Manhattan, New York AT DAWN, AT an area under the Manhattan Bridge along the East River not far from pier seventeen, half a dozen uniformed police officers and plainclothes detectives were gathered around a fully dressed corpse lying at the river's edge. The body had been carelessly tossed down, so its head was eerily bobbing up and down in the water, following the vagaries of the tide.
The man in charge, Detective Earl Greenburg, from the Manhattan South Homicide Squad, had finished the official prescribed procedures. No one was allowed to approach the body until photographs had been taken, and he made notes of the scene while the officers looked for any evidence that might be lying around. The victim's hands had been wrapped in clean plastic bags.
Carl Ward, the medical examiner, finished his examination, stood up, and brushed the dirt from his trousers. He looked at the two detectives in charge. Detective Earl Greenburg was a professional, capable-looking man with an impressive record. Detective Robert Praegitzer was gray-haired, with the laid-back manner of someone who had seen it all before.
Ward turned to Greenburg. "He's all yours, Earl." "What have we got?" "The obvious cause of death is a slashed throat, right through the carotid artery. He has two busted kneecaps, and it feels like a few ribs are broken.
Someone worked him over pretty good."
"What about the time of death?" Ward looked down at the water lapping at the victim's head. "Hard to say. My guess is that they dumped him here sometime after midnight. I'll give you a full report when we get him to the morgue." Greenburg turned his attention to the body. Gray jacket, dark blue trousers, light blue tie, an expensive watch on the left wrist. Greenburg knelt down and started going through the victim's jacket pockets.
In one pocket, his fingers found a note. He pulled it out, holding it by its edge. It read: "Washington. Monday, 10 a.m. Prima." He looked at it a moment, puzzled.
Greenburg reached into another pocket, finding another note. "It's in Italian." He glanced around. "Gianelli!" One of the uniformed police officers hurried up to him. "Yes, sir?" Greenburg handed him the note. "Can you read this?" Gianelli read it aloud slowly. " 'Last chance. Meet me at pier seventeen with the rest of the dope or swim with the fishes.'" He handed it back.
Robert Praegitzer looked surprised. "A Mafia hit? Why would they leave him out here like this, in the open?" "Good question." Greenburg was going through the corpse's other pockets. He pulled out a wallet and opened it. It was heavy with cash. "They sure as hell weren't after his money." He took a card from the wallet. "The victim's name is Richard Stevens." Praegitzer frowned. "Richard Stevens?Didn't we read something about him in the papers recently?" Greenburg said, "His wife. Diane Stevens. She's in court, in the Tony Altieri murder trial." Praegitzer said, "That's right. She's testifying against the capo di capos." And they both turned to look at Richard Stevens's body.
Chapter One
IN DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN, in courtroom thirty-seven of the Supreme Court Criminal Term building at 180 Centre Street, the trial of Anthony (Tony) Altieri was in session. The large, venerable courtroom was filled to capacity with press and spectators.
At the defendant's table sat Anthony Altieri, slouched in a wheelchair, looking like a pale, fat frog folding in on itself. Only his eyes were alive, and every time he looked at Diane Stevens in the witness chair, she could literally feel the pulse of his hatred.
Next to Altieri sat Jake Rubenstein, Altieri's defense attorney. Rubenstein was famous for two things: his high-profile clientele, consisting mostly of mobsters, and the fact that nearly all of his clients were acquitted.
Rubenstein was a small, dapper man with a quick mind and a vivid imagination. He was never the same in his courtroom appearances. Courtroom histrionics were his stock-in-trade, and he was highly skilled. He was brilliant at sizing up his opponents, with a feral instinct for finding their weaknesses. Sometimes Rubenstein imagined he was a lion, slowly closing in on his unsuspecting prey, ready to pounce?or a cunning spider, spinning a web that would eventually entrap them and leave them helpless?Sometimes he was a patient fisherman, gently tossing a line into the water and slowly moving it back and forth until the gullible witness took the bait.
The lawyer was carefully studying the witness on the stand. Diane Stevens was in her early thirties.
An aura of elegance. Patrician features. Soft, flowing blonde hair. Green eyes.
Lovely figure. A girl-next-door kind of wholesomeness. She was dressed in a chic, tailored black suit. Jake Rubenstein knew that the day before she had made a favorable impression on the jury. He had to be careful how he handled her. Fisherman, he decided.
Rubenstein took his time approaching the witness box, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle.
"Mrs. Stevens, yesterday you testified that on the date in question, October fourteenth, you were driving south on the Henry Hudson Parkway when you got a flat tire and pulled off the highway at the One Hundred and Fifty-eighth Street exit, onto a service road into Fort Washington Park?" "Yes." Her voice was soft and cultured.
"What made you stop at that particular place?" "Because of the flat tire, I knew I had to get off the main road and I could see the roof of a cabin through the trees. I thought there might be someone there who could help me. I didn't have a spare." "Do you belong to an auto club?" Yes.
"And do you have a phone in your car?" Yes.
"Then why didn't you call the auto club?" "I thought that might have taken too long." Rubenstein said sympathetically, "Of course. And the cabin was right there." "Yes." "So, you approached the cabin to get help?" "That's right." "Was it still light outside?" "Yes. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon." "And so, you could see clearly?" "I could." "What did you see, Mrs. Stevens?" "I saw Anthony Altieri-" "Oh. You had met him before?" "No." "What made you sure it was Anthony Altieri?" "I had seen his picture in the newspaper and-" "So, you had seen pictures that resembled the defendant?" "Well, it-" "What did you see in that cabin?" Diane Stevens took a shuddering breath. She spoke slowly, visualizing the scene in her mind.