21

DeMarco ordered another beer after Coghill and Dent left—sticking him with the check, by the way. He mulled over what they’d said for a few minutes more, then called Porter. She didn’t answer, but a couple of minutes later he got a text message that said: I’m in court. Call you back in 20.

So DeMarco sat there for twenty minutes, mostly just watching the girls walk by the deli as Coghill and Dent had done. New York, New York. If there was a better city for girl-watching, he couldn’t imagine where it could be. Paris maybe? But then he’d never been to Paris, so he really didn’t know. His mind ricocheted to Porter’s father, who died on the links at St. Andrews. If he had a choice between seeing the Eiffel Tower or playing St. Andrews …

His phone rang.

“I’ve only got five minutes before I have to be back in court. Did you talk to Coghill and Dent?” Porter asked.

“Yeah, and I have to admit the story about the old lady is interesting, but it seems a lot more likely that she just had a stroke and wasn’t poisoned.”

“You never met Esther. I did. She was healthy as a horse.”

“If you say so, Dr. Porter, but let me ask you something. If you’re worried about somebody getting to your witnesses, why don’t you just throw a net around them? You know, watch to see if anyone approaches them.”

“Are you dense, DeMarco?”

“Dense?” he said. The woman really pissed him off.

“Yeah. How would I justify assigning about twenty cops, which is what it would take, to watch three witnesses full-time? This isn’t a mob case. It’s not even a murder one case. And frankly, although John Mahoney may have cared about Dominic DiNunzio, nobody else cares.”

“Yeah, but this theory of yours …”

“My boss doesn’t buy the theory. I already told you that. And I can see you don’t buy it either. But I’m telling you right now that if you don’t do something, Toby Rosenthal might literally get away with murder.”

“Hey, Justine, quit trying to pin this fucking thing on me. This is your case, not mine.”

“Yeah, well, if I lose I’m gonna let your boss know that I asked for your help and you refused. Now I gotta go.”

The damn woman was incredible, having the nerve to threaten him. On the other hand, if Toby Rosenthal was acquitted, Mahoney was going to be pissed, and a pissed-off John Mahoney was not a pleasant person to be around.

DeMarco decided the best thing to do to cover his ass was tell Mahoney what Porter wanted, and then convince Mahoney to lean on the powers that be in New York to get her the manpower she needed. That way, he’d be off the hook, having put the ball back in the court of the people actually responsible for prosecuting Rosenthal.

He called Mahoney’s office, knowing Mahoney most likely wouldn’t be available and would be off doing whatever it is he did all day to keep the ship of democracy on its errant course. He told Mavis, Mahoney’s secretary, to have the big man call him as soon as possible, and that the subject was Dominic DiNunzio.

Mahoney called him back five minutes later, which surprised him. Mahoney rarely interrupted his schedule to talk to DeMarco, which meant that the fate of Toby Rosenthal was a major priority—and this in itself should have told DeMarco what was likely to happen next.

DeMarco hadn’t told Mahoney about the call he’d received from Justine Porter telling him she’d lost two witnesses. Nor did he tell Mahoney he’d gone to New York to talk to Porter. The reason he didn’t do so was that he’d known, without having to be told, that Mahoney would expect him to go to New York.

So he told Mahoney about the two witnesses, and Mahoney began swearing before he was halfway through the story. Then he told him about Porter’s cockamamy theory, that there was some phantom out there who went around tampering with witnesses in cases involving rich defendants.

“How does she know this?” Mahoney said.

“She doesn’t,” DeMarco said. “She came to this conclusion based on some research she had an intern do and from talking to the prosecutors involved in these other cases. She’s going totally on her gut.”

Before Mahoney could interrupt him, DeMarco said, “She wants me to investigate these other cases and see if I can find the phantom and stop him before he screws up the Rosenthal case. I’ve told her what she really needs to do is get NYPD to do the investigation and to throw a net around the other witnesses, but she says her boss won’t support her, doesn’t have the budget, yada yada yada. What I was hoping you could do is call—”

Mahoney said, “I know her boss. He’s an arrogant prick and he’s been the DA so long up there he thinks he’s invincible.” Mahoney paused and muttered, “And maybe he is.”

“The other problem,” DeMarco said, “and I hate to say this, is that Dominic wasn’t a celebrity and whatever happens to his killer isn’t going to make the front page. By now, nobody probably even remembers that this father of three got shot. But if you were to lean on the mayor up here …”

The mayor was a Democrat.

“… and the police commissioner …”

A guy DeMarco knew had political ambitions.

“… maybe you could get Porter the help she needs.”

Mahoney didn’t say anything for a moment, probably thinking about how much pressure he could bring to bear on the mayor of New York and its top cop, both of whom were celebrities in their own right—and in their own minds.

Finally, Mahoney said, “So do it.”

DeMarco didn’t understand. “Do what?” he said.

“Do what Porter wants. It’s not like I got anything more important for you to do. Nothing’s more important to me than convicting the guy who murdered Dominic.”

“Wait a minute!” DeMarco said. “To do what she wants could involve traveling all over the country, talking to these other prosecutors, and—”

“I don’t give a shit. Do it.”

Although he knew it was hopeless, DeMarco said, “Who’s going to pay for the travel and everything else involved? Porter says she doesn’t have the budget.”

“Just put it all on your credit card. I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed later.”

Before DeMarco could raise another futile objection, Mahoney said, “Joe, that little prick Rosenthal is not getting off. And you damn well better make sure he doesn’t.”

Mahoney hung up—and DeMarco thought: How in the hell did this become my fucking problem?

DeMarco called Porter, the call went to voice mail, and DeMarco said, “I’ve decided to help you, like you asked. Call me.”

Less than ten minutes later, Porter called him back, and the first words out of her mouth were: “You called Mahoney and tried to get him to lean on my boss, and he told you to do the job. Isn’t that right?”

“No, that’s not right. I discussed the whole thing with him and told him, after thinking everything over, that helping you might be prudent.”

Porter made a raspberry sound.

DeMarco said, “Anyway, I want this intern of yours for the duration. I want to see the research she did and want her available to make reservations for me, do more research, whatever I need.”

“She’s yours,” Porter said.