Blood Money Page 4

  It was like a dose of cold water. “I can’t believe this. What the hell started all this? I thought the firm was solid, I thought Joe was solid.” Nick saw his own future slipping away: his car, his condo, his career. Would he be painted with the same brush? Would he have to stand trial? Would he be disbarred—never get another job in a law office?

  “It seems this has been going on for a long time, Nick. Joe was dipping into client funds—stealing from the escrow accounts to pay for his extravagances.” Levin wiped perspiration from his forehead with a stained handkerchief. “It turns out that a couple of clients didn’t want to wait until he felt like giving them their money. So they turned him in to the Disciplinary Committee— and the attorney general. And it just snowballed. Marty and I, of course, didn’t know about this until just recently. He was hiding the mail. He got all the mail first. You know how he came in at seven a.m. And Celia would grab the mail if he wasn’t in and save it for him.”

  “And you didn’t know any of this? Aren’t you partners? Didn’t you review your accounts?” Nick’s tone was one of total disbelief.

  “That son of a bitch is on vacation,—took the red eye to Cairo” Levin said referring to Marty Silvio, “climbing the fuckin’ pyramids probably. He manages—some how, some way to dodge shit.” His eyes widened. “I’d like him to be here. With this crap. He’d shit himself.” Levin tipped his hat back and wiped perspiration from his brow with his small pudgy hand. “We turned a blind eye. Life was good and things were going great. Joe was our star so we didn’t rock the boat. Joe didn’t want to hear it when we told him to stop dipping into the accounts.”

  Levin looked toward the district attorney. “Mike, what do we do now? You’re a friend. Help us.”

  Rosa’s eyes were pained as if he had just put down a favorite horse. One friend dead—his memory forever tarnished—others in trouble. And worse, he had to tear down Nick’s god, his idol. Rosa was unable to help, and he knew it. The attorney general and the Disciplinary Board had their own agendas, and he wasn’t about to mess with them. Right now he had to control the situation, protect the crime scene, avoid giving answers, and look as if he knew what the hell he was doing—all at the same time. He had stopped smoking fifteen years ago, but today he bummed a cigarette from one of the detectives, shoved it in his mouth, and continued giving orders.

  CHAPTER VI

  It was Monday morning, December 28. The doors to the suite were locked, and investigators from the AG’s office were fending off staff, clients, the media, and the curious. The news had hit the streets four days ago, and the networks were still featuring the same story, ad nauseam. It seemed never ending. The headlines on the Christmas Eve edition of the newspaper screamed, “Prominent Philadelphia Lawyer Kills Wife, Kids, Self!” A subhead read, “Law Firm Under Investigation for Fraud and Misconduct.” And it just went on.

  This was the first day of business after the news broke and clients were beating down the doors wondering what had happened to their cases…and their money. Secretaries, paralegals, associate attorneys—all wanted to go to their desks, finish their work, collect their paychecks and their year-end bonuses—or collect their belongings if they were effectively out of a job. But the suite was sealed, and no one was allowed in except the AG’s investigators. They were going through every piece of paper, carefully logging and boxing files for removal, downloading computer data, client lists, client distribution ledgers reflecting payment on settled cases, firm bills and accounts receivable, banking records, client addresses and phone numbers.

  Only three staff members had been allowed inside: Shirley Moore, Joe’s secretary; Celia Lopez; and Harry Levin.

  Celia was essential to fielding the hundreds of calls. All telephone lines were lit and blinking. She had been picked up at six a.m. by the investigators and escorted to the office, ordered into the receptionist’s chair, and closely monitored as she did her job. As a busybody and a trusted friend of Joe’s, Celia knew everything that went on in the firm. The investigators had been told this by secretaries and associates whose calls and conferences she had interrupted or whose private meetings she had been caught eavesdropping on. Celia knew all the clients, their gripes, their cases. She knew the judges, their clerks, and the lawyers. She had become familiar with their personalities and their quirks as well as their plans—where they were going, where they were coming from. She was affable, and she encouraged callers to share personal information, which they were only too happy to do if they needed a sympathetic ear. Celia touched each and every person in or connected with the firm.

  The problem was, she knew that she knew too much. And today she was scared. Scared of the investigators from the AG’s office and scared of Silvio and Levin. She struggled to maintain her composure while every line on her board blinked for her attention.

  “Yes, Mr. Kane. The firm is temporarily closed. No, not permanently—I said temporarily. I don’t know how long sir. Yes, your case is still active. It’s preserved. Yes another attorney will… can you hold please?

  “Yes, Mr. Connley. Thank you for holding…I’ll page Lieutenant Jones for you. I saw him a second ago…yes sir. Can you hold, my lines are…sir, I can’t help…sir…” A click on the other end; Fred Connley, chief of the fraud unit, couldn’t wait any longer. He was on his way over.

  Celia dabbed her eyes, breathed deeply, and pulled her violet cable sweater down to her hips. She pressed another angrily flashing button with a recently sculpted, inch-long red fingernail.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’ll try, Your Honor. Mr. Levin is with his attorney. But I’ll interrupt him immediately. Thank you for holding, Your Honor.

  “Mr. Levin, it’s Judge Barnes. He wants to know who will be trying the Riley case next month. He wants to schedule a pretrial with the new attorney. Yes, Mr. Levin, Mr. Maglio was assigned that case. Yes sir.” She paused a few seconds to listen to Levin’s raving, then interrupted him. “I’ll give the judge that message.”

  Celia knew better than to relay Levin’s message: “Tell that fucking moron to shove his fucking trial schedule up his ass. Doesn’t he read the papers?” And to tell him that Mr. Levin was busy with Christopher Henley, the best white-collar criminal defense lawyer in the fucking country and that the case would try when he was good and ready. And no, he wasn’t talking to anybody, not the FBI, the President, or God, and certainly not to an idiot like Barnes!

  Celia let the Judge’s line flash. She took another deep breath and thought how she’d like to run back—run back in time to Puerto Rico. There she was poor, but happy, and it was safer there than where she was right now.

  She took line twenty off hold. “Judge Barnes…yes, Your Honor, I’m so sorry. Mr. Levin is indisposed. He’s in the restroom trying to compose himself. Yes sir, I’ll do that, Your Honor. Mr. Silvio has cut his vacation short. He’s on his way back from Cairo. I’ll have Mr. Silvio call you the moment he arrives. I’ll leave a message on his voice mail. Yes, I’ll remind him of the Riley case and extend your sympathies concerning the Maglios…thank you, Your Honor.”

  She wasn’t going to tell Harry Levin and Marty Silvio how Judge Barnes had chuckled when he talked about extending his sympathies.

  Celia’s line rang. She knew what it meant—it was her turn now. She picked up the receiver, and an unfamiliar voice directed her to the media room.

  She put the phones on voice mail and walked slowly to the room used for video depositions. It had been Joe’s favorite room: four TV monitors, four cameras, and four DVD players with surround sound—all the latest equipment—perfect for intimidating with all the right questions. And Joe had loved seeing himself on camera.

  What a stupid, thankless job, she thought. Three layers of cops to go through before she could finally put on her coat and go home. She’d rather have her acrylic fingernails pulled off one by one than to have to answer questions. The AG’s investigators were arrogant pricks, and she knew that even as smart as she was, she was likely to fall into a trap.

&
nbsp; As she reached the glass door, Shirley Moore opened it and ran out in tears. They were all there, white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Eight of them ready for work—ready to pounce. If worse comes to worst, she thought, I’ll take the fifth.

  CHAPTER VII

  Thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, Nick Ceratto stared out of his first-class cabin window. He was on his third Dewar’s on the rocks. Puffy clouds moved and stretched, changing shape beneath him. He thought about what it might be like to step out and walk on them—float on them like an angel. Maybe when you’re dead, you can do just that, he thought. He chuckled to himself as he took a long sip. He was momentarily distracted by the flight attendant’s shapely derriere as she leaned over to fix another passenger’s pillow.

  “Miss, can I have some water?” he asked, thinking it was best to appear sober when the plane landed.

  He thought about Joe, Christy, and the kids in the same 737. Only they weren’t traveling first-class. They were in the hold with the luggage. He wondered about death—if you knew and if you cared. One thing he was sure of, if Joe were alive he’d be happy now. He’d be happy that he was headed back to the place he loved, the village of San Lorenzo on the Amalfi coast, a walled, hillsidefortress town founded in the Middle Ages. It was named after St. Lawrence, the martyr who, as he was being roasted on a spit, told his executioners to turn him over since he was done on one side. Saint Lawrence had been loyal to his faith—unto the death. Loyalty was something the Lorenzanos, as the villagers called themselves, prided themselves on. They were fiercely devoted to family and friends. They had an unshakable code of honor—of ethics. These were people who knew how to live and how to love, as Joe would say. They were his people. San Lorenzo was the village of Joe’s ancestors—of farmers and fishermen who squeezed every drop of life from each day.

  Joe loved this tiny patch of earth on which he and Christy and the kids had spent a month each summer. Nick remembered how Joe would joke about one day staying there and not returning to the States. How prophetic, Nick thought taking a long swig of Perrier to wash out some of the effects of the alcohol.

  “Here’s to you, Joe, and to the people of San Lorenzo,” he said out loud as he held the fizzing glass up to the window.

  “Sir, can I get you something?” the shapely blond attendant asked. “Did you call me? I wasn’t sure if you called.”

  “No thanks. I don’t need anything right now. I was just toasting my friends out there.” He smiled boyishly, giving her a Maybe Your Phone Number? look.

  She shook her head from side to side as if to say, I’ll just ignore that.

  The plane touched down three hours later. Nick had dozed off and the pretty blond gently woke him with a touch on his shoulder.

  “Sir, we’ve landed. We’re in Naples, sir.”

  “Yeah—yeah,” Nick said, shaking his head to clear the fuzz. “What time is it?” He squinted, trying to focus on his watch.

  “It’s eleven p.m.” She smiled and discretely handed him a note as she walked toward the cabin door to assist the deplaning passengers.

  He unfolded the small sheet of paper. It read: Sarah Jennings-212-875-0496, USA. Naples-Marriott, room 1020.

  The bodies had already been loaded into the hearses. There were three cars: one for Joe, one for Christy, and one for the two children. They slowly processed through Naples onto the autostrada toward San Lorenzo.

  It was one thirty a.m. when they arrived at the stone church—a mini version of Santa Trinita in Florence with saints peering out from the cornice and capitals of the columns. Frescoes adorned the flat surfaces of the interior walls. Father Bernardino, a sixtyfive-year-old Jesuit priest, waited patiently at the open chestnut doors. His cassock blew against his legs. The local undertaker, Ennio Correlli, an artist in his own right, stood next to the thin, aging priest. Correlli was a chubby, mustached man with a double chin and wild black eyebrows. He wore a black suit, and in his hand was a black fedora, which he waved to signal the hearses closer. “Veni. Veni piu vecino.” Come. Come closer. “Attenzione con la cassa.” Careful with the caskets.

  It was a scene straight out of the movie Rome: Open City. Nick now fully understood Rossellini’s genius. He was living it.

  The hearses’ headlights shone on the drivers as they lifted each casket carefully onto its wooden gurney which they then reverently wheeled into the church. Nick followed them down the candlelit nave to the area just in front of the altar. The men crossed themselves and left, leaving Nick, the priest, and the undertaker alone in the silence.

  Father Bernardino kissed his stola and placed it around his neck. He began a prayer for the dead. He bowed his head and seemed to lose himself in the music of the language of the litany and the scent of burning candle wax until the “Requiescat in pace” at the end.

  The priest removed his stola, kissed it, and folded it over his arm. He gave Correlli a nod.

  “Si, padre,” he responded. He moved to the first casket. It as one of the two larger wooden boxes. He crossed himself as he unlocked the seal and slowly opened the lid.

  Christy was wrapped in a white shroud, her face lovely but cold and bluish— the bullet hole still crisp between her eyes. Correlli spoke as he put his hands together. “Che peccata. Che bella.” What a shame. How beautiful.

  Nick was sick. He was glad that he hadn’t eaten anything. He would have lost it right there.

  Father Bernardino pointed to the next box. Correlli obediently moved to it. It was Joe’s. His face was black now and his features twisted in a near sneer. It was ghoulish. It was horrific. The body was beginning to smell.

  Nick turned his head. “Christ,” he whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.”

  Then Father Bernardino moved to the smaller boxes and opened each one himself to reveal the kids.

  Nick could stay no longer. He walked quickly toward the open doors. His way was lit by the hundreds of votive candles casting their flickering light on the frescoed saints crowded on the sixteenthcentury walls. As he walked through the doorway toward the street, he could hear the priest reciting the last rites. He wept quietly, leaning against a bas relief of Saint John the Apostle carved on the door jamb.

  “You should be happy.” The voice came from the damp blackness.

  Then he saw her face as she flicked her lighter and lit a cigarette. He was speechless for a moment as he studied her classic Italian features.

  She drew in smoke and blew it out slowly. Almond eyes, full lips, thin delicate nose, and a full head of long, golden brown hair which fell loosely over her shoulders. She tossed it back and took another drag on the cigarette.

  “You’re crying. You shouldn’t.”

  He quickly wiped his face, embarrassed by what he thought was an unmanly display of emotion.

  Maria Elena Maglio didn’t think him unmanly at all. She was touched by his obvious sensitivity and his dark good looks as she studied him, moving the flame of her lighter slowly up and down. She wondered how his two-day beard might feel good against her skin. It had been a while since she had felt such a face against hers. “I’m Joseph Maglio’s cousin, Maria Elena.”

  She held out her hand. “I know you’re Nick Ceratto. My cousin talked about you a lot. Come on. Come to my family’s house. It’s down the street. There—near the fountain.” She pointed in the darkness toward the sound of trickling water where a stucco wall was barely visible in the moonlight. “Come on. Don’t be shy.”

  Nick shook his head affirmatively. What the hell, he thought. Why not? If he was living in a nightmare, this could be the best part. He took her hand. It was warm and firm.

  They walked toward the dimly lit house. Now he could see more of her. She was wearing a black leather trench coat tied tightly at the waist. Her collar was pulled up around her neck. She was almost as tall as he was. She drew on the cigarette then dropped it on the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of her black, kneehigh boot. Her coat opened to reveal a creamy thigh.

  There was a te
nse moment of silence as Nick fought to say something. He was normally never lost for words, but this was truly weird—abnormal.

  “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. Such a baby. I should have been able to stay.”

  “And look into the coffins?” She laughed. “The priest is crazy. You’ll see. But he’s the only one we have. You shouldn’t have had to see them. So terrible. Tomorrow night they’ll all be beautiful when Ennio is finished with them. He’s a master—the best.”

  “What difference does it make? They’re dead. I brought them here for burial, not a party,” Nick snapped as they reached the twelve-foot, open, arched doors. He followed her into a dark courtyard.

  “That’s right, they’re dead. You’re alive. You have to live and walk the earth and do what is right.” She shook her thick hair. “What is right is to make the best of the situation. Dress these people up—give the village a good look at them—let everybody cry—and put them to rest in the family tomb. Then go back and find their killers.” She took out another cigarette.

  “Killers? You don’t believe Joe killed himself and his family?”

  “No. And neither do you.”

  “How do you know what I believe?” he answered.

  “I know because you are here. You made the arrangements to send the bodies to the place he loved and the only place that would accept him. No one else would do this except someone who loved him and could not accept that Joseph Maglio is a murderer. You know my cousin was not a murderer. He loved everybody—especially his children. Look what he did for this village. He restored the church. Brought in irrigation for the farms. Bought new boats for the fishermen. No, my cousin did not do this.” Her voice trembled with emotion. Her eyes were wide.

  Nick couldn’t help but be taken by her. She was a true Lorenzano, unshakable in her faith. He felt an instant kinship with her and a surge of relief that he was not the only one to believe in Joe’s innocence. And who was this beautiful creature? Certainly not a simple villager. Her clothes were too sophisticated and expensive. She was poised, her English almost unaccented. And she was obviously well educated and sharp as hell.