“Si, si. Coluzzi.”
“Good. Upstairs they’ll be processing—getting ready—the charge against you. Do you understand?”
“Si.” Pigeon Tony’s face turned grave. “Murder.”
“Yes, murder, and I have to understand the evidence—the proof—they have against you. I’d like to begin by asking you a few—”
“I kill Coluzzi,” Pigeon Tony interrupted, and Judy’s mouth went dry. She hadn’t heard him right. She couldn’t have heard him right. She fumbled for her voice.
“You didn’t say you murdered Coluzzi, did you?” she asked, her tone unprofessionally aghast. She didn’t know what a lawyer was supposed to do when her client volunteered a confession. Probably shut him up, but that wasn’t Judy’s style. If it was true, it was awful, and she wanted to know why. “Did you say you murdered Coluzzi?”
“No.”
Judy sighed with relief. It must have been the language barrier. “Thank God.”
“I no murder Coluzzi.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I kill him.” Pigeon Tony nodded firmly, his thin lips forming a determined line, confusing Judy completely.
“Let’s try this again, Mr. Lucia. Tony. Did you kill Angelo Coluzzi? Yes or no?”
“Si, si, I kill him. But”—Pigeon Tony held up a finger, like a warning—“no murder. I no murder!”
“What do you mean?” Judy’s mind reeled. Antitrust beckoned. The Sherman Act was a cakewalk compared to an Italian immigrant. “You killed Coluzzi but you didn’t murder him?”
“Si.”
“That means yes, right?” She wanted to make sure. Clarity would be in order right now, since it was the murder part.
“Si, si. He kill my wife, so I kill him. No è murder.”
Judy’s heart lifted. Maybe it was self-defense. “Where was your wife when Coluzzi killed her? Were you trying to protect your wife at the time? Is that why you killed him?”
“No.”
“No?”
“My wife, she dead sixty years. Murder by Coluzzi.”
Baffled, Judy set down her Pilot pen. “Coluzzi killed your wife sixty years ago, so you killed him today?”
“Si.”
It meant yes, but still. “Why did you wait so long?”
“Si! Si!” Pigeon Tony’s face went suddenly red with emotion. “Sixty years, alla same. Occhio per occhio, dente per dente. Coluzzi big, important man.” Suddenly animated, he puffed out his concave chest. “Fascisti! You know, Fascisti?”
“Yes. Fascists?” Judy racked her brain for Italian history but all she could dredge up was The Sopranos. She thought harder. “You mean, like, Mussolini?”
“Si! Il Duce!” Pigeon Tony stuck out his lower lip, in imitation. “A murderer! He! Not me.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Coluzzi murder my Silvana!” Tears welled up in Pigeon Tony’s eyes, a glistening but unmistakable sheen that he blinked away in obvious shame. His pointy Adam’s apple traveled up and down a stringy neck. “So I kill Coluzzi.”
“Are you saying that this Coluzzi killed your wife, in Italy?”
“Si, si! He murder her!”
“Why did he do that?”
“Because he want her and she no want him! So he kill her!” Pigeon Tony trembled at the thought, a shudder that traveled through his face and chin, emphasizing his frailty, and Judy felt her heart go out to him.
“So you got him back?”
“Si, si.”
Judy understood the scenario, but her chest wrenched with conflict. “So Coluzzi got away with murder?”
“Si, si!”
“What did the police do?”
“Coluzzi the police! Fascisti the police! They no care! I tell them, they do nothing! They laugh!” Bitterness curled his thin lips. “The war come, and alla people, they no care about one girl. You think they care? So Pigeon Tony, he get justice! For Silvana! For Frank, my son!” Tony leaned forward, his manacled hands gripping the Formica counter. “We go now. We tell judge!”
Judy put up her hands. “No! We no tell the judge. We no tell nobody. Anybody.” The double negative was throwing her, as usual. “You didn’t tell the police this, did you?”
Pigeon Tony shook his head. “I no like.”
“No like what?”
“Police.”
She had forgotten. “Okay, now, after they arraign you—charge you—they decide if you make bail. Bail means you get to go free, if you pay money. I think you will get bail, considering your age and lack of criminal record.” Judy caught herself. “You never killed anybody before, did you?”
Pigeon Tony appeared to think a minute. “No.”
“Good. Did you ever commit any other crime?”
“No crime.”
“Excellent. If they give you bail, who will bail you out?”
Pigeon Tony frowned again, uncomprehending.
“Who in your family will come for you? Who will pay money for you to be free? Is there anyone, when we go to the judge?”
“Frank. My grandson. He come.” Pigeon Tony stiffened. “I tell judge.”
“No, you no tell the judge.” Judy had a legal duty to protect him and she wanted to get to the bottom of his story before she condemned him, even for murder. “You have to listen to me. Revenge is no defense to murder, outside of Sicily.”
“Com’e’?”
“You can’t tell the judge. If you do, the police will send you to jail for the rest of your life. You don’t want that to happen, do you? You’ll never see Frank again.” Judy watched as Pigeon Tony’s thin lips pursed, the argument seeming to hit home. “Okay, so we agree. Now, let me go upstairs and see when they’re going to arraign you. You have to promise me that you won’t talk to anybody about this. Do you promise?”
“Si, si. Io lo fatto.”
Judy didn’t have time for the translation. She wanted to get upstairs fast, to learn the evidence against him. “Promise me now.”
Pigeon Tony puckered his lower lip in thought.
“I can’t hear you,” Judy sang out, cupping a hand to her ear, and Pigeon Tony broke into the first smile she’d seen so far.
“Promise lady with big mouth,” he answered, and Judy assumed he meant her lipliner.
4
Judy hurried off the elevator at the Roundhouse and followed the oddly hand-scrawled signs to the Homicide Division. They led to a narrow hallway of cheap paneling past a huge black plastic tub of trash sitting right outside a reception area, also cheaply paneled. The small room was covered with signs like POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY and PRIVATE—KEEP OUT, which Judy ignored. The front desk was empty, and she barreled past it. She needed as much information as she could get about the Coluzzi case before she went back to the office and had to account to her boss, Bennie Rosato. She’d been so thrown by Pigeon Tony’s confession, she’d forgotten to get the details of the case. Like how he killed Coluzzi, for instance. Little things.
Judy entered the squad room and, because she’d been up here only twice, took a minute to get her bearings. Not that anything had changed—in the last twenty years, for that matter. Water-stained white curtains barely covered grimy windows; most of the curtain hooks were missing and the drapes hung like gaping wounds from cheap metal valances. Six cluttered desks filled the small room, only haphazardly arranged, and in one case covered with breakfast debris of a cold bacon sandwich, the scent of which lingered unaccountably in the air, mixing with traces of cigar smoke. Battered file cabinets lined the side wall, near the two interview rooms. The place was quiet of ringing phones and empty except for two detectives, who were looking through a boxed file on a desk.
Judy wasn’t surprised at how quiet it was. She’d been around enough to know that the day tour at the Homicide Division was the sleepy shift, not the other way around. Murders generally happened under cover of darkness—who said there was nothing to do in Philadelphia at night—and most detectives spent at least part of the day testifying in court. Whether i
t was their court appearances or their occupational machismo, Judy didn’t know, but homicide detectives were peacocks. The two in the squad room wore flashy silk ties, well-tailored suits, and too-strong cologne, and they looked up from the file at the same time, staring at the invasion of a young blond lawyer.
Judy stood her ground, even in yellow clogs. Being a blonde was a good thing to be with detectives, good enough to trump being a defense lawyer, and she watched their collective gaze scan her athletic body and stall at her bare legs. But when they reached her footwear, their heads almost exploded, and she was glad she had erased her lipliner.
“I’m a lawyer representing Anthony Lucia,” she said, and nevertheless held her head high. It was her first experience with representing a confessed murderer, and she didn’t find it easy, even if the killer was a cute little old man. “He’s being held in connection with the Coluzzi case.”
The detective on the right—a tall, middle-aged man with slicked-back hair—cocked his head. “You work for Rosato,” he said, and Judy nodded.
“The firm hasn’t entered an appearance,” she said, preserving her job. “But I just met with Mr. Lucia. He told me you asked him some questions, and I was surprised at that. You didn’t question him without counsel, did you?”
“Perish the thought,” the detective said, his smile firmly in place. He turned to the desk behind him, picked up a manila folder, plucked a sheet of paper from it, and handed it to Judy. “Here’s the criminal complaint.”
Judy skimmed the sheet, which said only that defendant Anthony Lucia had been charged with the crime that occurred on April 17, at 712 Cotner Street, an “unlawful homicide.” Judy had thought that was the only kind there was. She needed more information. “You videotaped the interview, didn’t you?”
“It’s procedure.”
“When can I get a copy?”
“Whenever they turn over the other evidence, after the prelim.”
Judy gritted her teeth. They were playing my-testosterone-can-beat-up-your-testosterone, and she wasn’t as deficient as she appeared. “You study to be this difficult, or does it just come naturally?”
The detective didn’t react. “We asked a coupla routine questions, completely within our prerogative.”
Judy felt torn. What evidence did they have? How strong was their case? Even the Philadelphia police could convict a guy who actually did it. “What’s the basis for the charge?”
“You’ll see when we charge him, around three o’clock, Ms.—”
“Carrier, but Judy’s fine.” She sighed. “Look, I’m standing here and you’re standing here. You can’t tell me?”
“Ain’t the way we do things,” the detective said matter-of-factly, and the older detective beside him gave him a nudge.
“The junior varsity’s in, Sammy,” he muttered, not really under his breath, but Judy ignored it.
“Do you have any physical evidence against Mr. Lucia?”
“You’ll find that out, too. Later.”
“Are Detectives Kovich or Brinkley around?” Judy knew them from the last case, and they would help if they could. She went up on tiptoe and glanced past the detectives, whose expressions soured.
“The Stan and Reg Show? Not here. They’re out of town, and they do things different than I do anyway.”
Judy knew what he meant. If you like them, you’ll hate me.
“In any event, I caught this one. I’m the assigned. I’m the one you have to deal with.”
“Listen, Detective—”
“Wilkins. Sam Wilkins.”
“Wilkins. Mr. Lucia is not a young man, and I’m concerned about the state of his health. The stress of this—”
“Spare me.” The detective snorted. “That old bird’s tough as nails. He’ll be dancing on my grave.”
Suddenly the detectives looked past Judy, and she turned, feeling a presence behind her. A tall, good-looking man in Levi’s approached almost out of breath, his jeans jacket flapping to the side in his haste. When he got closer, Judy could see that his eyes were dark with anger, barely controlled.
“Excuse me,” the man said brusquely to the detectives. “I’m looking for Anthony Lucia. I heard you arrested him. I want him freed.”
Judy realized who it must be, and even recognized a flicker of the grandfather in the grandson, though he was much taller, maybe six foot three, and handsome. “You must be Frank Lucia,” she said, extending a hand, but he squeezed it only absently, his grip rough with thick skin, his gaze still burning into the detectives.
“Where is my grandfather?” he demanded. “I want to see him. I want him out of here.”
“Relax, pal. Mr. Lucia’s in custody, and he’ll be arraigned at the end of the day. This is his lawyer, Dr. Judy.” The detective gestured in a professional way, and Frank looked over as the introduction registered, his eyes widening with recognition.
“Jeez! You’re Judy! I’m sorry, you’re Mary’s friend. Thanks so much for coming.” Frank burst into a tense grin and suddenly grabbed Judy by the shoulders, pulling her easily into a brief hug. An astonished Judy caught a quick whiff of onion breath before she landed in a wall of hard denim. She recovered her dignity only when Frank set her back on her feet.
“Uh, that’s okay,” she stammered, finger-combing her hair into place, aware of the detectives watching them.
“You know Matty DiNunzio. Mariano. He said you would help.” Frank was talking too fast, his emotions clearly all over the lot. “He said you were a terrific lawyer.”
“Well, I hope so.” Judy swallowed hard. She was getting blocked in on the representation, and of a guilty client. The detectives were taking mental notes. “Frank, maybe we should discuss this in private.”
“After I see my grandfather.”
“You can’t, not yet.”
“Where is he?”
“Downstairs.”
“You’re kidding me. He’s right downstairs and I can’t see him?”
Judy suppressed her smile. Frank sounded like her, even to her. “Only lawyers can meet with defendants before arraignment.”
“Lawyers can meet, but not family? A stranger can meet with my grandfather, but I can’t?” Frank’s head snapped angrily toward the detectives. “What the hell—”
Judy interrupted, “I saw him, Frank, and he’s fine. Now, we really should go.” She wanted them both out of there, and flared her eyes meaningfully. Frank wasn’t so hotheaded that he didn’t get the meaning.
“Yeah, maybe.” His glare fixed on the detectives. “Take care of my grandfather.”
“Ain’t my job, buddy,” Detective Wilkins said flatly, and Frank moved instantly toward the detective.
“What did you say?” he demanded, but Judy grabbed his arm before he assaulted anybody wearing a badge or a bad tie.
“Let’s go, Frank,” she said quickly, yanking him back and steering him out of the squad room. She tried not to feel self-conscious about her hand on him, since he had already broken the touch barrier. In her experience, Italians didn’t have a touch barrier anyway.
She managed to get him down the hall and didn’t let go until she had him in an elevator crowded with uniformed cops. Neither Judy nor Frank spoke, and they rode down grimly, with Frank regaining his composure apparently by his looking at his hands. They were unusually thick-skinned for a man his age, which Judy judged to be about hers or a little older. He was built like a weight lifter, though the light in his dark eyes struck her as decidedly intelligent. But maybe that was because he was such a total hunk. She couldn’t get a date at gunpoint lately, which was a factor.
His faded jeans looked dusty except for a darker patch at the knee, and Judy guessed he’d been wearing knee pads while he worked. A stonewashed green T-shirt, black beeper attached to his belt, and pocket cell phone didn’t give further clues as to what he did for a living. He wore tan Timberland work boots, heavily creased at the ankle and dusted with a fine gray silt, and she tried to figure him out. What he did, who he was.
And how he would take the news that his grandfather could die in prison, or worse.
“You did say my grandfather was okay?” he said softly, almost reading her mind, as they stepped off the elevator. If Frank’s eyes were angry before, they were full of worry now, and something else. Fear.
“He’s fine, but we should talk. I am concerned about his case.”
“Sure.” Frank reached the door and held it open for her. “But there’s somewhere we have to go first. My truck’s in the lot.”
5
“It can’t take long. I have to get back to the office before the arraignment, which will be around three this afternoon,” Judy told him, though she was intrigued.
“No problem.” They left the Roundhouse and crossed the parking lot in front, which was overflowing with cops and police personnel enjoying the spring weather, even among the squad cars and pool cars. A white Ford F-250 pickup stood out from the dark sedans, in the far space under a WORKING PRESS ONLY sign. Frank made a beeline for it, with Judy only a step behind.
“So you’re a reporter?” she asked.
“No. I needed a parking space.” Frank yanked a ring of keys from his back pocket, chirped the truck unlocked, and went to the passenger side to open the door. “Climb in, but watch out for the laptop.”
“You don’t have to keep getting doors for me,” she said, and Frank smiled.
“I know that.” He walked around the dinged bed of the truck to the driver’s side and got in. “I didn’t do it because I had to.”
Judy withheld comment as she got into the truck, which was an office on wheels. What did this guy do for a living? The front seat was a soft gray bench, but between the driver and passenger sat a desk-size console that held an open Gateway laptop with a slim portable printer wired to the cigarette lighter. There was another cell phone and a walkie-talkie with a stubby antenna. Judy gave up. “You a drug dealer?” she asked, and he laughed as he turned on the ignition.