“I can’t hear you,” Judy sang out, cupping a hand to her ear, and Pigeon Tony broke into the first smile she’d seen so far.
“Promise lady with big mouth,” he answered, and Judy assumed he meant her lipliner.
Chapter 4
Judy hurried off the elevator at the Roundhouse and followed the oddly hand-scrawled signs to the Homicide Division. They led to a narrow hallway of cheap paneling past a huge black plastic tub of trash sitting right outside a reception area, also cheaply paneled. The small room was covered with signs like POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY and PRIVATE —KEEP OUT, which Judy ignored. The front desk was empty, and she barreled past it. She needed as much information as she could get about the Coluzzi case before she went back to the office and had to account to her boss, Bennie Rosato. She’d been so thrown by Pigeon Tony’s confession, she’d forgotten to get the details of the case. Like how he killed Coluzzi, for instance. Little things.
Judy entered the squad room and, because she’d been up here only twice, took a minute to get her bearings. Not that anything had changed—in the last twenty years, for that matter. Water-stained white curtains barely covered grimy windows; most of the curtain hooks were missing and the drapes hung like gaping wounds from cheap metal valances. Six cluttered desks filled the small room, only haphazardly arranged, and in one case covered with breakfast debris of a cold bacon sandwich, the scent of which lingered unaccountably in the air, mixing with traces of cigar smoke. Battered file cabinets lined the side wall, near the two interview rooms. The place was quiet of ringing phones and empty except for two detectives, who were looking through a boxed file on a desk.
Judy wasn’t surprised at how quiet it was. She’d been around enough to know that the day tour at the Homicide Division was the sleepy shift, not the other way around. Murders generally happened under cover of darkness—who said there was nothing to do in Philadelphia at night—and most detectives spent at least part of the day testifying in court. Whether it was their court appearances or their occupational machismo, Judy didn’t know, but homicide detectives were peacocks. The two in the squad room wore flashy silk ties, well-tailored suits, and too-strong cologne, and they looked up from the file at the same time, staring at the invasion of a young blond lawyer.
Judy stood her ground, even in yellow clogs. Being a blonde was a good thing to be with detectives, good enough to trump being a defense lawyer, and she watched their collective gaze scan her athletic body and stall at her bare legs. But when they reached her footwear, their heads almost exploded, and she was glad she had erased her lipliner.
“I’m a lawyer representing Anthony Lucia,” she said, and nevertheless held her head high. It was her first experience with representing a confessed murderer, and she didn’t find it easy, even if the killer was a cute little old man. “He’s being held in connection with the Coluzzi case.”
The detective on the right—a tall, middle-aged man with slicked-back hair—cocked his head. “You work for Rosato,” he said, and Judy nodded.
“The firm hasn’t entered an appearance,” she said, preserving her job. “But I just met with Mr. Lucia. He told me you asked him some questions, and I was surprised at that. You didn’t question him without counsel, did you?”
“Perish the thought,” the detective said, his smile firmly in place. He turned to the desk behind him, picked up a manila folder, plucked a sheet of paper from it, and handed it to Judy. “Here’s the criminal complaint.”
Judy skimmed the sheet, which said only that defendant Anthony Lucia had been charged with the crime that occurred on April 17, at 712 Cotner Street, an “unlawful homicide.” Judy had thought that was the only kind there was. She needed more information. “You videotaped the interview, didn’t you?”
“It’s procedure.”
“When can I get a copy?”
“Whenever they turn over the other evidence, after the prelim.”
Judy gritted her teeth. They were playing my-testosterone-can-beat-up-your-testosterone, and she wasn’t as deficient as she appeared. “You study to be this difficult, or does it just come naturally?”
The detective didn’t react. “We asked a coupla routine questions, completely within our prerogative.”
Judy felt torn. What evidence did they have? How strong was their case? Even the Philadelphia police could convict a guy who actually did it. “What’s the basis for the charge?”
“You’ll see when we charge him, around three o’clock, Ms.—”
“Carrier, but Judy’s fine.” She sighed. “Look, I’m standing here and you’re standing here. You can’t tell me?”
“Ain’t the way we do things,” the detective said matter-of-factly, and the older detective beside him gave him a nudge.
“The junior varsity’s in, Sammy,” he muttered, not really under his breath, but Judy ignored it.
“Do you have any physical evidence against Mr. Lucia?”
“You’ll find that out, too. Later.”
“Are Detectives Kovich or Brinkley around?” Judy knew them from the last case, and they would help if they could. She went up on tiptoe and glanced past the detectives, whose expressions soured.
“The Stan and Reg Show? Not here. They’re out of town, and they do things different than I do anyway.”
Judy knew what he meant.
“In any event, I caught this one. I’m the assigned. I’m the one you have to deal with.”
“Listen, Detective—”
“Wilkins. Sam Wilkins.”
“Wilkins. Mr. Lucia is not a young man, and I’m concerned about the state of his health. The stress of this —”
“Spare me.” The detective snorted. “That old bird’s tough as nails. He’ll be dancing on my grave.”
Suddenly the detectives looked past Judy, and she turned, feeling a presence behind her. A tall, good-looking man in Levi’s approached almost out of breath, his jeans jacket flapping to the side in his haste. When he got closer, Judy could see that his eyes were dark with anger, barely controlled.
“Excuse me,” the man said brusquely to the detectives. “I’m looking for Anthony Lucia. I heard you arrested him. I want him freed.”
Judy realized who it must be, and even recognized a flicker of the grandfather in the grandson, though he was much taller, maybe six foot three, and handsome. “You must be Frank Lucia,” she said, extending a hand, but he squeezed it only absently, his grip rough with thick skin, his gaze still burning into the detectives.
“Where is my grandfather?” he demanded. “I want to see him. I want him out of here.”
“Relax, pal. Mr. Lucia’s in custody, and he’ll be arraigned at the end of the day. This is his lawyer, Dr. Judy.” The detective gestured in a professional way, and Frank looked over as the introduction registered, his eyes widening with recognition.
“Jeez! You’re Judy! I’m sorry, you’re Mary’s friend. Thanks so much for coming.” Frank burst into a tense grin and suddenly grabbed Judy by the shoulders, pulling her easily into a brief hug. An astonished Judy caught a quick whiff of onion breath before she landed in a wall of hard denim. She recovered her dignity only when Frank set her back on her feet.
“Uh, that’s okay,” she stammered, finger-combing her hair into place, aware of the detectives watching them.
“You know Matty DiNunzio. Mariano. He said you would help.” Frank was talking too fast, his emotions clearly all over the lot. “He said you were a terrific lawyer.”
“Well, I hope so.” Judy swallowed hard. She was getting blocked in on the representation, and of a guilty client. The detectives were taking mental notes. “Frank, maybe we should discuss this in private.”
“After I see my grandfather.”
“You can’t, not yet.”
“Where is he?”
“Downstairs.”
“You’re kidding me. He’s right downstairs and I can’t see him?”
Judy suppressed her smile. Frank sounded like her, even to her. “Only lawyers can meet with defendants
