“Hot as hell out there.” Grady walked to Bennie’s desk, leaned over, and gave her a dry kiss on the cheek. His eyes looked bleary behind his rimmed glasses and his gaze found the monitor. “Your opening?”
“Yep.”
“Can I help?”
“Not really.”
“I got fresh cream and a lifetime supply of M amp;M’s. Nothin’s too good for my girl.”
Bennie forced a smile, but her thoughts kept straying. Her mother. The purple foxglove. Then,
“You want to talk? Cry some more?” Grady smiled with sympathy. “I got a shoulder. Two in fact. We can lie down together, take a break.”
“Thanks, but no. No time.”
“You want to talk about the case, then? Try your opening argument out on me?”
“No, I’m not there yet. Got to write it first.”
Grady pursed his lips. “Want fresh coffee?”
“Got some.” Bennie turned to the monitor.
“Okay,” he said, giving her another peck on the cheek. “I’m outta here.”
Bennie stared at the screen as he left the room, the dog sashaying behind with his characteristic slip-slide. She couldn’t focus. Her coffee cooled as she found herself listening for Grady’s comings and goings around the house. She smelled the popping of frying chicken and anticipated the kitchen growing humid with boiling potatoes. Later he’d mash them with bacon. Grady was a terrific cook, particularly of Southern fare, and he was making one of Bennie’s favorite meals.
She heard the clink of dishes as he set the plywood table. She could almost taste the cold beer he’d undoubtedly uncap. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything. The aroma of sizzling bacon wafted up from the kitchen and into the hallway. It was driving her nuts.
Bennie closed the computer file. She had to get out of here. She had to go where she could be away from everyone. She had to concentrate on the case, on Connolly.
She knew just the place.
46
Surf Lenihan sat low inside the black bucket seat of the black TransAm. He wore a white polo shirt and jeans and tugged on a carton of strawberry milk. He’d parked down the street a safe distance from the house. Watching, in the dark.
Surf slugged another gulp of strawberry milk and felt good for the first time since the shit hit the fan. Maybe it was because he was finally doing something about the situation himself, instead of waiting for Citrone to get off his ass.
Surf was young and moving up in the department. He’d already started to network, just like in business, and was just beginning to know the right people. He wasn’t going to let Rosato fuck him up. He wasn’t going to let anybody fuck him up. He had too much ahead of him.
Surf kept an eye on the house. Red-brick, a dumpy three-story. You’d think she’d buy a nicer house with all the money she made off the department. Surf had followed Rosato home from work, tracking her at a distance in the car, which was his girl’s. The TransAm was more obvious than he would have liked, but at least it was black. It did the job.
As soon as Rosato had left her office building, Surf figured she was going home. He knew where that was. He’d looked up her address in the phone book and had almost beaten her here, slipping into a parking space and slinking low in his seat as she turned the corner, moving fast on foot. She was strong and not bad-lookin’ if you liked big girls. Surf didn’t. Her stems were okay, but her tits weren’t big enough. Plus, she was a lawyer. Who would want to fuck a lawyer? Later Surf got his answer-another lawyer. A tall, skinny dude with a flowered tie had gone inside the house after her. Pussy had a shopping bag, for fuck’s sake.
Surf peeked up at the second floor window. The light had gone on there a while ago but he couldn’t see in the window, the blinds were closed. He took a last slug of milk and stowed the empty carton in back of the seat. He’d wait for Rosato to come out, then choose his time. He’d do what he had to to stop her.
Wait. A light went on outside the house, to the right of the front door. Maybe it was on a timer. Surf stayed low in the driver’s seat. The front door of the house opened and closed. Rosato came out and walked down the stoop. She had a briefcase in one hand and a dog on a leash in the other. Nice pooch, but didn’t look like much of a watchdog. Good. Surf watched her walk up the street, alone, without the boyfriend. Better. Tonight would be the night. Now would be the time. He twisted on the ignition, pulled out of the space, and cruised up the street after her.
Surf slowed as he watched her get into a car, a big blue Ford, and when she took off, closed the gap enough to see the dog hanging out the back window. He wondered where Rosato was going-maybe back to the office, maybe she forgot something. With the dog? No. They passed the number street closest to the office.
The Ford ended up traveling down South Street. A tough break. South was clogged with traffic, as usual. The sidewalks were full of assholes. Couples out for a walk after dinner, frat boys on the make, chicks from South Philly with big hair. Too many goddamn citizens. Surf couldn’t do anything here. He braked sharply at the light and his gun slid from under the front seat. He edged it back with the heel of his boot.
Where was Rosato going? Surf realized he should have known, when they got there.
He parked at the corner of Trose Street, halfway down the block from Della Porta’s apartment, and watched as Rosato got out of the Ford with the dog and crossed the street to Della Porta’s building. Surf had been there many times, when they were in business with Della Porta. The street was skinny and dark. No streetlights. No one on the street. It was a go.
Surf palmed his gun, stuck it into the back of his jeans, and climbed out of the TransAm. He left the door open slightly so the noise didn’t tip off Rosato. She was at the front door of the building, fucking with keys. Her back was turned. The dog’s tail was wagging like crazy.
Surf quick-stepped across the street and had almost reached the stoop when Rosato unlocked the door. He could’ve pushed her inside and capped her there, but stopped himself. The light in the entrance hall was too bright.
Surf waited behind the tree until the light went on in Della Porta’s apartment. He lingered another minute, to be sure, then darted to the rowhouse and unscrewed the lightbulb over the front door. It flickered to black and the stoop was bathed in darkness. Surf crept back down the stoop and stationed himself in the shadows by the front door. He could be patient, if he had to. Citrone never appreciated that, he underestimated Surf.
So had Rosato.
47
No.
“Bear, no!” Bennie called out irritably, but the scratching didn’t stop. She tried to ignore it, but couldn’t. She
