Justice Hunter (24 page)
“I
owe you,” Hunter said as Gates slowly released his jittery hand from the USB flash drive, his beady eyes exposing a strange combination of anxiety and excitement. Instinctually he knew just how dire the consequences could be if and when Mancini discovered such a brazen act of defiance. As fate would have it, during the course of the past six years or so, Mancini had made the grave error of replying to a handful of e-mails sent from an unidentified account, [email protected]. On the surface, these communications didn’t seem to amount to very much. The substance was bland, and the communiqués were personal in nature, just the sort of terse e-mail exchanges shared by close friends—a bit of sports talk here and there, women, local and national politics, coordinating the occasional meal or drink.
Yet it was the identity of the other user that converted these seemingly innocuous exchanges into evidence that Mancini was involved in something much greater and more sinister than himself. After calling in a favor from a friend out at Microsoft’s headquarters in Redmond, Washington, Gates discovered that the proud owner of the account was none other than Vito Armani. And although the moderately clever play on the word “pizza” in the address made perfect sense, Mancini’s connection to Armani and his utter failure to disclose it certainly did not.
Hunter quickly pocketed the device, reassuring Gates one final time before moving on to his next destination. He needed to recalibrate, discover the relevance of the link to the Vito’s case and quite possibly Russo’s murder as well.
What could Mancini possibly have to gain by taking a case that pits his firm against one of his friends? Was he constrained to do this because of his coveted contract with the city? Was that the real reason Mancini had decided to distance himself from the litigation? Was he merely creating the illusion of neutrality?
Jake’s Pawnshop was on the corner of Thirteenth and Bainbridge, one of those sections of the city in the throes of a gentrification identity crisis. The one-time drug- and gang-infested neighborhood was finally starting to transform at the hands of yet another wave of capitalistic developers. Ongoing construction was evident, as the speculators gutted dilapidated buildings and converted them into overpriced, luxurious condominiums. Condemned single-family brick town homes were nestled between quaint coffee houses and neighborhood restaurants.
Hunter was buzzed into the rundown store, passing through a metal grated door. There, behind a counter, looking very much out of place, was a Hasidic Jew who was dressed in the traditional garb, a tilted black brimmed hat with unruly side curls and an even unrulier beard. The man triggered a memory of Hunter’s childhood in West Ridge, Chicago, home to a large contingency of Hasidim.
“May I help you?” the man asked gently. Hunter detected the vestige of a Brooklyn accent.
Hunter scanned the narrow metal aisles warehousing the artifacts of all those in dire need of cash, even if it meant forsaking a coveted family heirloom or the tools of one’s trade. Pricey Rolex watches and gaudy gold jewelry vied for his attention. Outdated electronics were crowded into the corner, right next to a marching band’s array of instruments, including a line of obnoxiously customized Fender guitars. Inadequate fluorescent lighting ran down the center of the store, originating from behind the barricade-style counter, separating the shopkeeper and a greasy Plexiglas enclosure from patrons, housing a cache of weaponry under lock and key, including Chinese stars, nunchakus, switchblades—everything but pistols.
Hunter approached the counter, noticing state-of-the-art surveillance cameras overhead, following him like snake eyes. “I’m looking for a gun.”
The merchant didn’t flinch. He’d been down this road thousands of times before. Assuredly he had seen it all—’roid-raging psychopaths, drug dealers, straw purchasers. “We don’t have…” he replied hastily, leery of Hunter’s motives, likely suspecting he was undercover.
Nearly whispering, Hunter eliminated any doubt in the pawnbroker’s mind. “I’ll pay,” he said, flashing a wad of cash.
“Have anything special in mind?”
“Nothing too extravagant,” Hunter replied. Firing off a handful of rounds at Firing Line, a well-frequented spot on Front Street in South Philly, comprised the extent of Hunter’s gun-toting experience. A friend at the district attorney’s office who was assigned to the drug task force was a regular there. The ADA was there at least once a week with the cops he worked with, bonding over target practice and drug raids.
“I think I have something you might like,” he said nonchalantly with a Hasidic guttural edge to his voice. He disappeared into the back, coming out with a nickel-finished pistol with checkered walnut grips, doing a quick chamber check before handing it to Hunter. “This is a beauty. A Beretta 84FS. Perhaps a bit more firepower than you wish for but well worth the few extra dollars.”
“Thirty-eight?” asked Hunter, holding the gun.
“Precisely. It’s a thirty-eight auto caliber and probably one of the best handling guns for the money. Light recoil and report. Perfect accuracy, handling’s lightning-fast. The ultimate personal defense piece.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Condition’s still mint. The guy who brought it in here was a real gun enthusiast. Wife divorced him, and he had to unload a bunch of stuff fast.” He could tell the pitch wasn’t working. “For you, five hundred.”
“Deal.” Hunter counted out the cash, too edgy to negotiate.
“I’ll get you started on a couple rounds also,” he added generously, slightly euphoric with the quick and surely handsome profit.
“Fine,” he said apathetically.
“And remember what I say: this never happened.”
“Deal.”
L
ess than an hour later, Hunter, incognito, paced along Boathouse Row on Kelly Drive, sporting his Maui Jim sunglasses, by far his most expensive and arguably his only fashion accessory. A faded black Philadelphia Flyers cap covered most of his unkempt, wavy locks. The mid-afternoon sun beat down upon the concrete path. High school sculling teams took advantage of the unusually warm spring day, eager to get a leg up on the competition. Buff teens wearing lettered shorts and tank tops buzzed about. A few were already on the water vying for the attention of their prep school coaches, showing off their wares, the result of rigorous winter training regimens. Nine-to-fivers getting a jump start on the commute home blew by, accelerating their Toyotas and Hondas through the drive’s curves as if they were racing formula cars through the winding streets of Le Mans.
Dillon snuck up out of nowhere, covering Hunter’s eyes with his cheesy leather racing gloves. “Boo.”
“You’re late,” Hunter said, wrenching Dillon’s hands from his face. He wasn’t amused.
“You need to chill the fuck out,” replied Dillon, now standing next to Hunter, his button-down shirt untucked on one side, his three-button designer suit jacket draped over his shoulder.
“I told you I don’t have a lot of time.”
“That’s right. One of these,” he said, gesturing toward the athletes in the vicinity, “…prepsters might make you.”
“Hilarious, Dillon.”
“All right. I promise I’ll be good,” Dillon said, eyeing up a pair of blonde high schoolers standing in front of a Baldwin School van. Baldwin was an all-girls prep school on the Main Line, the Bel Air of the Philadelphia suburbs. They giggled flirtatiously. “You never told me there were gonna be hotties here, though. How can you expect me to concentrate? That’s not fair.”
“They’re babies,” said Hunter, disgusted.
“You know the rule,” Dillon added, flashing a cheesy smile in their direction. “If they’re old enough to drive Daddy’s Beamer, then they’re old enough to give a hummer.”
“You’re twisted. You really are.”
“And you’re just figuring that out now?”
“All right, Jerry Lewis.” Hunter shook his head in disbelief. “Anyway, we should probably walk.”
Hunter proceeded to fill Dillon in on the drama of the past couple days, which included his interview by Detective Risotto, Mancini’s random appearance in Sheila’s chambers, and his bizarre trip to Atlantic City. Dillon was convinced Mancini was connected and directly involved in Russo’s death. As for Sheila and Stephanie Diaz, he was skeptical of them both but “still wanted to bang them.”
“There’s no way Sheila’s involved,” Hunter said adamantly.
“Look, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but let’s face it, homey. Your existence has gotten pretty fucked up since you’ve been seeing her.” Dillon paused. “It’s probably time to stop thinking with that little head of yours. Strike that.
Very
little head of yours.”
“That’s pretty amusing. And talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Hey, I’m not the one with the Mafia breathing down my neck.”
“Too busy cheating on that selfless wife of yours. You know who I’m referring to, right? The one going through infertility issues, and apparently alone.”
“Low blow.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“I guess I need to be more like you,” Dillon said derisively. “Grow up and find myself an exceedingly mature partner.” Of course, Dillon was referring to the age difference between Hunter and the judge.
“Do what you need to do, Dillon. Just try to be a little less obvious about it.”
“Thanks, Dad. And you should know it’s your ex who’s been corrupting me. You sure know how to pick ’em. That girl is an outright freak. Makes me look like a saint. I can’t even imagine what the hot judge can do. She lets you have threesomes, right? Her and one of her hot girlfriends from Society Hill? Another MILF?”
“Can we focus, for God’s sake? You’re unbelievable.”
“Hey, you brought it up.”
“Brought what up?”
“Doesn’t matter. Whatever. So where were we? You were trying to convince yourself your girlfriend has entirely clean hands.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” said Hunter as he considered the possibility that Sheila was setting him up. “And believe me, I’ve thought about it. What’s the upside? There is none for her.”
Dillon grinned devilishly. “There’s always an upside, man.” Dillon paused. “Then again, you obviously know her a lot better than I do,” added Dillon, the clear implication being that Hunter really didn’t. “I don’t have to share my theory, do I? As P. Diddy says, ‘It’s all about the Benjamins, baby.’”
“I knew it. It was only a matter of time before your famous stripper theory emerged.”
“Okay. You caught me red-handed.” For Dillon, fidelity was a farce and relationships were meant to be about deception and betrayal. And like all cheaters, he was on a life mission to turn everybody else.
Anything to justify his own indiscretions
.
“Sheila’s way past that. In fact, you and I both know she gave up a boatload of coin when she left Kruger and decided to run for judge.”
“Yeah. And maybe she’s experiencing a serious case of buyer’s remorse. Can’t afford Prada and Chanel on a judge’s salary. That’s for damn sure.”
“No way. Never.”
“All right. If you don’t like that one, forget that then,” said Dillon, moving on to the next theory. Despite his abrasive and somewhat offensive style, it was obvious that Hunter’s plight mattered to him. “Here’s another one. What if Mancini’s got something on her? Everybody’s got skeletons in the closet. And Mancini threatened to go public if she didn’t participate?”
“Like what? Us?” questioned Hunter, referring to his relationship with Sheila.
“Yeah. Didn’t you start seeing her when you had that case in front of her? The one with that egomaniacal car dealer? A man after my own heart.”
“The case was practically over, though.”
“That’s what I thought. But you were definitely hittin’ that before she ruled, right?”
“Yes,” admitted Hunter.
“Which is a complete and utter no-no.”
“I guess.”
“You guess? If Mancini found out about you two, there’s no way he didn’t look into that.” Dillon paused. “Can you say career-ending ethics violation for both of you?” asked Dillon rhetorically. “And don’t forget you decimated that piece of shit.”
“He deserved it. And one had nothing to do with the other,” replied Hunter defensively.
“I believe you, man. But that still looks fucked up as shit, and you know it.”
“I guess. But how the hell could he have found out?”
“The dude’s practically omniscient.”
“She would’ve told me,” he insisted.
Would she have?
“Yeah, right. Just like she told you about her and Mancini, right?” It was painfully true. Dillon was right. It wasn’t until months after they had been seeing each other, only a couple days ago, that she even came clean about him. “And I’m not saying she’s doesn’t care. She very well may. But for whatever reason, she didn’t mention it. Maybe she just didn’t want to freak you out. Or she thought she could handle it on her own. But Mancini, still bitter about her dumping him on his ass, just couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. Couldn’t leave it alone. And suddenly things escalated to the point of being totally out of hand.”
“And you think this is related to Russo, too?”
“I do. I really do. You yourself admitted he was trying to go public with you and Sheila.”
“So she conspired to knock off Russo to shut him up? No way. Come on, Dillon. That’s virtually career suicide.”
“Suicide implies you’ve got a choice,” observed Dillon. “For all we know, Mancini’s just lending a helping hand to an old friend in need.”
Sheila mentioned how much work Russo used to give the firm.
“From what I’ve gathered, Mancini probably doesn’t regard himself as much of a friend these days.”
“Why? Clue me in. Is she saying she’s the one who broke it off?” he asked dubiously, wrinkling his swarthy brow.
“Yeah. You don’t see it?”
“Are you kidding me? Mancini’s a player, and rumor has it he always has been. From way back in the day. She knew exactly what she was getting when she decided to bed the guy in the first place. You know she loved every second of it, finally having the chance to let loose after all those painfully boring years with that anal-retentive dentist she used to be married to. Chances were good there wasn’t a whole lot of drilling going on. No pun intended.”
“Hilarious,” said Hunter, shaking his head, never entirely surprised by the depths of his friend’s immorality.
“Everything about that guy, the P-H-phat penthouse, blinged-out Bentley, custom-made suits. Come on. He’s a gigolo, a walking billboard for the senselessness of monogamy.
“We can be brutally honest with each other,” continued Dillon, “right? We’ve always had that kind of a friendship. Agreed?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, the truth is that he used and abused her. Then he kicked her to the curb before she even knew what hit her. I know you want to believe she’s different from the others, and I don’t blame you. But you and I both know that’s how it went down.”
It took everything Hunter had to stop himself from clocking the sexist mug of his friend. Dillon had clearly crossed the line. And it was as if he were trying to twist the knife. For a split second, Hunter suspected that jealousy might be the impetus. “I still don’t buy it. According to her, he cheated and then lied about it. And that’s when she broke it off.”
“If that’s what you need to believe, go right ahead,” replied Dillon, noticeably frustrated. “But you asked me here for a reason.” Dillon’s eyes bore into Hunter’s. “Right?”
“Okay,” conceded Hunter. The reality was that Dillon was one of the only people Hunter could confide in.
“I don’t trust her, man.” Dillon paused. “I mean, did she even download you on what this detective asked her? For all you know she could’ve been setting you up big time.”
Hunter contemplated the question. “How so?”
“Dude, you need to confront her about that shit. I think she’s playing you. We don’t know whether that so-called interview ever even took place, do we?”
“That’s not exactly the kind of thing somebody makes up. No. Listen, I know what I saw, and I’d never seen her that rattled before. She’s panicked.” For the first time, Dillon seemed to acknowledge the very distinct possibility that Hunter’s instincts were right.
“Plus, it makes sense,” added Hunter. “Think about it. If I were that detective, I’d want to take a closer look at her. Dig a little into the rivalry with Russo. Rule out motive.” Hunter paused. “But he’ll quickly realize what I already know. Disdain doesn’t necessarily equate to murder. She’s not capable of something like that. No way,” he said, shaking his head with utter conviction.
“I guess you’re right,” conceded Dillon, casually picking his nose, making it look as cool as picking can look. “Anyway, are these goons still tailing you?”
“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure they are.”
“And you’re convinced these are the same guys who took out Andy.”
“It’s gotta be. The timing’s too coincidental.”
“Get a good look at any of them?”
“Just one.”
“And what makes you so sure they’re really wise guys and not just two-bit hacks trying to rattle your cage a little?”
“Well, for starters, the guy who’s been tailing me is basically a senior citizen who dresses like Vanilla Ice. Gold chain, velour sweat suit, wife beater, perfectly coiffed eighties hair, two-toned with the sides combed back like eagle wings.”
“You’re shitting me?” asked Dillon, slightly amused.
“I’m dead serious.”
“Sounds like Paulie Walnuts from
The Sopranos
.”
“That sort of thing,” concurred Hunter with a nod. “More than that, though, because anybody can put on a costume. This guy and his associates are brazen. It’s as if they don’t have a care in the world about getting caught—a blatant disregard for any sense of law and order.”
“That cinches it then. They’ve gotta be wise guys.” Dillon paused, making the realization that he, too, might be vulnerable for the very first time. “Shit. I better start paying attention. You think I’m on the list, too?”
“No idea. But there’s definitely a chance. It would make sense. The case against Vito is still out there. Plus, it would logically follow from what’s happened so far with both Andy and Stephanie.”
“Fuck,” he replied in frustration. “But if something was gonna happen, wouldn’t it have happened already?”
“Not necessarily,” Hunter warned. Dillon’s cavalier attitude was starting to give way to the sobering realization that he was part of this thing too, merely by virtue of his friendship with Hunter if nothing else.
“And you haven’t gone to the cops with any of this? The DA?”
“No,” said Hunter, shaking his head. Corruption and witness tampering were the first two things that came to mind.