“He had a gun on him, a nine-millimeter Beretta, that ballistics matched to the bullet found in the young man who was killed.”
Poor LeVonne. “They can do that?”
“Sure. When a bullet lodges in soft tissue, it maintains its integrity. They match the markings, like engravings.”
So they had LeVonne’s killer, who was himself dead. I felt a bitter sort of satisfaction.
“The shooter’s name was Danny Suri. His last known residence was in Port Richmond.”
Also in Northeast Philly, not far from the motorcyclist’s. “Could this Suri have known Tim Price? Have you met with Price, Lieutenant? Have you questioned him?”
“We haven’t been able to locate him for questioning, but we investigated him thoroughly. He has no prior criminal record.”
“Did you know he was living with Patricia Sullivan?”
“Sure we did. We checked him out, Ms. Morrone, regardless of what you suggested at the preliminary hearing. We knew about Price as soon as we found the motorcycle. A woman couldn’t drive a 750, not in a BMW.”
Sexist. “Why not?”
“She wouldn’t be strong enough to hold it up at a stoplight.”
Oh. “Could Price know this Suri? Is there a connection?” I passed a billboard that said BET THE PONIES BY PHONE-PHILADELPHIA PARK. Underneath was an 800 number.
“We have no evidence of any connection. Suri was a thug with a long criminal record. Assault, aggravated assault, two robbery convictions by age twenty-five.”
“But why would Suri rob a butcher shop? My father made next to nothing, and it showed.”
“There’s evidence of drug use. He was in and out of rehab, for cocaine use.”
I remembered what Paul had told me. “Price did cocaine, too. Maybe they met each other in some rehab place?”
Dunstan paused on the other end of the line. “The Philadelphia police say Suri’s services were for hire.”
“What services?”
“He roughs people up.”
“But who would hire somebody to hurt LeVonne?” It didn’t make sense. Then I thought of what my father had said in the hospital.
“Why don’t you come to the station? I prefer not to discuss this over a mobile phone.”
A stall, I’d used that trick myself. “Do you have evidence that connects Suri to my father in any way, Lieutenant? Or to me, or the Hamilton case?”
“We have no evidence like that at this point. That would be speculating, Ms. Morrone.”
“So speculate.”
“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
But I would. “It’s not your father, Lieutenant.” My hand knotted around the steering wheel. Had somebody tried to harm my father and killed LeVonne in the process? Did somebody want me distracted, warned off the case? Was my father in danger, even now? Rage swept through me, and fear. I floored the gas pedal, cut a swath through the grassy median, and picked up the highway going south, back toward the city.
“Ms. Morrone?” It was the lieutenant, right in the middle of my felony-level moving violation.
“I have to go, Officer,” I said, hanging up. My thoughts raced along with the car. Would Paul do such a thing? Would Fiske or Kate? And how did Price know Suri? How did any of them know Suri? I couldn’t puzzle it out anymore and I didn’t want to. It was time to end it.
Time to flush the killer out. Nobody would threaten my father again. Nobody would kill another innocent.
I flew toward the city and in no time got a bead on William Penn, standing atop the clock tower of City Hall, one of the most beautiful buildings in my hometown. I’d known that clock tower all my life, visited it with my father as a child. He used to take me up the skinny elevator inside the tower and we’d pass behind the huge yellow clock face, past the oiled brass gears as they ground time forward. The dark innards spooked me, and I would hold tight to my father’s hand. Now someone had attacked him, threatened him.
I had to do something about it, but the first order of business was to make sure he was safe. I called his room and told Cam to stay with him, that I’d explain later. I hung up the phone, lost in thought, blowing past billboards and exits. The speedometer needle edged upward and the engine surged in response. I wished my brain worked as good as this car. I needed a plan.
YOU GOTTA PLAY TO WIN, read a billboard for the Pennsylvania Lottery.
“Damn straight,” I said, but the slogan stayed with me. Resonating.
You gotta play to win. I knew how to play games. I knew how to win. If the killer was playing a game, then I would play, too. And I would win. It took me until the Callowhill exit to figure out how. I would go with my specialty.
A bluff.
24
My father snored loudly as Sal, Cam, and Herman watched over him, like the three wise men in retirement. I sat down and explained my plan to them, scanning their tense, lined faces for the resistance I had expected, but they proved me wrong. They had lived through Depression and World War. Herman had even survived the Bulge. There was steel in them, no matter how frail they appeared, and they were ready to avenge my father and LeVonne. They thought the bluff would work.
“Then Monday it is,” I said.
Herman folded his arms. “Why wait ‘til then? Why not now?”
“I want it to happen at the busiest time. It’s dead there on the weekends.”
“Bad choice of words,” Cam said, without mirth.
Herman nodded. “All right, Monday. We got LeVonne’s funeral on Sunday anyways.”
We fell silent a minute. Only Sal hadn’t said anything yet. His forehead had fallen into customary creases of anxiety and he’d shed his Burberry in favor of short sleeves and chalky elbows.
“You in, Mr. Livemore?” I said to him. “You said you wanted to do more lawyer stuff.”
“This ain’t exactly what I meant, Ree.”
“I know. Still, you game?”
“I don’t think this is such a good idea. You could get hurt.”
“That’s what I need you for. You three are my protection. My backup.”
“You don’t want to tell your father?”
“Are you kidding? He hates when I work late, you think he’d want me to do this?”
