Anthony DePaul Copyright  2005 by Anthony DePaul

Chapter Fourteen

She laid the case on the mahogany table in the main conference room. Marian looked frazzled beneath an uncombed mop of grey brown hair. The bags under her eyes sagged like they were tea bags that had been dipped in water for an hour.

On the other hand, Grace looked like she fell off the cover of Cosmopolitan. Every hair was in place. Her tailor-made charcoal grey suit outlined her figure skater body. It was hard to believe they were contemporaries or one-time soul mates. No wonder Estelle escaped from the love triangle.

Still, she thought it odd that Marian connected with the older, ungainly Joseph Goodway. It was one thing to go into the closet but at least hide with a good-looking man.

Lab reports, manila folders, and brown case folders packed with notes from the police and Crime Scene Unit covered half the table. The drawn curtains and muted lighting cast the usually well-lit room in a secretive, cave like atmosphere. The aroma of coffee hinted that civilization was not far away.

Alice reached for a cup and the pot on the adjoining server. “Good morning Ms. Mayor and Marian. I hope you slept better than I did.”

Marian passed her cup to Alice. “I’ll have a refill, thank you!”

“Sure Boss. And how about you Ms. Mayor?”

Grace folded her hands on the yellow lined pad in front of her. “Nothing. I have water and that is all I need. Please call me Grace. I don’t like titles especially one I got by someone’s death.”

Alice disliked titles and the last authority figure she recognized was her father. But she no more believed Grace’s self deprecation than she’d buy a used lottery ticket. At the sorority house, the older members called her, “Lord Grace”.

Alice sat across from the two of them. Grace’s water bottle was nearly empty. They’d been meeting for a while. “Grace it is. Looks like Estelle is going to put up a fight. That surprises the hell out of me. But you two knew her a long time. Are you surprised too?”

Marian pointed a shaking finger toward the stacks of paper. “Grace always was a romantic but this time she has gone way beyond reason. We have enough hard evidence to convict everybody on the State’s death row twice. She is behaving foolishly. She shot her husband and she has to pay for it.”

Grace put a hand on Marian’s arm. “We have a political firestorm on our hands. The black people don’t know if she is a white OJ who is being railroaded by the police because she married a black man or a white bitch that killed one of their own. We need closure from her, not more controversy. We won’t get a confession so we need a deal now!”

Alice snapped her fingers. “I have an idea. Let’s burn her at the stake in City Hall Courtyard as a combination witch and martyr then both sides will get what they want.”

Grace smacked the table. “This is no joke.”

Alice gave a thumbs-up. “Right on! Maybe we should just follow the law and the evidence and let a jury decide. Any deal we make will only piss off both sides. We do have a judiciary system, don’t we? Let it work.”

Grace leaned forward and spoke in a clear, low voice. “This is no time for civics lessons. Kelly can plead that she acted out of extreme emotional distress brought on by a bad marriage to an abusive husband. He will demonize Linc to save her. Smear the victim to clear the perp. You know that drill.”

Marian added, “Grace is right. Besides, it would be hard to prove premeditation given the fact that she and he were on drugs. Smear and clear will win out many times over hard evidence especially with a pregnant mother, a sympathetic Judge and a town already racially and politically divided. We need to get Kelly to take a deal. Just so you are aware, Kelly filed a petition to review the case file on Jerry Stern’s murder. It is an obvious attempt to muddy the water. I will resist the request on the grounds that the case is closed and his search is an out and out wild goose chase probably spearheaded by Dorian.”

Alice let the words slip out. “Okay. I will do as you wish and take the heat. But I doubt if my ex-boyfriend will let go of the case. Two days ago, ML and his boys kicked his ass in City Hall Courtyard. Dorian will want payment in blood. Plus he’s pissed at me for breaking off with him and some gang called Camorra for killing his friend in Italy.”

Marian and Grace exchanged glances that chilled Alice as though they’d stuck a Popsicle down her throat. “We’ll deal with Dorian,” they said in unison.

Alice hid her shudder by standing up. She slung the laptop over her shoulder. “Okay. I will call Kelly and see what he has in mind.”

Grace put out her hand. “Thanks. We knew you were on our team.”

Alice squeezed but Lord Grace’s grip was stronger than most men. “Yes Master. I am here to please.”

Grace and Marian nodded to each other. They certainly speak their own language.

She left to call Kelly. Dorian had them on the run but it was a track that would lead to a head on collision.
Talarico paced the hotel room. He’d hardly touched his breakfast. The hour or so of sleep he’d had left him more anxious, more edgy. Il Segreto, the all knowing one, had clearly misjudged the woman Estelle. She had resisted when stronger women would have run away. Il Segreto never made this kind of miscalculation of human nature. “People are predictable beasts,” he’d told Talarico.

“Spaventa is a mule. He will plod through quicksand but never stop. So you must put an end to his slogging. The mule must die in the mud.” But killing the mule unleashed the lion named Wilde. And when they killed the black man, they may have unleashed a city of avenging lions. He felt small and somehow humbled like child who is told to fight a grown man.

The thunderclap of a jet taking off rang like a bell calling him to go home. Italy was warm and friendly and safe. Am I a coward?

He threw on jeans, boots, and a brown turtleneck sweater, took his phone off the hook, and attached the plastic “do not disturb” sign to his doorknob. He walked through the lobby and into the terminal. He skipped on to the moveable sidewalk. The automatic pathway led him past shops amid throngs of people rushing in many directions. He walked swiftly up terminal A until he came to an open café where he ordered a double espresso and a pastry and sat at a Formica table with a view of the jet way. The pastry was stale and the coffee as bitter as acid. There was no reason for his angst. It was more of an animal impulse like when the tsunami crushed over three hundred thousand people in Asia in one hour. Only their survival instincts saved the beasts. The children were left to drown or to be swept away by smugglers.

He wondered why he killed for a living. Was it to show his power or to mask his fear?

He’d had bouts with anxiety his whole life. He’d brood his way through this one too. Still hungry, he headed back to the room. He passed a Catholic chapel, paused and went inside. The pews lay empty. Christ hung on a white marble cross, a crown of thorns circling his head as it hung limply on his emaciated chest. To the right of the altar, a wrought iron, three level rack of votive candles flickered in front of a portrait of the Madonna and the Christ Child. Pale, her countenance sad and dour mood contrasted with the plump, smiling baby with bright blue eyes. The child seemed to gaze at a far horizon while the mother gazed inward to her sorrowful fear of the future.

He dropped a coin in the box, lit a candle for his father and sat in a pew. He was grateful for the silence and the loneliness. No Il Segreto to order him to kill people. No women to tempt him. No wine to douse his senses. He felt pure.

For a half hour, he did not move, except to rest his head on the side of the pew. He slumped onto the hard, wooden seat. His tension oozed from his neck, back and shoulders. His mind went blank. His fear dissipated like incense. A peace came over him. He awoke a half hour later to the boisterous clatter of Latino boy jimmying the moneybox.

“Arreste!” shouted Talarico.

The boy wore an Eagles sweat suit, the hood pulled up. He flashed a smile that showed contempt under his thin mustache. “Arreste my ass Papa! I need money. Go to sleep or pray or go fuck yourself.”

Talarico put up his hands as if to surrender. “Piano mio amici.”

The boy pulled a switchblade. “Back off, old man.”

He held the knife with his palm up, the blade pointed straight ahead.

Talarico looked into the boy’s coal black eyes. They were blank and yet alert. They were his eyes, the eyes of a born killer.

The boy moved closer. His smile scrunched into a grimace. The eyes lilted at the corners as they narrowed into piercing laser beams that cut through the candlelight.

“Give me your money old man or I’ll slice you!” he said.

Talarico raised both hands above his head. “Please. Do not stab me. I will give you my wallet.”

The boy edged closer. “Say a prayer I don’t cut you.”

Talarico kicked the knife out of the boy’s hand so hard it land over the railing in front of the Madonna. Talarico yanked the boy off his feet. The boy’s jaw dropped for a second. But he regained his cocky sneer. “Ah, you are a man to be respected. It is the first time a man took a knife from me. Who are you, hombre grande?”

“I am your future and my past. Take your knife and go. Pronto before I forget I am in god’s house and cut your nuts off and feed them to you.”

The boy left the knife and backed away. “The dinero is all yours. The blade too. Hasta Luego, Senor.”

Talarico sighed and picked up the knife using a hanky to preserve the boy’s fingerprints. He’d use the knife to kill Dorian.

The room was quiet. He replaced the phone grateful that the message light wasn’t blinking. He set the tray outside and ordered room service. He spread a street map of Philadelphia across the coffee table. He circled the location of Dorian’s condo and his office. Like any good hunter, he had to learn the terrain so he could track and kill his prey.