Ellen Lodge was cursed with the same credibility problem. Once she realized that placing the blame on Dante Russo wouldn’t earn her any consideration, she again reversed course. In the new version, Linus Potter, fiend incarnate, had masterminded the drama’s every scene. He was author, producer, director, lead actor.
According to Adele, who’d interviewed Ellen Lodge in the company of her attorney, Ellen had told her story well enough, and she would have gotten the good deal if only she’d been consistent. But this was her third account and none of the ADAs working the Major Crimes Bureau believed she’d stand up to cross-examination if her testimony was placed before a jury.
That was good news for Detective Linus Potter, and might have been sufficient to put him in the winner’s circle, even without his ace in the hole. Nevertheless, Linus played the card for everything it was worth. Of all the living conspirators, his lawyer pointed out, Linus was the only one who’d dealt face to face with Paco Luna. Even better, he’d surreptitiously taped many of their conversations.
‘They all want Luna, Corbin,’ Adele explained. ‘The Brooklyn DA, the feds, the media and every civic group in Bushwick. If Alessio cuts a deal with Potter, he’ll make a lot of friends.’
That the Queens District Attorney, Kenneth Alessio, aspired to loftier political heights was no secret. He’d all but declared for the mayoral primary to be held a year hence.
I knew that Adele was disappointed and I should have kept my mouth shut because the question I asked only made it worse. ‘So, who’s gonna take the weight?’
‘Paco Luna.’
‘Seriously?’
‘The way it’s shaping up, Ellen Lodge and Linus Potter will both plead to man-one. Ellen will be sentenced to fifteen years, Potter to seven. The other two, Lacy and Singer, will plead to extortion. They’ll get two-and-a-third to seven.’
If the outcome was bittersweet, Adele’s midnight snack — a waffle mounded with strawberries and whipped cream — more than made up for it. As it was my normal dinner hour, I’d ordered the chicken stir-fry, a healthy enough meal diminished only by my refusing the waiter’s offer of brown rice.
In truth, Potter’s good fortune didn’t upset me. Everybody was being charged with something and that was enough. Besides, circumstances had moved me beyond Lodge and Russo and Potter and all the rest. My transfer to the boonies was strictly punitive, a point made early on when my new commander ignored me for three days. Equally cool, my peers generally observed a calculated silence when forced to work with me. At times, their eyes ran across my body as though searching for a wire. At times, the only thing that kept me going was the memory of that dance I’d danced with Bill Sarney’s wife, and the promise it implied.
I watched Adele cut through the last bites of her waffle, her movements deft. Adele was a precise eater. If she’d ever allowed a morsel to drop from her fork to her blouse, I wasn’t around to see it. I think this trait masked the size of her appetite — blessed from birth with the metabolism of a wolverine, most of the time she was trying to gain weight.
Smug as an overfed cat, Adele finally dropped her knife and fork on her plate, then wiped her mouth and laid her napkin on the table. ‘When I eat whipped cream,’ she told me, her expression studiously dead-pan, ‘I commonly become multi-orgasmic.’
I acknowledged the straight line with a smile, then raised my hand. ‘Waiter,’ I called out. ‘Check, please.’