The car stopped in an alley behind the church, where two large, armed men stood by the back door. They showed Randall Manning down a set of stairs to the basement, then to a back room.
When that door opened, six men stood at once. They included Manning’s lawyer, Bruce McCabe. They included Stanley Keane of SK Tool and Supply, who hadn’t made it to the luncheon today.
On Manning’s motion, the six men took their seats at a long rectangular table. At one end, where a seat remained vacant for Manning, was a. 38 revolver. Manning picked it up and pointed it at the man sitting immediately to his right.
“Are you prepared to give your life for the cause?” he asked.
“I am,” said the man, young and powerful like a football player in his prime, with a severe haircut and militant eyes. “I understand that the cause is greater than the individual. I understand that sacrificing this life for the cause will open up a new and richer life in the hereafter. I understand that-”
“Good.” Manning lowered the weapon to his side and walked around the table to Stanley Keane’s spot. “And you, Stanley?”
Stanley shrunk amid the scrutiny. “I am,” he said. “I understand that the cause is-”
“Enough,” said Manning. He positioned the revolver against Stanley’s left ear. “Did we not agree that it was necessary for you to attend the luncheon today?”
“We did, sir.”
“But you did not.”
“It was a scheduling issue, sir-”
“A scheduling issue? We have to cover our tracks, Brother Stanley, if you hadn’t noticed. If anyone is wondering why I’m here in the city today, I can point to the lunch with the labor secretary, I can point to a meeting I had with elected officials, I can point to a game of squash with a pharmaceutical company president who is a valued client. You, Stanley? What can you show?”
Manning cocked the weapon, and Stanley broke into a series of apologies. “I got a late start and I wouldn’t have made more than the last few minutes, sir, and by then-”
“Stanley,” Manning said with an icy calm. “We have a unique opportunity here, do we not?”
“We do, sir. We have an opportunity to return this-”
“And this opportunity is made particularly unique by the standing of the members of our Circle, true?”
“Yes, sir.” Sweat trickled down Stanley’s cheek.
“And keeping up appearances is paramount, yes?”
“Paramount, sir.”
“If we travel to a meeting of the Circle, we do so at the risk of calling attention to ourselves, do we not?”
“Yes-”
“And as I’m standing here at this moment, Brother Stanley, I am aware of no particular cover story for why you are here. If anyone were to inquire. Because you missed the luncheon. ”
“I apologize, sir. I have no excuse.”
Manning braced himself, and thus Stanley did as well. The entire room did.
Then Manning uncocked his weapon and held it at his side. “We are close, brothers. The closer we get to our goal, the higher the risks, the graver the danger.” He moved around the table to his rightful place at the head. “We have survived many challenges. We are so close now. Now is not the time to let down. Now is the time to recommit.
“Brothers, have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.
“Very good.” Manning took a seat and bowed his head. “Now, we pray.”
14
“So he shoots Kathy Rubinkowski, he walks over to her dead body and he steals her purse, cell phone, and necklace.” Shauna tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “How is that consistent with PTSD? He’s reliving a moment in Iraq, he shoots her, and then he robs her?”
Lying flat on the couch in the corner of my office, I threw my football up in the air and caught it coming back at my face. “I saw a movie once where a soldier stole a cigar out of the pocket of the dead enemy soldier. The spoils of war, I guess.”
“I guess. It takes a little sympathy out of your sympathy argument, though.”
“Don’t forget, Tom apologized to her.”
“Yeah, that’s great. ‘Sorry I shot you, really I am, but as long as I’m here, no sense in letting all that money in your purse go to waste.’ That’s a real crowd-pleaser, kid.”
She winked at me. Shauna was my best friend. She was my lifeline. It wasn’t so long ago that she pulled my head out of my ass and forced me to share office space with her. I was on track to throw my legal career into the dumpster after I lost my wife and daughter. I’ll always wonder what I would have done for a living. Maybe an astronaut. The rodeo circuit would have been cool. Though I’ve never ridden a horse, much less a bronco.
I continued my one-man game of toss. “It’s worse than that. It’s not even impulsive. Tom didn’t have any blood on him. Right? That’s what the police report said. And you saw that pool of blood around the victim’s body.”
Shauna leafed through the photos of the crime scene. “You’re right. He took her purse, her cell phone, and yanked the chain off her neck without getting any blood on himself. That would have taken some work.”
“I know. So it makes our sell tougher. We convey this image of a soldier in the heat of battle, and then he’s carefully helping himself to her possessions.”
“Maybe soldiers really do rob their enemies,” she said. “We need to find somebody who’ll testify to that.”
“Already on my list. Lightner’s working the witnesses right now. Those that aren’t still in Iraq.”
“Whoa. A Mob shooting,” Shauna said.
“Huh?” I looked over at her. She was fondling the mouse to my computer, checking the Internet. Then a light went on and I sat up, popping to attention. “Who was it?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Let me pull it up.” Her eyes moved along the computer screen. “Lorenzo Fowler? Hey, wasn’t he-”
“Shit.” I jumped off my couch and read over Shauna’s shoulder. Lorenzo Fowler, age fifty-two, reputed lieutenant in the Capparelli crime family, found dead on the 2700 block of West Arondale. The article was complete with a photograph of poor Lorenzo slumped against a glass door that read T ATTERED C OVER N EW amp; U SED B OOKS.
“A bullet through the throat and one through each kneecap,” Shauna moaned. “Ouch.”
I revisited our meeting. Lorenzo was in the soup, or so he thought, for the beating of a strip club owner. He wanted to make a trade with the prosecutors, if it ever came to that-the name of the Capparellis’ assassin of choice.
“Do you have an alibi for last night?” Shauna asked me.
“Wow. Lorenzo Fowler.”
“Seriously, Jason. Did he tell you anything that would be helpful to the police?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll just run over there and give a full interview with the police and breach the attorney-client privilege. While I’m at it, I’ll stop by the state supreme court’s chambers and turn in my law license.”
Shauna turned back to look at me. “I’m your law partner, pal. The privilege holds. Did he give you anything?”
Poor Lorenzo. Sounds like his fear was well-founded.
“He gave me Gin Rummy,” I said. “The name of a Mob hit man. Actually, he didn’t like that term. He preferred ‘assassin.’”
I read through the article again. Gunshots to the throat and kneecaps. The throat was the only one they needed. The shots to the kneecaps would have been gratuitous. It was punitive.
