The Man From Primrose Lane Part 16

Synenberger raised his hands at the judge. But Siegel only shrugged. "It is what it is. Take your seat, Terry."

Russo let the room fill up with silence for a moment as his a.s.sistant wheeled the TV cart back to the corner of the room. "What did you do after Mr. Wrenn relayed this important information to you, David?"

"I immediately took it to the police, the Canton police, actually, because that's where Donna was from."

"We of course have already learned from prior testimony by Canton detectives that they quickly reinterviewed Trimble. They also had the Bureau of Criminal Investigations and Identification compare a fingerprint found on a plastic bag that had been found near Donna's body. That fingerprint, we now know, matched Riley Trimble," said Russo, pointing dramatically at the defendant, who stared back at David. "Did that surprise you, David?"

"No," he said.

"Why not?"

"By the time the results came back from the lab, I was already convinced that Trimble was the man who murdered Donna Doyle, Jennifer Poole, and Sarah Creston."

"Thank you, Mr. Neff. No further questions, Your Honor."

"That's lunch, folks," said Judge Siegel. "Defense will cross when we return in an hour."

David looked to Synenberger. Caught his eye. The lawyer winked and then turned away.

"Where are you, David?" asked Katy, drawing the sheets around her naked body. "Where do you think you are?"

"s.h.i.t, Katy. Where the f.u.c.k am I?" He rolled off her and sat up. He looked around the room, his rooms, that is, at the Bush House Hotel.

Katy sat back against the headboard, using her left hand on the frame to pull herself up. "I came out here to surprise you," she said. "Only one hotel in Bellefonte. But when I opened the door, there you were, pa.s.sed out on the floor like some heroin addict. I thought you were dead. I almost called for an ambulance but then you started talking in your sleep and I knew you were okay, more or less. Anyway, I cleaned you up, got you in bed. You stopped talking around five in the afternoon. But you kept me up all night so I guess I dozed off after that." She looked at the clock on the nightstand: 11:32.

"I've been asleep for twenty-four hours?"

"Longer, hon," she said. "It's eleven-thirty in the morning. You pa.s.sed out Friday night. It's Sunday now."

He'd never slept so long in his life. He wondered if there really might be some brain damage involved.

"Kate, I'm sorry," he said.

She blushed. "Don't apologize," she said. "Why do you think I came out here? I just don't really like you thinking I'm your dead wife when we're b.u.mping uglies. So let's cool it until later." She laughed but he could also see that she was, in some very basic feminine way, quite shook up over their sudden and weird first s.e.xual encounter.

"I'm famished," he said at last. "How about some pizza?"

Lucarelli's Pizzeria was located in a two-story rock building atop Lamb Street, in an allotment overlooking Bellefonte proper. Frank resided in the apartment above the restaurant and his son, who hand-rolled dough beside a large oven as David and Katy ate, brought him down after their plates were cleared. He was a tiny man, covered in liver spots the size of large freckles, bent over an aluminum cane. He wore suede slippers and a long tweed coat tied around his waist. Carol had once been this man's lover, sometime before her dead brother's name had been used by a hermit from Akron. Frank sat in the booth beside Katy without acknowledging her presence.

"Some baked ziti, Dominic," he said. "And a coffee. Not decaf."

Dominic disappeared into the kitchen, muttering something from the motherland under his breath.

Until his son returned, Frank stared at the table in silence, his bottom lip moving slightly of its own accord. He has some palsy, thought David. Something degenerative like Carol, but not Alzheimer's, and not that far along.

As soon as the fumes from the high-octane coffee hit his olfactory center, drifting up from a ceramic mug in spindly fingers, Frank awoke. His dark eyes opened and surveyed his neighborhood as he sipped the drink loudly. When his eyes found Katy, he winked. He set the mug down.

"I knew when I did it I'd be haunted by the decision my whole life," said Frank, looking up at David. "Ever since I was a little kid, when faced with a decision, I listen to my heart and my heart tells me if I should do it or no. And all my life, if I get a feeling of unrest in my heart, I choose no. Every time except that day. But he was so G.o.dd.a.m.ned insistent."

"Who?"

Frank smiled. "I am not as senile as I appear," he said. "I thought of going to the police. Don't know why I never did. I guess I got a little scared. I made a deal with the devil one day, forty-some years ago. Summer of '69. I sold the ident.i.ty of my girlfriend's dead brother to a man in bed with the Philly Mafia."

"Did you get his name?"

Frank leaned forward. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"Back in the sixties, the Italian Mafia that ran those parts of Philly not controlled by the Irish had a capo who scouted this area for protection rackets, bookies, and small-time poker games," said Frank, between bites of baked ziti. "Name was Angelo Palladino. Ruddy little fella. Couldn't grow a beard. Just a thin mustache. Why they made Ange, I don't know. f.u.c.king stupid move on their part, I thought at the time, because Ange was a real mouth breather, you could tell. Figure that's why they set him out on the far territories, the little towns like Bellefonte, here. Used to come in to my shop, used to come in here and expect a t.i.the. Like I needed protecting. But I go along to get along and I will say I had use for them a few times in my life and they was always forthcoming when I needed certain services, so que f.u.c.king sera, okay? Okay.

"Came a time during that summer of '69, when the hippies were tearing up college campuses across the country, and we had a skirmish here in Bellefonte. These three longhairs from State College come down and put a rock through the window of the recruiter's office. Did it after dark, too. Cowards. Lot of old-country folk called out to Philly saying, 'Hey, buddy, we pay you for protection, remember? Maybe we should stop.' And so the boss, he sends out Ange and a couple a men and they take up stake down at the Bush House, where, no doubt, you're staying. Got to know Ange and his men well that week. Hot as f.u.c.k, it was. End of August, Africa hot. Even the n.i.g.g.e.rs stayed inside. Big Ange and his crew would lunch here every afternoon.

"Eventually, they caught up with those hippies. I'm happy to say they never came south of State College again. Point is, I got to know Ange's men. It got to where they trusted me a little and to where I let them in on my side project. I think I did it just to be friendly, but it was a f.u.c.king stupid move because now they wanted a cut of that action, too. What I did was I made a couple hundred bucks a month making fake IDs for the local high schoolers. And yes, I altered some doc.u.ments for the hippie draft dodgers on occasion. It wasn't my war. I didn't begrudge them their protests on principle, but I do get a little upset when they start trashing places. Anyway, I made fake IDs. I was good at it. Shoulda been an artist. My mother, G.o.d rest her, in the ground forty years, my mother-my mother always said I drew like da Vinci himself. Mothers, huh?

"So one of Ange's men, his name being Sal, Sal says, 'Hey, Ange, maybe he could help with the McGuffin situation.' And I says, 'McGuffin situation?' And Ange is quiet for a moment, right? He's sizing me up, but it hurts his brain too much, you can tell. He tells me all about this guy Sam McGuffin. Some smartypants who showed up in Philly and asked for the don's help. 'But McGuffin's an Irish name,' I says. But Ange, he just shrugs. Big galoot. McGuffin wanted papers. Doc.u.ments. Wanted to change his name. And wanted it done right. In exchange, he promised to give the don some financial advice. To prove his worth, this McGuffin character, he tells the don to invest into a certain company several thousands of dollars. The company split twice that week and the don became even richer. More to the point, he became indebted to this stranger.

"So we make a deal, yes? You see it? They let me keep all of my earnings in exchange for making this McGuffin disappear forever. They were my masterpieces, these papers I made. When making fake IDs for kids, I usually just grabbed a list of Social Security numbers from the office of vitals here in town. Or a birth certificate. You know, something good enough to buy them beer or get them into Mexico or Germany or what have you. But this man wanted a new life and papers that would hold up under the greatest of scrutiny. There is only one way to do this. You must find a person of roughly the same age, within five years will do, but a year is better, of course. Someone who died at a young age, young enough so that they had not yet applied for a Social Security card, young enough that they had never paid taxes. So that the only paperwork they have is that birth certificate. That's when I thought of Carol.

"I never dated Carol, all right? I know she says this. But it's not true. I have only ever had eyes for my beloved Anna, G.o.d rest her soul. But yes, I did f.u.c.k her. Excuse me. Pardon my f.u.c.king French. But I am old and there's no reason to lie. Yes, she was my goomah, my mistress. Carol, as I'm sure you know, had a brother who died in a terrible car accident when he was just a little boy. More, had he lived, he would have been just as old as Mr. McGuffin claimed to be. Was perfect. So there it is."

"So you never actually saw him?" asked David.

"No, I never did. Ange's men took the papers back to Philly. A notarized birth certificate, a high school diploma, college transcripts, employment doc.u.ments from several out-of-state businesses, and a Social Security card, a real one. Didn't need to doctor that. Back then, you had the birth certificate, you could get a soash. Easy-peasy, j.a.panesey. McGuffin-he liked the papers so much, he writes me a letter. More financial advice. Invest in Sony, he said."

"I spoke to Carol's son. Says she sent a man to talk to you in 2008. Did you tell all this to that man Arbogast when he came by asking questions?"

Frank shook his head.

"Why not?"

"That man was trouble," he said.

"What do you mean?" asked Katy.

"I asked him why he wanted to know, what business of his it was, and he tells me this story about how the guy I helped was an uncle of his and he needed to find him to let him know that his sister was deathly ill. Been around liars long enough to know a good one, and this fella was terrible. Obviously, this guy was in cahoots with whoever it was sent McGuffin into hiding in the first place. So I told him to go pound salt. When I seen the report on the news about the strange murder of Joe King, it didn't take me long to realize it was my Joe King they were talking about, the ident.i.ty I created. As I live and breathe, I am sure that Arbogast or whatever his name is had a hand in his murder. How he tracked him down, I don't know. There are ways. But they are beyond my means these days, I'm afraid."

And the trail was cold again.

"What answer are you pursuing, Mr. Neff?" asked Frank. "Arbogast's ident.i.ty or the reason behind McGuffin's secrecy?"

"Arbogast's real name is probably more important," he said. "I'm the main suspect in the other man's attempted murder at the moment and so I'd sort of like to find who's really responsible before it gets out of hand."

"There is one more thing, now that I think about this man. But it's probably not important. He parked in the crippled s.p.a.ce. Had one of those permits but there didn't seem to be anything wrong with him. Like I said, probably doesn't mean anything. I used to make crip permits, too. But it's different."

EPISODE NINE.

FEEDING HIS GHOST.

"How are we doing?" David asked Russo, the a.s.sistant prosecutor. Elizabeth was at his side, her fingers intertwined with his, as if he might suddenly be blown away, his father walking behind them. They headed for the elevators that would take them to the third-floor cafeteria.

"We're doing fine," he said, clapping David on the back. "Eat something light. Drink something caffeinated. Go over your notes before we head back in."

Moments later, they were seated at a table in the lunchroom, a salad and a bag of Cheetos in front of David.

"It's so surreal to see you sitting up there," said Elizabeth. "It's like you're the one on trial. I hate it."

"It's the only real defense," he said. "To tear me down."

"Heads up," said his father, nodding toward the door. Trimble's mother was making a beeline for their table.

"h.e.l.lo, Grace," said David.

Trimble's mother was a lanky woman with hair the color of some sea monster's ink. Her voice was ruptured and nasal. "You are a selfish p.r.i.c.k," she said. "Making money. That's all you care about. You don't care about the truth. You'd probably write that your own mother was a murderer if you thought you'd make a hundred dollars."

"Oh, come on," said Elizabeth. "He hasn't made anything off the book. He put more money into the research behind it. Get away from us, lady. Go talk to your son. He's the one who's hurting your family."

"If you were telling the truth, you wouldn't need to be medicated like a crazy person," she said.

"Grace, go sit down," David said.

"You're psychotic," she said.

"A little bit," he said. "Because of your son and his scoutmaster. Because of what they did to those girls, the stuff I had to read about. Maybe I am. Yeah. Maybe. So do you really think it's smart to p.i.s.s off a crazy man?"

Grace no longer looked angry. She looked concerned, the way a woman would look if she suddenly realized she had accidentally walked through a staff door at the zoo and found herself in the lion's den.

"Davey," said his father, shaking his head.

"Go back to your table, Grace," said David. "Go ...

... f.u.c.k yourself, you talentless hack!" The voice was thin and loud and full of rage. "You don't have it and you never will."

"What?" asked David.

Cindy peered over the top of the cubicle that separated her desk from Frankie's. "I didn't say anything," she said and popped back down. Frankie was out covering a county commissioners' meeting. The room was theirs.

David stared at his desk. It was littered with stacks of doc.u.ments from Brune's box. A packet of autopsy pictures lay half covered by a stack of police reports but he could still see the ghostly shape of Donna Doyle's naked backside. Her killer had carved two large gashes across her body there.

Had he dozed off? Had he been dreaming of Brune's voice?

Outside, the sky had grown dim over Cleveland. The setting summer sun hit the Cuyahoga and painted it a deep orange that looked like fire. (As it was the Cuyahoga, it was not outside the realm of possibility that it was, in fact, fire.) He looked at the clock on his computer-almost seven, another lost dinner with Elizabeth.

He hadn't called. And he still needed to come up with something to send along to Andy this week, a part of the job that felt like a ch.o.r.e. He was trying to make the most of it. He'd started honing his writing skills on other true crime stories about some of the city's famous unsolved murders, which he fed to Andy at a semi-steady rate between smaller news pieces on local activists or how much the county was spending on voting machines that could be hacked by r.e.t.a.r.ded monkeys.

From behind Cindy's desk came a dramatic sigh.

"You okay, Cindy?" he called.

"No."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

She was already walking to his desk, though, and there was a look of exaggerated exasperation on her face, a look she had long ago perfected. "So," she began (she was the sort of young woman who often began conversations with the word so, as if you had just been waiting for her to start), "I've been reporting on this story for, like, five weeks now and uhhhhhhg, David, I can't finish it. It's too confusing."

Sometimes when Cindy was nervous, like in pitch meetings with Andy, she rubbed the back of her right ear and then smelled her finger. She thought no one noticed this compulsion, but David had spotted it during his third pitch meeting. He could tell she was getting nervous talking about this story and he hoped that she wouldn't start rubbing the waxy garbage behind her ear, because he knew that there would be no way for him to hide the fact that he had noticed. And then they would have to talk about it. And David did not ever want to talk about that.

"What's the story?" he heard himself say.

"So there's this family, right? Rich family. Old money. Something to do with carpeting. So the patriarch dies. But he doesn't leave a will. He has a little over five million in the bank and the guy doesn't leave a will. I know, right? Anyway, they think he did it on purpose to punish everyone who was sitting around waiting for him to die. And now the family is tearing itself apart. Brothers fighting brothers. Mothers fighting daughters. Everyone with their own lawyer, everyone sure that they should have the biggest piece of the inheritance. They've been fighting each other for fifteen years. That's the story."

"Awesome," he said. He wasn't being patronizing, either. There was a lot of room to write about strong characters in a story like that. "Are you looking for a hook?"

"Yes."

David took a moment to think of something to peg such a story on. "What about the house?" he asked, thinking aloud. "They've been fighting over all this money, but there's got to be a big G.o.dd.a.m.ned house somewhere, right? Who's in the house?"

"n.o.body," she said. "A judge appointed his oldest surviving heir, a son, as executor of the estate and he got everyone to agree to sell the house and divvy up the profit-it's the only thing everyone agreed to, actually. But that money is in escrow until everything is figured out."

"They can do that?"

"I guess."

"I thought maybe you could make the house a character," he said. "I saw something like that in Esquire once, I think."

"No house," she said.

"Hmmm. What you need is a neutral, omniscient character. Something you can use as a filter, as a point of view. You know, something that can comment on each of the people subjectively. What about ... what about a gardener or maid or something? Did they have one of those?"

"I think so," she said. "I saw something about a maid in one of the filings."

"Try and track down their maid," he said. "Someone like that could tell you everything you need to know about this family. It'll be someone the reader can relate to, too."

She giggled a little. She looked relieved. Other writers had quit rather than disappoint Andy by dropping an a.s.signment. "Okay," she said. "That's good. Thanks, David."

Poor Cindy.