness in a murder trial and you just do it? Wouldn’t you say that went beyond the bounds of stupidity?

PARKER
:
It didn’t happen that way.

DI SILVA
:
You said it did.

PARKER
:
What I mean is, I didn’t think he was a stranger. I thought he was on your staff.

DI SILVA
:
What made you think that?

PARKER
:
I’ve told you. I saw him talking to you and then he came over to me with this envelope and he called me by name, and he said you wanted me to deliver it to the witness. It all happened so fast that—

DI SILVA
:
I don’t think it happened that fast. I think it took time to set it up. It took time to arrange for someone to pay you off to deliver it.

PARKER
:
That’s not true. I—

DI SILVA
:
What’s not true? That you didn’t know you were delivering the envelope?

PARKER
:
I didn’t know what was in it.

DI SILVA
:
So it’s true that someone paid you.

PARKER
:
I’m not going to let you twist my words around. No one paid me anything.

DI SILVA
:
You did it as a favor?

PARKER
:
No. I thought I was acting on your instructions.

DI SILVA
:
You said the man called you by name.

PARKER
:
Yes.

DI SILVA
:
How did he know your name?

PARKER
:
I don’t know.

DI SILVA
:
Oh, come on. You must have some idea. Maybe it was a lucky guess. Maybe he just looked around that courtroom and said, There’s someone who looks like her name could be Jennifer Parker. Do you think that was it?

PARKER
:
I’ve told you. I don’t know.

DI SILVA
:
How long have you and Michael Moretti been sweethearts?

PARKER
:
Mr. Di Silva, we’ve gone all over this. You’ve been questioning me now for five hours. I’m tired. I have nothing more to add. May I be excused?

DI SILVA
:
If you move out of that chair I’ll have you placed under arrest. You’re in big trouble, Miss Parker. There’s only one way you’re going to get out
of it. Stop lying and start telling the truth.

PARKER
:
I’ve told you the truth. I’ve told you everything I know.

DI SILVA
:
Except the name of the man who handed you the envelope. I want his name and I want to know how much he paid you.

There were thirty more pages of transcript. Robert Di Silva had done everything but beat Jennifer Parker with a rubber hose. She had stuck to her story.

Adam closed the transcript and wearily rubbed his eyes. It was two
A.M.

Tomorrow he would dispose of the Jennifer Parker matter.

To Adam Warner’s surprise, the Jennifer Parker case would not be disposed of so easily. Because Adam was a methodical man he ran a check on Jennifer Parker’s background. As far as he could determine, she had no crime connections, nor was there anything to link her with Michael Moretti.

There was something about the case that disturbed Adam. Jennifer Parker’s defense was too flimsy. If she were working for Moretti, he would have protected her with a reasonably plausible story. As it was, her story was so transparently naïve that it had a ring of truth about it.

At noon Adam received a call from the District Attorney. “How goes it, Adam?”

“Fine, Robert.”

“I understand you’re handling the hatchet-man job on the Jennifer Parker matter.”

Adam Warner winced at the phrase. “I’ve agreed to make a recommendation, yes.”

“I’m going to put her away for a long time.” Adam was taken aback by the hatred in the District Attorney’s voice.

“Easy, Robert. She’s not disbarred yet.”

Di Silva chuckled. “I’ll leave that to you, my friend.” His
tone changed. “I hear on the grapevine that you may be moving to Washington soon. I want you to know that you can count on my full support.”

Which was considerable, Adam Warner knew. The District Attorney had been around a long time. He knew where the bodies were buried and he knew how to squeeze the most out of that information.

“Thanks, Robert. I appreciate that.”

“My pleasure, Adam. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

Meaning Jennifer Parker. The quid pro quo Stewart Needham had mentioned, with the girl used as a pawn. Adam Warner thought about Robert Di Silva’s words:
I’m going to put her away for a long time.
From reading the transcript, Adam judged that there was no real evidence against Jennifer Parker. Unless she confessed, or unless someone came forward with information that proved criminal complicity, Di Silva would not be able to touch the girl. He was counting on Adam to give him his vengeance.

The cold, harsh words of the transcript were clear-cut, and yet Adam wished he could have heard the tone of Jennifer Parker’s voice when she denied her guilt.

There were pressing matters claiming Adam’s attention, important cases involving major clients. It would have been easy to go ahead and carry out the wishes of Stewart Needham, Judge Lawrence Waldman and Robert Di Silva, but some instinct made Adam Warner hesitate. He picked up Jennifer Parker’s file again, scribbled some notes and began to make some long-distance telephone calls.

Adam had been given a responsibility and he intended to carry it through to the best of his ability. He was all too familiar with the long, back-breaking hours of study and hard work it took to become an attorney and to pass the bar. It was a prize that took years to attain, and he was not about to deprive someone of it unless he was cerain there was justification.

The following morning Adam Warner was on a plane to
Seattle, Washington. He had meetings with Jennifer Parker’s law professors, with the head of a law firm where she had clerked for two summers, and with some of Jennifer’s former classmates.

Stewart Needham telephoned Adam in Seattle. “What are you doing up there, Adam? You’ve got a big case load waiting for you back here. That Parker thing should have been a snap.”

“A few questions have arisen,” Adam said carefully. “I’ll be back in a day or so, Stewart.”

There was a pause. “I see. Let’s not waste any more time on her than we have to.”

By the time Adam Warner left Seattle, he felt he knew Jennifer Parker almost as well as she knew herself. He had built up a portrait of her in his mind, a mental identikit, with pieces filled in by her law professors, her landlady, members of the law firm where she had served as a clerk, and classmates. The picture that Adam had acquired bore no resemblance to the picture Robert Di Silva had given him. Unless Jennifer Parker was the most consummate actress who ever lived, there was no way she could have been involved in a plot to free a man like Michael Moretti.

Now, almost two weeks after he had had that morning conversation with Stewart Needham, Adam Warner found himself facing the girl whose past he had been exploring. Adam had seen newspaper pictures of Jennifer, but they had not prepared him for the impact she made in person. Even in an old robe, without makeup, and her dark brown hair bath-damp, she was breathtaking.

Adam said, “I’ve been assigned to investigate your part in the Michael Moretti trial, Miss Parker.”

“Have you now!” Jennifer could feel an anger rising in her. It started as a spark and became a flame that exploded inside
her. They still were not through with her. They were going to make her pay for the rest of her life. Well, she had had enough.

When Jennifer spoke, her voice was trembling. “I have nothing to say to you! You go back and tell them whatever you please. I did something stupid, but as far as I know, there’s no law against stupidity. The District Attorney thinks someone paid me off.” She waved a scornful hand in the air. “If I had any money, do you think I’d be living in a place like this?” Her voice was beginning to choke up. “I—I don’t care what you do. All I want is to be left alone. Now please go away!”