Just a few months ago, Justice James Pappas had been asked to investigate how one rogue pathologist with an agenda of his own had been responsible for dozens of people being accused of killing children in their care, when in fact the deaths had been of natural causes. Some had lost custody of their children while under investigation; some had been convicted of homicide and served hard time before their cases were reopened.
"Let me rephrase it then," I said. "Is it possible, given the position of her body and the distance from the building, that she could have been thrown or pushed off her balcony?"
"I think I can grant you that much."
CHAPTER 18
Technically speaking, I still had an appointment with Rob Cantor that afternoon. But I saw no point in keeping it. He'd have nothing to say to me, and I needed more proof-something, anything-before confronting him further. Maybe once I'd spoken to Will Sterling, I'd have what I needed.
I stopped at the New Yorker Deli on Bay Street and picked up sandwiches, potato salad and coleslaw and drove back to the office. I figured Jenn would be hungry and I certainly was, since Hollinger had commandeered my cupcake.
I parked in back of our building and took the stairs up, carrying two bags of food. The front door of our office was locked and I wondered if Jenn had gone out. I gripped the bags in one hand and unlocked the door. There was no one in the front room.
"Jenn?"
There was a pause before she said, "Back here."
"I've got lunch," I said. "And news."
I went into the back office and saw Jenn sitting stiffly in her chair. A thirtyish man in a hoodie and jeans too tight for his thick build was standing behind her, his fist curled in her hair. His other hand held the edge of a hunting knife against her throat. The door closed behind me and I saw another man, older, more my age, in a leather coat pointing a gun at me. His jet-black hair was greased back from a widow's peak halfway down his forehead and he wore a thick gold cross on a chain that hung down to his sternum.
"What's for lunch?" he said.
Eidan Feingold had taught me ways to take a gun away from a man. But the lessons had never included a scenario where your partner was being held at knifepoint.
"Put the bags down," he said. "On the desk."
I set them down. "There's roast beef," I said, "or tuna salad. Take your pick."
"Shut up," the gunman said. "We're all going to go out that door now. Down the hall to the stairs, quiet as mice. Out into the parking lot and into the car on a drive. You got that, lunch boy?"
"Crystal clear."
"You act nice, you won't get hurt. We'll go somewhere, we'll talk to some people, then we'll let you go."
Sure they would. And a fairy godmother would pave the way back with candy.
"You do anything stupid," he said, "and Blondie's gonna get sliced."
"I'll cut her fucking tits off one at a time," his buddy said. He had angry red blotches on his face and bad teeth that showed when he grinned. He slipped his free hand inside Jenn's blouse and cupped one breast. "And wouldn't that be a shame. She has nice ones. A real handful," he said and squeezed her breast hard. She grimaced and bit her lips rather than let him see her in pain.
"Where we going?" I asked.
"Does it matter?" the gunman said. He stepped back and levelled the gun at my chest. "Don't even think about it."
"No thinking," I said. "Not me."
He opened the door and backed out into the anteroom. His partner took his hand out of Jenn's blouse and stood her up roughly.
"Walk," the gunman said to me. He backed his way to the front door and felt for the handle. "Just remember what happens if you fuck around."
He kept the gun on me as he opened the door. I tried to keep the surprise out of my eyes.
Eddie Solomon was standing there with a tray in his hands. It held a steaming carafe and three coffee cups.
"Ahem," Eddie said.
When the gunman wheeled, Eddie threw the tray in his face. The gunman screamed as the hot coffee splashed over him. The heels of both hands went up to his eyes and it was easy for me to grab his gun hand, turn the arm toward the floor, pivot and drive my opposite knee down into it. It broke with a lovely snap, better than I could have hoped for. The arm wouldn't move again till spring. The gun fell to the floor. I grabbed it before it could bounce and turned to point it at his buddy.
No need.
While he gaped at his partner going down, Jenn pinned his knife arm against her chest with both hands, leaned back into him, lifted her heels and brought them down hard on the thigh of his front leg. He howled, charleyhorsed but good, and fell to the floor on his back. The knife clattered away and as he writhed on his side, she rolled onto her knees and socked him hard where his jaw met his chin, all her weight behind it. His eyes closed and his mouth formed an oval. When he tried to stand up she put her boot on his shoulder and sent him sprawling into the chair she'd been in.
"Who's the bitch now?" she asked him. "Who's the bitch now?"
"Jonah!" Eddie cried.
I turned to see the gunman barge past him and run for the stairs, cradling his broken arm. I could have shot him, I suppose. But the carpet was already stained from Eddie's spilled coffee.
"Lock the door," I said to Eddie. "And get behind the desk."
"You know how much that coffee cost a pound?" he moaned. "That was the Javanese monkey shit."
I picked the knife up off the floor and placed it on the desk in front of Eddie. I checked the load in the gun and handed it to Jenn. "If he tries anything," I said, "shoot him in the balls."
"One at a time?" she asked. "Or both in one shot?"
"Depends how little they are."
"One should do it."
"Give me your wallet," I told the guy. He fumbled it quickly out of his back pocket. I shoved him back into Jenn's chair and looked at his driver's licence. His name was Sonny Tallarico. "Okay, Sonny," I said. "Who sent you?"
"Man, I can't tell you that."
I said, "Let's try that again," and drove the palm of my hand into the bridge of his nose. Not quite hard enough to break it, but it drew both blood and tears. When he brought his left hand up over his nose, I grabbed his wrist and cranked his ring finger back and counter-clockwise.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" he screamed. "You broke my fucking finger! You broke my fucking finger, you motherfucking prick!"
"I did not," I said. "I dislocated it. And as soon as someone pops it back in, the pain will go away."
"Do it," he panted.
"Do what?"
"Pop it!"
"Me?"
"Come on!"
"Who sent you?"
"Christ, man, they'll fucking kill me."
"You think we won't?"
"You touched my tits," Jenn said. "Without asking."
"Jesus Christ," he moaned.
I grabbed the ring finger on his other hand. "You want the two-for-one special?"
"No!" he screamed. "Don't! Don't, please."
"We're listening."
"Just a guy we know."
"What guy?
"I can't."
"Last chance, Sonny," I said. "I do both hands, you'll need someone else to hold your dick when you piss."
"Lenny! Lenny's his name."
"Lenny what?"
"Corazzo."
"And who is Lenny Corazzo?"
"Just a guy we do stuff for."
"Yeah? What else did he ask you to do this week?"
"This week? Nothing, man."
"He didn't tell you to beat up a guy?"
"What guy?"
"A blond guy. Martin Glenn."
"No," he panted. "No blond guys."
I started to bend his finger back but he just closed his eyes in anticipation of the pain. I had to believe he was telling the truth. I let go of it. Jenn looked disappointed.
"Please," he said. "Put my finger back." His injured hand was trembling like a morning drinker's; he had to clutch it in his good hand to make it stop.