Final Justice, page 6
She tossed her head back as she pulled on her gloves.
“It’s time to face the day my sons,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Chapter 6
“Good evening ladies and gentleman. I’m Dana Spencer, and welcome to INSIDE COPY for Thursday, December 28, 1996. We’re here in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral in downtown Boston to bring you the arrival of the rich, famous, and infamous to the memorial mass for the late Santino DeLuca, alleged to have been the boss of the notorious Villano crime family.
“You might remember that cancer struck down Mr. DeLuca a year ago at his palatial Back Bay townhouse. His wife Elizabeth, well known for her charitable work on behalf of the Catholic archdiocese and as vice chair of the Boston Arts Council, was at his side, along with their two sons who are both graduate students at Harvard.
“Rumour has it that there are several government undercover agents mixing with the crowds hanging around outside the church. And INSIDE COPY is right here to bring you up to date coverage on what could turn out to be a mobster mass, no pun intended, and to give you a glimpse of those who have come to pay their respects.”
“Okay guys, that’ll be my intro,” said Dana to her camera and audio crew. “I’ll need about thirty five minutes of tape to get seven minutes of air time on tonight’s show.
“Hey, there’s Walter Stone, chief of staff to President Sam Reynolds!” she suddenly yelled. “Who are the two men with him? Follow me guys, hurry!
“Oh Mr. Stone, Mr. Stone, can I talk to you for a minute?” she shouted as she caught up to him, pressing her microphone into his face.
The object of Dana Spencer’s attention seemed startled by the presence of TV cameras and stopped for a moment. One of the men with him, Canadian politician Richard Dudley, turned to face the camera, a smile creeping up his face. The other, Senator Jack Jacobs, kept his head turned to the side.
“Did the President ask you to come here today Mr. Stone?” she asked. Stone quickly turned away without answering and hurried up the cathedral steps followed by Dudley and Jacobs.
“Oh nuts,” mumbled Dana. Then she turned to the crew. “Okay you guys, keep alert. DeLuca’s wife is a socialite, and I need some good footage on what the ladies who lunch are wearing. It’ll be perfect for the fashion segment on this weekend’s show.”
She started walking back to the TV truck when a familiar face caught her eye.
“Hey, Lisa, Lisa, over here!” waved Dana.
A chic young woman with auburn curly hair turned and a smile of recognition came on her face. Standing beside her was one of the most stunning women Dana had seen in a long time. She didn’t have a drop-dead beauty but rather the sensuality of an alluring woman. Her brown eyes were like magnets and her body language exuded confidence.
Dana hurried over to them, motioning the cameraman to follow.
“It’s so nice to see you again,” she said as she put her arms around Lisa. “I saw the French edition of Vogue last week when I was in Paris. Your pictures were fantastic. I especially liked the black and white ones and the effect you created by using a blurred focus. You really are very talented.”
“Thanks Dana,” answered Lisa. “But having Annie Leibowitz as a role model doesn’t hurt and working with some of her staff has been the best experience anyone could dream of.”
Then Lisa turned to the woman next to her. “Mom, this is a former schoolmate, Dana Spencer. We were in the same design course at Ryerson. Dana, this is my mother, Rebecca Sherman.”
“How do you do Mrs. Sherman,” said Dana as she studied Rebecca’s face. I know this woman, or at least I’ve seen her somewhere. Rebecca smiled at her.
“Mrs. Sherman, the outfit you’re wearing is stunning, and so is yours Lisa,” gushed Dana. “Please give me just a few moments to describe them for the viewers of Inside Copy’s weekend fashion segment.”
“No, I’d rather not,” said Rebecca, turning to Lisa who took her arm.
“Maybe some other time Dana,” said Lisa “This is not the appropriate time.” The two women started to walk away.
“You’re right Lisa, you’re right, I’m sorry,” said Dana, scurrying after them. “I should have realized that myself. It’s just that I was so surprised to see you here. It’s hard to believe that you knew that scumbag DeLuca well enough to attend his memorial.”
“Ah Dana, I see you still have the same big mouth,” whispered Lisa. “And so quick to judge. Tell me, how do you know what kind of person Mr. DeLuca really was? You, more than anyone, shouldn’t believe everything you read in the rag magazines. Remember those anonymous letters to the editor about you in the Ryerson Post way back when?”
The phoney smile on Dana’s face quickly disappeared.
“Besides,” continued Lisa, “Mrs. DeLuca is one of the foremost volunteers and contributors to the arts in Boston. My mother and I are just two of the many who have come here today to pay their respects to her and her family. Now, please excuse us. We don’t want to be late for the service.”
Dana stared after the two women as they walked up the cathedral’s steps where a tall and powerful looking redhead quickly joined them.
The TV cameras and press setting up near the entry doors were turning the memorial service into a media event.
“Hey guys,” said Dana, turning back to her crew. “Bring the microphones and cameras over here. I know Lisa’s mother from somewhere and when I figure it out, I want some tape ready. If nothing else, that outfit she’s wearing is worth two minutes of air time”
“And now ladies and gentlemen, I’ve saved the best for the last. INSIDE COPY is proud to present two of the best of the rich and famous, with an added bonus. One of them has a past—a criminal past. Try to guess which one while I describe how they looked and what they wore at the DeLuca memorial service held earlier this week.
“The young woman on the left is Lisa Sherman Jacobs, already being touted as the successor to one of the world’s greatest photographers, Annie Leibowitz. Though only twenty-eight years old, her work appears regularly in Elle, Seventeen, and Vanity Fair.
“Lisa is wearing Donna Karan’s charcoal grey three piece suit with a short, cropped jacket and a very short skirt. Silver zippers adorn the jacket and slit pockets with a silver lurex form fitting sweater underneath. On her feet, Donna Karan’s lace-up boots in silver leather, and over her shoulder, a silver backpack purse by Anne Klein. What a fashion statement for the under thirty set.
“The ensemble worn by the older woman on the right can be summed up in two words: Isaac Mizrahi. A magnificent four piece taupe suit of worsted wool with a chalk stripe jacket that is body shaped and billows out over the hips in a peblum effect. A short corset vest fastened by two brushed gold buttons under the bust line frames a silk tie front blouse in soft beige, which enhances her skin tone and dark hair. The ankle length skirt is a companion pattern mini-check in taupe and light beige and is pencil slim with a high vent in the back. On her feet, Ferragamo stiletto pumps in taupe. She is carrying an exquisite Judith Leiber handbag in brushed, matte pewter—it’s really just a small pouch dangling from two rope chains also in pewter. Draped over her shoulders is a mink cape.
“So, all of you over-forty ladies out there. Can you feel it? Sex appeal and style—what a match! And, have you guessed it yet?
“Yes, it is the once infamous Rebecca Sherman, mother of photographer Lisa. It was ten years ago that Mrs. Sherman was a guest of the Canadian government at one of their better resorts—the Midland Prison for Women. I’m sure that our Canadian viewers need no reminders, especially since Mrs. Sherman’s once upon a time dear friend and colleague, Richard Dudley, is now being touted as the next Prime Minister of Canada. But for those of you who don’t know, Mrs. Sherman was imprisoned in one of the biggest political scandals our neighbours to the north have ever produced. She is now on the straight and narrow we hope—though we weren’t able to speak with her directly. But one thing is certain. She still knows how to dress.
“Mrs. Sherman was also a great and good friend of Santino DeLuca.”
“Okay Dana, that’s a print,” said the producer. “It’ll air on Saturday’s show, but we’ll use excerpts tonight as a teaser. Good stuff.”
Michael DeVilliers walked over to the bar built into the leather wall and poured some Chivas into a crystal glass, adding three ice cubes. Then he walked back to his desk, sat down and swivelled around to look out the windows of his office penthouse just off Central Park West. He could see the trailing vapour from a jet off in the distance and he kept staring at it.
He’d been watching the six o’clock news when a clip of the DeLuca memorial filled the screen. The arrival of Elizabeth DeLucaand her sons at the cathedral had set off a frenzy of flashbulbs popping, reporters pushing and elbowing each other to get closer, and microphones being shoved into their faces. But the three of them had ignored it all as they walked up the steps together looking relaxed and confident.
There’s something about that woman that intrigues me, he thought. Even on a TV screen she sends off sparks. He got up and rewound the tape.
“Philip, get me a background on Elizabeth DeLuca and her family,” he said, leaning over the intercom on top of his desk. “And whatever you can dig up on Rebecca Sherman as well.”
Michael DeVillers was President of the Goldstar Group, an international conglomerate of companies of which he was the principal shareholder. He’d started the company with money he’d made from drug running when he was a lieutenant in Vietnam, but a sniper’s bullet in 1973 had cut short his career.
During a six-month convalescence in San Diego, he taught himself about the tax and banking laws of various countries around the world from books he’d borrowed from the library. He was then able to successfully launder his illicit drug profits through several offshore companies and had become a millionaire by the time he was thirty. He then decided to “go straight” and make the rest of his fortune within the law. His successes earned him a prominent role in the world community as an expert in the international stock and bond markets. He was also an ex-officio member of the Federal Reserve Board, having advised two presidents on economic issues.
Michael DeVillers was five feet, ten inches tall and weighed about one hundred and seventy-five pounds. His sandy coloured hair was cropped close to his head and his huge brown eyes reminded some people of a beagle, at least that’s what his ex-wife Sharon used to say.
“Don’t turn those sad beagle puppy eyes at me,” she’d snapped at him during one of their regular battles. “I’m on to you by now. Why don’t you try something new for a change?”
Sharon had been his one and only attempt at fidelity and it hadn’t worked out. They’d met fifteen years ago, just after he’d become a millionaire. She was twenty-two, and an old fashioned girl…in a way.
“No wedding, no fucking,” she’d whispered in his ear as her fingers ran along his balls. “A hand job is all you’ll get.” A Justice of the Peace in upstate New York married them two weeks later. It had lasted five years. Marriage wasn’t for him, especially since he had no particular fondness for children.
Since the divorce, he’d kept several different women around the world, always making sure that they understood, in writing from his attorneys, that he was not the marrying kind, or even the, “let’s move in together” kind. He liked his solitude.
Michael DeVillers had never been jolted by any woman, though he’d had occasional feelings of affection, saying the right words needed to get a woman’s panties down and himself up, but never anything close to what he’d read about in books. He’d stopped wondering why a long time ago. And then he saw Elizabeth DeLuca.
Chapter 7
Rebecca noticed the smell first.
“Incense,” whispered Grant when she hesitated outside the sanctuary. “It’s part of the ritual. Catholics wouldn’t notice. We’re used to it.”
Heads turned and there was animated whispering as Rebecca walked past the reporters sitting in the back. When they reached the front, Grant nudged the two women into an empty pew and genuflected before he sat down beside them.
Once settled, Rebecca looked down at the program booklet the ushers had given them at the door and tears began welling up behind her eyes. She took a couple of deep breaths as she began reading.
A MEMORIAL MASS IN MEMORY OF SANTINO
DELUCA—DECEMBER 28, 1996.
A CELEBRATION OF THE FEAST OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS, MARTYRS
SANTINO DELUCA—born October 12,1926—went to be with his Lord on December 27,1995. He leaves his beloved wife Elizabeth and their sons, Peter and Matthew, to mourn his death and celebrate his life.
And me too, thought Rebecca. Me too. Oh Santino my darling. How I miss you. Rest in peace. She closed her eyes and could almost hear his last words to her.
“Hold the love that was between us next to your heart and I’ll always be close by. Ciao, bella. Tiamo.”
She thought back to the unexpected phone call she’d received on a cold and blustery November morning a year earlier.
“Hello Rebecca,” Elizabeth DeLuca blurted out quickly. “I know you must be surprised to hear from me after so many years, but Santino asked me to call you. He’s very ill and wants to see you. It is very important to him and to me as well. Please come.”
Rebecca had caught the red-eye out of Toronto and arrived at the DeLuca townhouse in Boston’s Back Bay at four o’clock the next morning. It had been almost ten years since she’d seen the man who had been her mentor, her protector, and her lover.
“Thank you for coming Rebecca,” said Elizabeth when she opened the front door. “Santino is anxious to see you.”
Rebecca tried to hide her discomfort as she walked beside Elizabeth towards the elevator that would take them up to the fifth floor master suite. Suddenly, Elizabeth stopped and took her arm.
“Santino won’t tell you this Rebecca, but I want you to know that I’ve endangered all of our lives.”
Rebecca looked at Elizabeth with surprise and a certain amount of disbelief.
“Yes, I have,” said Elizabeth emphatically. “When you talk to San-tino, you’ll understand how. And because of what I’ve done, I’m ready to do anything to help. Please remember that.”
Sal Lata was sitting outside Santino’s door as Rebecca approached. He got up and smiled, putting his powerful arms around her shoulders. Then he opened the door and silently closed it behind her.
“Oh Santino, my darling, how I’ve missed you,” whispered Rebecca as she leaned over his gaunt frame. His eyes were closed and she wasn’t sure if he was awake. His once thick, black hair was now white and his skin was like parchment. When she whispered ‘tiamo’ in his ear, his arms reached up and encircled her, holding her tight.
“Shh, shh, don’t cry my bella,” he said, stroking her hair. “Now that you’re here, everything is going to be all right.”
Rebecca pulled over a chair and sat down, holding Santino’s hand as he started to speak.
“I have very little time,” he began in a hoarse voice. “Maybe six weeks. So let me tell you everything you need to know now, while I still have the strength.
“First, I’ve made some provisions for you,” he whispered, forcing her to lean closer to him in order to hear. “It can’t make up for what you’ve suffered, but at least you and Lisa will never have to worry about money. And it will be a reminder of the love we once shared.”
Santino started to cough and Rebecca poured him some water, putting her arm around his shoulders to help him sit up. After a few minutes, he was able to speak again.
“Rebecca, after I’m gone, Elizabeth and my sons are going to need your help. Massimo Brattini came to see me just before he died. He told me that a contract has been put out on their lives.”
Rebecca stiffened and moaned softly. She’d been shocked, and a little curious, when she’d heard about the recent murder of Brattini, but she’d quickly dismissed any questions she might have had because that part of her life was over.
“Last July, Elizabeth took the boys back to Italy to visit her mother, who had just been diagnosed with inoperable cancer,” San-tino went on. “She wanted to see her once more, and she wanted Peter and Matthew to meet their grandmother.
“Elizabeth didn’t tell me about it until they were back home, hoping that any danger was long past and that she’d be able to bring her mother here to live with us. To be honest, I hoped the danger was over too. I knew that my own days were numbered and I wanted
Elizabeth to have her mother with her in the painful months that were sure to come.
“But it wasn’t to be.”
Now I understand what Elizabeth is feeling guilty about, thought Rebecca. That trip back to Italy was a stupid move on her part.
“I won’t go into why Massimo got involved in this, or why he came to bury the hatchet with me,” Santino continued, “you’ll find out soon enough. But the most important thing to remember is this; he came to me to help save my wife and sons.
I doubt it. I’m sure Brattini was up to his old tricks again. Rebecca’s mind raced in a million directions.
“Do you remember Inspector Teasdale, that cop from years ago?” asked Santino.
Rebecca’s heart stopped. “Yes, I remember him Santino. Why do you ask?”
“Well, he’s on his way here. His plane lands this afternoon.”
Rebecca tensed up. “But…why? I…!”
“Wait, don’t get excited,” interrupted Santino. “Teasdale lives in Florida now; in fact he’s been there ten years. And he’s out of the cops and robbers business—he’s running his own security firm.
“I know that you don’t know this,” Santino went on, “but he and I have already met. It was the night before you were sent to prison, and I called him to get together. I asked him to take care of you on the inside. We spoke for several hours and I had the feeling that he was interested in you, but then, what man wouldn’t be.”
