Blood Money Page 7

  “Here, I think you need this,” he said, speaking in a low tone so that only Nick and Elena could hear.

  “Thank you, my friend.” Nick raised the glass slightly in toast to the only other person loyal to Joe in the group.

  “I would like one, too,” Maria said.

  As she took out a cigarette, Giorgio looked at her in surprise. This was a non-smoking suite. But he quickly lit it with the lighter that he always carried in his jacket pocket—and then he poured her a double.

  “Da quale parta d’Italia viene?” he asked. From what part of Italy do you come?

  “Sorrento,” she lied as she drew on her cigarette and then took a long, slow sip of the strong, unwatered whiskey without wincing.

  “Beautiful.” His eyes lit up with pleasure as he began to reminisce about his last visit to Sorrento. He was familiar with the small coastal city.

  “It’s very close to…San Lorenzo,” Maria quickly said. She leaned closer to Nick, shifting her hip slightly. The slit in the side of the clinging black cashmere dress opened just enough to reveal a leg to mid-thigh. “Yes. I heard about the unfortunate death of one of the partners,” she said nonchalantly.

  Giorgio didn’t comment. His focus was on her leg.

  All eyes were on them, including Levin’s and Silvio’s. Nick knew what they were thinking: There’s no smoking in this suite, and who the hell is this bitch?

  “Yo, Giorgio. You still up for the hockey game?” he asked trying to change the subject. “She won’t go with me. She only likes soccer.”

  Maria shrugged. “I don’t like the cold, and I hate watching barbarians beat each other with sticks. “E vero?” Isn’t it true?

  “Yes. But these barbarians are the same as ours. The difference is that they use sticks instead of kicks,” laughed Giorgio.

  Maria admired his sense of humor, and his good looks. She wondered briefly how he might be in bed but then dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come.

  Grace Monahan watched from the reception desk forty feet away. She had become completely distracted from training Carmelita Delgado, Celia Lopez’s replacement. Carmelita was aware of what was going on. She, too, was a woman. She was also smart, bilingual, and a night school law student. She wanted to move up in the ranks; out of the barrio and into a white middle class, professional neighborhood. She was losing patience with Grace.

  “Grace,” she said, “why don’t you just go over there and tell her to go outside to smoke? This is a non-smoking building. Right?”

  “Yes.” Grace was surprised at the new employee’s chutzpah.

  “Then, when she goes outside, you follow her and smack her in the face. That’s what we do where I come from.” Carmelita laughed, trying to defuse the situation. She winked and then pulled her long, black hair through a barrette signaling that she was ready to get serious about the training session.

  Silvio and Levin walked toward Nick, placing themselves directly in front of him. They purposely intruded into the conversation, which was simultaneously going on in English and Italian.

  “So, Nick. Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Marty Silvio asked as he inhaled the smoke from Maria’s cigarette.

  “Ah, Maria…this is Marty Silvio.”

  “A pleasure,” she said, gripping his hand firmly after switching her cigarette to her left hand.

  “And this is Harry Levin…”

  Maria held out her hand, but Levin simply nodded. “You know you’re not supposed to smoke in this building,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Where can I put this out?” She wanted to snuff it out on his head.

  Levin looked around but couldn’t find anything that would serve as an ashtray.

  “Oh, look—here.” Maria picked up a small blue and white Canton bowl and stubbed her cigarette out in it. “See how useful beautiful antiques can be.”

  Levin instantly hated her. And she returned the feeling.

  Silvio was already plotting how he was going to get her into bed. She, on the other hand, wondered how she could take advantage of him—without actually sleeping with the fat pig.

  “Maria…do you have a last name?” Silvio asked in a patronizing tone.

  “Nardo,” Nick quickly responded for her.

  “Yes, Nardo,” she said. “I can speak for myself,” she said coyly, sexily shifting her eyes to Nick and then back to Silvio.

  Margo Griffin walked directly into the group. She wouldn’t be ignored.

  “Giorgio, why haven’t you moved those dead orchids?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Griffin,” he said. “They are not dead. I was going to…”

  “They’re dead and I want them out of here.”

  “Oh, can I have them?” Maria asked, remembering Joe’s fondness for orchids and suspecting that they had been his.

  Margo opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

  “I love orchids. I can revive them. Please, give them to me,” Maria said smiling—happy that she had caught Margo in her own trap.

  “Sure,” Silvio said. He took the pots and moved them onto a table near Maria.

  “Knock yourself out.” Margo spun on one heel to quickly walk away. Then she stopped, turned, and signaled with a crooked index finger for Giorgio to come.

  Putanna, he thought as he marched toward her.

  The food was almost gone, and the trays looked bedraggled with limp lettuce and spatters of sauce. The suite was emptying quickly. Darkness was beginning to cover the windows, and the lights from surrounding buildings could be seen. Nick had finished his third single malt and was about to leave when Harry Levin called to him.

  “Nick, can I see you? I need to talk to you about something.” He looked toward Maria and, deliberately not using her name, said, “Young lady, you can go. We’ll be awhile. No sense in your waiting. We can get you a taxi.”

  “No, no. I have plenty of time. I’ll wait,” she said, tapping her fingernails against one of the orchid pots.

  “Sure?” Nick asked. “I’ll give you my car keys.”

  “No, no I’ll wait.” She smiled at Levin, who turned and walked away followed by Nick.

  She took a seat in the reception room, crossed her legs, and opened as copy of Vogue. Waiting was not easy for her. In fact, she was impatient, but she couldn’t give that bastard Levin the pleasure of dismissing her. And she wondered what was so important that he needed Nick now.

  As soon as the last guest had left, boxes containing the firm’s files began to be brought up from the lobby below. There were hundreds of cartons being returned from the attorney general’s office. The freight elevators had been ready and waiting—as well as fifty law students hired to receive the files.

  Maria watched as the files were wheeled in on dollies. Enough of Vogue and Cosmopolitan. She had been waiting for over an hour. She decided to follow the cartons and the law students to the file rooms in the rear of the suite. Maybe she could learn something.

  CHAPTER XI

  It was ten p.m., and detective Ralph Kirby was busy typing with two fingers. Captain Lawrence wanted the 75-49s on the Celia Lopez case and had threatened to fire him if they weren’t on his desk by eight a.m. Kirby knew it was an idle threat, but it was the captain’s way of protecting his ass in case the DA got her balls twisted.

  Kirby tiredly rubbed his head, forcing his gray hair to stand up on end. Seeing his reflection in the darkened window opposite him, he saw he that looked comical, but he didn’t care. He yawned and stretched his arms out across his desk. He had been on his feet all day, combing the neighborhood for information on the Lopez murder. No one knew anything. Not even the junkies were interested—not even for a small bribe. No one had really known her and no one cared. She was just another victim murdered for cash—ten dollars or ten cents, it didn’t matter. Desperate junkies took their chances, and sometimes they hit the jackpot. In Celia’s case, the two hundred dollar withdrawal evidenced by the slip in her purse would be the jackpot for any one
of the neighborhood crackheads.

  His eyes were drawn to the coffee-stained blotter on his desktop. The stains were reminders of all the nights he had spent typing reports such as those before him, reports on the dead bodies and how they had died, what they wore and catalogues of their effects, property receipts, witness interviews, who had seen them last, and so on and so forth—but no suspects.

  He thought he needed a replacement for the blotter. It would symbolize a new start. Perhaps it would make his job more bearable. He could have retired five years ago, but there were his grandchildren, ten-year-old Jason and eight-year-old Margaret. He almost had enough in their accounts to pay for the college tuition that his son should have been thinking about but hadn’t, and never would.

  What a waste, he thought. He had tried to raise Kevin to be a responsible, hardworking man. He had helped him to get a job with the city at the Department of Licenses and Inspections. But what did he do? Missed work, played the horses, and never saved a dime. He told himself: Pretty soon, Ralph, pretty soon you’ll retire and never have to sit at this broken-down desk, type on this ancient typewriter that skips whole words—or listen to Captain Lawrence whine about late reports, and how you’ll be fired if you don’t wise up. Captain Lawrence didn’t care about the victims—only the reports. Kirby cared about the victims, about solving their murders, about catching the perps. That was the difference between him and Lawrence, he thought. That was why he wasn’t a captain like Lawrence. If a case needed more investigating and more cops to do the job, and if he were captain, there would be no problem. And he would have no problem standing up to the DA or the press. Even if it meant his job. That’s why he wasn’t now, and never would be, a captain.

  Kirby put aside his resentment for a moment and turned his thoughts back to Celia Lopez and her children. All the items found in her safe-deposit box had been examined by Homicide, carefully catalogued, and turned over to a court appointed administrator who would oversee and distribute the assets of her estate, as well as pay her debts and her taxes. But there was one item that had not been checked or catalogued—a solid, oblong parcel, about sevenand-a-half inches long, four inches wide, and an inch thick in a sealed manila envelope. Kirby carefully opened it.

  He was bleary-eyed with fatigue, but he was able to muster up enough energy to focus on the package. After all, you never knew what could be inside. He took out the contents—another sealed envelope with an address label on it: Nicholas Ceratto-210 Locust Street, #3850, Philadelphia, PA, 19106. He carefully peeled the selfadhesive flap open—and smiled. It was a video tape of Raiders of the Lost Ark. He turned it around and read the names of the actors. He had forgotten all except Harrison Ford. He had seen the film at least ten times since its release in 1981. He loved the movie and almost knew the script by heart. He thought of popping it into the VCR just in case there was something on the tape other than a movie. He toyed with the idea and went back and forth in his mind between yes and no. Finally he lifted his weary bones out of the rickety, wooden chair and walked into the conference room with its fading, pea green painted walls and chipped Formica topped conference table. It was clear that the homicide department didn’t care much for decor, or sanitation either, for that matter. There were four half-empty Styrofoam cups on the table. It looked as if the coffee had been in them for a week. The liquid was so concentrated that it hardly moved when he picked a cup up. Disgusted, he tossed it into a half-filled plastic trash bucket, then popped the film into the VCR and hit PLAY.

  Familiar sounds echoed against the peeling walls: the ominous music as Jones led his small band of Indian bearers through the steamy jungle, then the approach to the cave, then a scream…Kirby smiled again. So far it was only a film. He fast-forwarded it for a few seconds—still only Raiders. He punched stop and then rewind, wondering what the hell Lopez was doing with a video of Raiders in her safe-deposit box. Judging by the sleeve, it was an old copy. Did she possibly think it was valuable? Nah, he answered himself. There were thousands of these around. Oh well, it takes all kinds. Kirby smiled, shaking his head. He decided to personally deliver the package to Nick Ceratto. Maybe Ceratto knew something about the tape that made it safe-deposit box material.

  Kirby lived in Fishtown, a working-class neighborhood mostly populated by the descendants of Irish immigrants. It was just north of Society Hill, where Nick’s apartment was located. It was late, but Ceratto might still be up and about, and it wasn’t far. In fact, it was on Kirby’s way home. It was worth a try, at least.

  Kirby parked in front of the Society Hill Towers. It was one of his favorite spots in the city. Three majestic buildings sitting high on a hill next to the Delaware River. He tried to imagine what the views must be from the apartments. He had never been inside one. The buildings were the monumental creations of I.M. Pei, a student of Frank Lloyd Wright. They were perched on four-story concrete stilts, a honeycomb structure of concrete and glass. Nothing obstructed their dominant position or the view from inside. The entire city from the Delaware to the Schuylkill River could be seen from their windows. The towers loomed over the surrounding restored colonial homes. Nick lived in a three-bedroom penthouse on the thirty-eighth floor.

  Kirby stepped out of his car. It was cold and quiet up on the hill. The fountain in the center of the cobblestone plaza had been turned off for the winter. The halyard on a flagpole clanged eerily, breaking the night silence as the wind drummed it against the metal.

  A bird with outstretched wings, a seated woman and child, and a standing man—huge, rough sculpted piles of bronze—stared at Kirby and glistened under a coat of frost. He usually hated modern sculpture. It didn’t look like what it was supposed to represent. But somehow he liked these pieces. They worked well against the backdrop of the concrete giants. He crossed the plaza, ignoring the figures, and quickly walked into the four-story lobby of the south tower. It was warm inside. The doorman politely tipped his hat.

  “What apartment, sir?”

  “Ah, I’m here to see Nick Ceratto.”

  “Thirty-eighth floor.”

  “Yep, that’s it,” Kirby responded rubbing his cold-reddened hands together.

  “Who shall I say is here?”

  “Ralph Kirby, Philadelphia police. I’ve got a package for him.”

  “I’ll ring him for you, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Kirby looked around, impressed. The sofas were leather, the carpets oriental, and the lighting soft. Hundreds of tiny lights twinkled in recesses in the four-story lobby ceiling. Not at all like Fishtown, thought Kirby. He hoped that his grandchildren would someday live in a place like this.

  From the window of his penthouse study, Nick Ceratto watched as a tall sailing ship gracefully cut through the black water of the Delaware River. It would have been hardly visible at night except for its running lights, which shone brightly from the masts and the bulwarks. It moved slowly under full sail, aiming for the center of the Benjamin Franklin bridge, its highest point. The bridge was a blue ribbon of steel suspended from a huge inverted bow of cables spanning the river from Philadelphia to Camden. Spotlights from the cables beamed down on cars that steadily streamed across it. Every night was like a fireworks display, he thought. Nick had decided when he moved in two years ago that he would never leave this high perch for a home on the ground. Not even for one of the grand, eighteenth-century mansions like the Powell House or Keith-Physick House, which he could see below.

  He poured himself a Glenfiddich. He had expensive tastes and was unwilling not to satisfy them most of the time. After all, he had earned it. He took a short sip, savoring the peaty flavor of the Highlands, and rubbed his tired eyes. He had just finished reviewing four boxes of pleadings and discovery materials in the case of Sean Riley, deceased. The formal case caption read: Theresa Riley, Administratrix of the Estate of Sean Riley, deceased, versus Victor Manin, M.D. and City Memorial Hospital. It was a case Harry Levin had assigned to him the night of the firm’s reopening celebration. It had been Joe Maglio’s
case and was currently on the trial list. And the Honorable Joseph Barnes was not granting any more petitions to postpone the trial. He had already granted three continuances at Joe’s request, which the defense had not contested.

  As far as Barnes was concerned, the case had been hanging around far too long (four years), and the judge wanted it off his trial list, either settled or tried. It had to be resolved one way or another, to disappear. Otherwise, Judge Dominic Cortino, the administrative judge in charge of assigning cases to each trial judge, would be extremely disappointed. And that would hurt Barnes’s bid for the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania, a job he had coveted for years. He was known as “Assembly Line Barnes,” famous for moving cases through the system at any cost. He didn’t want to be accused by his enemies (of which there were many) of favoring Joe Maglio and his firm with unusual tolerance. This was the oldest case on any judge’s trial list and was also a high-profile case. The media had covered it extensively and was salivating for the trial. It involved the death of an often-publicized police captain, Sean Riley, known for his heroism, who had been shot in the leg in the line of duty. Captain Riley had suddenly died after routine surgery performed by another local celebrity, Doctor Victor Manin, a pillar of the community, who was at the forefront of medical research in surgical techniques. Dr. Manin sat on the boards of at least three major hospitals. He was a professor emeritus at Penn Medical School and had published dozens of articles in medical journals and hosted a myriad of charitable events to subsidize his work and the works of other deserving researchers in the field.

  Manin had the misfortune of being in the hospital the night that Captain Riley was brought into the emergency room. The doctor was about to leave for an evening charity event, but he stayed to work on Riley’s leg, which was bleeding badly from a severed femoral artery. Although the leg had been tourniqueted by the EMTs, Riley needed help fast, and Manin performed the emergency surgery. For him it was routine. He cleaned the area, sutured the artery, saw that it was not leaking, irrigated the wound, and personally closed the incision. He left Riley in the care of his surgical staff in whom he placed utmost faith.