Blood Money (20 page)

Grace danced around the study. She couldn’t wait to tell Nick. She shook him awake. She had to. Even if she had to knock him out to put him back to sleep.

“What…” He lifted his head from the desk, his eyes blood-red slits.

“We found her.” Grace planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Who?” he asked incoherently.

“Donna Price.”

“Oh.” His head plopped back down on the desk.

Grace was glad that she didn’t have to knock him out after all. She dialed Jerry Fisher, an investigator with whom she had worked
.
She knew his number by heart.

“Jerry, it’s Grace Monahan…. I know it’s five in the morning,” she sighed. “Look, don’t bitch at me, hear? You’re such a
yenta.
” She had never liked his style, but he was good at what he did. “I have an important assignment and I need the answer yesterday. Got it?… OK, now listen. I need the address for the telephone number 626-527-0970. I want it by six a.m., today, no later. Call me back at 215-567-0713. Do not—and I mean—
do not
call me at the office. And send the bill to my home. I’m on a special assignment and the office doesn’t want anything traceable to them. OK, Jerry?….Good. I love you.”

Grace took a long breath as she hung up. She moved back to the floor and began assembling the file again, carefully looking at each and every document so as not to miss any other potential treasure.

She hadn’t told Donna Price Victor Manin was a doctor.

By eight a.m. all three were on a flight to Pasadena: Nick in the window seat, Grace in the center, and Joey Shoes on the aisle.

Nick stared out at the bright blue nothingness, trying to rid himself of the depression he felt—trying to dismiss thoughts of Maria Elena and the pain of never seeing her again. He was trying to focus on the missing witness and what she would say, if she would speak to him. How he could get her to testify, if what she had to say would be good for him. If she was damaging to his case, he would bury Donna Price, figuratively of course. He would destroy all notes, all recordings, anything used to track her, anything that would memorialize her testimony. It be against the rules of court to do so, but Asher would undoubtedly do the same in the same situation. Perhaps Asher was hiding her from him. He wouldn’t put it past any defense lawyer. He certainly wouldn’t put it past himself or any other plaintiff’s lawyer.

Shoes quietly chewed his gum, his eyes tightly closed, thinking how helpless you were on a plane. You had no control, no matter how smart, how quick on your feet. If the fucking thing was going down, so were you. Body parts everywhere. The thought made him sick. He opened his eyes to relieve the mental picture. He felt the empty place in his jacket where he usually carried the 25-caliber Beretta. He’d had to leave it behind because of airport security. The gun had saved his life more than once. And now how was he supposed to protect this kid lawyer and the redheaded broad with nothing? He wondered why he was on the fucking plane at all. The kid gave him
acida
, and he couldn’t wait until the trial was over. Ceratto had better win big, he thought, because DiCicco expected to be paid big—or the kid might wind up in the Delaware River. A job he wouldn’t relish, since he was beginning to like the kid, even if he did get on his nerves.

Grace felt nauseous. Between the slow up-and-down movement of the plane on the air currents and Joey Shoes’s cologne, she felt an urge to throw up which she was desperately fighting. She breathed deeply and concentrated on the new life inside her. So far God had been good to her, rewarded her obedient practice of the Catholic faith she had been brought up in: mass every Sunday and on holy days of obligation, confession once a month and no meat on Fridays during Lent. Except if you’re pregnant, of course. She pulled a pack of saltines from her purse and slipped one into her mouth to calm her stomach.

The 757 touched down with a slight bounce. The reversed engines whirred loudly tugging back on the jet as it raced forward until it finally came to a halt. There was a brief silence and then the cacophony of seatbelts unlocking.

Shoes was the first out of his seat—terra firma. He would have kissed the ground, but he didn’t want to lose his cool. Looking and staying cool was everything in his business, with the exception of staying alive.

He waited for Nick and Grace to exit their seats, shadowing them dutifully as they made their way to ground transportation. In a few minutes they were in the back seat of a black Chrysler. Shoes sat in front, mumbling unintelligibly to the driver. The driver mumbled back with grunts and groans and a few gestures, a language obviously all their own. Shoes reached under the seat to retrieve the Beretta—his old friend, shipped especially for him by air express. He kissed it and tucked inside his jacket where it belonged. He vowed he would never leave it behind again. Fuck airport security. He’d find a way.

The driver sped along the palm lined drive to the freeway. The air was warm and friendly. The sun shone brilliantly. Flowers, trees, and grass whizzed by, all the things that were missing from Philadelphia in February.

The driver was efficient and professional. He said nothing as he drove straight to 487 Jesse Street, the number given to him by his boss, who had received it from DiCicco.

No one said a word.There was tension in the air.They each knew what they had to do. In exactly one and a half hours they had to be on a return flight to Philadelphia. Nick nervously checked his watch. The driver pulled up to the curb and looked over at a white, stucco, U-shaped garden apartment complex. A twelve-foot black iron gate stood at the entrance, obviously locked for security reasons.

“This is it,” he said as he put his flashers on. The rest was up to them.

Nick was the first out. “Wait here,” he said to Shoes. Grace followed behind him, carrying a brown leather briefcase.

They reached the iron gate together and scanned the numbers on the directory.

“Here it is.” Grace pointed to 327D. There were no names listed. “Shit, no names anywhere, not even on the mailboxes.”

“Let’s hope Jerry was right. Otherwise this trip was for nothing.” Nick pushed the buzzer and waited thirty seconds. Pushed it again. Sixty seconds, and nothing.

Grace was nervous. She paced and then tugged at the gate. “Shit.”

“Did you think it was unlocked?” Nick asked cockily.

“Don’t mock me. I just did the natural thing. I tried.” She shook the gate and leaned her face into it in despair. “Why didn’t we think of this?” she said despondently.

“We did.” Nick turned and motioned to the car. The front passenger door opened and Shoes immediately got out. Without a word, he reached into his pants pocket, took out a lock pick, and the gate swung open in a flash.

“Sometimes you have to use a little self-help,” Nick said, boldly leading the way to the elevator which would take them to the third floor.

“This is illegal,” Grace said. “You broke into this complex. You could be arrested—lose your license to practice.”

“I know. But as I said, sometimes you have to do what you have to do—skirt the law, if necessary, fuck the law, if necessary. Sometimes justice demands it.”

They were at the front door of 327D. Nick rang the doorbell, shifting from one foot to the other. Thirty seconds, sixty seconds— nothing. He knocked loudly. Nothing. He nodded to Shoes, who again practiced his craft.

Grace felt sick. She didn’t like this at all. She didn’t want to go to jail—not in her condition. She turned and started toward the elevator.

Nick quickly walked up behind her. “Come on, Grace, we came all this way. I thought you had balls.”

She turned. “I do. But I can’t do this—I’m not a burglar.”

“Look,” he took her by the shoulder, “we’re not stealing anything. We’re just going to wait inside for her and hope she’ll be back. We’ll apologize and then tell her that…that…” He stammered for a moment. “…that the gate was unlocked and…so was her front door.”

“She’ll never buy that.” She shook her head. “You’re being a stupid jerk.”

“Who gives a fuck if she does or doesn’t? Once we lay a subpoena on her and tell her that the law wants her back in Philadelphia, she’s really not likely to call the cops, is she?”

Grace’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Why did I ever get involved with this whole thing—with you?”

Nick put his arms around her and squeezed her tightly. “Because you love me, that’s why.”

Shoes was already inside, nosing around the neatly kept apartment. “This her?” he said as he sat down on the cream-colored leather sofa pointing to a photograph of two older people, a man and a woman flanking a young woman in a nurse’s cap holding a diploma. Nick checked it against the photo he carried in his inside jacket pocket—the one he had taken from the Riley file. It wasn’t Donna Price. It looked like her: blond, slim, petite features, dimples. But it clearly wasn’t her.

His heart sank to his shoes. “This isn’t Price,” he said, shaking his head and flopping into a chair. He put his head in his hands,
speaking to the floor, “I’m fucking nuts. You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”

But Grace was already into the hall of the apartment. “There’s two bedrooms here,” she called as she raced into one of the bedrooms, looking wildly for something that would tell them that they had struck gold. She found toss pillows, an unmade bed, panties and a bra on the floor, a few stuffed animals. and a photo of a man in hospital greens with a stethoscope hanging from his neck. He was with the same woman as the older people in the living room photo. Definitely not Donna Price. It was obvious that this girl was a slob, hopefully not an operating room nurse. Grace tore into the next bedroom. It was pristine, neat as a pin. Everything was in its place, dried roses in a flower arrangement on the dresser, the only decoration. And no pictures.
Shit, shit
, she thought. She opened and ransacked each dresser drawer. Nothing but neatly folded clothing; sweaters, underwear, stockings, every item neatly stacked and color coordinated. Obviously anal. She went to the small desk next to the bed and opened the drawers. Again neatly arranged pens, paper clips, stamps, blank writing paper. Grace looked at the calendar opened on the desk. There was her work schedule— Monday through Thursday: two a.m. to ten a.m. Grace checked her watch. It was 10:20. Whoever she was, she was due home about now.

“Nick,” she called. “Come here—hurry.”

Nick slowly walked into the room, his jacket open, his tie pulled down. His hair was tousled from rubbing his head. “This whole thing sucks. Let’s go—I don’t need her.”

“Nick, she’s going to be here in a few minutes. Look.” She pointed to the calendar on the desk. “Let’s wait, let’s…”

“What? You said you didn’t want any part of this, you’re not a criminal, and now you want to wait?”

“Yes.” She looked at him defiantly. “I do. I have a plan.”

“OK. Let’s hear it.”

“I’ll go down and wait by the gate. When she comes in—she’ll obviously have a nurse’s uniform on—I’ll call you on the cell
phone.” She copied the number from the bedside phone onto her hand. “I’ll let you know if it’s her before she gets on the elevator. If it’s not, you can leave before she gets to the door. If it is her, you can wait.” Grace looked wide-eyed at Nick, obviously proud of herself and waiting for his approval.

He shook his head, nixing the plan.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s perfect,” she protested. “Hurry, she’s going to be here in a few minutes. I know it. Nick!” she yelled. “Let’s do it. We came all this way. Took this chance.”

He rose from the bed, sighed, and quickly gave her a high five. “You’re right. We came all this way. I’m just pissed I didn’t think of it myself. Go on—get out of here.”

Grace was gone before he finished the sentence. As soon as she walked through the door, she looked at her watch and started timing. Down the elevator and to the front gate was exactly one minute and twenty seconds.

She waited inside the courtyard, looking through the ornate Spanish ironwork to the street outside. She could see the black Chrysler. The driver sat motionless, staring ahead as if he were a crash dummy. Grace, on the other hand, was in motion, pacing, leaning, tapping her foot, and then pounding the gate. Nothing she did brought Donna Price any sooner. She looked at her watch. It had only been fifteen minutes since she left the apartment. It seemed an eternity. She had to go to the bathroom. She crossed her legs tightly for a minute and her bladder obeyed—thank heavens she had a good bladder, even pregnant.

After another five exasperating minutes, her cell phone rang. It was Nick.

“Anything?” he asked in a tense tone.

“No, Nick, nothing yet. But I’m about to pee myself.”

“OK. We’re coming down. We can’t wait for her forever. We’ve got work to do.”

“Don’t—not yet. I’m coming up to go to the bathroom. Then if she doesn’t show up in a few more minutes, we’ll leave— OK?”

“You women with the bathroom. Does your whole life revolve around pissing and waiting to piss?” he said in an exasperated tone.

“Yes, a great deal of it. I don’t have an extra long urethra like you, you prick,” she retorted. She found Shoes standing on the third floor, hand in his coat pocket. This made Grace extremely nervous. “Can’t you wait inside?” she asked.