Irrefutable Evidence Page 7

  Well the Disciplinary Board would take a different view, Sasha thought. But she simply said, “I knew you two would understand. Thank you. I really do have to run, though—she’s in talking to the assistant U.S. attorney right now.”

  “Oh, okay sure. But, really quickly, we have news, too,” Tamsin said.

  Sasha thought she detected a smile in Tamsin’s voice. “Oh?”

  “Yes, the community micro-lender Will put us in touch with came through! We got a grant and a loan to get back up and running in a temporary space. We’ll be roasting again next week!”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “Thanks. We’re pretty stoked. Will said to tell you this is your Christmas present from him—he’s getting you unfettered access to our coffee. We’ll drop off a bag out of the first batch,” Pete promised.

  “You’re the best. I’ll see you next week then, right?”

  “Probably Christmas Eve. Will you be in the office that day?”

  “Oh, yeah. Don’t tell Connelly.”

  She hung up as their laughter pealed in her ear and raced back to Charlotte’s office. She breezed by the receptionist with a wave and returned to the inner office.

  Yim was nodding politely as Charlotte described the holiday light display at the Phipps Conservatory.

  “It’s stunning,” Sasha agreed as she rejoined them on the couch. “We stopped in one night last week. But I don’t think Ms. Yim plans to stick around to take in the sights.”

  “Actually,” Charlotte said, “I think she might want to consider it.”

  Yim threw Sasha a curious look. She shrugged. She had no idea what Charlotte was suggesting.

  “And why would she do that?” Sasha asked.

  “Before we get to that, may I assume your clients agreed to your continued participation in this discussion?” Charlotte asked.

  “You may.”

  “In that case, I’d like to make the following proposal: It’s Friday. So rather than returning to New Jersey this afternoon, Ms. Yim can stay here this weekend and enjoy the city’s seasonal offerings on the Department’s dime. She’ll give me a full statement and I’ll provide her with a temporary security detail while we get the logistics worked out to cover her when she returns to her job in Jersey City on Monday. We’ll have all the pieces in place to protect her going forward.”

  Sasha caught Yim’s eye and held her gaze for a long moment. “It’s your call, Laura.”

  Yim chewed on her lower lip for a few long seconds, peeling off a bit a dry skin with her front teeth. Then she nodded stiffly. “Okay. Sure. I didn’t have any weekend plans.”

  “Fantastic. I can get you a ticket to “The Nutcracker” at the Benedum Center this evening, if you’re interested. I’m on the board of the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre,” Charlotte said with a broad smile.

  Yim seemed excited by the prospect.

  Before she could reply, Sasha jumped in to keep the conversation focused on Yim’s proffer of evidence rather than the Sugar Plum Fairy. “Great. Let’s get this papered and let Ms. Yim tell you her story,” she said firmly.

  “Certainly,” Charlotte agreed, all business again.

  “Walk her through it, Laura,” Sasha prompted.

  Yim wet her lips and took moment to gather her thoughts. Then she launched into the story. She led them through it methodically, almost scientifically, connecting every dot, drawing every logical inference, and refuting the notion that the high rate of approved fire claims could be a coincidence. She spoke for a long time, nearly twenty minutes, without interruption.

  Charlotte started out scribbling furious notes. About three minutes in, she put down her pen and just listened. When Yim finished and leaned back in her chair, Charlotte reached for her pearl necklace and twisted it absently. “Wow. Okay.” She glanced at Sasha. “This is a pretty big deal.”

  “Right.” Sasha agreed.

  “A really big deal,” Charlotte corrected herself.

  Sasha recognized the gleam in her old classmate’s eye. It was the look of an attorney looking at a juicy case. Connelly had once said it bore a frightening resemblance to a caged tiger eyeing a raw steak.

  “Are we done?” Yim asked, her voice hoarse. “I’d like to check back into my hotel if the room’s still available and call my parents.”

  “No,” Sasha and Charlotte said in unison.

  Yim looked up, wide-eyed, at the sharpness in their voices.

  “You first,” Sasha said to the prosecutor.

  “Please don’t contact anyone back home. I know it’ll be tough, but it’s really safer if you don’t,” Charlotte said, her voice gentle as velvet but serious.

  “And on the same note,” Sasha added, “Find a different hotel. Don’t go back to wherever you stayed last night.”

  “But—“

  “Mid-Atlantic’s travel department booked your room, right?” Sasha asked.

  “Yes?” Yim still wasn’t connecting the dots.

  “Laura, we don’t know how far this goes at your office, how many people might be implicated. You need to disappear from the face of the earth for a few days.”

  Yim blanched. Sasha looked at Charlotte as if to say ‘you’re the organized crime guru, handle this.’

  Charlotte smiled broadly. “Sasha, why don’t you go ahead and get on with your day? My office will take it from here—we’ll find Ms. Yim accommodations and get her an excellent seat at tonight’s performance.”

  “Are you okay with me leaving?” Sasha asked Yim.

  “Yes?” Yim said in a voice that sounded anything but sure.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Charlotte said. She stood and piloted Sasha to the door.

  They walked through the reception area and out into the deserted hall. Charlotte pressed the elevator call button.

  “Oh, I’ll take the stairs,” Sasha told her.

  “Old habits die hard, huh?”

  “Something like that. Take care of her, Charlotte. She’s starting to realize how much danger she’s in.”

  Charlotte fixed her clear blue eyes on Sasha’s face and said grimly, “My goal is to make sure she never has an inkling just how much danger she’s in. It’s a lot. Much more than either of you can imagine.”

  There wasn’t much to say in response to that, so Sasha just nodded and headed for the stairwell.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Charlotte maintained her composure through force of will long enough to send Sasha on her way and get her new star witness safely ensconced in a boutique hotel in East Liberty with a “Nutcracker” ticket in hand and an FBI agent as a shadow. Only then did she allow herself to indulge in the massive wave of fear, excitement, and adrenaline that had begun to build inside her when Laura Yim started telling her story.

  She locked herself in her office, then crouched and opened the bottom drawer of the antique secretary she’d purchased with her own funds to supplement the standard-issue filing cabinets lining her walls. She removed the bottle of twenty-three-year old reserve bourbon and the heavy, crystal glass she kept there in case of emergencies and celebrations and walked across the office to her private bathroom, where she retrieved from her mini-fridge the frozen stones she used in lieu of ice.

  “Is this a celebration or an emergency?” she asked herself aloud. She caught her own eye in the mirror and answered herself. “Both.”

  She dropped the stones in the glass and then uncapped the bourbon and inhaled its leathery, caramel scent. She poured two fingers over the stones and contemplated the amber liquid before raising the glass to her lips. She closed her eyes as the spicy heat of the drink made its way down her throat. The warmth spread through her body, and she sat perfectly still, planning her next actions.

  The break that Laura Yim just dropped in her lap could make her a star—director, senator, congressperson, federal appeals judge, every highly coveted, powerful position filled by a suit with a law degree would be within her grasp. So long as she didn’t make any missteps. And the potential for making
a career-ending mistake was considerable. Yim had to stay alive. She had to testify. Charlotte had to get an indictment and a conviction. Anything less would be disastrous.

  She took a long, centering breath and then rinsed the glass and turned it upside down on the sink to dry. Then, having sufficiently fortified herself, she returned the bourbon to the drawer and picked up the telephone to call Agent Carlucci. She absentmindedly drew a loopy circle on her notepad while she waited for him to answer.

  “What?” he snarled the word.

  She dropped the pen. “We need to talk,” she said sharply, She understood better than anyone that Nino was under intense pressure, but he’d become increasingly nasty. Time to remind him who was boss. “And if you don’t get a grip on your attitude, I’m going to recommend that we pull you.”

  “What? Don’t do that. I’m … I apologize for my tone.”

  It sounded as though he’d managed the apology through gritted teeth, but she said, “Apology accepted. Now, is it safe for you to talk?”

  “It’s never safe for me to talk to you.”

  “Unfortunately for you, Agent Carlucci, never talking to me isn’t an option. Is this a good time or isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Go ahead.” His voice changed, from gruff and combative to defeated.

  She picked up the pen and rolled it along the desk. Agent Carlucci was becoming a concern. She didn’t want to have to make good on her threat to pull him from the undercover assignment. It had taken him months to get close to Dominic “Peaches” Riggo, the underboss of the powerful Manetto crime family. Now Peaches trusted Carlucci and had chosen him as his primary driver. Yanking Carlucci would mean losing access to Riggo at least temporarily, but more likely, for good. She got the feeling that Carlucci knew just how important he was to the task force and had decided to milk his position for all it was worth. Like it or not, she was going to have to put up with his insubordination and rudeness if she wanted to realize her dream of bringing down the Manetto family.

  Yim’s testimony, however, was going to make that dream a reality. And Charlotte Cashion’s first order of business after she celebrated the guilty verdicts with a bigger glass of bourbon would be to fire Nino Carlucci.

  She took a moment to savor that fantasy before returning to the reason for her call. “Good. Listen. I have a witness who can tie Riggo and the Manettos to at least a dozen fires.”

  “Fires?”

  “Yes. Apparently, the Manettos are running an arson-for-profit ring.”

  He coughed violently. “Are you sure?” Another loud cough.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Are you okay?”

  “Dust in my throat. I’ll live. Who are the players?” He sounded jazzed up now, probably imagining himself covered in glory after Riggo’s arrest.

  “Locally, it’s Frankie Abruzzi and a fire inspector named Herschman.”

  “Herschman? That sounds Jewish.”

  She shrugged as if Carlucci could see her. “Maybe his mother’s Italian. Maybe he’s just an enterprising gentleman. It doesn’t matter. There are two more persons of interest in New Jersey. But Abruzzi’s part of Peaches’ crew, so I’m sure the Manettos are running the show.”

  The Manetto family wouldn’t take orders from a New Jersey family. They were too strong. Charlotte was certain Moraine and DiPanni, the two Mid-Atlantic employees who were involved, were either Manetto plants or freelancers. She was about to explain her thinking to Carlucci but he had already moved on.

  “Is your witness dirty?”

  It was a valid question. So many of their cases were built on the shaky foundation of statements made by career criminals, who were not, as a group, particularly wedded to truth-telling.

  “Squeaky clean.”

  Carlucci huffed. It sounded approving. “I trust you stashed him someplace safe?”

  “Her. And, yes. I put her up in that new hotel in Bakery Square for now.”

  “Where’d she come from?”

  “A lawyer brought her in.”

  “A lawyer? I thought you said she was clean.”

  “She is. It wasn’t a bid for immunity. The lawyer doesn’t even represent her. She—Sasha McCandless—the lawyer deposed her in an insurance coverage case today. The witness had pieced together her employer’s role in the scheme and hung around afterward to talk to McCandless.”

  “And this McCandless chick, she’s a civil attorney? Why’d she want to get mixed up in something like this?” Carlucci asked. Disbelief oozed through the phone.

  Charlotte bristled at characterization of her accomplished classmate as a chick, but focused on the question. “I’ve know her for a long time. One thing I can say about Sasha is she doesn’t shy away from danger. She makes it a point to see that justice is done, even if it comes at personal cost to her.”

  “She does, huh? I thought you said she was a lawyer?” Carlucci guffawed at his own joke.

  “Can the comedy routine, agent. I want you to proceed with maximum caution and keep a close eye on Peaches. If the Manettos get wind of this—my witness is dead. And you’re probably in danger, too. Stay alert. Contact me immediately if it appears the family knows about the witness. I’m going to try to get in front of a grand jury early next week.”

  “That soon?”

  “Yes. I want these pigs to spend their Christmases in jail. No Feast of the Seven Fishes for them—unless sardines and canned tuna count.” Her voice was cold and firm.

  Carlucci laughed. “Understood. Hey, you have someone good covering your witness, I hope?”

  She smiled. “I’d say the best, but you’re otherwise occupied. So I settled for second best.”

  “Jamie?”

  “Of course. With you out of commission, the logical choice was your old partner. Agent Brenner’s in charge of the security detail and, you know him, he took the first shift for himself—mainly to make our witness comfortable.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yes, so the point, Agent Carlucci, is you don’t need to worry about the witness’s safety. Focus on your own.”

  “I always do, counselor.”

  “Well do it with particular care going forward, okay?” If Carlucci got himself killed, it would be an enormous setback—and his blood would be on her hands. Her throat was dry and tight suddenly.

  “I will.”

  He ended the call. Through the open bathroom door, she eyed her empty bourbon glass on the sink. Maybe just one more small pour.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Nino shoved the cell phone into the center console of Peaches’s car and tried to think clearly. A witness who could bring down the Manetto family was a major development. The adrenaline pumping through his body made steering the car difficult, if not impossible. He found himself driving into opposing traffic and swerved back into his own lane just in time to avoid a head-on collision. As the horn blast faded from earshot, he scanned the shoulder of the road for a safe place to pull over. He had to get himself under control before he got himself killed.

  He edged the car off to the side of the road and put it in park, letting the engine idle while he gripped the steering wheel two-handed and waited for his heart rate to return to normal. He focused on the in and out rhythm of his breath and within a minute and a half, he was calm. Calm was good. Calm would enable him to see a way through what looked, at the moment, to be a horrific mess.

  The sudden appearance of a witness with information about the arson ring was problematic in two major respects. First, once word leaked out that a grand jury indictment was underway—and it would leak, because it always did—the men who were implicated would begin to view everyone around them with increased suspicion, wondering who would honor the vow of omertà and who would squeal like a stuck pig. Increased scrutiny wasn’t really something Nino would enjoy. He already worried that his cover might get blown through a freak accident. That danger would increase exponentially once the investigation got underway. And, second, and more troubling by far was the inconvenient fact that he was
one of the men who would be implicated. Since late summer, he’d been Peaches’s go-to torch. By his count, he’d set close to a dozen felony fires in the greater Pittsburgh area in as many weeks. At some point, someone—the insurance broker, the fire inspector, some sorry turd trying to save his own hide—would offer up the name of the guy responsible for actually setting the fires. And Charlotte would be delighted, giddy even, at getting that name. Until she learned that it was none other than her handpicked, undercover FBI agent, Nino Carlucci. Then the situation would get really ugly.

  In fact, Nino wasn’t sure which would be worse—a run in with Peaches or a tussle with Charlotte Cashion and her pearl choker. He had a suspicion that Charlotte wielded a sharper knife. He knew she’d make no effort to understand the position he’d found himself in—the position he was in every day. He had to prove himself, time and again, to a group of brutal criminals. When Peaches Riggo ordered him to start a fire and make it look like an accident, damn straight, he started a fire. That was the only way to ensure his safety and to do the job Cashion had sent him undercover to do—to get close to Peaches and gather evidence. But she’d close her eyes to that reality and would sputter pretty words like ‘principles’ and ‘duty.’ He’d end up stripped of his badge and gun and, quite possibly, locked up in a federal penitentiary.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. Times like this he missed having a partner, someone to bounce ideas off, someone to tell him things weren’t as bleak as they seemed—even if it was blatant lie.

  The shrill ringing of his cell phone cut through his thoughts and he jumped. He pawed around in the console and dug it back out.

  “Hello?”

  “Nino? Where you at?” Peaches yelled in his ear.

  “Uh, I had to drop off the poinsettias at St. Joe’s, remember?”

  “Get your tail back here. There’s a situation.”

  A situation. There was no way Cashion had put in her request to convene a grand jury already. So if Peaches knew about the investigation, he must have another source in addition to the scheduling clerk in the federal building. Nino’s hands tightened on the wheel. What if he was the source? He swept Peaches’s car for listening devices every thirty-six hours, like clockwork. But what was to say that Peaches didn’t go behind him and install his own to keep tabs on him and then remove the bug when it was time to sweep? The fevered thought grabbed him and almost took hold, but he caught himself. Stop freaking out.