“Not yet, you’re not. But tomorrow’s another day,” she said. “Tomorrow’s always another day.”
I shot her a look. “What are you up to?” I asked.
There was something about the way she’d said tomorrow, like she had something tricky up her sleeve.
And sure enough, Courtney definitely did.
“C’MON IN,” said Derrick Phalen of the Organized Crime Task Force, greeting me with an easy smile and a firm handshake at the door of his office in White Plains, New York. As he walked back to his desk, he motioned to an old, beat-up gray chair in front of it that looked to be one fat guy away from total collapse. “Have a seat, if you dare,” he joked, though given the chair’s condition, it wasn’t all that funny.
“Thanks,” I said, gingerly settling in. Then I reported, “Made it okay.”
Quickly glancing around the young prosecutor’s modest office, I came to an equally quick conclusion. This guy worked for a living. His desk was absolutely covered in paperwork while files as thick as phone books surrounded him like a moat.
But it was the little yellow stickies of notes and phone numbers that really caught my eye. They were stuck to every conceivable surface – his computer, desk lamp, stapler, coffee mug, even the framed diploma from the Fordham School of Law hanging on the wall.
“So how do you know Courtney?” I asked. “She didn’t tell me all the details.”
“I was roommates with her brother, Mike, at Middlebury College,” he said.
I immediately felt as if I’d put my foot in my mouth, even though I knew I really hadn’t. “Oh” was all I could manage.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. We’re coming up on ten years since Mike died, and I still can’t believe he’s gone.” He rubbed his chin, reflecting. “He was a helluva guy. In fact, I was actually in Manhattan that morning and we were supposed to have lunch together. He even left a message on my cell phone to confirm twenty minutes before the first plane hit.” Phalen paused for a moment. “I still listen to it from time to time.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry,” I said.
“Hey, no, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to be a downer on our first date.” He sat up in his chair, snapping his shoulders straight. “So tell me, what can I do for you? And for Courtney.”
To tell you the truth, Derrick Phalen, I’m not sure. That’s what I’m here to find out.
“Did Courtney give you any of the background?” I asked. “Anything at all?”
“Only that you wanted to talk to me about Eddie Pinero,” he said. “I assume it’s for an article you’re writing for Citizen. Right so far?”
“Yes, hopefully,” I said. Instinctively, I reached into my leather bag to retrieve my tape recorder. I placed it on his desk.
Immediately, Phalen looked at it like Superman does kryptonite.
“I’m sorry, Nick,” he said. “As I told Courtney, I’m happy to talk to you, but I can’t go on record – or for that matter be recorded – when it comes to anyone this office has investigated. Them’s the rules.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” I said. It was the first and only time I wasn’t a hundred percent on the level with the guy. He’d soon know why.
“No worries,” he said. “It’s just that when you work for the Organized Crime Task Force, you try to limit how much your name appears in print.”
“I can certainly appreciate that,” I said. I then held up my tape recorder, giving it the same kryptonite look Phalen had. “Actually, this thing has been nothing but trouble for me lately.”
“What do you mean?” asked Phalen.
Bingo, there it is. My opening.
A week ago I was worried that word about my recording of Vincent Marcozza’s killer would leak. Now here I was about to leak it myself.
“You might say I’m the reason Eddie Pinero is in jail for murder right now,” I said. “How’s that for an opening line?”
Phalen leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile filling his lean face. “Holy shit, it was you. All I’d heard was that someone had accidentally recorded Vincent Marcozza’s killer at Lombardo’s.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “Because I don’t think it was an accident.”
I expected Phalen to immediately ask me what I meant by that. He didn’t.
Instead he stood up and asked me a question I never would’ve guessed in a million years.
“DO YOU LIKE pasta fagioli?” asked Phalen.
Huh? Come again? Bizarre soup segues for a thousand, Alex?
Phalen didn’t wait for my answer. “I know this place right across the street that serves the best pasta fagioli you’ll ever have. Best in White Plains, anyway. C’mon, we’ll get a bowl, have some lunch.”
The next thing I knew, I was following the guy out of his office and to the elevator bank on his floor. What’s going on? I was thinking as we walked – kind of fast, actually.
I was no psychic, but this much I could figure out: Derrick Phalen didn’t want to be in his office when we discussed Eddie Pinero’s involvement – or rather, noninvolvement – in Vincent Marcozza’s murder.
He had his reasons, I’m sure. Hopefully he’d explain them to me over lunch. Bring on the pasta fagioli!
Not quite yet, though. No sooner did the elevator arrive than we were stopped by a man’s voice coming from down the hall. He was calling out Phalen’s name.
Immediately, Phalen muttered something under his breath.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Huh? Oh, nothing,” he answered. “I was just saying we’ll catch the next elevator.”
But I was almost positive that wasn’t what he’d said. In fact, I was pretty sure he’d muttered only two words. Holy shit.
As if he couldn’t believe something. Like what? This bruiser coming down the hall?
“Oh, hey, Ian,” said Phalen as the man caught up to us at the elevator. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” he said. “You got a minute?”
The two of them started to talk shop for a bit – at least, I think that’s what they were doing. I tuned out mostly, my ears giving way to my eyes and how different these two guys were physically. Derrick Phalen was a lean, compact man with short-cropped brown hair and a square jaw. Ian LaGrange was much taller and considerably wider. To be blunt, the word fat came to mind. So did the all-you-can-eat buffet at Caesars Palace in Vegas.
Of course, I didn’t even know then that Ian LaGrange was, well, Ian LaGrange.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Phalen, suddenly realizing he hadn’t introduced me. “Ian, this is Nick Daniels.”
“Nice to meet you, Nick,” said LaGrange as we shook hands.
Phalen turned to me. “Ian’s the deputy attorney general in charge of the Organized Crime Task Force. Or, as I like to call him, the Godfather.”
“It does have a nice ring to it, I have to admit,” LaGrange said, smiling through his scruffy beard. “So where are you guys heading?”
“We’re getting a quick bite to eat,” said Phalen. “Just across the street.”
LaGrange glanced down. “You’re wearing your vest?” he asked. “Derrick?”
“We’re only going across the street,” Phalen repeated.
“Yeah, and Lincoln was just going to the theater. Go put it on.”
Phalen shot LaGrange an exasperated look that reminded me of a teenage son catching heat from his father.
“Vest?” I asked.
“Bulletproof vest,” said Phalen before turning around for his office. “I’ll be right back.”
Wait a minute. The guy needed a bulletproof vest to go out in public? More important, where was mine?
“Hey, we could always order in!” I called after him. It sounded funny but I wasn’t really joking.
“Don’t worry, it’s just office policy,” said LaGrange, trying to reassure me. “There’s never been an attempt on anyone working for the OCTF.”