We both jumped when the phone rang.
I took the call in my bedroom. It was Mike Metz. He was silent while I ran down what had happened with Pell, and he was silent for a while after.
“Fuck,” he said finally.
“Well put,” I said.
“This is bad, John. DiPaolo’s a real piece of work, from what I hear.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
“She can make life very unpleasant for us if she’s so inclined. We’ll claim your case notes are attorney work- product, but she can push on that pretty hard if she wants to. Fuck.” Mike sighed heavily. “Well, we knew this was a possibility. Nothing to do now but deal with it.” I heard Mike pour something and swallow some of it. “But this came out of the blue. Pell knew about Trautmann and Neary, both, and he knew you were interested in Nassouli. How?”
“Hell if I know.”
“You figure Trautmann called them?”
“I guess it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem like him. And I’m not sure why he’d do it.”
“To get you off his back, I assume.”
“Maybe. But it’s a chancy thing for him to do. He risks drawing federal attention to himself, which is not something I’d think he’d be interested in. And he’s also got to know that if I find out he’s the one who called Pell, it’s going to make me look at him all the harder. Trautmann’s smart enough to figure that out.”
“How would Pell find out, if not from him?”
“Could be the feds have Trautmann covered. I didn’t see anybody, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
“I thought Neary said they’d looked at Trautmann and decided to take a pass.”
“That’s what he said. But they could still have him staked out, maybe to get a line on Nassouli.”
“If that’s the case, it would make it hard for him to be our guy, no?”
“Harder, but not impossible.”
“How do you figure they knew about Neary?”
“That’s another puzzle. Neary has a source in the investigation that he was going to talk to. Maybe that source isn’t so trustworthy. Maybe he went to Pell. Or maybe Pell connected the dots by himself once he heard I’d been talking to Trautmann. He knows Neary and I are friends.”
“You talk to Neary yet?”
“I’ve got a call in to him.”
“He won’t be happy with this. He could be pretty exposed here, with his client and his management.”
“I know, Mike, believe me, I know.” Mike was quiet at the other end of the line.
“Does Neary know our client’s name, John?”
“No. If he was inclined to, he could figure it out. But he didn’t hear it from me.”
“Well, that’s something.” I heard ice shifting in a glass at Mike’s end. “Alright, I’ve got some calls to make. Meanwhile, prepare yourself for Monday-practice not talking.”
“I know the drill, Mike.”
“I don’t care. I’m your lawyer, and I’ve got to say it. You say nothing unless you’re asked a direct question, and even then you wait for me to give you the nod. If you have to talk, you answer only what was asked, and you do it briefly and politely. And, above all, you don’t lose your temper and you don’t act like a wiseass. Mostly, don’t talk.”
Jane Lu had gotten into my CDs, and Cassandra Wilson was playing when I came out. Jane was sitting on the sofa with her legs curled beneath her, reading the Times. Her loafers were on the floor. She’d made herself another cup of tea.
“Done?” she asked, looking up.
“One left. If you’ve got somewhere else you need to be, you don’t need to wait. I’m fine, really.” Jane smiled and shook her head.
“I don’t mind. Besides, if I don’t take you to the emergency room, I’m not sure you’ll go.” She held up her cell phone. “And I’ve already canceled.”
“Nothing special, I hope.” She smiled enigmatically and gave a little shrug.
“You should sit down, rest a little,” she said. I nodded and settled at the other end of the sofa and about a half second later I was asleep. The next thing I knew, Jane was gently shaking my leg. It was nearly seven o’clock. “Telephone,” she said. I dragged myself back to consciousness, off the sofa, and to my bedroom. It was Neary. I told him all.
“Fuck,” he said, when I had finished.
“That seems to be the consensus.”
“I’m glad you can be glib about this, March. But it’s not that funny from where I sit. You don’t know Shelly. She’ll eat you alive, and have me for dessert. And in case you haven’t noticed, my ass is hanging out here.”
“I know that, Tom, and I’m sorry about it,” I said.
“ Sorry? A shitload of good sorry does me. Sorry doesn’t pay my mortgage, or my kid’s orthodontist, you know? It may not cost you much to dick around with these guys, March, but I’m in a different boat. There’s no mattress full of family money just lying around my house.”
“Tom, I got you jammed up here, I know. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I’m sorry that it did. But I-”
He cut me off. “Save your rationalizations-it’s my own goddamn fault for not telling you to go to hell in the first place. You’d think I’d learn. I’ll see you Monday,” he said, and hung up. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Neary was pissed, and he had a right to be. Even if-best case-all DiPaolo did was rough us up, Tom could still have a big problem. His management and his clients were very sensitive about confidentiality. If they came to believe he’d breached theirs, his reputation would be fucked and he’d be out on his ass. Maybe even hauled into civil court.
“All set?” Jane asked. She had turned off the music and put her shoes and sweater back on. I nodded and grabbed a jacket. Jane looked at me. “Bad news?” she asked. I nodded again. I was reaching for the doorknob when the phone rang.
“I should take this,” I said. It was Mike.
“I spoke to Pierro,” he said.
“Let me guess-he wasn’t happy. Well, he couldn’t have been any worse than Neary.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I bet Tom didn’t just get a fax demanding payment of five million dollars.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Christ,” Rick Pierro said hoarsely, “this just gets worse and worse.” He rubbed his face with his big hands.
It was after ten on Saturday night, and Mike Metz and I were in Pierro’s living room. Mike had been there for a while; I was fresh from St. Vincent’s. It was a large room, done in earth tones. The deep sofas and chairs were upholstered in rust and ochre and sand-colored fabrics. The sage walls were hung with abstracts that went well with the carpet.
Pierro sat hunched on a large ottoman, his elbows resting on his knees. He was dressed in olive gabardine trousers, a yellow shirt, and a blue V-neck sweater. His shirttail had come out in back, and there was a smear of something, maybe mustard, on one of his sleeves. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and shut his eyes tightly. But when he opened them again, the fatigue and worry and anger were still there. His meaty shoulders drooped and his heavy features sagged. His hair was glossy and neat, and somehow out of place above his wrecked face.
Helene sat beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and kneaded it gently. She wore a black sweater and loose camel pants, and her chestnut hair was brushed straight back from her forehead and tied in a black ribbon. She was holding up better than her husband, but her face was pale and tense. Her gaze wandered around
