I scrolled to the website for Lattimore & Finch, then searched under Criminal Justice Team. There were two lawyers and one paralegal—Contessa—in the section. It was a small section, since it existed to serve the CEOs who got target letters or when one of their kids got caught drunk driving.
I thought it over. It was a natural conclusion that probably no one other than Hart and Contessa knew about the cooperation agreement.
“Paul Hart,” I heard someone say. I looked at the TV to see a red Breaking News banner, which read REACTION TO HIT-AND-RUN OF PROMINENT LAWYER. A female TV reporter stood in the drizzle outside of a gray stone edifice, and I listened idly to the report.
“I’m at the War College in Carlisle to speak with Senator Mike Ricks about Center City lawyer Paul Hart, who was killed in a hit-and-run last night. Hold on, here he is now. Senator Ricks, Senator Ricks? Would you like to comment?”
“Certainly.” Senator Ricks appeared with the reporter, his expression somber. He had sterling gray hair, steely wire-rimmed glasses, and plain features with a strong jawline. His bearing was erect, which I recognized as former military. “I offer my deepest condolences,” said the senator, “to his lovely wife and family. I valued Paul’s support, as I do every lawyer and law firm working to support my campaign.”
“Have you heard from the police about any leads?”
“No.” Senator Ricks addressed the camera. “If you or someone you know has any information about this tragedy, please come forward and do the right thing.”
“Thank you, Senator, and for another reaction, we’ll switch to Representative Barbara Caldwell, who has finished speaking at Temple University Law School. Over to you, Tom.”
The screen changed and a male TV reporter appeared, standing with a tall, attractive woman with tortoiseshell glasses, her dark hair pulled back. “Representative Caldwell, do you have any comment on the death of Paul Hart last night in Center City?”
“Yes, I extend my deepest sympathies to his family and his wife. I knew Paul, not just as a loyal supporter, but also as a fellow lawyer.”
“Representative Caldwell, Mr. Hart was a supporter of Democratic causes as well as Republican, and public records show that Lattimore and Finch contributed to your campaign and Senator Ricks’s. Do you have any comment on that?”
Representative Caldwell smiled tightly. “If you’re suggesting that bothers me, let me assure you, it doesn’t.”
The TV reporter nodded. “Do you feel the same way if records show that Lattimore contributed five hundred thousand dollars more to candidates from the other party?”
“Of course,” Representative Caldwell shot back. “Now, I must go.”
“Thank you,” the reporter said, and I shifted my attention to the task at hand.
I took the cards from Junior’s flower arrangements out of the box. I had numbered them according to the way I had gathered them from the display, that night on the floor of Remy’s office. I picked them up and started to lay them out in order, left to right: first row, second row, third row. On each card, I had written the name of the GVO member under his alias, which I had found on the indictments.
I scanned the cards, taking mental inventory. Now I knew the GVO members and their proper names, but I didn’t know what else I had, if anything. Then I looked at the cards again, flashing on the display of the floral arrangements at the funeral home. The smallest ones had been on the bottom shelf, the medium-size ones on the second shelf, and the biggest ones on the top shelf. Behind the shelves had been the massive displays on easels.
I scanned the cards again and had another thought. The arrangement of the cards could be a reflection of GVO’s organizational structure. It made sense that members who earned the most bought the biggest arrangements, the middle-types bought the medium arrangements, and those on the bottom shelf were the lowest-level members of the organization.
Retail level.
I separated the cards on the last row, presumably from the retail-level dealers, and took a look at the names and aliases. I realized I had to improvise, now that Hart and Contessa were dead. I would have to penetrate GVO, directly.
I turned to the box, dug under the folder, and found my new gun, an old Rossi revolver, .38 caliber, with a brown handle and a metal barrel. It felt heavy, and its steel chilled the palm of my hand. The gun had cost three hundred dollars, and the registration number underneath the barrel had been scratched off, which made it illegal.
I turned the gun in my palm, crossing a border for the first time. I was sitting in a cheap motel room in industrial Philadelphia, contemplating going into the belly of the beast.
No more playing it safe.
I turned the gun this way and that, then aimed it at the wall. A muscle memory came back to me. I had learned how to handle a rifle, growing up. I could shoot fairly well because we used to practice on cans. If I had to shoot, I could hit something.
I sat straighter, looking down the barrel. The sight was long and notched, and I imagined pulling the trigger in self-defense, or something darker. For the first time in my life, it didn’t seem impossible. I thought about Allison, but this time, instead of breaking my heart, it opened my eyes. I had to do whatever it took to get justice for her. To save my family. To free them from the program.
I set the gun on the bed and rose, thinking about my next move. I found myself walking to the window and eyeing the traffic on Delaware Avenue. My gaze found my car in the parking lot, next to a dirty white Hyundai with a Phillies decal on the bumper, peeling at the top.
I found myself looking at the decal. Underneath it looked as if there was the shadow of a dent, but it was really a dark shape where the Phillies decal had been. Random dirt stuck to the residual adhesive, like a shadow.
I thought of the dark blue BMW, with its odd vertical dent. Maybe it wasn’t a dent at all. Maybe it was a red P, for the Phillies. I flashed on the Phillies-themed flower arrangement on the lowest level of the display. It had been red roses in a baseball vase.
I crossed to the box of cards and picked up the card with a red Phillies logo. It was signed:
Condolences, from North Philly Phil
I put two and two together. The name of the BMW driver had to be North Philly Phil. I picked up my Tracfone and scrolled quickly to the court index. Now all I had to do was search the indictments for that alias to find the real name of the defendant.
I skimmed caption after caption. It didn’t take long to find Phillip Nerone, aka “North Philly Phil.” I scrolled to the White Pages and plugged in Phillip Nerone, but a flood of entries came up. I narrowed the search to Philadelphia and still got several screens. I skimmed them, scrolling through one page and the next, but none of the addresses was close enough to be the same Phil Nerone. I assumed he lived locally, so his address must not have been listed.
A plan began to form in my mind. I scrolled back to the court site and plugged in George Veria. I should be able to take the details from the indictments and use them to make maps of where GVO was doing business. It would take some doing, but it was the only lead I had.
I needed paper, a pen, and black coffee.
It was time for Plan B.
Chapter Forty-Three
I waited until after midnight to drive through New Cumberton, dismayed at how run-down the town had become. It had once been a thriving farming community, but the hay and soybean fields had been plowed under for developments. The jobs had evaporated, and it was too far to be a commuting suburb, so its future held little promise.