'I won't—'
'No!' he said, and his sharpness told Bennie she had crossed the line again. It wasn't intentional, this habit of hers, treading on authority's toes. She'd stop crossing the line if somebody would just tell her where it was.
'Fine, fine, fine. You win, Torregrossa. I'll just stand here in front of the door and look in. I can look, can't I? I have a First Amendment right to look.'
'Look all you want. Knock yourself out.'
'Thank you,' Bennie said, like she needed the cop's permission to look in her own conference room. It was the best part of being the boss; she didn't need anybody's permission but her own. She walked to the threshold of the conference room and scrutinized it. Her Eakins print dangled askew on the wall, as if it had been knocked over when someone ran or walked by. A swivel chair had been upended and its feet stuck in the air like a crab on its back. The Steere file and exhibits were lying on the conference table. Photos sat on top of the heap, as if they had been examined recently. Bennie leaned closer to see them.
'Not another inch,' the cop said.
'Gotcha.' Bennie squinted to see the photos. They were grisly autopsy photos of the man Elliot Steere had killed, then a newspaper-type photo. It was Steere's victim. Next to the photos was a legal pad that read,
'I'll point it out to the detective when he gets here.'
'You want to call and see if he's on his way?'
'No.'
'Maybe I should call.'
A set of cold cop eyes slipped sideways. 'Let the detectives handle this investigation. They know what they're doing.'
Bennie didn't point out that she'd had some personal experience to the contrary. She'd lost one law firm because of police incompetence and she wasn't about to lose another. Her gut twisted at the memory. Bennie had been the prime suspect in a murder she hadn't committed, but innuendo had proved as damaging as indictment. There were phone calls from anxious clients, police leaks, and bad press, and Bennie had found herself watching the slow-motion crash of her first law firm.
But this time it had to be different. This time Bennie would protect her firm and prevent anyone else from getting killed. Marta Richter was her biggest client. The two were hardly friends, but Bennie didn't take any of her clients lightly. It was a fiduciary relationship, one of trust as well as finances. Bennie had told Marta as much in their initial meeting, making it clear that Rosato & Associates would partner with her, not just serve as a local mail drop. The two litigators had talked trial strategy, business development, and the possibility of future pairings. Bennie had even lent Marta her two best lawyers.
Bennie's thoughts turned to DiNunzio and Carrier. She had hand-picked the two lawyers and trained them. How were they involved with the guards' killings? Where were they, for God's sake, and what did it have to do with the Steere case, if anything? Could they be in jeopardy themselves?
Bennie's firm was under attack. There was blood on her walls. Her reputation, her name. If anybody was going to get to her firm it would have to be
It was a starting point.
20
Mayor Peter Montgomery Walker paced the length of his huge, cherry-paneled office, in front of a remarkably bare mahogany desk. It was his show desk. The desk he used was in his private office behind the secret paneled door. It was where he kept his confidential papers, basketball hoop, and soda fountain. 'We gotta get ahead of this, people! Steere's lawyers are missing and two men are dead!' he fumed. 'We got a murder case and a blizzard here! We're not handling either of them!'
Large windows flanking the desk reflected the mayor's rolled-up white shirtsleeves and flying rep tie. He had the stamina to rant for twenty minutes; he jogged three miles a day by the Schuylkill River. His aides thought he ran to keep fit, but he ran because he liked the sun on his face and he loved the river drives. The mayor thought no city in the country had a nicer entrance than Philly's. It was prettier than Chicago's, even. 'I will not lose this election because of the goddamn
The deputy mayors shriveled in their club chairs against the wall. An aged secretary edged toward the mahogany door out of the office. Only the mayor's chief of staff, Jennifer Pressman, looked relaxed, leaning against a cherrywood credenza that held softball trophies and photos of the mayor's family and friends. One of the photos showed Jen with the mayor when he was the district attorney and she was his assistant. A tall, thin beauty with long dark hair and a slim-fitting matte gray suit, Jen watched the mayor from behind glasses with lenses round as quarters. She knew how to handle him from way back; let him bitch.
'Where's the crime lab reports? Where's the coroner's report? I want answers, sports fans! Why do I have to beg? Don't I look familiar?'
Jen didn't reply or even react. She had ridden the mayor's coattails to this job and as chief of staff had the managing director reporting to her, as well as the heads of all major departments. She had hired most of the top administrative employees, managed the high-profile literacy campaign, and continued the blood and organ donor drive she'd started at the D.A.'s office. Jen checked her watch. Almost midnight. Her cool hid the tension she felt inside. She had to go, but getting out of the office soon was out of the question. Stress, coffee, and no dinner. Ingredients for a migraine.
'And who're the detectives on the Steere case? Where the hell is Michael?' The mayor raked back his hair with an angry swipe and reflexively checked his hand to see if any had fallen out. His wife thought his bald spot was getting bigger, but his mistress disagreed. 'Jen, do we know where Michael is?'
'The chief of police is at an FOP dinner with the inspector,' Jen answered.
