The Vendetta Defense

carefully inside, then closed the top flap loosely. “I no go. I no go nowhere.”

“You can’t stay here.”

“No.” Pigeon Tony slid the scissors from his pocket and poked it into the box top, making an airhole. “I no go.”

Frank waved Judy off. “Thanks, but let me try again. This is really a family matter.” He turned to his grandfather. “Pop, you have to go with me. The Coluzzis will come back, and you know it. We’ll go to my house or a hotel. It’s dangerous to stay here.”

“I no go.” Pigeon Tony made another airhole. “The birds, they come home. The Old Man, he come home.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know, I know.” Pigeon Tony made a third airhole in the box, and the injured pigeon popped his head through the loose top. The bird watched, making no effort to escape, as Pigeon Tony punctured the top again. “Alla time, he come home.”

“But you don’t know when, Pop. You can’t stay here. We shouldn’t be here now.”

“I no leave.” Pigeon Tony kept making airholes for his audience of one. “My birds. My house. My loft. Alla mine.”

“Pop, it’s not safe.” Frank raised his voice, his face reddening with frustration. “I’m not going to fight with you about this.”

“I no leave,” Pigeon Tony shouted. “Basta, Frankie!”

“Pop, you can’t stay here!” Frank shouted back, and Pigeon Tony looked up from his airholes. The pigeon’s head wheeled around.

“I no leave!” Pigeon Tony waved the scissors for emphasis, and Judy knew he had won. An Italian with a sharp object always won, except for World War II.

Suddenly she heard a commotion outside the loft and looked through the torn screen. Two uniformed police were looking around the kitchen. The cavalry had arrived.

Finally.

The five of them—Judy, Frank, Pigeon Tony, and two heavyset, older cops—crowded into the wrecked kitchen. Judy kept Pigeon Tony behind her, so he wouldn’t bite, as she talked to the police. He remained unhappily still, clutching his Peroni box, which cooed throughout her account of the events. One cop, whose black nameplate read McDADE, listened critically while the other, named O’NEILL, took careful notes on his white Incident Report pad. Judy knew they wouldn’t really understand this situation. Even the Irish were pikers in the grudge department, comparatively. Vendetta was an Italian word for a reason.

Officer McDade flipped his pad closed. “So I have my report, and we’ll get right on it. Thanks.”

Judy looked around. “When will the mobile techs arrive?”

“Mobile techs?”

“You know, for the crime scene. I see them at murder cases all the time. They dust for fingerprints, photograph everything—”

“We do that for a homicide, but not a B and E.”

Judy blinked, vaguely aware of Frank’s impatience at her side. “It’s still a crime scene.”

“We don’t have the resources to dust every B and E.”

“But this B and E is part of a homicide case,” Judy argued, echoing Frank’s words from earlier that day. “My client, Mr. Lucia, was charged this afternoon with the murder of the elder Coluzzi, and this is in retaliation.”

“I’ve already told Mr. Lucia here”—he nodded at Frank—“that we’ll question the Coluzzi family.” Officer McDade shifted restlessly on his shiny black shoes, and his partner started toward the kitchen door. “We’ll start with John, the son he mentioned.”

“But this is a warning. The Coluzzis are waging war on my client.” Judy knew she was pushing it, but pushing it was what advocates were supposed to do. She couldn’t leave Pigeon Tony unprotected. The law would take care of him, wouldn’t it? “I want whoever did this behind bars. It’s the only way Mr. Lucia will be safe.”

The cop’s blue eyes flared. “No attempt has been made on his life.”

“Not yet, but one could be.”

“We’ll look into it, Ms. Carrier.” The officer glanced after his partner, who was leaving. “Now we do have to be getting along.”

“But the issue is what happens to him tonight. If you don’t believe there’s a threat, you can still catch the eleven o’clock news. I’m sure the film of the fight at the courthouse is all over it.”

“We have twelve other B and E’s to deal with tonight. It’s a Friday and a full moon. The whole city is going nuts. We looked upstairs and down. Nothing is missing. Your guy—your client— didn’t even lose anything valuable.”

“Only his home, and birds he loves,” Frank interjected, and Officer McDade turned to him.

“I meant no disrespect to your grandfather, Mr. Lucia, but I just came from an apartment on Moore, near Fifth. That guy’s home is a wreck and they took everything he owned.” Officer McDade touched the patent bill of his cap, a modern-day doffing. “We’re doing our best. You’ll hear from us as soon as we know something.”

Judy couldn’t let it go. “So you’ll pick up John Coluzzi?”

“Pick up? I didn’t say that. I said we’d talk to him and we will.”

“Can’t you question him at the Roundhouse? Isn’t he a suspect?”

“Not legally.” Officer McDade frowned. “We have no evidence, only your suspicion. We’ll question him, like I said, but we don’t have probable cause for arrest. Not on these facts.”

“If you talk to the neighbors—”

“We did that already. Nobody saw anything.”

“They’re just afraid.”

“Possibly, but we can’t manufacture witnesses, Ms. Carrier. Between us, me and my partner”—at this he nodded in the direction of his now-absent colleague—“have forty-something years of experience in talking to witnesses. We know how to handle this.”

Judy fished in her purse, dug for her wallet, and found a business card. She handed it to the cop. “I’ll let you know if any of them call me. Will you do the same?”

“Sure, that’s standard procedure.” The cop stuck her card in his back pocket with his white pad, reminding Judy uncomfortably of a booklet of traffic tickets.

“Thanks,” she said anyway, her hopes sinking. Officer McDade shook her hand and Frank’s and nodded to Pigeon Tony, who gripped his Peroni box. The cops had been gone only a minute when Judy answered Frank’s unsaid argument, “It’s a process, Frank. It takes time.”

“I understand. I really didn’t expect more.” Frank didn’t look angry to Judy, or even frightened. His brown eyes were concerned, and the stubble on his chin had grown darker. He turned to his grandfather. “Pop, I can’t get you to go, so I’m staying.”

“You? Inna house? No. No!” Pigeon Tony scowled, his brow creasing with concern, but Frank put up his hand like a crossing guard.

“Yes, and no more fighting. That’s it. I’m sleeping on the couch, Pop.”

Pigeon Tony nodded only reluctantly, though the Peroni box cooed in happy response.

Home in her apartment, Judy tried to sleep but couldn’t. She flopped back and forth in bed because her Patagonia surfer T-shirt, the same blue one she’d worn to bed for the past three nights, had become suddenly bunchy. She yanked it off over her head, then tossed it at the foot of the bed and slid nude under the coverlet, feeling suddenly cold. She refused to put the T-shirt back on, which would involve not only getting out of bed but also admitting defeat, so she leaned over and switched on the electric blanket, at which point she became suddenly hot. Even a pillow cave didn’t help. She had a lot on her mind.

Pigeon Tony was across town in his ruined house, in danger. Frank was with him, protecting them both with only a portable copier. The police were changing shifts and proving her faith in them misplaced. She had a murder case to defend and the guy actually did it. Plus she liked the murderer and was developing a crush on his grandson. The thought made her smile, almost, but it faded when she focused on the predicament they were in, then the visions of the smashed house. The slaughtered birds. The pain on Pigeon Tony’s face.

She fluffed up her pillow and snuggled deeper into bed, which was queen-size but seemed small. The room