Final Justice, page 20
When Dr. Rosen finally called back just after six o’clock to say that ‘Jane Doe’ was out of immediate danger, Elizabeth broke down and cried. Then she called Lisa Jacobs in California.
“The police think that it was a drug addict high on cocaine,” Elizabeth said into the telephone. “Well, she probably got lost looking for the exit, and she must have gotten out of the car to look for a pay phone. Anyhow, she’s out of surgery and the doctors are optimistic. Both bullets just missed her heart, so she’s lucky. But she has other internal injuries, including two broken ribs and a cracked cheekbone.
“No, I know she won’t like that.
“No, there were no witnesses. Apparently some Good Samaritan found her and dropped her off at the hospital. The nurses found Donna Brattini’s phone number in her jacket pocket and called her, which is how we found out.
“She’s being looked after by a personal friend of the Brattini family, a Dr. Jake Rosen. He’s the head of the internal medicine unit, so she’s in the very best of hands.
“Yes, he’s very discreet. We’re hoping to keep things that way. She’s still listed as a Jane Doe on the hospital’s records.
“Okay Lisa dear, try not to worry too much. Call me back when you get a flight. Yes, I’ll have someone pick you up at the airport. No, you won’t. You’re staying here with me. Donna insists on it. No, it’s no trouble. Yes, see you then.”
Elizabeth hung up the phone and glanced over at Ryan who was sitting on an armchair gazing out the window. She was filled with admiration for the quick thinking and courage that he’d shown last night. Donna soon came into the room carrying fresh coffee and toast along with a carafe of brandy. Elizabeth felt a lot better, and ravenous.
“I’ve just spoken to Lisa in L.A.,” she said turning to Donna. “She’ll be here on the first flight she can get, probably by five o’clock this afternoon.”
“Good,” answered Donna. “I’ll call Giancarlo. He’ll have her picked up at the airport.”
Elizabeth sat down on the window seat and after a few minutes of silence, Donna walked over to Ryan.
“Are you okay?” she asked him. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Just a shot of that stuff,” he said, pointing to the carafe. “After all, how many times does one get to live a murder/mystery movie in real life?”
“Ryan’s sense of humour leaves a lot to be desired,” said Elizabeth dryly.
“You don’t have to watch your words in front of me,” said Donna, pouring herself a shot of the brandy along with one for Ryan. “I’ve been around my husband and my son for too long. Whatever it is, it’s your business, unless you ask for my help. I accept whatever you tell me to accept and all secrets remain safe with me.”
Elizabeth smiled as she got up and walked over to give Donna a hug.
“You and I, so different, and yet so much the same,” Elizabeth said gently. “Cut from the same cloth of obedience. Women trained, or is it conditioned? Powerless to do anything but react to circumstances rather than direct them.”
“Not exactly,” answered Donna. “I’ve always held a different view. Even though men may control the history of nations, women control even more with their secrets. I’m a woman who believes that knowledge is power, and that clandestine knowledge is infinite power. It can be withheld, exchanged and bartered.”
Ryan turned from the window.
“For women who have traditionally been excluded from power in the business world, guarding secrets may be the only leverage we have,” she went on. “So don’t minimize the importance of our secrets because they can be negotiable instruments.”
If I didn’t know differently, I’d swear she knows about her husband and my mother, thought Elizabeth.
“Now, enough talking,” said Donna as she looked at her watch. “Let’s all try to get a little sleep. Jake says that Rebecca will be kept in the ICU for another twenty-four hours just to be safe. We might be able to see her sometime this afternoon for just a few minutes.”
Ryan nodded sleepily and followed Donna to one of the guest bedrooms. Elizabeth went into the other one and fell down on the top of the bed, fast asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Giancarlo Brattini was sitting alone in his den. The sun was trying to break through the clouds and the snow had stopped falling as the grandfather clock chimed nine times. Then the phone rang. He was stunned to hear his mother, sounding remarkably calm, relate the story of Rebecca Sherman’s “mugging” late last night. Brattini had expected Rebecca to be dead, or close to it, and he was disappointed and irritated.
Another problem that doesn’t seem to want to go away, he thought angrily.
“Giancarlo, please arrange for somebody nice to pick up Rebecca’s daughter at the airport.” It was more an order than a request. He decided to do it himself, hoping to find out if she knew anything about her mother’s activities. Then he remembered the meeting that he was supposed to have later this morning with Elizabeth DeLuca and he groaned.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll be too upset to go through with it, he thought hopefully. I’m not in the mood to listen to the complaints of DeLuca’s ditzy widow.
Johnny got up and headed towards the gym on the third floor. Might as well do a little workout while I plan my next moves. A wry smile came over his face as he changed into his exercise gear and thought back to last night.
He’d wrapped his own gun in newspaper and locked it in his desk as soon as he got in. Monday he’d have it crushed and scattered at one of his auto body shops. The cops might have the bullets, but they’d never get the gun.
By now Danny would be in Syracuse, whisked there by two of Brattini’s men. His wound wasn’t serious, but he’d never walk again without a limp.
Brattini had shot to kill Rebecca. But as in all things impulsive, he’d been careless after her warning shout, and totally unprepared for the fact that she was carrying a piece. So he’d missed his target, which was her heart.
He still didn’t know what she was doing in Buffalo. Her story to Judson about a funeral in Tonawanda was phoney. And why had she been in Marseilles? As far as he knew, DeLuca hadn’t had any interests there for years, and neither had anyone else; at least no one from the northeastern families.
“That fucking Sherman broad!” he burst out loud as he got on the treadmill.
She actually pulled a gun and fired it at me, he thought. Now I’m sure that all the stories I’ve heard about her are true.
He speeded up the pace of the machine and wiped the sweat from his face as he swung his arms and expanded his chest with heavy breathing.
I wonder who she was calling out to when I nailed her, he thought. Suddenly, he froze on the treadmill, almost falling off as he stopped moving in unison with the machine.
“Ryan!” he shouted to no one in particular. “The accountant’s name is Ryan!”
No, impossible, he thought as he stepped off the machine. He tried to remember exactly what Rebecca had shouted just before he’d shot her but he couldn’t be sure.
What would a dumb fucking accountant be doing at the old Depew railway station with Rebecca Sherman in the middle of the night?
Elizabeth was stretching as Donna knocked on the bedroom door. She came in and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Did you sleep?” she asked gently.
“Not long enough,” answered Elizabeth. “But five hours is better than no hours.”
“This is the letter I told you about,” said Donna, handing an envelope to Elizabeth. “Massimo must have put it into his briefcase and forgotten about it, because when I found the case at the back of his closet, it was covered in dust.
Elizabeth glanced down at the pale envelope with her name written in a scroll, much like calligraphy. The name of a hotel in Verona, Italy was stamped on its back.
“What time is it now?” she asked Donna.
“Close to one-thirty.”
Elizabeth put the envelope on the table next to the bed.
“It’s waited this long,” she said as she got up. “It can wait until after we see Rebecca.”
Why do hospitals have to be so stark? thought Elizabeth as the three of them walked along the corridor towards the ICU. Even a little coloured paint on the walls would make such a difference.
A petite blond nurse came scurrying out of the central station as they walked towards the unit, holding her hand up like a school crossing guard.
“Only one at a time,” she said. Her voice reminded Elizabeth of Tweety Bird, from the cartoon of the same name. “And you may only stay for ten minutes.”
Ryan went in first, carrying a bud vase of baby roses that he’d picked up at the gift shop on the main floor. When he came back five minutes later, he had a grin on his face as he repeated Rebecca’s off colour comments about the hospital staff.
Donna tiptoed into the room next, carrying a bottle of holy water that she’d brought back from her last trip to Rome, and which the Pope had personally blessed.
“What can it hurt?” she said in response to Elizabeth’s questioning look, a sheepish grin on her face. “Holy is holy. And my prayers know no religious barriers. Besides, it’s not Rebecca’s fault that she was born Jewish. Maybe she’ll convert”
Ryan, unfamiliar with the ladies’ sense of humour, didn’t know whether he was supposed to laugh or just pretend he hadn’t heard. He chose the latter.
“Hello, you silly gunslinger you,” chirped Elizabeth when it was her turn to go into the room. She bent over the bed to rest her cheek against Rebecca’s. “That was a close call.”
Rebecca had a tube down her nose and into her stomach and intravenous tubes hooked into both her arms. She smiled weakly and nodded for Elizabeth to sit down next to her.
“Shh, don’t waste your energy talking,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll give you a report.” Rebecca nodded.
“Lisa is on her way. She’ll be here around five o’clock this afternoon.
“My meeting with Gianni Brattini has been postponed, unless you think that I should cancel it altogether.”
“Cancel it,” Rebecca gasped, “there have been some new developments.”
“Do you want me to call Grant?”
Rebecca shook her head vehemently.
“I’m not sure what to do with the gun,” Elizabeth whispered. “I presume I should keep it hidden until it can be disposed of.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Ryan and I didn’t find anything much at the station,” Elizabeth continued. “Just some faded documents that didn’t make any sense to me, but I’ve hidden them in my makeup bag just in case. Ryan’s going to go back there later this afternoon to see if anything else might be lying around.
“Jimmy Bono called early this morning. He heard what happened and wanted me to remind you of the message that he and Vinnie gave you in Church last December. I told him that he could give it to me when he found out what you needed to know. Was that all right?”
Rebecca tried to smile as she squeezed her fingers against Elizabeth’s hand. Jimmy! Of course! Why didn’t I follow my hunch before I…?
“You’re getting too smart Elizabeth,” she whispered. “Soon, I’ll be working for you.”
“Ryan’s going back to Boston tomorrow,” Elizabeth went on, stroking Rebecca’s cheek. “But I’m going to stay on until you’re out of here. Donna is thrilled to have me. Now, don’t you worry. I’ll look after everything. You get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“How was she?” asked Donna when Elizabeth returned to the waiting room.
“Typically Rebecca,” answered Elizabeth. “She never loosens her grip. I could hear the clicking in her brain despite the tubes. Anyhow, I’m done in. Let’s go home for a drink. And then I have a letter to read.”
Chapter 21
Boston, Massachusetts.
“Angela, hurry up or the omelette will go flat!” shouted Peter through the intercom.
“God, what’s she got to do to herself so early in morning?” Peter mumbled as he beat the eggs for the second time.
Angela was staying at the DeLuca townhouse for the weekend. She’d met Peter and Matthew in Cambridge on Friday after classes, and the three of them had driven back to Boston in her BMW. Matthew had been relegated to the cramped back seat along with the luggage.
“That’s the way it goes little brother,” Peter chuckled as Matthew twisted and turned getting into the car. “Better luck next time around”
Peter and Angela’s original deal about keeping their relationship a secret from their friends and family had been loosened. Angela knew that Peter shared his feelings and concerns about her with his brother. It was also quite obvious to some of their mutual friends that there was chemistry between the tall, blonde Peter and the shorter, black haired Angela.
Since their skiing trip in Vermont a month earlier, they’d spoken to each other every day, and had tried to see each other as often aspossible, usually meeting halfway between Cambridge and South Hadley, where Mt. Holyoke was located.
Peter still hadn’t used the word “love”, and neither had Angela, but the intensity of their feelings left no doubt. Peter abided by Angela’s, “no major sex before marriage” condition, though the extent of their necking and petting might be considered “major” in some circles. Just thinking of her usually brought Peter an erection, and he wondered if his feelings were abnormal.
He discussed most everything in his world with his brother Matthew, including a future life with Angela.
“Matts, she turns me on like I’ve never been turned on before” Peter said during one of their jogs around Harvard’s running track.
He ignored Matthew’s look of discomfort as he remembered last night.
“Angela, how can you let me suffer this way,” he moaned in her ear. “I’m going to explode!”
Peter was lying next to her on the floor. Matthew was out at hockey practice so the two of them were alone in his campus apartment. She was flat on her back and her full breasts were jutting up through her opened blouse. He leaned over to suck on her nipples as he caressed her between her legs. She gave a small moan and spread her legs even more. His fingers found her clitoris, which was swollen, and as he flicked back on forth on its tip, she began arching her back.
“Peter, I love how that feels,” she whispered against his lips. “Make me come.”
She slipped her hand inside his pants and grasped his penis. It was hard and full, and as she ran her fingertips up and down its length, Peter’s intake of breath was noticeable.
“Hold it tight,” he groaned, increasing the tempo of his fingertips inside and outside her vagina.
She let out a tiny shriek and he could feel the tremors throughout her body as he gave himself over to the orgasm that swept through his.
“You know bro, it’s an interesting philosophical principle,” huffed Peter as the pace increased. “Is the purpose of virginity simply to keep a membrane intact, or is it to abstain from pleasure? I suppose that for a man, coming inside a woman’s body with her legs wrapped around his back is better than the virgin method, but for a woman, I wonder. From what I’ve learned in my vast years of sexual activity…shut up you jerk, women usually reach the ultimate ecstasy via a man’s fingers and/or his tongue, especially his tongue. But Angela and I aren’t there yet. Oral sex will have to wait. But I must say, it does seem a bit hypocritical if virtue is the point of the exercise.”
“Well brother dear,” answered Matthew, speeding the pace of their jog. “Not having the same worldly knowledge of the opposite sex that you do, I would still venture the following analysis: Men have sex for its own sake, and can therefore stay emotionally neutral. Sex to them is the physical act of penetration. For women, sex means more than just the physical act; it usually means commitment, and love.
“So the other stuff, foreplay, oral sex, etc. can be a woman’s own special indulgence,” he continued. “Perhaps it means less commitment on her part, and more erotica for its own sake. But as long as a premium is put on a virginity that is contingent on an intact membrane, women will hold on, and hold out.”
The aromas wafting throughout the house lured Matthew into the kitchen where Peter was making the DeLuca special, an omelette filled with fried onions, mushrooms, diced potatoes and sun dried tomatoes. On the side, well done bacon, Italian sausages, and pancakes. Food for an army, and that’s exactly how much both brothers could eat.
“Where’s Angela?” asked Matthew, microwaving some bagels. “I’m famished, and the smells aren’t helping. I can’t wait too much longer before I attack.”
“How do I know?” answered Peter. “She’s been fixing herself up in the bathroom for half an hour. What time is it?”
“It’s ten o’clock,” was Angela’s sweet reply as she trotted into the room. Her thick black hair was up in a ponytail and she was wearing a grey sweat suit. She looked about twelve years old.
She sat down next to Matthew at the counter and started pounding her hands. Matthew joined her.
“Food, food, food!” they chanted, clanging their knives and forks together. “We want food!”
“Jerks,” mumbled Peter as he added the eggs to the frying pan.
At noon, all three of them were still sprawled out in the den sharing the Saturday papers.
“Let’s go to the Kennedy Library,” said Angela. “All this fuss about the Jackie O. auction at Sotheby’s has rekindled my interest.”
“You guys go ahead,” said Matthew, stretching his large frame out on the leather couch. “I promised Father McNulty that I’d give him a hand this afternoon. Some inner city kids are having a floor hockey tournament and I’ve been appointed their coach.”
Matthew had just unlocked the front door when the phone started ringing. He could tell by the silence echoing in the house that Peter and Angela hadn’t yet returned from Cambridge.
