“I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who sexually molested Pam Stark or Kimberly Harris or whatever you want to call her.”
“Yeah, I can get someone. Give me names and addresses.”
I quickly scrawled o ut what he wanted on a sheet of paper and then made a fast track to my office-still clutching Duquesne’s file-to draw up requests for two search warrants: one for Cioffi’s office, one for his home. I was halfway through when my phone buzzed.
“Joe?” It was Brandt. “What are you doing right now?”
“Preparing warrants for a guy named Steven Cioffi. He’s the guy with the hump.”
“All right. Go to it. Don’t bother to come powwow with Wilson and me. We’ll sort that out. It’ll probably mean some kind of press conference later today, so don’t skip town.”
“Right.” I hung up and finished typing, praying I would find a judge available across the street at the courthouse.
I did-in the men’s room. He wasn’t terrifically pleased about it-probably something about his dignity-but he signed on the dotted line against the tile wall. I returned to Brandt’s office and brought him up to date.
When I finished, he stood up, pocketed his pipe and smiled. “Well, maybe this press conference won’t be such a bad idea after all.”
25
Cioffi worked at Leatherton, Inc., a manufacturer of industrial parts whose name I’d always thought was better suited to a luggage-making firm. In fact, this one modest factory was one of several subsidiaries of Thomas Leatherton amp; Company of Toronto, Canada, which was their version of Westinghouse-a big deem' w›
The building reflected the stature. Covering half an industrial park recently built south of town near the interstate, it was the region’s latest statement in modern architecture, which may not have been saying much. Still, it was an eye-catcher, made of dark glass and earth-toned brick, and it did exude a sense of capitalist power and well-being.
We arrived in two squad cards. Kunkle and I were in one, Capullo and Woll in the other. I had the two patrolmen cover the front and back entrances, just in case our fat and flabby erstwhile hunchback decided to limp off into the sunset.
As it turned out, he’d already done so. From the receptionist downstairs to his secretary on the top floor, we got the same message: “I’m afraid Mr. Cioffi’s not in right now.”
His secretary was an attractive young bottle-blonde with too much eye shadow. I pointed to the closed door behind her. “Is that his?”
She looked at it doubtfully. “Yes, it is.”
I laid the court order on her desk and walked around her to the door.
“Stop. I mean, hold on a second. What is this?” She held up the warrant.
Kunkle answered for me in modulated officialese. “That’s a court order allowing us to enter this office and remove specific documents related to the case we have building against Mr. Cioffi.”
Her eyes widened. “Against Mr. Cioffi? What for?”
“Read the warrant.” She looked from us to the paper in her hand. “I think maybe I should get somebody.”
“That’s fine. We’ll be in here.” I opened the door and went inside.
What we entered was the archetypal coveted corner office. Two walls of windows, a rug soft enough to swallow our shoes, a mahogany desk, a leather sofa and two armchairs custom-made for an English men’s club. Lining the other two walls was a built-in bookcase stuffed with stereo equipment, fancy artifacts, and elegantly placed collections of leather-bound books. It did not fit the mental image I’d painted of Cioffi from his doctor’s description.
Kunkle looked around and whistled. “Jesus, if I worked here, I’d never go home.”
I pulled the walkie-talkie from my belt and called Dispatch. “Tell Brandt to secure Cioffi’s residence. He’s not at his office. If Brandt wants the court order covering the house, I’ve got it.”
“Ten-four.”
I took down several of Cioffi’s fancy books and opened them. None showed any signs of overuse. In fact, the same could have been said for the entire office.
I went over to the desk. Except for the usual executive knickknacks, it was bare. I pulled at the drawer directly in front of the chair; it was unlocked. Inside, I found a book marked “Appointments.” I checked today’s date. Nothing was scheduled.
“May I help you?”
The voice belonged tice
Kunkle took an instant dislike to him. Maybe it was the suit. “I doubt it. Who are you?”
“My name’s Arthur Pelegrino. I’m the head of Public Relations.”
Kunkle obviously was not in a handshaking mood and I was too far away. Pelegrino seemed ill at ease forgoing the formality; his hands fidgeted in front of his belt buckle. “Could you tell me what this is all about?”
I took pity on the man, crossed over, and shook his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Gunther. We have a warrant for certain documents in this room. I would also like to ask some questions of Mr. Cioffi’s secretary, if I may.”
Pelegrino smiled nervously and stepped aside, exposing the secretary fully.
“Alone would be best, actually.”
The PR man bit his upper lip and nodded. “I think I better get someone from the legal department.” He squeezed by the secretary and disappeared.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Mona.”
“You originally from the area?”
“Dummerston.”
“Been working here long?”
“A couple of years. I got the job straight out of college. I went to UVM.”
“Did Cioffi hire you, or did you just end up working for him?”
“I was assigned to him.”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s okay, I guess.”
“How would you characterize him?”
“What?”
“Is he friendly or abrupt, supportive or uncaring, easy going or tense, things like that.”
“Gee, I’ve never thought about that. I don’t really have much to do with him, really.”
“Does he work you hard?”
Her face lit up at that. “Gosh no. My boyfriend says I have the cushiest job in the world. I guess he’s right. I mostly just sit out there. I used to read a little, but they said it didn’t look good.”
“What exactly does Cioffi do?”
“He’s Vice-President of Industrial Relations.” Kunkle broke in. “What the hell does that mean?” She smiled and shrugged. “I’m not really sure. He travels a lot. I think it has something to do with conventions.”
“He goes to a lot of conventions?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t you make the travel arrangements for him?”
“No. He does all that. I answer the phone and write letters sometimes. I don’t see him a whole lot.”
There was some noise from outside, and Pelegrino reappeared with a short, fat man, also bald and also dressed in a dark suit. They looked like a cartoon together. Pelegrino introduced his companion as Mr. Kleeman, who, from his self-inflated manner, was obviously from the legal department.
Kleeman was not a hand-shaker. He grabbed the warrant from Mona and read it from front to back. He finally folded the warrant and put it in his pocket. “Have you gone through anything yet?”
