Justice Hunter (20 page)
“T
he Honorable Harlen Russo was found dead in his chambers late last night,” said Risotto with the curiosity of an archeologist confronting a millennium-old riddle for the very first time. His words were deliberate and underscored the gravity of the discovery. To counterbalance the intended shock value, he delicately placed a sampling of a bland, catered, fat-free mystery muffin into his mouth, generously giving Hunter a chance to gather his thoughts and assemble a reaction.
“Holy shit,” replied Hunter, shocked, to put it mildly. “That’s terrible news.”
Sort of. On second thought, actually.
He couldn’t help but feel slightly elated by the news.
What does that mean for the sanctions order? The Mediacast case?
“Tell me about it.” Risotto paused, swallowing another bite. “Never met the man myself, but I hear he was a fairly”—Risotto chose the next word carefully—“
spirited
fellow.” Hunter detected a slight New York accent for the first time since meeting the detective.
“To say the least,” concurred Hunter.
“Spirited” as in mean-spirited bastard.
They shared an implicit understanding but were merely being tactful for the sake of the newly departed.
“So you knew him well?” he pried.
“I wouldn’t say well. No. Tried a couple of cases in front of him over the past few years. That’s about it.”
“Like the Mediacast case, right?”
“Right.”
“How is—or rather, shall I say
was—
that case going?”
The dockets, which provided a history of any case, were accessible to anyone electronically. And that included Risotto, who certainly would have scoured them before their meeting. Risotto didn’t strike Hunter as the type who asked questions he didn’t already know the answer to. The million-dollar question was whether the latest order, the one tossing the case, had already been entered on the docket. As a practical matter, the chances of an order hitting the docket sheets that quickly were slim to none. If the detective was going where Hunter thought he was going—mainly that Hunter had motive to murder the judge—he could’ve only gotten that from the public records. And the last thing he needed was to be implicated in the murder of one of the city’s most prominent judges.
“You know, pretty typical,” Hunter bluffed, knowing this decision would come back to haunt him. He just hoped that wouldn’t happen until after the Vito’s trial and the real killer was caught. Hunter didn’t give Risotto time to press. “So if you don’t mind my asking, what do you think I had to do with Russo’s death?”
“I never said you had anything to do with it,” he replied mysteriously. “Perhaps I just want to talk to you about your friend Andy’s mugging the other day.”
“Mugging?” sneered Hunter. “Is that what
they’re
calling it?” Hunter was starting to lose his patience with Risotto.
“You seem surprised.” Risotto scrutinized his reaction with a textbook everyone’s-a-suspect once-over.
“Actually, I’m not.” Hunter had very little faith in the current district attorney or Police Commissioner O’Brien.
The detective sensed the hostility. “You sound disillusioned.” Risotto paused, waiting for an explanation. “So what’s your theory about the attack?”
“I think it was anything but random.”
“Then what?”
“You don’t want to know.” Hunter had no intention of derailing the investigation. On the other hand, now was his chance, possibly even his only one, to implicate the mob.
“Try me,” he replied, as idealistic as a college freshman.
“All right. I believe it’s related to a case our firm has against Vito’s Pizza.”
“Vito’s Pizza?” he asked himself, trying to recognize the name. Risotto cocked his head inquisitively. Clearly the name didn’t ring any bells, a sure sign to Hunter that the case wasn’t even on Risotto’s radar.
“It’s an extremely popular pizza place down in South Philly. Been there forever and a day. The owner’s a guy by the name of Vito Armani.” Hunter paused, deciding to do a little digging of his own. “You’re not from around here, obviously.”
“No. New York originally.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Manhattan.”
Which explains the fashion sense.
“Been here for a few years already, though.”
“I’m a transplant myself.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do.”
Risotto flashed an endearing grin, ever so slightly metrosexual. “So tell me more about Vito’s place.”
“Right. The owner is this shrewd and hard-working businessman with brass balls. A real spitfire, you know? His name’s Vito
Armani
. As in the designer.”
“Armani. Armani,” he sounded it out. And then a halogen light seemed to go off in the detective’s
cabeza
. “Wait. Is that the guy who’s always in the media about one thing or another? Outspoken right-winger. A walking contradiction of sorts. Altruistic when he wants to be. Law enforcement eats free. Donations to the families of fallen officers.”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s the talk of the town over at the Roundhouse, believe me.” The Roundhouse is headquarters to the Philadelphia police. Homicide detectives with jurisdiction over murders at city hall, like Risotto, would be stationed over there, too. It’s an unsightly circular cement fortress, itself reminiscent of prison, just a stone’s throw from the National Convention Center and the Ben Franklin Bridge.
“He’s a charmer, all right. A real local celebrity with an almost cult-like following.”
“And he’s got that controversial sign up, right? The one about refusing to serve illegal aliens.” Risotto shook his head, reflecting. “Pretty bold political commentary, if you ask me.”
An unmistakable sensitivity revealed itself. Was it authentic, though? The cynic within Hunger was beginning to suspect that Risotto was an actor in addition to an aspiring runway model and magician. As Shakespeare said, all the world’s a stage. Right? Isn’t that what savvy cops do? Cozy up to the perp? Police Academy 101. Ingratiate yourself. Befriend the suspect. Pretty soon you’ll have them spilling their guts. “Especially in light of the upcoming presidential election and the continued erosion of the Republican party’s image.” Barack Obama was building serious momentum, making major inroads in the staunch Republican circles. “So your firm has something to do with that?” he asked skeptically.
“Actually we do. We rep the city. And they’ve decided to pursue Mr. Armani under one of their inartfully drafted public accommodation laws.”
“Unconstitutional?”
“Probably would be struck down. If it ever gets that far on appeal.”
“Vague and overbroad, I bet.”
“Right,” replied Hunter, nodding. For a second there, he almost forgot he was talking to a cop and not a lawyer.
“Almost went to law school myself,” Risotto explained, clarifying it in Hunter’s mind, beating Hunter to the punch. “Thought that’s what I wanted,” he added, smiling nostalgically. “Wasn’t in my cards, though.” There was obviously a story there, but Hunter didn’t press it.
Not for public consumption.
“Got it.” Hunter could relate to the concept of one’s life taking a sudden, unexpected turn. He always thought he’d play pro soccer before he was sidelined with a career-ending injury. Law was his second choice.
“Anyway, don’t they have their own lawyers over there?” he asked cynically. “I mean, I know Mayor Valentine has had cutbacks on the brain lately. Seems like poor timing to be spending the big bucks for a firm as prestigious as Whitman.”
Mayor Valentine doesn’t have a fucking brain.
“They do. But apparently it was the city solicitor who did the cost benefit analysis on this one.” At least, that’s what Mancini had told him. Yet even as Hunter responded, for the first time he realized how little sense that actually made. From everything he’d heard about the city solicitor, the last thing she was was last minute. Cold and calculated was more like it.
Why was the case handed off at the eleventh hour?
“I guess I can see that. All Valentine needs right now is another PR debacle to contend with.” Not only did Valentine have historically low approval ratings, even among the city’s African American voter base, but his flamboyant nephew had just been indicted for tax evasion. It was the culmination of a three-year investigation into accounting irregularities associated with various city-awarded contracts. “Especially if he thinks there’s a chance of losing.”
“I don’t think Valentine had any idea how big this thing would get when he originally decided to go after him,” Hunter theorized, but he still wasn’t satisfied with the logic. And he could tell that Risotto wasn’t either, saving the issue on his mental desktop for further investigation.
“And it sounds like this Vito Armani guy is pretty good at fanning the flames.”
“That’s for sure. Without getting into the case too much, rumor has it he’s making an absolute fortune from the publicity surrounding the case.”
“Guess he can kiss his eventual defamation suit against the city good-bye.” Without damages, a plaintiff can’t make out a claim for defamation. “Must be nice, though. Having all that money.”
“I know,” said Hunter.
“So…” Risotto rubbed the dark stubble on the side of his face with the back of his hand. “…you think Mr. Armani, at least on some level, was involved in your friend Andy’s beating? Is that where you’re going with all this? You think his goons are trying to send a message?”
“I don’t think it’s that obvious. He’s far too intelligent. Plus, why ruin a bad thing?”
“Unless he doesn’t care about the money. The guy’s probably got millions by now, even if he sells half the pizzas he actually reports to Uncle Sam. Could be a principle thing.” Risotto paused. “Why Andy, though? I thought you told me he wasn’t assigned to the case.”
“I did. I mean he’s not. Someone targeted him the same way they targeted my second chair.”
“And who would that be?” Instead of a little black notepad, this detective had his iPad at the ready, waiting for the name of his next interviewee.
“Her name’s Stephanie Diaz. But I’m not sure how much you’re gonna get. I was with her in the Italian Market when she was nearly run down.”
Risotto stopped pecking on the virtual keyboard and then looked up inquisitively. “And neither of you got a decent look at anyone? Same thing as Andy, huh?”
“We didn’t. I think I know the car, though. It’s a Caddy. A dark, late-model sedan.”
“Plate?”
Hunter shook his head dejectedly. “No.”
“That’s all right. It’s a start.” The detective paused, settling upon his next key topic. “I’m surprised these people haven’t come after you yet.”
“They have. It’s just been more subtle. I have a feeling they’re saving me for the grand finale.”
“Which would be before this Vito’s trial? If
you
let it get that far.”
“Exactly.”
“When is this thing scheduled for?”
“This Thursday.”
“Back up for one second. Have you been able to get a look at any of these guys?”
“Just one.”
“And?”
Hunter conjured up the image of the character from Chinatown. “Older guy, swollen features. Real hardened, ruthless expression. And he’s got this unusual haircut. The gray on both sides is combed back like the wings of an eagle.”
“You just described Paulie Walnuts from
The Sopranos
. You know who I’m referring to, right?”
“Actually, his look isn’t too far off.”
“Life does imitate art, as they say.”
“I guess so.”
“And you think this guy—this Paulie-looking guy—is part of the local Mafia.”
“That’s how it seems. And he sure as hell is brazen like them.” Hunter caught himself. “Or at least how I would expect them to be.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” assured the detective. “Now tell me about your colleague Dillon Wright. What’s his deal?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Do you trust him?”
“Like a brother.”
“I see,” replied Risotto skeptically.
“Why?”
“No reason. I’m just trying to put some of these pieces together. But if you notice anything atypical, anything unusual about his conduct, let me know.”
“All right, I guess.” Hunter left it alone, dismissing out of hand the implication that one of his closest friends could be involved.
“Now I just have a few more questions related to Judge Russo. That is if you’re still all right on time.” The question hit him like a sudden, crushing blow to the abdomen. Hunter was just starting to become optimistic that his little talk with Risotto had clarified any questions about him in the detective’s mind. Just like that, though, he was a suspect again.
“Not really,” replied Hunter, growing restless in the slightly above-average dark wood chair. “Not sure what else—” Hunter’s BlackBerry chirped. He glanced at the caller ID: Sheila Primeau. Hunter immediately sent the call to voicemail, realizing the error too late. He had nothing to hide. At least as far as Russo was concerned. He should’ve answered the damn thing and spoken freely. He could tell Risotto was growing increasingly suspicious, though.