The reporters laughed and wrote it down. The press loved Mayor Walker, who, as far as Marta could tell, was a whiz at public relations. He kept his sentences short and grinned for every photo. He ate cannoli from an Italian bakery and fresh peaches from a Korean fruit stand; he was the first to check out a book from a new branch of the Free Library and the last to pet the anaconda at the Philadelphia Zoo. Most important, the mayor knew the secret to dealing with reporters: make their job easy, so they can go drink.
But Alix Locke wasn't smiling. "With all due respect, those residents who are snowed in may not find that funny when November rolls around."
The mayor's smile faded. "The residents of this city know it's not an issue of money. The issue is whether we can get the plows down the narrow streets. As you know, there are countless streets in this historic city which are barely one lane wide. It doesn't leave much room for a plow. With those streets, all we can do is our best."
"What exactly does that mean, Mr. Mayor?"
"It means that conventional snowplows won't fit down the street. They're too wide. We have to use the narrow plows and we're arranging now to buy them."
The reporters nodded and scribbled. Alix Locke pursed her lips and fumbled for a follow-up question. Marta leaned sideways and checked on the thug. He was still reading his magazine. Dog World? The man beat her to a pulp but he was kind to animals? Somebody explain this.
On TV, Alix Locke was doing her best Brenda Starr. "Mr. Mayor, you knew this problem would arise because it did last year. So the city had a year to order those snowplows. Why weren't they ordered and delivered by this storm?"
Marta stared at the TV images without seeing them. How would she get out of here? Then she had an idea.
12
Marta zapped the reporter into silence with the remote control and walked with discomfort to the living room. The thug looked up from his magazine, squinting slightly, and Marta stood at a distance, the nervousness in her smile genuine. She leaned on a large, paneled entertainment center near the telephone for support. "I have to call the office," she said. "You said no phone calls. What's a girl to do?"
"No calls."
"It's about the Steere case. It's important, and if I don't check in my associates will start to wonder. I said I'd be back at seven o'clock. I'm pretty punctual, and they know that."
"Tough shit."
"If I don't show up, they'll think something happened in the blizzard. Maybe they'll call 911."
The thug peered over the glossy magazine and his flat brown eyes registered skepticism. "So?"
"So they know this is my hotel. They may come here looking for me, maybe send someone. You want to explain who you are? Why I'm here?"
"Shut the fuck up already." The goon set down the magazine. "What's the phone number?" Marta told him the number and watched as he plunked them into a Trimline phone on the end table, looking remarkably like a gorilla at a miniature piano. "Get on the extension and talk," he said, gesturing. "Keep it short. I'll be listening. Anything funny and it's over."
"Got it." In fact, Marta had counted on it. She picked up the receiver from the telephone on the entertainment center. "Hello?"
"Mary DiNunzio," the associate said when she picked up.
"Are you finished that motion in limine?"Marta asked, staccato.
"Uh, no. I mean, it's started, but it's not finished. I was doing the computer search. I found out that—"
"I didn't mean you should stop work on the motion!" Marta checked the thug's expression, and he seemed to be listening. In front of him on the coffee table lay the discarded dog magazine. It bore a battered subscription label, and Marta squinted discreetly to read the name. BOGOSIAN. "What happened to the motion? We have to file it tomorrow!"
"We do? We are?" Mary stammered. "Well, uh, I have the research, but I didn't write—"
"The research? Am I supposed to hand your research to the judge? Get started on it right now. I want it done by the time I get there." From the other end of the line came the sound of an associate sucking wind. Good. All according to plan. Marta hung up the phone, crossed her arms, and frowned at Bogosian. "Houston, we have a problem," she said.
"Huh?" He let his receiver clatter onto the hook.
Marta decided against explaining popular culture to a primate, especially one with felonies on the brain. "I have to go in. You heard her. She fucked up. I have to write that brief."
"I don't give a fuck."
"It's an important brief," Marta lied. "It has to be filed. I have to get to the office."
"You're not goin' nowhere."
"If I don't file a response, Steere's fingerprints will go to the jury. That evidence shows the placement of his fingerprints. It could put him in jail forever, maybe get him the death penalty. You want to tell him that or shall I?"
"You playin' games with me?" Bogosian's eyes flickered with malice, sending an undeniable tremor down Marta's spine.
"No. I'm just trying to do what your boss pays me to do."
"I don't have a boss, I'm self-employed."
"Fine. Steere, then. Whatever. This is no game."
"Oh yeah? Should I call Steere and find out if you're bluffin'?"
Marta laughed. "Steere's in a holding cell. You can't call him."
Bogosian smirked as he lifted the receiver, his pinky finger extended absurdly. "Oh yeah? Why do you think they call it a cell phone?"
* * *
Elliot Steere was dozing in his cell when the flip phone in his breast pocket began to vibrate. His eyes flew open in alarm and he snapped his head to the corner of the cell, deftly slipping the phone from his pocket. "Don't call me," he whispered into the phone.
"Sorry, but I'm at the hotel babysittin' your lawyer. She wants to go to the office. Says she has to work on some motion. What do you want me to do?"
Steere glanced over his shoulder, where a black guard sat reading a paperback at his desk near the door. He was one of the night crew and never said two words to Steere. Steere's guard, Frank Devine, was on the day shift, and Steere hadn't gotten to any of the other guards. It was risky to deal with too many, and Steere hadn't anticipated the snowstorm, so he didn't know he'd need somebody at night. Another mistake. How annoying. "What motion?"
"Something about fingerprints. It's 'in somethin'.' Sounded like a foreign language."
Steere realized Bobby meant the motion in limine. The defendant's response had to be filed, they'd talked about it. But why did Marta want to work on it now? Why wouldn't she let it pass and fuck him up? It wasn't that important, was it? Steere paused, wary. "A motion, you're sure?"
"Sounds like the real deal. She talked to the other lawyer, a girl. On the telephone."
Steere thought a minute. What was Marta up to? He wanted to find out. "Let her go, Bobby, but go with her. Don't let her out of your sight. Do it." He hit the END button and returned the phone to his pocket just as the guard peeked in, his attention drawn by the movement in the cell. His scowling face loomed close to the bulletproof window.
"You say something?" the guard asked, rapping the window with a thick knuckle.
"Just talking to myself," Steere said. The guard turned his back, and Steere closed his eyes and rested his head against the unforgiving cinderblock. The wall was hard and scratchy, but in time Steere didn't feel it; he was weightless. The fluorescent lights were harsh and bright, but soon Steere didn't see them; it was pitch black. Steere sat very still, relaxed. Slipped back inside.