The realization sent a shudder up my spine. The only question was how Milo would have convinced Big George to have Hart killed. As far as I knew, Big George thought of Hart as his lawyer and had even invited Hart and his girlfriend to Junior’s funeral. I couldn’t understand why Big George would have him killed the same night.
Then it struck me.
Maybe Milo had lied to Big George about Hart, like with the botched carjacking. Milo could have made up some lie that would turn Big George against Hart. Or Milo had simply gone rogue and ordered the hit-and-run.
But now what?
My mind raced. If Milo had gone rogue, there were two possibilities. Either Big George would know GVO was responsible for killing Hart because he would know that the BMW driver was one of his own guys—or Big George would be too preoccupied with Junior’s death to pay attention to a random hit-and-run in Center City, which happened to kill his lawyer. There were plenty of dark blue BMWs in the world, and the news hadn’t mentioned a plate number.
My gaze returned to the TV, but my thoughts went back to the funeral today, about Hart and the girlfriend, then about the cards I’d taken from the funeral home.
“Remy?” I called out, heading for the garage.
* * *
—
Fifteen minutes later, I was on my second cup of black coffee and my brain was in overdrive. I had retrieved the box from the funeral home, and my task lay before me on the gritty tile floor.
First was a row of cards that I had taken from the floral arrangements on the first shelf of the display, laid out in order from left to right. Second was a row of cards I had taken from the second shelf of flower arrangements, also left to right, and the top row contained only three cards, from the flower arrangements that had their own easels in the back.
I scanned a few names in the first row:
Deepest Sympathy, Rachel & Big P
Love, Sonia & Little Jimmy
Condolences, RJ
I realized I was essentially looking at the inner circle of GVO, but I didn’t know how to find out who they were. They hadn’t signed the guest book, but they’d sent the flowers, trying to score points with Big George. There were no last names on the cards, so I couldn’t look them up online, and most had only nicknames.
I sipped coffee, puzzling it out. Then it struck me that a nickname was also an alias. I reached in my pocket, pulled out my Tracfone, and logged on to the Internet. I went to the court records site, plugged in Marie’s username and password, and searched under George Veria.
Onto the tiny screen popped the caption of the most recent criminal case against Big George, and there were other defendants, since he was part of a criminal conspiracy. Five codefendants were named, and as I had known, every caption in a criminal indictment listed the defendants, as well as last known aliases.
I rallied. To identify the members of GVO, all I had to do was use the captions on the indictments and compare them with the cards. I probably wouldn’t get all of the members, but I’d take as many as I could. It would be tedious on a phone, but I had no other option.
I was about to get started, then stopped myself, remembering Hart. I scanned the cards and found his in the middle of the second row.
Deepest condolences, Paul & Contessa
I double-checked the cards to see if there was another Paul, and there wasn’t. It was always possible that Hart’s flowers had been brought to the cemetery, but I bet they hadn’t. That was usually done for immediate family or those closest to them, like Milo. So Hart’s girlfriend was named Contessa.
I jumped on Google and searched under Contessa and Philadelphia. There weren’t that many Contessas, and I clicked on the first one, a Contessa Burroughs on LinkedIn, with her current employment:
Paralegal, White-Collar Litigation Team, Lattimore & Finch, Philadelphia Office
I scrolled to whitepages.com and looked up her address.
Chapter Forty-One
I reached Contessa’s neighborhood first thing in the morning. The sky was cloudy, but I had my sunglasses on, so nobody would see my face. I felt different with my head completely shaved. Freer, bolder, and onto something after last night. The car felt different, too; it had taken all night to dry, but it was credibly black. My new license plate was from New Jersey, a nice touch.
I circled the block looking for a parking space, my tires rumbling on the cobblestones in this old part of Philly, called Northern Liberties. It used to be the industrial section, marked by abandoned warehouses and the old red-brick Schlitz and Ortlieb’s breweries, but had since been gentrified into a vibrant, hip neighborhood and the warehouses renovated into upscale apartments that attracted young professionals like Contessa. She lived in NorthLofts, overlooking the Delaware River.
The traffic was light, but there were people on the sidewalk. A woman ran by with a mutt, and two men walked uptown carrying messenger bags. I imagined Contessa wouldn’t be going into the office this morning, since Hart had been killed the night before. The local news reported that the police had no further leads, though now I distrusted official reports. A reward had been posted by Lattimore & Finch, and official mourning press-released by the Philadelphia Bar Association, the Criminal Justice Section of the American Bar Association, and a host of prominent lawyers and law firms, as well as political types like Senator Ricks, Representative Caldwell, and the Governor of Pennsylvania.
I reviewed my plan. I assumed Hart trusted Contessa, since they were lovers and she worked for him. She probably knew Milo was a confidential informant, and his cooperation agreement had to be filed and saved online or in hard copy. Lawyers like Hart didn’t do their own administrative tasks, so I was betting Contessa did. If she knew Milo was an informant, or even if she didn’t, I was going to tell her so—and that I believed Milo was responsible for Hart’s murder. I wanted her to give me a copy of the cooperation agreement, so I could show it to Big George and prove Milo’s betrayal. She might do it because she would want to take down Milo, as revenge for killing Hart.
I spotted somebody leaving a space across from NorthLofts and waited to pull in. In the meantime, I sized up her condominium, a former warehouse about seven stories tall with large louvered windows. I spotted a boxy white security camera over the apartment entrance and put on my ballcap, pulled into a parking space, and left the car.
I kept my head down as I approached the building and reached the entrance, a modern glass door. On the wall to the right was a long panel of black buzzers. No names were listed, but I remembered Contessa’s apartment number, 626.
I held my phone to my ear and pretended to call whoever I was visiting. I blocked the button panel from the security camera as best I could and pressed a button at random. I heard the buzzer sound, but nobody came on the speaker or buzzed me in. I pressed another button, waited again, but no answer.
Suddenly I saw a young woman in running gear approaching the door from the inside, and I kept talking on the phone. “Yes, honey, I’m sorry I’m late, I really am,” I said into the phone, just as the woman opened the door. I made a help-me-I’m-a-bad-boyfriend face while I kept talking on the phone. “I know, but traffic was crazy, I’m really sorry.”
The woman flashed a disapproving look and left the door open, and I caught the door, still talking.
“I’m coming in right now. The car is packed and we’re good to go.” I kept up the fake conversation inside the lobby, which was small and brightly lit with exposed brick walls and a mailroom. The elevator bank was ahead, next to the staircase, and I opted for the stairs. I slipped into the stairwell and took the steps two by two, taking off my sunglasses and cap. Reflexively I reached to smooth my hair into place, then remembered I didn’t have any.