Justice Hunter (28 page)
“So you drafted it?”
“If you mean was I the one who literally typed it up? Of course not,” he said, scoffing at the notion that a powerful man such as himself would be reduced to administrative tasks.
“I meant put the suit together. Determine whether there was enough there to proceed.”
“Yeah.”
“And the same for the amended complaint? The one adding Ruben Hayek, presumably with his consent?”
“Absolutely,” he replied, instinctually shifting away his lying eyes.
Bullshit.
“We’re not buying it,” said Hunter, shaking his head regrettably. Wilson was fresh out of chances. Hunter signaled to Stephanie, and they both rose. “Just tell us who you’re covering for.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re delusional, Mr. Gray?” The commissioner’s smile was a cross between admiration and derision.
“Of course, Mr. Wilson,” said Hunter with a fiendish grin.
Right back at you.
“Just delusional enough to suspect you’re covering up for some pretty influential players.”
“Covering up?” he asked, galled. “I take serious offense at the implication.”
“I’ll try to remember that when I’m handing over the evidence to the district attorney’s office, Mr. Wilson.”
Hunter and Stephanie started for the door.
“Wait,” insisted Wilson. “Hold on a minute.”
Neither slowed, though. “See you tomorrow, Commissioner,” said Hunter, indolently. “You can explain everything then.” And then the door clicked shut.
H
unter and Stephanie descended the single flight of white marble steps outside The Curtis Center into what could only be described as anticlimax hell. For all the zeal and unchecked idealism, they barely had anything to show for it. Naturally that was putting aside instinct and a smattering of flimsy evidence. And that included Gates’s e-mail discovery, which had already lost its luster in light of seemingly innocuous and easily justifiable communications. The claim that somebody had hacked into their respective accounts was entirely defensible in light of the rampant security issues associated with computing. If viruses could deploy malware to transform someone’s computer into a zombie with one careless click of the mouse, any theory of breach was salable. The bottom line was that Hunter’s last-ditch effort to acquire reliable evidence simply wasn’t working. The mayor and now the commissioner refused to budge. Instead, in what appeared to be a well-orchestrated conspiracy of silence, they were digging in their heels, ceding absolutely nothing. And the seeming hopelessness associated with Hunter’s quest for answers had become an albatross around his neck.
Hunter coughed as black plumes of public transportation exhaust and staggeringly high humidity levels momentarily restricted his breathing, mimicking the symptoms of a massive panic attack. Neither said a word as they retreated back up Walnut Street, defeated and painfully aware that they were quickly running out of options. The prospect of an all-nighter mocked the futility of their last full workday before trial. It was barely noon, and yet there was already a healthy smattering of executive types meandering in cliques, gossiping and snickering in between sips of lavish iced Starbucks concoctions and sodas from one of the dozen or so restaurants within a two-block radius.
Hunter instinctually glossed over his BlackBerry inbox, momentarily hypnotized by the seemingly infinite cascade of messages. He’d resigned himself earlier that morning to the fact that all 187 e-mails would have to wait until after the trial to get a reply. Of course, there was also the very real possibility that he could be liberated from the onerous task of responding at all, depending on whether he was still gainfully employed after tomorrow’s trial—or incarcerated for that matter. There was a text from Sheila, which elicited a pang of guilt in real time. Against his better judgment, he decided to block it out and instead reply to a text from Dillon, which had come through during the meeting with the commissioner. Dillon claimed to have valuable information and offered to meet, suggesting the Reading Terminal Market, presumably for the crowds and killer lunchtime offerings. It was Philly’s premier indoor farmer’s market, located just a stone’s throw from the Convention Center and Chinatown.
“I’ll meet you back at the office,” said Hunter abruptly, distracting Stephanie, who was walking and thumbing away on the keypad of her BlackBerry. “Why don’t you start assembling everything? Putting the trial exhibits in order.”
“Wait. Didn’t you want to hear about my interview with Ruben Hayek?”
“I did. I mean I do.” Hunter seemed scatterbrained.
“Then where are you off to?”
“Dillon thinks he’s got something that will help us. Something major.”
“Can I go with?”
“No point in both of us going.”
“Understood,” she replied, looking very team player. “I get it. You’re right.”
Hunter had already started off in the other direction.
“Hey. Where you gonna be? Just in case of an emergency.”
“Reading Terminal. Shouldn’t be long, though.”
“I’ll just stall if anyone asks,” she replied, in sync with Hunter’s rhythm.
“Perfect.”
Naturally, they both knew they were referring to Mancini, who was assuredly triangulating on Hunter’s whereabouts like a sonar missile rocketing through the stagnant Philadelphia air.
Dillon persuaded Hunter to grab lunch at what he claimed would be the least obvious of all locations in the Reading Terminal: the Beer Garden. Leave it to Dillon. Amid the densely packed gastronomical haven, where ascetically garbed Amish men packaged meats and poultry and the aroma of freshly baked Famous Fourth Street chocolate chip cookies wafted into the air, holding the senses of passersby hostage, there was a sparsely decorated German
biergarten
. Strings of randomly placed white Christmas lights radiated a warm glow seducing travelers in need of thirst quenching. Cheap outdoor patio furniture added a grungy festival flavor, signaling to patrons that the price was right and that the “phila” in philandering and Philadelphia was alive and well. Dillon was already two Hoegaardens in by the time Hunter took a stool next to him at the end of the bar.
Glassy eyed, Dillon slowly set down the plain-Jane pint glass. “Tell me this wasn’t genius.”
“You think you’re the only wino lawyer in town?”
“Hey. Watch your step, homey,” cautioned Dillon. “Now chill the fuck out and order something,” he said, flagging down the haggard, blonde, fortysomething bartender. “One of these for my friend. Thanks, sweetie.”
“Yuengling draft is fine,” corrected Hunter.
“Come on. Live a little already. When are you going to stop drinking that piss?”
“When and if I ever acquire your arrogant sensibility. And can’t forget about world-class charm and nobility. Speaking of piggish and lowly, how’s my ex-girlfriend treating you these days?”
“She’s in love. What can I say?” He paused, arching his brows suavely. “See what happens when a real man comes along?”
“I bet.”
“And how about you? Is that first year still putting you on?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” asked Hunter, taking his first sip.
“I just don’t know if I would trust her. That’s all.”
“She’s all right,” assured Hunter.
“Don’t be so sure.” Dillon gave a considerate pause before explaining. “This is not me saying this either. I checked her out, too. One of the reasons we needed to meet.”
“With who?” probed Hunter, frustrated more at the possibility he was being duped than anything else.
“A very reliable source. Let’s put it that way.”
“Who? That friend of yours over at the US attorney’s office?”
“No, no, no.”
“Who then?” Hunter questioned before taking a second guess. “That Inspector Clouseau guy?”
“It’s Corday, smart ass. And yes. That’s who. He’s the best. I’ve told you.”
Herbert Corday was a God-fearing, cerebral, and highly intelligent former cop and detective who was something of a legend in crime-solving and forensic circles. He was a modern-day sleuth who had graced a recent cover of
Philadelphia Magazine,
recognized in its smartest Philadelphian edition. Dillon had befriended Mr. Corday after striking up a conversation at a local watering hole on the other side of town.
Hunter’s stomach went taut—a fisherman’s knot of dread and anxiety. He took a generous sip of the lager, bracing himself.
“Hey,” said Dillon. “I thought you’d be psyched I did this.”
“It’s all right,” Hunter acknowledged without elaborating. Dillon left it alone, knowing Hunter well enough to know that eating crow didn’t rank too high in Hunter’s world.
“So anyway,” continued Dillon, putting his mangled, firm-issued BlackBerry on the bar counter, “and I hope you didn’t fall for this girl.” Dillon’s admonition was chockfull of innuendo, like that of a loving parent warning an experimenting child about the dangers of recreational drug use.
Hunter barely reacted, maintaining a poker face, on the off chance Dillon was merely speculating.
“Here’s Exhibit A, my friend.”
Dillon turned the cracked screen in Hunter’s direction, revealing a surveillance-style photograph of Mancini and Stephanie. Hunter’s instinct was to refute the shot’s significance. That was not feasible, though. The picture clearly showed Stephanie and Mancini exchanging a passionate kiss, both wearing baseball caps and sunglasses, doing their best to look incognito.
“When was this taken?”
“Three days ago.”
“And you’re positive about that?” Hunter pondered the significance of Stephanie’s involvement with Mancini. Was this just Mancini seducing a powerless associate with partnership aspirations? Perhaps there was a history here between them? How much could she possibly know about Mancini’s connection to Vito Armani?
“Yeah. A hundred percent. Sorry, man.”
“You don’t need to say that,” replied Hunter defensively, polishing off the beer and pointing subtly to the waitress, cuing her he wanted another. The waitress was at the other end of the bar, cozying up to a heavy-set teddy bear type, in his fifties, wearing a homemade jean jacket vest that revealed biker tattoos and fat-filled arms disguised as muscles.
“I know,” revealed Dillon, referring to Hunter and Stephanie’s fling. “I’ve got pictures of that too.”
Dillon’s claim caught Hunter off guard. “What? So now you’re keeping tabs on me too?”
“Just being thorough.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I was just looking out for you.”
“For me?”
“Yeah. Chillax.”
Hunter wavered against his better judgment.
“You’re really on edge, man.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” A reflective pause. “It was a one-time thing anyway,” Hunter clarified.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Dillon assured him, looking him squarely in the eye. The Man Code pronounced that one should never expose a friend as a cheater. Of course, Hunter knew inevitably he’d fess up to Sheila anyway. “Corday already destroyed them.”
“And what else?” Hunter asked, doing his best to keep his emotions at bay but knowing he had to avoid Stephanie like the plague.
I should’ve never let my guard down with her.
“On her?”
“Yeah. I’m assuming he did a background check.”
“He did,” replied Dillon. “And he didn’t find anything. Aside from her penchant for sleazeball egomaniacs, everything else about the girl is clean. Present company excluded, of course.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Dillon paused, shaking his head in disbelief. “I knew that chick couldn’t be trusted.”
“Looks like you were right for once,” conceded Hunter, slightly acerbic. Dillon seemed to be enjoying this too much. Knowing Dillon, he just loved to rub your nose in it. “What about Mancini?”
“Sure you’re ready for this? I guarantee this is gonna blow your fucking mind.”
“Would you spit it out already?” demanded Hunter.
“Okay, okay. Here’s the deal.”
