Blood Money Read online

  There was a momentary silence on the other end. Gates waved her secretary back to her and motioned to her to put the teapot on her desk. She liked it when men like Rosa said please. She laughed. “Rosa, you know how to play me. Just be nice to me, right?”

  “As long as I’m not sitting opposite you in a courtroom, yes.” He strained to be light, and chuckled.

  She took a sip of tea after she had laced it with cream and two spoons of raw sugar. “I’ll make you a deal,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You send me all the gruesome details on the Maglios, and I’ll send you what I have on Lopez.”

  “And any results on the fraud investigation of Joe’s firm,” Rosa quickly added.

  “The attorney general’s office is handling that.”

  “I know. But I’m sure that since it’s a Philadelphia firm, you’re going to get copies of any and all reports—right? I’m sure you have an interest in the outcome. The firm did make major contributions to your campaign. Didn’t it?”

  He had her and he knew it. He knew her well. Muriel Gates was not about to be outranked, outclassed, or outmaneuvered by any AG, white-collar-crime specialist. The crimes, if any, had been committed in her county upon the residents of her county, and she wanted to know everything pertaining to the investigation. She needed to monitor this investigation closely. After all, Maglio, Silvio and Levin’s help had been instrumental in her winning the election.

  He could hear the concession in her voice as she said, “I’ll send you what I have, but I don’t know why you’re interested in this firm, or what happens to it or the Lopez case.”

  “Why are you interested in Joe Maglio’s death?” he shot back.

  She took a bite of the buttery croissant, letting crumbs fall on her desk. “Because,” she said between chews, “it’s an interesting case; murder, suicide, fraud, unethical dealing. It fascinates me.” She swallowed. “I hear the bank is foreclosing on the estate. Everything to be sold.”

  “Yes. It’s a beautiful place. And the horses are going, too. You interested?” He saw lights blinking on his phone and knew there were other urgencies like judges, cops, victims, their relatives, the press—he wished all of it would stop.

  “Don’t like horses, or grass,” she quipped.

  There was a knock on his door as he was saying good-bye. It was a relief to hang up the phone. What a ball buster, he thought. She’s perfect for the job.

  “Yeah,” he called out, looking longingly at a pack of Marlboros sitting on the other side of his desk. He had stopped smoking three times in the two weeks since Joe Maglio’s death, and had started three. Rosa got up and walked around the mission style table that he used as a desk, and reached for the pack again. His secretary opened the door and peeked in.

  “Someone is here to see you, Mr. Rosa.” She frowned at the red and white box in his hand.

  “Does he have an appointment?”

  “No sir, but he said you would want to see him.”

  “Who is it?”

  It’s Nicholas Ceratto, Mr. Maglio’s associate. He said he’s not leaving until he talks to you. I tried…”

  “It’s OK…OK.” Rosa paused for a second. “I’ll see him—but I need some coffee. Bring a whole damn pot—French roast. It’s ten thirty and I haven’t had a cup of coffee yet.” He defiantly pulled a cigarette out of the pack and put it in his mouth. He was tired of women pushing him around, even if it was for his own good. As soon as she closed the door, he removed it and threw it into the waste can.

  Wearing a black Versace suit and an unbuttoned antelope top coat, Nick Ceratto walked confidently into Mike Rosa’s office. He was followed by Rosa’s secretary, who was apparently attracted to him. Although she knew she could be his older sister, her cheeks flushed as she placed the glass squash pot on the coffee table for her boss.

  Rosa nodded his thanks as she put two cups and two spoons on the table before leaving the room. He motioned to Nick to take a seat and gestured toward the coffee.

  Nick held up a hand as he sat down. “No thanks, I don’t touch the stuff. It’s bad for me. It gives me the shakes.”

  Rosa took a long, careful swallow and sat slowly in his favorite, worn leather wing chair. “What can I do for you today, Nick?” he asked crossing his right foot casually over his left knee, exposing most of one of the Western riding boots he wore.

  “I got back from the funeral last week…” Nick hesitated for a moment. “Joe’s funeral. It was in Italy. You knew, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry I couldn’t attend.”

  “It’s OK. Nobody from the States was there—except me, of course.”

  Rosa looked down, slightly embarrassed. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t go. I heard he was refused a Catholic burial here in the States.”

  Nick rose from his seat and walked toward the window, which was covered with heavy velvet drapes. He pulled one aside to look out. The view of Norristown was dreary and disappointing—a broken down, has-been town whose only claim to fame was a state mental hospital closed two decades ago. The wise had fled long ago, and the mentally troubled had wound up on the streets and on the steps of the courthouse, thanks to the fine work of the ACLU. No wonder the drapes were closed, he thought. He let the panel fall back in place.

  “Yeah, the Church took his money for years and then they wouldn’t bury him. Condemned him to hell. Can you imagine that! I’m glad I never gave them a dime.” He walked back toward Mike Rosa and stopped. “But that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to ask you a favor.”

  Rosa put his cup down and looked squarely at the handsome young man. “What do you want, Nick?”

  “I want you to help me find Joe’s murderer.”

  Rosa smiled slightly. “You’re a stubborn one. Nick, I told you that all the evidence—and you know what it is so I don’t have to go through it again—it all points to murder-suicide.”

  “Suggests,” Nick retorted. “Just suggests—and you know it,” he said pointing at Rosa while pacing back and forth. “That’s why you still have it as an ‘open’ case. Right?”

  “All right, I do,” Rosa admitted. “And I will as long as the fraud investigation is continuing.”

  “Why? Do you think there’s some possible connection with Joe’s death?”

  “Not necessarily—and I don’t have to explain my reasons to you, Nick.”

  “That’s true. You don’t. But in your heart you want to do the right thing by Joe. Don’t you?”

  “Look, you’re emotional and not too rational right now. I can understand that…”

  “Mike, don’t you want to have the results of the attorney general’s investigation?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Well so do I. Mike, maybe you won’t get all the information. The full story. I can help you. Just help me. Keep the case open—that’s all. And, most of all, give me your support.”

  Rosa shook his head. “Nick, how are you going to get any information? They have all the files, all the computer data, all the personnel files in that office—even yours. I have to rely on official records, records already in the hands of the attorney general.”

  Nick grinned at Rosa. He stood up and took off his coat and laid it on the sofa. “I’ll show you how.”

  Rosa grinned back. “You have more balls than brains. But go ahead. Show me.”

  “Just wait two minutes. I’ll be right back.” Nick ran out the door and in two minutes was back with Maria Elena Maglio.

  Her walk was purposely sexy. She glided gracefully into the room as if she were on a runway. She wore black leather jeans and an ivory silk blouse, partly unbuttoned to reveal the slightest cleavage. Her black leather coat was draped casually over her shoulders. She smiled.

  Rosa tried not to stare. But he couldn’t help it. His eyes were glued to her as they moved down her long, shimmering legs. He watched her as she moved to the cherry credenza where family photos were displayed. There were at least a dozen of the
m: Mike and his wife Clair in tennis whites, his sons Brian and Stephen, from diapers to Little League. But she ignored them.

  “Che belissimi,” she said, picking up the photo of the twin white Arabians, Mike’s other family—his pride and joy. “I adore horses.” She pressed the photo to her breast. “You must let me ride one,” she said turning toward Rosa.

  Nick wanted to say, “Earth to Rosa,” but instead he said, “This is Maria Elena Maglio, Joe’s cousin.”

  The trance was instantly broken. “A great pleasure. Please sit.” Rosa motioned to the sofa across from him and watched her carefully as she slid into the seat.

  “Maria is a bank examiner for the Italian government,” Nick explained. “She’s on an assignment at the Banco di Roma in Philadelphia. She’ll be working out of the main branch on Broad Street.”

  Rosa seemed delighted with the introduction, but it was clear from the expression on his face that he didn’t quite see the connection between Nick’s plea for help and this delightful creature who was thirty years his junior.

  Maria sensed the confusion and broke the silence. “You see, Mr. Rosa…”

  Rosa loved her accent. The slight upward lilt at the end of each sentence and the fullness of the vowels was music to his ears. It didn’t matter what she said as long as she just kept talking.

  “…I know my cousin didn’t kill himself and his family. I know he did have a spending habit—perhaps out of control—but he wouldn’t kill because of it. And I also know that his partners are thieving, conniving—what do you call them?—ah yes, crooks, as you say in America.”

  “How do you know this?” Rosa asked.

  “My cousin told me. And he wanted me to help him. To expose them.” Her eyes shone with the passion of her conviction.

  “Could you prove this?” Rosa sat back into his chair and rested his head on the cracked brown leather.

  “Yes. Remember I have access to all bank records—legitimately. I can look into all private accounts and see the transactions.”

  “So can the attorney general.”

  “But I can do traces of secret, foreign accounts—information even your own CIA would have trouble getting.” She stood and walked confidently over to Rosa’s desk, taking a Marlboro from the pack as if it were her own. She didn’t ask him if she could smoke. She simply put a cigarette into her mouth and lit it with the silver art deco lighter Rosa kept on his desk. She took a long drag and blew the smoke out almost instantaneously, not quite inhaling it. She obviously smoked for effect, like many European women.

  “What makes you think his partners had foreign bank accounts?” Rosa asked, struggling to concentrate.

  “All wealthy thieves have secret accounts—especially Americans.”

  Rosa couldn’t help admiring her brashness. “And what would the existence of such accounts prove?”

  She shook her head, causing her dark hair to waft its scent toward him. “I can’t tell you now. Not until I have the information. Then I will know why he was murdered. But I will need your help. Keep my cousin’s case open. Va bene?”

  Rosa smiled. “Why don’t you go to the Philadelphia district attorney with your plan?”

  Maria gave a crooked smile. “Because she’s a woman. I have heard that she is a bitch…and she protects her political contributors.” She let the smoke stream from her pursed lips again. “Also because my cousin was murdered in your provence.” She obviously meant county, but Rosa thought the mistake was charming.

  He offered Maria a cup of coffee, which she refused. Pouring himself another cup, he asked, “You want me to help you link Marty Silvio and Harry Levin to Joe’s murder? This is absurd. They depended on Joe for their financial success. He was the litigator who won the complex cases, who brought in the money, whose reputation brought in nothing but more money. So why would they want to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs?”

  She dropped her eyes, drew on the cigarette, and blew smoke over Rosa’s head. “I don’t know yet. All I know is that Joe was worried about his partners activities. He didn’t tell me everything, just that he might need my help soon. Now will you help me?”

  How could he refuse? “What do you need, Maria?”

  “I need your investigators’ and detectives’ cooperation, your coroner’s report; and I need to know what you will do with any information that I turn over to you.”

  Rosa exchanged a glance with Nick. “As Nick has probably told you, the case is still open, pending the attorney general’s report.

  But I don’t see why I can’t receive information from you as long as it’s obtained legally—and I mean legally.” He emphasized the word legally. “With no hanky-panky, as we say here in America. The information leading to all evidence must be squeaky clean. Otherwise it will be thrown out —a waste of effort on your part and mine.” He took a sip of his almost cold coffee. “Joe was my friend, but friend or no friend, I’m the district attorney here. Do you understand that? Both of you. And I will decide how this information and evidence will be handled.”

  CHAPTER X

  A month to the day after the Christmas party, the firm was celebrating again. This time the occasion was its reopening for business. The new, brass door plate read Silvio and Levin, P.C. Maglio’s name was conspicuously absent. The champagne flowed freely, and the same honored guests clinked glasses with the staff—happy that the biggest partying firm in Philadelphia was still alive and kicking.

  Marty Silvio grinned widely as he raised his glass to the Waterford chandelier in the conference room. He chewed on his unlit cigar between statements to the press. It would make the front page in tomorrow’s Philadelphia Inquirer and on the eleven o’clock news. “No Indictment” would be the paper’s headline.

  Soon the clients would be back in droves and the referrals would come pouring in. He couldn’t wait to stick it to the competing law firms who had been ecstatic about the potential eradication of Maglio, Silvio and Levin, and the prospect of its clients and cases looking for new lawyers. Fuck them, he thought, as he gave Margo Griffin a hug. The cameras clicked away. He didn’t care since his frigid wife only read church bulletins and couldn’t give a flying fuck who he hugged—or slept with. As long as he kept her personal account flush and paid all her current charge card bills, Celeste was happy and left him to his own devices.

  Margo slid from under Marty’s arm to catch up with Giorgio Santangelo, who was frantically overseeing the hors d’oeuvres and calling for a server to refill the crostini trays. Now that Margo was in charge of the firm’s social calendar, its parties and entertainment, she was in charge of Giorgio, too. She would make life miserable for him if her ignored her.

  “Giorgio, we need more rock crab. It’s going fast.”

  “I know. I’m holding more in the kitchen while the chef prepares a dill mayonnaise for it.”

  She licked her lips. “Take me back so I can sample some.” She shook her long brown hair back over her shoulders and took a deep breath, straining the buttons of her herringbone jacket.

  Margo’s obvious come-on made him nervous. He gestured toward the mayor, who was about to propose a toast and made his escape.

  “Get rid of those orchids,” she angrily called after him. “They’re dead.”

  “Putanna,” he muttered as he nodded to her, making his way to the kitchen.

  There was a hush over the filled room. Mayor Jack Filbert held out his glass, posing for the cameras.

  “I’m sure you all know that Mr. Silvio and Mr. Levin have been cleared of any and all wrongdoing. Charges of unethical conduct or mishandling of client funds against them personally have been withdrawn. The attorney general has concluded that the firm’s former partner was the only person to whom such conduct could be attributed. And I want to say, although I already know that you’re fully aware of this, the firm of Silvio and Levin is by far one of the most talented law firms in Philadelphia. It has been a bulwark of legal accomplishment. It has been the common man’s sword against the injusti
ce of large companies and government. We all were always confidant that the attorney general wouldn’t find any evidence of wrongdoing on the part of the firm’s current leaders. I’m also told by Mr. Levin that the firm’s professional liability carrier will stand by them and make any defrauded client whole—any client who was not fully compensated. No one will be deprived of any funds due them.”

  Harry Levin, sweating slightly, stepped out of the mayor’s large shadow.

  “I want to thank Mayor Filbert and all of you for your confidence in us, and my attorney, Christopher Henley, for his fine work and assistance to the attorney general in helping to determine where the responsibility actually lay.”

  Levin was sorry that Henley wasn’t interested in the offer he had made him. If he would head the litigation division and take Maglio’s place as their premier litigator, Levin would make him a partner. But Henley had flatly refused, saying that he preferred crooks to the injured. They were more honest and they paid up front. Further, he didn’t want to share the limelight or the money, nor did he relish the civil justice system’s four year backlog of cases; nor did he like the contingent fee system—getting paid only if you won. He wanted his money on the spot, win or lose. Plus he didn’t know what land mines still lay out there ready to blow this firm to bits.

  Staying in the background, as he had all evening, Nick Ceratto became physically ill listening to the self-serving speeches, and the overt disloyalty to his friend Joe. He wondered how they could tarnish the memory of one who had been nothing but good to them. One who had been directly responsible for their wealth and their elevated position in the legal community. He had almost walked out, but Maria Elena had tugged at his arm and coaxed him to stay.

  No one at the party knew who she was. She was simply Nick’s guest, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  Giorgio saw that Nick wasn’t drinking. He also saw the anger welling up in Nick. It was obvious to another Italian. He was angry, too. He sympathized because he, too, had to be silent. He walked over to Nick and handed him a single malt.