The Vendetta Defense (35 page)

“Last time I checked.” Marlene laughed in her throaty, smoke-cured way. “Very alive, in fact.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, you want to talk to Tony?”

Judy raised an eyebrow. “Tony? Tony who?”

“Tony-From-Down-The-Block. He’s paying me a visit, for lunch. He says to tell you hi.”

Judy smiled. So he hadn’t been as tired as she’d thought. She filled Marlene in on the story of the tapes and told her to watch her back.

“Don’t you worry about me, sugar. I keep a Beretta in my purse.”

“Great, I guess.” Judy wondered fleetingly how many Mary Kay reps carried concealed. “You didn’t make copies of those tapes by any chance, did you?”

“No way.”

“You think the PI you hired did?”

“Doubt it. He died anyway, three months ago.”

Judy paused, suspicious. “How’d he die?”

“Kidney failure.” Marlene put a hand over the phone, then came back on the line. “Hold on. Tony’s buggin’ me for the phone. He wants to tell you something.”

“What?”

“First, he says, ‘Don’t be mad.’ ”

Judy knew instantly what he meant. “Damn him! Put him on!”

34

T
he detective at the front desk was on the phone, but Judy wasn’t waiting for him to get off. She passed the desk and entered the squad room, where most of the Homicide Division looked up without surprise. Their ties loosened and their jackets off, they’d been eating lunch and waiting for jobs. Yellow Blimpie’s cups dotted the messy desks and the oily papers left over from take-out hoagies remained, many with a pile of shredded onions scenting the air. The detectives had undoubtedly been alerted to Judy’s visit, since she’d called Wilkins before she came, and she wondered if they’d been taking bets on whether she’d come bare-legged or not. She had. No pantyhose could withstand the way she lawyered.

“Miss Carrier,” Detective Wilkins said, standing and hitching up his slacks on slim hips. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie was on and knotted tight. “You came to file another complaint.”

“Let’s review. A bomb on my car, my apartment broken into, and now a fake temp in my office. Call me crazy, but I think someone’s trying to kill me.”

Detective Wilkins smiled without mirth. “We don’t think you’re crazy. We take all of your calls and complaints very seriously, and I’m glad you came down to talk to us about it.”

It sounded like the policeman-is-your-friend lecture they gave in third grade. Evidently Judy couldn’t have this conversation in an open squad room. “Is there someplace we could talk in private?”

“I’ll do you one better,” he said, lifting his jacket from behind his chair. “Come with me.”

Ten minutes later she was sitting in the beat-up passenger seat of Detective Wilkins’s ancient blue Crown Victoria, telling him everything that had happened over the past two days, with the exception of that silly little felony at the scrapyard. She felt vaguely hypocritical, seeking police protection after she’d conspired to boost a junker. In the law, this was known as “unclean hands.” Judy tried to put it out of her mind. In the law, this was known as “denial.”

There was almost no traffic, it being the lull between the lunch and the evening rush hours, but Detective Wilkins drove as if there were, rushing even to red lights and gunning the engine when they turned green. They were heading toward her apartment in Society Hill, and Judy was glad it wasn’t far.

“So we’re checking out my apartment?” she asked, and he nodded. He kept his gaze straight ahead and his hands loosely on the wheel. His eyes were flinty in the sun coming through the windshield.

“I heard your message when I came in. You said your apartment door was open, but so was the front door downstairs. You said there were no signs of a break-in or forced entry of any kind.”

“There wasn’t, but someone got in there. I’m not imagining this, Detective.”

“I didn’t say you were. But isn’t it possible that you left your apartment door open?” The Crown Vic lurched to a red light.

“I didn’t. I never leave my door open. And the front door wasn’t open when I left yesterday. I had to unlock it to get in last night.”

“We’ll do a walk-through together when we get there and you’ll tell me if anything is wrong.”

“Okay.” Judy thought a minute. “What about the guys who were shooting at us and then wrecked? Is there anything new on that?”

“No new leads. We’re still canvassing the neighborhood. Talking to the neighbors. Trying to get a description of whoever stole the car. So far, nothin’.”

Judy sighed. “What about the bomb on my car bumper? What did they say about it?” It was like a laundry list of calamities.

“It’s a pipe bomb. Homemade, nothing fancy.”

“That’s a relief. I wouldn’t want a fancy bomb.”

Detective Wilkins’s eyes went flintier. “We don’t have enough to charge anybody for it. We dusted the car bumper for prints and got nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“No matches to any known felons. No matches to anybody with a history of arrests for making bombs or incendiary devices. No matches to any of the Coluzzi family members or even their associates. That enough for you?”

Judy remembered what the fake temp had said, about the Coluzzis liking to commit their own murders. It gave new meaning to the term do-it-yourselfers. “Does John or Marco Coluzzi have a criminal record?”

“Not your business. But no.”

“So you have no record of their prints?”

“No.” The Crown Vic sped past the new federal prison, rising like a grim, gray nail next to the huge, red brick United States Courthouse, and Judy gazed out the window in frustration.

“All this law and order, and it’s not protecting anybody.”

“Yo, enough of that. I don’t do this for everyone, you know. I’m not even on this tour. I got ten uncleared cases on my desk right now. My partner’s in court for four days. I’m doing it because of the car bomb and the case you’re involved in. The department has done more than its part for you. There’s no flies on us, dear.”

“But I’m no safer. That temp could have killed me today. I’m a defense lawyer, and I spend all my time defending myself.”

“Well, you don’t make it easy, do you?” Detective Wilkins’s tone sounded testy, and he fed the big engine more gas. “Filing lawsuits. Holding press conferences. Thumbin’ your nose. What did you think was gonna happen?”

Judy’s head snapped around. “You saying that makes it right?”

“I’m saying that you gotta expect that. You can’t have it both ways, lady.”

The argument had some force, but she still had a problem. “Did you question the Coluzzis about any of this? The car chase? The bomb? The apartment?”

“I paid them a visit this morning, but I couldn’t find Big John. Marco was otherwise occupied, and his secretary said he’d call me back.”

“Can he just say that? That he’s too busy to see the police?”

“When he’s in the middle of a riot, I cut him some slack. He’s not a suspect, not officially, and you don’t know what those offices were like today, after he took over. It coulda been a riot. We put twenty uniforms on it just to keep the peace.” The Crown Vic zoomed down Sixth Street, with Independence Mall on their left. A dappled draft horse, sluggish in the heat, carted tourists past the Constitution Hall, with its ivory spire and cupola.

“So what should I do? Should I hire protection?”

“You could do that. But if I were you, I’d get off the Lucia case.”

“No,” Judy said reflexively, but something made her stop. She had a fleeting suspicion that Wilkins could be involved with the Coluzzis, but dismissed it as paranoia. Maybe. “Why do you think I should get off the case?” she asked, fishing.

“Your client’s going down, and I don’t think a killer’s worth gettin’ killed for.”

“Do you know the Coluzzis?”

“No.” The Crown Vic shot down Market Street, past the Greek restaurants, gentrified coffeehouses, and junky storefronts of Old City selling men’s clothes, gold jewelry, and Liberty Bell thermometers.

“You never met John or Marco?” she asked.

“No.”

“You never had any dealing with them?”

“No, and I don’t care to be cross-examined, counselor.”

Judy reddened. She never was good at fishing. She didn’t know how to be anything but blunt, so she went with that. “I’m not accusing you, Detective, but you can’t blame a girl for asking.”

“Yes I can.” Clenched teeth strained his voice, but Judy wasn’t sorry.

“Gimme a break, Detective. My life is on the line, as is my client’s, and the police don’t do anything. My client’s house has been trashed, he’s in hiding, and the police don’t do anything. At some point, you start to wonder, and it’s not out of the question, with the Coluzzis. They bribed half of L and I, not to mention whoever gives out the construction contracts at City Hall. The Philly cops haven’t been immune from corruption in the past.” She didn’t give him the particulars, because the Crown Vic was already screeching to an extremely pissed-off stop in the middle of Market Street, blocking a full SEPTA bus, with no red light in sight.

Detective Wilkins turned to face Judy, his dark eyes glowing with anger. “Please don’t even
think
that I’m dirty, or that any of the men in my division are dirty, when I am driving you around
like a cabbie
and
kissing your ass
. Got it, lady? I have only so much restraint.”

Judy nodded. Judging from his vehemence, he was telling the truth. Either that or he was in “denial.” Her neck whipped back as he stomped on the gas pedal and the Crown Vic took a right by her favorite storefront, Mr. Bar Stool, and zoomed down Second Street until he reached the cobblestone streets of Society Hill. Judy felt vaguely guilty while he fumed. Oh, what the hell. She was supposed to be a good guy. “I’m sorry if I insulted you,” she said, meaning it. Sort of.

The Crown Vic bobbled on the bumpy gray cobblestones. The detective said nothing.

“I do appreciate what you’re doing.” Judy managed not to say, what
little
you’re doing.

The Crown Vic swerved right and headed west. Colonial townhouses whizzed by. The detective had fallen mute.

“Look, I don’t have to kiss your ass either.”

The Crown Vic pulled up in front of Judy’s apartment house and Detective Wilkins cut the ignition, yanked up the emergency brake, and got out of the car and slammed the car door, all without a word.

So be it. Judy got out of her side of the car, slammed her door even harder, walked to the front door of her apartment, and dug in her backpack for her keys. It took her fully ten minutes to find them, which proved her karma had dipped to an all-time low, and during that time neither she nor the constabulary spoke. She let them in the front door, and they tramped up the stairs, with Judy in the lead.

Her stomach tensed as she climbed to the first-floor landing, then went up to the second. What if someone were there? What if someone had come in since this morning? She would have asked Detective Wilkins to lead but she’d rather be dead than break the silence first. Lawyers call this “pigheaded.” She reached her apartment door, unlocked it, and let it swing wide open.

The living room looked just as she’d left it, as a first impression. She entered the room, listening for commotion, but it was dead quiet. She walked around the sofa, the coffee table, and past the windows, looking for anything amiss. She went into the adjoining galley kitchen, but the dishes were still soaking in the sink and nothing was disturbed, then she hurried to her bedroom. The bedclothes were a happy tumble, the bureau drawers hung open with overflowing clothes, and the disarray on the bureau top looked normal. She walked to her jewelry box and saw that nothing had been taken.

Judy sighed. Maybe she had left the door open. Maybe no one had been here. She went through the bathroom, but it looked fine, and then went on to the studio. She froze on the threshold.

It was her painting on the easel, the one she’d started not too long ago. It was a self-portrait, the way she’d looked that night when the moon was full and she was changing the way she painted. No more landscapes from a nomadic childhood, long ago and far away. Judy had been starting over, with herself, so her first painting had been a self-portrait as she had been that night, in the nude.

But the painting horrified her now. A knife gutted her portrait, running from the base of her neck, slitting her chest between her breasts, and ending between her legs. The knife jutted crudely from her pubis. Vermilion paint the color of fresh blood had been smeared all over her knifed body. The meaning was unmistakable.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said a voice behind Judy. It was Detective Wilkins, and his stricken expression as he stared at the painting matched her own. She didn’t know which was worse, that a complete stranger was seeing a painting of her nude or that he was seeing a painting like
that
. Blood rushed to her cheeks and she turned away from the image.

“Please don’t look,” she said, her voice choked. She didn’t know why she felt so shaken. Somehow this was worse than a car bomb. More terrifying, more personal. It threatened the heart of her. And it showed her that whatever war was being waged between the two Coluzzi brothers, they weren’t too distracted to scare the shit out of her.

Detective Wilkins put an arm around her and led her from the studio. “Judy, we’ll look into this. I’ll follow up, I promise you. I will personally do everything I can to nail whoever did this.”

“Thanks.”

“But I’m not charging the Coluzzis on this evidence, not yet. You’re a lawyer, you know that. I’ll follow up, but all this is is vandalism.”

“I know that.”

“And you have to be realistic, even though you’re upset. You’re gonna want me to dust this whole place for prints and I’m gonna tell you we don’t have the manpower for it, and even if we did, it wouldn’t yield anything. I’ll ask the Coluzzis where they were last night, and there’ll be twenty witnesses to swear that they were having three-pound lobsters at The Palm.”

Judy knew it was true but her heart beat harder just the same. This was sick and twisted and scary. She didn’t want to live here anymore. She never wanted to come home again. She tried to think of a way to fight back. What could she do, legally? There had to be something. “How about a TRO, a restraining order, against the Coluzzis and members of their family? None of them could come within a hundred feet of me, the apartment, or the offices. I could prepare and file it this afternoon.”