Damaged (37 page)

Our investigation revealed that Patrick O'Brien was also named as a defendant in a Common Pleas Court action filed last week by Steven Robertson, a former teacher's aide at the elementary school, alleging that O'Brien attacked Robertson with a scissors. Robertson seeks $500,000 in damages against Patrick O'Brien, the deceased Edward O'Brien, and the School District of Philadelphia. The district declined comment except to say that the youngster has been suspended pending investigation …

“John, I cannot believe Machiavelli would do this! He's chewing this kid up, and for what? For what? I want to kill that guy!” Mary felt her temper rising, and all of the pain, frustration, and disappointment of losing the hearing rolled into a solid ball of fury, rising in her chest.

“Don't let him get to you.”

“He wants me to settle the case with Robertson. This is extortion.”

“Maybe you should think about settlement, purely for Patrick's sake. I know you hate the idea of settlement, but things are happening fast and you have to be flexible.” John met her gaze directly, his blue eyes full of concern. “Can you imagine putting Patrick through a deposition, while you don't have him in your custody? How will you mitigate its effects?”

“Oh God.” Mary fumed. “I won't settle. Edward didn't want to settle.”

“Edward didn't foresee any of this. You told me the estate has money. Does it have enough to meet a demand? How much do they want?”

“The estate is $350,000 and Machiavelli wants most of it. It's supposed to be Patrick's college fund.”

“Negotiate with Machiavelli. Patrick's not going to college if we can't help him now.”

“I'm not settling.” Mary noticed her mother and father looking over, worried that something was wrong. “Just tell me what we can do about this news story? Anything?”

“Honestly, nothing.” John pursed his lips.

“There has to be something.” Mary wracked her brain. “We could ask for a retraction, but it's not false. We could raise hell with the police, but they didn't comment. Same with the elementary school. Dammit!”

“Mary, they're waiting.” John gestured at her parents. “Go home. You need to rest and recoup. You've been working twenty-four/seven, and the strain is getting to you. It was a bad day, and it needs to end.”

“I can't let this go.” Mary felt like she was going to explode.

“Please, do. Sleep on it. He just wants to jerk your chain.”

“Then he's going to find out he's got a tiger by the tail. John, thanks so much for all of your help, but I have to go.” Mary clapped his shoulder, then headed for her parents.

“Don't do it!” John called after her, but Mary was already kissing her mother and father good-bye.

“Ma, Pop, I have to go. I'm really sorry, but I can't come to dinner. I'll talk to you later, okay?”

“No,
Maria,
come 'ome.” Her mother frowned, worried.

“MARY, COME HOME AND HAVE A NICE MEAL.”

“No, thanks, I gotta go, Pop. Thanks for coming! Bye, everybody!” Mary waved good-bye to her parents and The Tonys, hustled across the marble lobby, and through the exit doors. She hurried out of the courthouse, pulling out her phone and pressing in Machiavelli's number on the fly. She was tired of playing games, of nasty texts and FaceTime calls. It was time for a face-to-face confrontation.

The sidewalk was crowded and traffic was congested on Arch Street but there was a Yellow Cab only a block away. Phone to her ear, she hurried toward it, flagging it down.

“The Machiavelli Organization,” answered the receptionist.

“Is he in?” Mary asked, hustling for the cab.

“Yes. Whom may I say is—”

Mary hung up the phone, reached the cab, and hopped inside, giving the driver the address. “And hurry,” she said, boiling mad.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Mary pulled up in the cab in front of Machiavelli's office, which was housed in a colonial mansion, with a bronze plaque signifying its listing on the National Register of Historic Places. His was the largest of the massive townhouses interspersed with the apartment buildings lining Rittenhouse Square, relics of a grander time, but it was still the ritziest address possible. Machiavelli owned the whole building, which must have cost millions to restore, since it was four stories of repointed red brick, layers of black-shuttered mullioned windows. Authentic gaslights flickered beside the double doors of black lacquer. But Mary wasn't interested in real estate porn today.

She glanced up at the mansion from the cab window, noticing that the second floor boasted a five-panel bay window that had a perfect view of the Square, so she knew that was Machiavelli's office. He would have chosen the God's eye view, but he was really the devil himself. “Keep the change,” Mary said to the driver, handing him a twenty, climbing out of the cab, hurrying to the entrance, and blowing through the black-lacquered door.

“Hello?” A pretty blonde receptionist looked up, startled from an ornate reception desk. There was no one in the waiting area, and behind her desk was a grand carpeted staircase with a curved banister that wound around to the second floor. The walls were paneled walnut and wafer-thin Oriental rugs covered the floors, and Mary wasn't about to be delayed, much less denied.

“I'm Mary DiNunzio, here to see Machiavelli,” Mary told the receptionist, but she didn't break stride, beelining for the staircase.

“Wait, Ms. DiNunzio? Ms. DiNunzio?”

Mary ignored her and hurried up to the second floor, where there were more Oriental rugs and walnut-paneled walls, but at the north side of the mansion, a flood of indirect light shone through a divider made of mullioned glass panels, revealing another reception area and another ornate desk staffed by another pretty brunette, who was just hanging up the phone, undoubtedly having been called by the downstairs blonde.

“I'm Mary DiNunzio, and I'm here to see Machiavelli.”

“Ms. DiNunzio, he's in a meeting.”

“I know. He's meeting with me.” Mary headed for the heavy walnut door on the right and burst through to find Machiavelli grinning ear-to-ear, sitting at his ornate desk against the multi-paned window, his dark hair slicked back, his European-fit white shirt impeccable with a print silk tie, gray wool slacks perfectly unwrinkled, and Gucci loafers propped up on the desk, one crossed over the other.

“Mary, do you have any idea how predictable you are?” Machiavelli chuckled. “It's uncanny. I could have set my watch to you coming here.”

“What the
hell
are you doing?” Mary stormed to the front of his desk, barely able to suppress her anger. “Do you know that you're destroying a child? Isn't there any part of you that understands that you are sacrificing a child for your own interests?”

Machiavelli shrugged. “I have no idea what you're talking about. I really don't. You're so emotional lately. It must be because of your wedding. Having doubts?”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about. You paid Harris to go to that shelter care hearing and testify against Patrick. You leaked the story to the newspaper. You're killing this child and you
know
he's not dangerous.”

“Again, no clue what you're talking about.” Machiavelli's grin never left his face, and he folded his arms. “But rant on, please do. I like that you came over. You've never been here before. It's nice, isn't it? Would you like a drink? A Scotch? Day is done, is it not?”

Mary ignored him. “You know that Patrick's not dangerous and you're willing to chew him up, for what? For money? Look around you!” She threw up her hands, looking around. “You have everything! This building, real Oriental rugs, nice art.” She did a double-take at a watercolor of an austere fieldstone farmhouse, the style of which was unmistakable. “Is that a Wyeth? You even have an original Wyeth? What more can you want? What more can you buy? What's the difference to you, if you settle this case? If I settle the case, I practically bankrupt the child!”

“Keep talking. Get it out of your system. You'll feel better, I promise.” Machiavelli cocked his head, plainly amused, and it struck Mary suddenly that he was enjoying every minute of her pain, almost sadistically so, which brought her up short.

“Who
did
this to you? Who turned you into such a monster?” Mary heard herself saying, her heart speaking for her. “I wish I knew your family, but I never met them. They should be ashamed of themselves, they did
such
a number on you. If you didn't cause so much harm, I'd feel sorry for you. You're killing this kid and you're enjoying it. Is that what gives you pleasure? Someone else's pain?”

“Oh come on, Mary.” Machiavelli seemed to falter, his smile fading. “This is over-the-top, don't you think? You come here full of righteous indignation, blaming me for losing the shelter care hearing. Why don't you blame that brat? Why don't you wonder why Dennis the Menace murdered his beloved grandfather?”

“He didn't murder him! If he injected him, he didn't know it would kill him! He didn't do it on purpose and you know it!”

“No, I don't know it, and neither do you.” Machiavelli's dark eyes flashed, and he swung his feet off the desk. “Whether I called Harris or not, you'll never be able to prove it. Whether I paid Harris or not, you'll never be able to prove it. Whether I messengered Harris a copy of the Complaint, or leaked the story to the newspapers, well, you get the idea. Your loss today makes Robertson's case stronger, and I love it!” Machiavelli met her eye, dead-on. “But I'll tell you one thing that I did
not
do. I did
not
inject that old man with a fatal dose of insulin. That's what the Duke of Puke did, and that's why you lost the hearing today. And that's why you'll never get him out of DHS custody. Because it's where he belongs. And he can rot there, for all I care.”

“But that's the thing!” Mary shot back, agonized. “You say you don't care but you
do
! You care enough to ruin him! You care enough to make his life miserable! To make
my
life miserable!”

“Ah, now we're getting somewhere.” Machiavelli nodded, smiling tightly. “That's why I care, that's
exactly
why I care.”

“Why?” Mary demanded, nonplussed.

“Because you do. Because you care. Because of you.” Machiavelli's dark eyes glittered. “You're absolutely right. You always were a smart girl. Number one in her class at Goretti. I used to see you at the dances. Nobody ever asked you to dance. But you got the last laugh, didn't you? Neighborhood Girl Who Made Good. The Sweetheart of South Philly.”

“What's that supposed to mean? At least I don't call
myself
that. You call
yourself
the Dark Prince of South Philly, for God's sake.”

“Oh, lighten up. That's just for fun. Did you see my Boxster? I got DRKPRNC. How great is that?” Machiavelli stood up, waving his hands with a flourish at his luxurious office. “And you're absolutely right, I have everything. I own this building, I own a lot of real estate in town and two homes. I make more money than I know what to do with. Every year I'm rated one of the top lawyers in Philadelphia and one of the top trial lawyers in the American Bar Association
and
the Trial Lawyers Association. Everything I want, I can have. All I have to do is snap my fingers.” Machiavelli snapped his fingers.

“We get it.”

“So it's in my nature to want what I can't have. It's in my blood. I can't help myself.” Machiavelli walked around the side of the desk, slowly. “You want me to let this kid go, don't you?”

“Yes,” Mary answered, edging backwards.

“You want me to settle with you? Aren't you gonna negotiate with me?” Machiavelli took a step toward her, and Mary found herself taking a step backwards. She didn't like the change that had come over Machiavelli's expression. His cocky smile had morphed into an ugly twist of his lips, like a wolf baring his teeth.

“All right, we'll settle it. Twenty-five grand.”

“A hundred and fifty grand.”

“Fifty grand.”

“No, I changed my mind. I'm not negotiating anymore. That's not what I want anymore. Truth be told, it's not what I wanted, ever.” Machiavelli kept walking toward Mary, and she edged backwards toward the bookcase, feeling a tingle of fear.

“Nick, if you're trying to scare me, it won't work.”

“Scaring you is not my intent, my dear,” Machiavelli answered, and suddenly he lunged at Mary, kissing her hard on the mouth, wrapping his arms around her, and grinding his hips against hers.

“No!” Mary shouted, yanking herself free. She stumbled backwards, falling against the bookcase, but Machiavelli kept coming, grabbing her shoulders, kissing her harder and trying to push her down to the floor. Mary felt a bolt of terror. Reflexively she smacked his face with all of her might, knocking him off-balance and sending him sprawling to the floor. Her engagement ring must have nicked his mouth because his lip sprouted blood.

“That's it!” Machiavelli shouted from the ground, his hand holding the bloody cut.

“You're insane!” Mary said, running for the door.

“I'll never let that brat go! Never!”

 

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Mary flew from Machiavelli's office and past the upstairs reception desk, now empty. She assumed the receptionist had fled to maintain deniability but she didn't stop to look for her. Mary felt shaken to the core, her knees weak as she hurried downstairs, running her fingers along the wooden banister to keep her balance.

Everything I want, I can have.

Her heart was still thundering when she reached the bottom of the staircase, noticing that the reception desk was empty there, too. She wondered fleetingly if she was the first woman to have been attacked in Machiavelli's office, but instinct told her no. She considered calling 911 and busting his ass, but that would only make things worse for Patrick.