EPILOGUE – ONE MONTH LATER
Evelyn
Warr walked into Scarne’s office folding back the Metro Section of
The New
York Times
to one of its inside pages. She placed the paper on his desk and
tapped a story. Scarne stopped opening some mail he had collected from his
apartment mailbox on the way to work. He picked up the paper and saw the small
two-column headline that Evelyn had helpfully circled in red:
Staten Island Editor
Resumes Position
By Robert Huber
(New
York) - The Richmond Register announced today that Robert Pearsall is returning
as City Editor. Mr. Pearsall, a Pulitzer Prize winner, is currently an adjunct
professor at Bracken College, a small liberal arts institution in North
Carolina. He will finish the semester and take up his duties in January,
according to a statement released by Beldon Popp, the Register’s Managing
Editor.
“We
are delighted that Bob Pearsall has agreed to come back to the Register,” Popp
said. “No one cares more about Staten Island, its people and its history than
Bob. During his watch as city editor, the paper reached new heights of
professionalism and relevance.”
That
was an apparent reference to a series of articles on nursing home abuses that
were commissioned by Mr. Pearsall and reinforced by opinion pieces and
editorials he wrote himself. The coverage, which started out as a local borough
story, exploded nationally when Mr. Pearsall dispatched reporters who uncovered
similar abuses in the nursing home’s operations in other states. Mr. Pearsall
and the Register won a Pulitzer, the only one in the 108-year-old daily’s
history.
Mr.
Pearsall left the Register shortly after the death of his only child,
Elizabeth, a high school honors student who was murdered during a botched
daytime burglary of their home. Mr. Pearsall, who had recently lost his wife to
cancer, received news of his daughter’s death while at work.
Prior
to that, Mr. Pearsall spent his entire career at the Register, starting as a
young reporter on the night staff. A graduate of Wagner College in the Grymes
Hill section of Staten Island ….”
Scarne
put the paper down and Evelyn surprised him with a very undignified high-five.
He went back to his mail as she went about tidying up his office, a task that
he didn’t deem necessary and often found annoying. But he wasn’t going to let
anything bother him today.
There
was a letter from his co-op board. What now? Good humor gone, he slit the
letter open angrily and began to read. Suddenly he laughed.
“What’s
so funny?”
He
handed her the letter, which she read aloud:
“Dear
Mr. Scarne:
The
board would just like to thank you for your quick response to our previous
missive regarding your portion of the assessment for the building
reconstruction project. Your funds have been placed in an interest-bearing
account. Please be assured that should the project come in under budget, any
remaining principal, plus interest, of course, will be refunded to you.”
She
looked at him.
“Dudley?”
Scarne
grinned.
“How
do you think Pearsall will do?”
“There’s
more
Pulitzers
out there,” Scarne replied. “The barbarians who run
Staten Island will find it tougher sledding now.” He put his feet on his desk
and clasped his hands behind his neck. “You know, I’ve got a sudden craving for
a jelly donut. How about calling down to the coffee shop for a couple?”
THE END
Keep Reading:
An excerpt from CAPRIATI’S
BLOOD,
an Alton Rhode mystery from
the author of SOUND OF BLOOD and MADMAN’S THIRST
follows on the next page!
CAPRIATI’S BLOOD
By Lawrence De Maria
Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence De Maria
PROLOGUE
“They
look smaller than the last bunch.”
“You’ll
get more in the box,” the elderly woman working the counter said. “Same price.
You can’t beat it.”
“They
taste the same?”
“If
anything, they are sweeter.” She pointed to a stand a few feet away. “We have
some free samples cut up over there. Try them.”
The
man looked over at the table and saw that some flies hadn’t needed an
invitation.
“I’ll
take your word for it.” His mother probably wouldn’t know the difference. At
least that was what he’d been told. The information had eased his conscience.
Why risk a visit to someone who wouldn’t even recognize her own son? But
perhaps the occasional – and anonymous – gifts would soon be unnecessary. But
just the thought of what he was going to do sent rivulets of sweat down the
man’s sides. “What do I owe you?”
“It
comes to $34.95, shipping included east of the Mississippi.”
Prices
were going up on everything.
“Where’s
it going?”
The
customer recited the address. Three times. Like everyone else in the goddamn
town, the clerk was a few years past her expiration date. That was one reason
he was about to take the biggest risk of his life.
“Want
to include a card?”
“No.”
“What’s
the return address?”
“If
it doesn’t get there,” he said, smiling. “I don’t want them back.”
“I
know, but we can apply a refund to your account.”
“I
don’t have an account.”
“It
would be credited to your card. We take them all. American Express, MasterCard,
Visa, Discover. Debit cards, too.”
“I’m
paying cash, don’t worry about it.”
“Well,
if you give us your address, phone number and email, we can contact you.”
He
wanted to throttle the old crone. But long ago, for safety’s sake, the man
learned not to make a scene.
“No,
thanks.”
“We
send out emails about our specials. People love them.”
He
took a deep breath and forced another smile. Then he pulled out his wallet and
handed the woman $40.
“Just
send the box. Keep the change.”
***
It
took the man an hour and a half to drive to Fort Lauderdale and settle in at
the rundown motel off Dixie Highway straight out of the 1980’s and run by a
couple of Russians, which he thought was ironic considering what he was about
to do. He registered using one of the many phony I.D.’s he’d collected over the
years. They’d wanted a credit card at the desk “for incidentals,” which from
the look of the place might include pest control, but the extra hundred bucks
he gave them along with the room charge he prepaid shut the Russkies up. They
assumed he just wanted to get laid and didn’t want to leave a paper trail. They
were half right.
The
call he planned to make on the room phone wasn’t going to cost a hundred bucks.
It would be short, sweet and to the point. A previous call, made a few days
earlier from a similar dump in Sarasota, had insured that the lawyer would be
in at 4 P.M. to take his call. The lawyer’s secretary was a dim bulb but the
mention that he had important information about the lawyer’s main client
finally sealed the deal.
The
man looked at his watch. An hour to go. There was a bar across the street from
the motel. He walked across and had three stiff bourbons. The last one barely
managed to stop the tremor in his hand. One of the rummies sitting on a nearby
stool smiled in commiseration. He pegs me as an alky like him, the man thought.
He doesn’t now I’m just scared shitless.
***
“It’s
that call you’ve been expecting, Mr. Rosenberg.”
His
secretary stood in the doorway to his office and could have announced the
arrival of the Messiah with less fanfare. She was all of 22 and proof to Samuel
Rosenberg that the New York City public education system had gone into the
toilet. He had tried to get her to use his first name and the phone intercom,
with no luck on either.
Rosenberg
sighed. She had only recently mastered the basic legal forms he rarely
produced. His previous secretary was canned for running her mouth in the wrong
places and the lawyer decided that if he had to choose between stupid and
indiscreet, stupid was the way to go.
“Thank
you, Francine,” he said. “That’s a fetching outfit you are wearing today.”
She
smiled and twirled away. Her clothes were still terrible, he knew, but at least
they covered her midriff. That was one battle won.
“This
is Samuel Rosenberg,” he said into the phone. He looked at the calendar on his
desk for the name. “What can I do for you, er, Mr. Wagner?”He put his feet up
on his desk and rocked back in his chair. “You mentioned something about one of
my clients. I have many. Can you be more specific.”
“Quit
dicking around, counselor. You don’t want me to be specific. We both know who
we’re talking about. I want you to be an intermediary between us. I have a
proposal, a trade.”
“I’m
listening.”
“I
know who killed Fred Jarvis.”
Rosenberg’s
feet came off the desk as he sat up. Like every attorney on Staten Island, he
remembered the unsolved killing. Jarvis was a piece of crap, a crook, but a
lawyer nonetheless. If crooked lawyers became targets on Staten Island, who was
safe?
“If
it wasn’t you,” Rosenberg said coldly, “then I suggest you contact the police.
If you need representation, I can suggest someone. What does this have to do
with my client?”
“You’re
client was with me. He saw everything, too.”
Jesus
H. Christ. He reached for a pad and noted the time, just because he felt he had
to do something. He looked at the caller I.D. It said “Unknown Number.”
“I
thought that might get your attention. I guess he forgot to mention it. We were
young, and just along for the ride, so to speak. Even so, we might have been
implicated as accessories. Not that we were inclined to say anything back then.
We were all just one happy family. But things have changed. I read the papers.
He’s got a shitpot of reasons why he’d want the murder solved now, capische? He
would probably love to blow the whistle, but can’t, not without corroboration.
So, here’s the deal.”
After
the man finished speaking, Rosenberg said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“It
won’t be easy, pal, there is a slight problem.”
“What’s
that?”
“Your
client wants to kill me.”
***
A
half hour later Rosenberg pulled into the Crooke’s Point Marina in Great Kills
Harbor. Not for the first time he reflected that, considering who owned many of
the boats docked there, the “e” could have been dropped from the marina’s name.
Nando
Carlucci was standing on the bridge of a Grady White whose engine was just then
rumbling to life. Rosenberg climbed aboard clumsily. He didn’t like boats, or
fishing. But it was hard to bug a boat, especially when his client belonged to
a boat club that allowed him the use of dozens of crafts of varying sizes on
short notice. At least the Grady White was big enough to have an interior
cabin. It really was cold. Ten minutes later he and Carlucci, the grossly
overweight head of Staten Island’s last remaining Italian crime family, were cruising
a half mile offshore, far from any possible listening devices aimed their way.
Yes, thank God for the Grady, Rosenbrg thought. Nando in anything smaller was
an invitation to a capsize.
“So,
what the fuck is so urgent?”
The
lawyer told him. Carlucci stared at him for a full minute.
“I
can’t believe the balls on the guy. After what he did to me. He’s right, I’ll
kill him. What did he call himself?”
“Said
his name was Wagner.”
“Son
of a bitch.”
When
Carlucci calmed down, he said, “What does he want?”
Rosenberg
braced himself for another tirade.
“One
million dollars and a head start after the trial.”
Carlucci
erupted again, flinging charts and ashtrays around the cabin. When he stopped,
he said, “What do you think? Can you swing the deal?”
“I
think so. It would be a feather in the D.A.’s cap. Can you swing the million?”
“Yeah,
but tell him some of it has to be in jewelry, mostly diamonds.”
Rosenberg
didn’t want to know where the jewelry was coming from. There had been a rash of
burglaries in some of the borough’s most upscale neighborhoods over the past
few months. The cops were stumped, since some of the homes had state-of-the-art
alarm systems. But the burglars vanished before the response cars arrived on
the scene.
***
Wary
at first, the D.A. and his assistants had grown more interested and animated as
Carlucci and his lawyer outlined his plan in more detail during several secret
meetings.
“We
insist on full immunity for Mr. Carlucci,”Rosenberg said. “As well as for the
corroborating witness.”
That
had been the sticking point during the weeks of negotiations. The D.A. and his
subordinates loathed Nando Carlucci. The idea of letting the fat mobster off
the hook for a murder was repugnant to them.
“But
you still won’t tell us who this alleged witness is,” one of the A.D.A’s said.
“You
don’t have to know that now,” Rosenberg said.
“You
have nothing to lose,” Rosenberg said. “We’re the ones who have to produce. Mr.
Carlucci wants to do his civic duty and clear his conscience, even though he
was but an innocent bystander in the lamentable affair.”
In
the end, the D.A. went along with it.
“We’ll
get Carlucci eventually,” he said after the meeting. “One big fish at a time.”
As
they drove away from the D.A.’s office, Rosenberg said, “I hope you know what
you’re doing, Nando. This is a big risk. Opens up a can of worms. He’d better
produce.”
“Don’t
you worry, counselor. He’ll produce. He wants it bad.”
“It’s
not just you, Nando. I’ve got my reputation to think of. My name will be
anathema with the D.A. if we stiff him on this.”
Carlucci
looked at his lawyer with ill-concealed contempt.
“Your
fuckin’ name is an enema. You got no reputation to protect. Just do your job
and wrap up the immunity thing tighter than a virgin’s pussy. I don’t have to
remind you what happened to the last lawyer that fucked with my family, do I?
That’s how we got here, ain’t it?”