I thought fast. “Yes, about the Veria funeral. I’m with the courier service. I think they’re at the luncheon—I forget where it is, do you know?”
“They went back to the house.”
Duly noted. “Right. I’m supposed to get the cards from the flowers.”
The workman frowned. “Bill usually does that.”
“The Verias sent me. I do what I’m told.”
“Okay. You can take that, too.” The man pointed to a small box near the baseboard. “Extra Mass cards and stuff.”
“Great, thanks.” I hustled to pick up the box, and the man switched the vacuum cleaner back on.
I went to the front of the room, and each flower arrangement had a white card in a plastic holder, displayed to show the sender. They were of varied shapes and sizes, from massive sprays of calla lilies and gladiola to smaller ones of daisies. Some had themes; a green-sprayed carnation bouquet within a little Philadelphia Eagles helmet and a spray of red miniature roses in a ceramic baseball for the Phillies.
I took the cards and put them in the box, moving quickly. I waved to the man on the way out, and he nodded. I hurried from the room, out the entrance, and to the car, then climbed inside and left the parking lot.
I drove a few blocks away, and when the neighborhood turned residential, I pulled over under a tree and tugged the box onto my lap. Inside were the white cards from the flower arrangements, but I moved them aside in favor of a thick black folder embossed with the name of the funeral home.
I opened the folder.
It contained an invoice for George Veria.
With a home address.
* * *
—
Big George Veria’s house was a massive McMansion with a fieldstone fa?ade on the north and south wings, forming a U-shape around a circular driveway that held a catering truck and parked cars. The front lawn was manicured, with surprisingly tasteful plantings in a parcel of about twenty acres. A tall fence of black wrought iron ran along the front of the property, protected by a gate with ornate scrollwork. Beside it was a call box with a visible security camera, plus white cameras mounted in the trees.
I parked on the opposite side of the street, a distance from the house, eyeing the magnificent place. Whoever said crime didn’t pay didn’t know what they were talking about. My thoughts turned to Milo, and I knew he would be inside. He wouldn’t have risked showing his face in public, but he was safe among Big George’s crime family.
I scanned the cars parked out front, wondering which was his. I couldn’t remember exactly which cars had been at the funeral, so I couldn’t spot any new ones. None of them had their neon placards in the windshield. My gaze found the charcoal Mercedes that belonged to Paul Hart. He and his girlfriend were inside, too.
I straightened in the driver’s seat, having gotten the lay of the land. I twisted on the ignition. My plan was to get to Big George and bust Milo, but I had always known I couldn’t do it this way.
I had to start on more familiar terrain.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I sat in my car, edgy and waiting. Night had fallen, and drizzle dotted my windshield, but I didn’t turn on the wipers. I didn’t want to be seen by security cameras.
I was parked between two commercial dumpsters on Buckingham Street, a narrow backstreet in Center City, Philly’s business district. Buckingham afforded me a clear view of Colonial Towers East, a monolithic office building across from me on Eighteenth. On my left was Colonial Towers West, and on my right the service entrances to the stores and restaurants around the block, closed now.
You didn’t know I had an affair.
I suppressed the thought. Paul Hart was inside Colonial Towers East, and I was here for a reason. Milo was a confidential informant, so he had to have entered into a cooperation agreement. Those agreements were in contract form, drafted by the government and negotiated by defense lawyers. Since Hart was Milo’s lawyer, that meant Hart had negotiated the agreement.
I connected the dots that had taken me here. Hart knew Milo was a confidential informant, but Big George didn’t. So sooner or later, Hart would have to meet with Milo without Big George’s knowledge. I assumed they would meet in some out-of-the-way location, alone and probably at night. They couldn’t risk meeting in the open and they couldn’t talk on the phone, since they would assume the FBI was listening in. My plan was to follow Hart until he met with Milo, then take proof of that secret meeting to Big George.
I waited, and my dashboard clock ticked to eight forty-five p.m. I knew Hart was inside since I’d looked up his website, on a Tracfone with Wi-Fi I’d bought today. According to his schedule, tonight Hart was at a fundraiser for U.S. Senator Mike Ricks, who was rumored to be considering a presidential run. Tomorrow night, Hart would be at a fundraiser for U.S. Representative Barbara Caldwell, rumored to be vying for Ricks’s seat. The lawyer must have been hedging his bipartisan bets, having no interests except self-promotion.
Nine-fifteen p.m.
I straightened in the driver’s seat, eyeing Colonial Towers East. Its sleek modern lobby was a bright layer of floor-to-ceiling glass under the rest of the darkened building, its mirrored fa?ade vanishing into a black, foggy sky. I turned my attention to the entrance-and-exit of its underground garage. I assumed Hart would be among the last to leave the event, sprinkling his business cards like corporate confetti.
Nine-thirty.
Cars began leaving the parking garage, turning right onto Eighteenth. I got a decent look at the drivers’ faces in the streetlight. They were well-dressed men and women, on phones or smoking. No Paul Hart in his charcoal Mercedes.
I watched and waited, checking each driver. A line of big black Escalades left the garage, one of which held Senator Ricks himself. I caught sight of Senator Ricks in the back seat, a tall, gray-haired politician with the requisite toothy smile. But still, no Paul Hart. The caravan diminished to only a few cars, and I worried I had missed Hart. Maybe he had been a passenger in someone else’s car or was still inside.
Nine forty-five.
Suddenly I spotted Hart walking inside the lobby of Colonial Towers East, which had a glass fa?ade. He nodded at the security guards at the front desk as he passed them.
My heart began to pound. I started my engine as Hart exited the building, briefcase in hand. He reached the sidewalk and stopped before he crossed the street, waiting for traffic. His head was turned to the right, and I followed his line of sight to a black hired car parked in front of Colonial Towers West. So he hadn’t driven himself.
I left my parking space and cruised slowly up Buckingham. Two men under umbrellas met Hart on the sidewalk and they started talking, so I braked a short distance from the top of the street, waiting for them to finish. I couldn’t read their lips with an obscured view.
Hart waved goodbye, stepped off the curb, and started to cross Eighteenth. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a dark sedan sped down the street and struck him, head-on.
I gasped, shocked. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It took everything in me not to shout.
Hart screamed. The impact of the sedan catapulted him into the air, propelling him down the street. The sedan didn’t stop.
My heart thundered. It was an intentional hit-and-run. I didn’t see what kind of car it was, I had been watching Hart.
Instinctively I accelerated and turned onto Eighteenth Street. People were running down the sidewalk toward the scene. Hart lay motionless in front of the entrance to Colonial Towers West.