Who were these guys?
The question had kept me staring at the ceiling for far too long last night. Identity shouldn’t be difficult to establish, but what kind of boys’ club was this? It was more than a weird coincidence Gaetano and Morales had a relationship with Panici, the man who said Judge Reynolds deserved to die. Cai had described Panici as hot-tempered, so he may have harbored a hatred of the judge, but hiring a hit because you didn’t like how your divorce was proceeding was nuts.
The venom the guy at Selciatto had directed at Panici flashed back into my mind. He was pissed about something Panici had done and a woman who was complicating life for them. “She runs her mouth.” “She don’t know shit.” Had Panici meant his wife, Rae?
My gut said to follow the money. Always follow the money. I was parked at my desk in the Link-Media office, an hour deep into an internet search of Selciatto Holdings and I still couldn’t come up with a single plausible reason Reynolds would owe a paving company half a million dollars. That was a commercial paving number, not a single-family home number, and so far I’d found nothing to suggest Reynolds was dabbling in real estate development on the side. So what was the money for, and why would they have given him a loan?
The staff was filtering in, and snips of conversation broke the silence along with the low hum of national TV news that ran continuously in the background from screens hung from the ceiling in the timber loft space.
Brynn waved as she passed, winding her way to her desk, a big smile on her face, a travel mug of coffee in hand, as always. Clearly, her iron stomach had insulated her against food poisoning, or maybe all the coffee she consumed served as an antimicrobial. I lifted my bottle of green juice in salute, eliciting an amused grimace in response.
As laughter and the morning’s night-before war stories pierced the air, I stared at a tagged photo of Edmund Rastello, of Rastello-Marcetti Paving. The image was attached to an article in one of the suburban weeklies, announcing the opening of a new medical clinic. They had posed him next to a mound of gravel nearly as tall as he was, arms crossed over his ample belly, feet planted in the classic construction-guy stance. The photographer had wisely gone for a wide shot. That mug of his wasn’t a selling point. I guessed the photo to be at least a few years old, given the change in his hairline, but I was certain I was staring at the same man in plaid I’d seen meeting with Orlando Gaetano last night.
The same man Panici had met outside Selciatto Holdings.
Now I had a name. According to my search, Edmund Rastello was the CEO and owner of Selciatto Holdings, LLC. And Rastello-Marcetti was a wholly owned subsidiary of the organization, concentrating on commercial paving, and Smooth Top Paving, also a subsidiary of Selciatto, handled residential projects. Now that I knew the players, it was clear that the office on Diversey was likely used just for administrative functions, like bookkeeping and receiving mail. Or perhaps Rastello lived in the city and needed a more convenient location when he wasn’t out in the field. Regardless, the nuts and bolts of the heavy work and the housing of the machinery were handled out of a large warehouse just south of O’Hare Airport in Schiller Park.
So, unless I was missing something, Judge Reynolds owed half a million dollars to a paving company. Something was wrong here, way wrong. I supposed Reynolds could have had some side business investments that escaped credit reports, but this was not making sense. People tried to hide assets all the time in bankruptcy, but this was a debt he wanted to be wiped clean. The court would have demanded to know the purpose of the loan and the terms.
If the loan was question one, question two was Panici. What was his connection to the paving company? And what was the source of his animus for Reynolds? And that brought me to question three. Why did Rastello and Panici and Morales and Gaetano all know each other?
I pulled out a packet of Post-its, wrote out the names and my initial questions, then arranged the cards on the whiteboard next to my desk, as was my habit. A visual schematic of sorts. Leaning back in my chair, I stared at the wall, trying to imagine the common denominator, then reached for my phone.
Cai picked up on the second ring.
“Tell me about your client’s husband, Felix Panici.”
“What? You’re going to have to be more specific. I didn’t pencil in one of your fishing expeditions on today’s calendar.”
Her voice was irritated, distant. It was the tone I’d heard her use with paralegals who would not make the cut.
“I’m sorry, I’m catching you at a bad time. I’m trying to piece something together and got a little overly enthusiastic. What’s a better time to talk?” I said, guilt creeping in.
“Sorry, now is fine. I’m just annoyed. It’s not you. This Twitter jerk is getting to be a real pain in the ass.”
“You’ve blocked him, right?” Apprehension crawled up the back of my neck.
“Of course, but that hasn’t made it stop. He tags me on his own feed. I can’t stop that.”
“What’s he saying?”
“He’s calling me sick and demented. Weird references to satanic, lawless behavior. Says ‘they’re’ coming for me, whoever that is. It’s a bunch of crazy nonsense, but I feel like I’m sitting around waiting for the wacko to snap or show up at my door. I can’t tell if he’s a Twitter coward trying to mess with my head and reputation or if I should worry about my safety. And I don’t know how to shut him down.”
“I’m on my way over to your office now.” I hung up before she objected.
Fifteen minutes later, I stood in front of the reception desk in Cai’s law firm, my chest tight, images of Judge Reynolds’s sprawled body in my head. I’d phoned Michael on the way over and asked him to meet us. It was impossible to know if this guy was a physical threat, but cautious optimism would not settle me down. I’d seen too many versions of the “shouldas” tear people apart with guilt after someone was hurt or dead.
As the gal at the front desk announced me, I paced the elaborate oriental carpet that graced the space. The paneled mahogany walls, smooth leather chairs, and collector-level art had been chosen to instill a feeling of confidence and permanence in the firm. Not today.
Cai arrived a few minutes later. Her clipped hair and missing jacket told me she was trying to shoulder through, but the dark circles under her eyes told another story.
“Thanks for coming, but you really didn’t need to run over for this. I feel silly. The guy is probably hiding in his mom’s basement, afraid of his own shadow. He’s just getting under my skin, and I need to stop letting him.”
Her voice was still wobbly, and a hint of sheepishness leaked through.
“Don’t take chances with crazies,” I said, giving her a hug. “I called Michael.”
She opened her mouth to protest but closed it quickly after seeing the determination on my face.
“Let’s go to a conference room.”
The glass doors opened behind us, and Michael pushed his way through. His eyes lingered on me for a moment before he immediately turned his attention to Cai. We hadn’t spoken since our dinner the other night, exchanging only a brief text or two. His dismissive “let the cops do this” still stung. I was holding back, processing, not sure if my fear of moving in together was causing some distance or if he had interpreted my questions as challenges. The evening had proceeded pleasantly without any additional conversation about our living arrangements, yet this tension seemed to hang between us. I could see it in his reaction to me just now, feel it in my body.
“Are you okay?” he asked, placing a hand on Cai’s shoulder.
“Thanks, Michael. I’ll be better when this jackass finds someone else to torture. Let’s talk in the other room.” She said a few words to the receptionist about a call she was expecting, then we followed her down the narrow hallway to a small room partitioned off with frosted glass.
Generic instrumental music played so low in the background as to be unrecognizable. This room was the space reserved for clients who didn’t need to be impressed. I settled into a squeaky faux leather chair and looked at Cai, who was already tapping into her phone.
“Show me what he’s sending,” Michael said, his voice steady and reassuring.
“As I told Andrea, he’s tweeting this junk at me, so it’s all there for the world to see. Great reputation builder. I guess I should be grateful I’m not job hunting. Here, take a look.”
She handed her phone to Michael, and I watched his eyes as he scrolled, trying to read any alarm that might pop through. He was too much of a pro to let emotion cross his face in front of Cai, but since I knew him so well, occasionally a subtle tell hinted at what he was thinking.
“Any vague thoughts about who this guy might be or what this is all about?” he asked.
“No, nothing. I’ve reported him to Twitter, of course, but crickets. As usual, social media fails to do anything until a massive public outcry with lots of media attention forces their hand.”
My thoughts tumbled back to a story of a woman who’d been murdered the previous year in Michigan by a Twitter troll. He turned out to be a jilted lover with anger management issues, and Cai had jilted her fair share of men, so I couldn’t help but go down that ugly path. The knot in my gut clamped down, and I wished I’d dug further back into Zipsdefender’s history.
“So, how do we shut him down?” I asked.
Michael shot his eyes at me in surprise before turning back to Cai. “I know this is hard to hear when you’re on the receiving end of this kind of shit, but I’m not seeing any specific threats of harm,” he said, his voice soft. “Nothing specific enough that would ratchet the level of concern up to something I could use to force Twitter to ID the guy or even to get the account shut down.”
Cai nodded, but worry etched her eyes. Michael’s declaration wasn’t a surprise to either of us. Freedom of speech was a strongly defended concept by all attorneys, but when someone you care about was on the receiving end of even vague threats, it was hard not to hope that by-the-book legal standards could be a little more fluid.
“Hey, I’m not washing my hands of this,” Michael added. “Let me see what I can do. Give me a few days. I’ll watch the account. Maybe there is something further back in his history that can give us a tip to who he is.”
“I think he’s based in Elmwood Park,” I said, watching Cai’s stricken face.
Michael looked at me quizzically.
“When you dig around in the accounts he follows, you’ll see a lot of references to businesses in that area. And he’s also made disparaging comments about Striker Farnsworth as well.”
“Okay, that’s helpful,” Michael said.
Cai narrowed her eyes and looked at me. Anticipating my next comment, I assumed.
“You know who else is in Elmwood Park?” I said.
She stared at me, shaking her head. “I see where you’re going, Andrea, but that’s really a stretch. What would hassling me accomplish? I have no influence over his divorce. I barely have control over the activities of my own client.”
I turned to Michael. “A client of Cai’s has an estranged husband with a serious Napoleon complex. He’s a solo attorney with an office in Elmwood Park, and Cai is kicking his ass when they have been in court. His name is Felix Panici. I’d start there.”