“Your client’s going down, and I don’t think a killer’s worth gettin’ killed for.”
“Do you know the Coluzzis?”
“No.” The Crown Vic shot down Market Street, past the Greek restaurants, gentrified coffeehouses, and junky storefronts of Old City selling men’s clothes, gold jewelry, and Liberty Bell thermometers.
“You never met John or Marco?” she asked.
“No.”
“You never had any dealing with them?”
“No, and I don’t care to be cross-examined, counselor.”
Judy reddened. She never was good at fishing. She didn’t know how to be anything but blunt, so she went with that. “I’m not accusing you, Detective, but you can’t blame a girl for asking.”
“Yes I can.” Clenched teeth strained his voice, but Judy wasn’t sorry.
“Gimme a break, Detective. My life is on the line, as is my client’s, and the police don’t do anything. My client’s house has been trashed, he’s in hiding, and the police don’t do anything. At some point, you start to wonder, and it’s not out of the question, with the Coluzzis. They bribed half of L and I, not to mention whoever gives out the construction contracts at City Hall. The Philly cops haven’t been immune from corruption in the past.” She didn’t give him the particulars, because the Crown Vic was already screeching to an extremely pissed-off stop in the middle of Market Street, blocking a full SEPTA bus, with no red light in sight.
Detective Wilkins turned to face Judy, his dark eyes glowing with anger. “Please don’t even think that I’m dirty, or that any of the men in my division are dirty, when I am driving you around like a cabbie and kissing your ass. Got it, lady? I have only so much restraint.”
Judy nodded. Judging from his vehemence, he was telling the truth. Either that or he was in “denial.” Her neck whipped back as he stomped on the gas pedal and the Crown Vic took a right by her favorite storefront, Mr. Bar Stool, and zoomed down Second Street until he reached the cobblestone streets of Society Hill. Judy felt vaguely guilty while he fumed. Oh, what the hell. She was supposed to be a good guy. “I’m sorry if I insulted you,” she said, meaning it. Sort of.
The Crown Vic bobbled on the bumpy gray cobblestones. The detective said nothing.
“I do appreciate what you’re doing.” Judy managed not to say, what little you’re doing.
The Crown Vic swerved right and headed west. Colonial townhouses whizzed by. The detective had fallen mute.
“Look, I don’t have to kiss your ass either.”
The Crown Vic pulled up in front of Judy’s apartment house and Detective Wilkins cut the ignition, yanked up the emergency brake, and got out of the car and slammed the car door, all without a word.
So be it. Judy got out of her side of the car, slammed her door even harder, walked to the front door of her apartment, and dug in her backpack for her keys. It took her fully ten minutes to find them, which proved her karma had dipped to an all-time low, and during that time neither she nor the constabulary spoke. She let them in the front door, and they tramped up the stairs, with Judy in the lead.
Her stomach tensed as she climbed to the first-floor landing, then went up to the second. What if someone were there? What if someone had come in since this morning? She would have asked Detective Wilkins to lead but she’d rather be dead than break the silence first. Lawyers call this “pigheaded.” She reached her apartment door, unlocked it, and let it swing wide open.
The living room looked just as she’d left it, as a first impression. She entered the room, listening for commotion, but it was dead quiet. She walked around the sofa, the coffee table, and past the windows, looking for anything amiss. She went into the adjoining galley kitchen, but the dishes were still soaking in the sink and nothing was disturbed, then she hurried to her bedroom. The bedclothes were a happy tumble, the bureau drawers hung open with overflowing clothes, and the disarray on the bureau top looked normal. She walked to her jewelry box and saw that nothing had been taken.
Judy sighed. Maybe she had left the door open. Maybe no one had been here. She went through the bathroom, but it looked fine, and then went on to the studio. She froze on the threshold.
It was her painting on the easel, the one she’d started not too long ago. It was a self-portrait, the way she’d looked that night when the moon was full and she was changing the way she painted. No more landscapes from a nomadic childhood, long ago and far away. Judy had been starting over, with herself, so her first painting had been a self-portrait as she had been that night, in the nude.
But the painting horrified her now. A knife gutted her portrait, running from the base of her neck, slitting her chest between her breasts, and ending between her legs. The knife jutted crudely from her pubis. Vermilion paint the color of fresh blood had been smeared all over her knifed body. The meaning was unmistakable.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said a voice behind Judy. It was Detective Wilkins, and his stricken expression as he stared at the painting matched her own. She didn’t know which was worse, that a complete stranger was seeing a painting of her nude or that he was seeing a painting like that. Blood rushed to her cheeks and she turned away from the image.
“Please don’t look,” she said, her voice choked. She didn’t know why she felt so shaken. Somehow this was worse than a car bomb. More terrifying, more personal. It threatened the heart of her. And it showed her that whatever war was being waged between the two Coluzzi brothers, they weren’t too distracted to scare the shit out of her.
Detective Wilkins put an arm around her and led her from the studio. “Judy, we’ll look into this. I’ll follow up, I promise you. I will personally do everything I can to nail whoever did this.”
“Thanks.”
“But I’m not charging the Coluzzis on this evidence, not yet. You’re a lawyer, you know that. I’ll follow up, but all this is is vandalism.”
“I know that.”
“And you have to be realistic, even though you’re upset. You’re gonna want me to dust this whole place for prints and I’m gonna tell you we don’t have the manpower for it, and even if we did, it wouldn’t yield anything. I’ll ask the Coluzzis where they were last night, and there’ll be twenty witnesses to swear that they were having three-pound lobsters at The Palm.”
Judy knew it was true but her heart beat harder just the same. This was sick and twisted and scary. She didn’t want to live here anymore. She never wanted to come home again. She tried to think of a way to fight back. What could she do, legally? There had to be something. “How about a TRO, a restraining order, against the Coluzzis and members of their family? None of them could come within a hundred feet of me, the apartment, or the offices. I could prepare and file it this afternoon.”
“A restraining order? Could you get one on these facts? With no proof?” he asked, but his tone told her he knew the answer, and so did she, thinking about it.
“Probably not. No proof that the Coluzzis are behind it. It’s the same problem, every time. And the Coluzzis wouldn’t heed a court order anyway.” She felt herself begin to shake uncontrollably, and Detective Wilkins’s arm steadied her.
“Don’t let this get to you. Whoever did this, even if it is the Coluzzis, they’re playing mind games with you. Don’t let them win.”
She liked the sound of it, but she still couldn’t get in control. The law was no help. Had Frank been right? She found herself missing him suddenly, when she hadn’t thought about him in so long.