Blind Justice

21

BEN DROVE UP THE curved driveway of Margot Lombardi’s home in the South Livingston Park neighborhood near Southern Hills. Her house was French Provincial, painted white brick with a blue canopy over the front door. The flower beds were blooming with bright red tulips.

The glass front door was slightly ajar. Ben knocked.

A voice emerged from inside. “Please come in.”

He pushed through the door. Although none of the foyer furnishings were Reynoldsesque showstoppers, they were attractive—delicate, tidy, and tasteful. He found Mrs. Lombardi in a sunken living room on a striped fabric sofa. She was wearing a long dark skirt that reflected her shoulder-length black hair and dark sad eyes. They introduced themselves.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Ben said.

“You’re the lawyer?” Her voice was like crystal—thin and fragile.

“That’s right. Ben Kincaid.”

“You seem young for a lawyer. Forgive me, but do you have a business card?”

“I’m sorry, no. I don’t use them. They give me the heebie-jeebies.”

Margot arched one thinly penciled eyebrow. “You’re afraid of business cards?”

“It’s a long story. Do you mind if I sit down?”

She motioned toward a chair separated from the sofa by a cherry wood coffee table. Margot was tall and extremely slender. Possibly less than a hundred pounds. She seemed to favor loose-fitting, billowy clothes, probably because they gave her an imagined fullness nature didn’t provide.

Ben passed his Oklahoma driver’s license across the table, careful not to disturb any of the ornamental knickknacks and figurines. He had the feeling that if he breathed too hard the entire room would shatter and dissolve. Including the hostess.

She examined the license briefly. “Forgive me for being overcautious. I find I must restrict with whom I speak. Recent events are bad enough without fanning the flames of gossip.”

She passed the license back. Ben noticed her fingernails were chewed to the quick. “First of all,” Ben said, “let me convey my sincere condolences regarding your husband’s death.”

She waved her hand in a get-on-with-it motion.

“I’m following up several leads relating to your husband and his business.”

“Frankly, I was never very knowledgeable about Tony’s business,” she said. “The FBI would know more. I understand they’re investigating his holdings, hoping to seize our property under some federal foreclosure laws.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It seems it’s not enough that I be widowed. I must be penniless as well.” Frown lines outlined her mouth. “But if I can help you, I will.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I just want to see that Tony’s killer is caught. And I’m not at all convinced your client was the culprit.”

Now that was a refreshing point of view. “Why do you say that?”

“She seems more a victim of circumstance than anything. Tony had a habit of turning the people in his life info victims.”

Ben took a small, notepad out of his pocket. “What exactly did your husband do?”

“He imported parrots. Found them in South America, brought them to the United States for sale to pet shops, collectors, zoos. As of late, he’d been using an Albert DeCarlo shell corporation as distributor.”

“And how was that working out?”

“Horribly. I’m not privy to the details, but I know Tony considered linking with DeCarlo the worst mistake he’d ever made.”

“Why did he do it?”

“It was DeCarlo’s idea. He came to Tony. For some reason, he was very interested in Tony’s business. Said it could be the basis for a profitable partnership. And as it turned out, he was right.”

“Tony was making large sums of money?”

“More than he’d ever imagined. Tony told me it was due to the increased penetration of DeCarlo’s distribution network, but of course, one couldn’t help but wonder…” She brushed her hand against her face. “Tony obtained no pleasure from the arrangement, profitable or not. He was scared to death.”

“Scared?”

“One morning I came downstairs and found Tony crying in his Rice Krispies. Out-and-out bawling like a baby. He told me something someone had told him. He said, ‘Once you’re in the mob, you’re in for life.’ ”

The mob credo. Ben wondered what Lombardi had done—or attempted—that had brought that down on his head.

“I asked him for details, but he refused. Insisted it could be dangerous to talk. Both for him and me.”

“The Omerta,” Ben said. “The mob code of silence. They make everyone take their secrets very seriously.”

“Tony was never stable under the best of circumstances,” Margot continued. “DeCarlo just made-matters worse. Tony was terrified. He was afraid his association with DeCarlo would land him in prison, and he had a horrible fear of prison. Absolutely pathological. He’d do anything to avoid that.”

“Do you think he tried to sever relations with DeCarlo? And that might’ve led to his murder?”

“I think…that’s possible. Of course I can’t say with any certainty.”

“When did you last see Tony?”

She searched her memory. “I can’t recall the date. It’s been several months. After my last visit, the doorman stopped letting me in.”

“The doorman told me you were jealous—”

“Spud?” The corners of her mouth turned up. “I’ve had the pleasure of smelling the booze on his breath several times. I would advise you not to take anything he says too seriously.”

“And you haven’t seen your husband lately?”

“No. I did hear from him the night he died, however.”

“You did? How?”

“He called me that evening. He was terribly distraught, panicked—almost irrational. He said he needed money immediately, but he wouldn’t tell me why.”

“Did you help him?”

“How could I? The only money I had was what he gave me, and that wasn’t much.” Her face lost all expression. “Of course I loved him, but the fact is Tony was not a strong man. Some might say he was…weak.” She pressed the flats of her hands against the sofa. “He’d been in and out of mental hospitals. They told me he attempted suicide once, although he denied it. He was an acute manic-depressive, with considerably more depressive than manic.”

“Just the sort of person DeCarlo could easily manipulate.”

“I’m afraid that is precisely correct.”

“Do you know anything about your husband’s assistant? A man named Lennie?”

“Lennie?” Her laugh was brittle. “Of course. Lennie’s been with Tony ever since he fell in with DeCarlo. Lennie was always ready and willing to do the dirty jobs Tony didn’t want to handle himself.”

“Do you know his full name?”

“Lucas Grundy.” She saved Ben the trouble of asking. “Lennie wasn’t his real name; that was just what Tony called him. After a character in a book. Of Mice and Men, I believe. Tony was quite well read.” She ran her fingers slowly down the line of her neck. “It was not a compliment, if I’m not mistaken. Tony could be rather cruel at times.”

“Do you know where I could find Lennie?”

“Not offhand. He always found me—to deliver the separate maintenance checks.”

“You mentioned that you left Tony, ma’am.” Ben hesitated. There was no graceful way to do this. “I know this is personal, but may I ask why?”

Her mouth trembled almost imperceptibly. Her fingers fluttered upward to cover it. “Of course, in part, I’ve already told you. The strain of working with Albert DeCarlo was beginning to tell on us both.”

“And what was the other part?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it several times before she actually spoke. “Tony had some eccentric tastes.”

“You mean…what he spent his money on?”

“No.” She hesitated, then fell back against the sofa, resigned. “I mean…sexually.”

“Oh. Can you…” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Were there problems?”

She seemed to look through him. “Yes, there were problems. I didn’t share some of Tony’s interests. I was never able to…satisfy him. No matter what I tried. No matter what I was willing to do. After a while, he simply lost interest.”

Ben waited as she struggled to regain her composure.

“Of course, that meant he began to look elsewhere. I knew what he was doing, but I didn’t say anything. It seemed the least I could do. Clearly, I had failed him.”

She closed her eyes. “At one point, Tony actually placed a personal ad in one of those swinging-singles tabloids. I’m sure you know what I mean—notices for couples who are willing to rendezvous at a secluded location and…swap.” She pronounced the word as if it were a spider poised on the tip of her tongue.

“And did you…”

“No. I refused. Even after Tony had everything arranged. He was furious. That’s when everything worsened.”

“What did Tony do then?”

“It’s difficult to know where to begin. Tony liked…to punish me.”

“Punish?” Ben felt a warm flush creeping up his neck. “You mean he liked to…spank you?”

“Yes. With an electric cattle prod.”

Ben stared at her—stunned and silent.

“It was part of his mania, I suppose, his unstable mental state. His temperament would change in a heartbeat. He would become frustrated, then enraged. He had to hit something, to hurt something, and of course, I was the only person around.”

“Perhaps you should’ve bought him a cheap set of china.”

“He wouldn’t have liked that,” she said matter-of-factly. “China wouldn’t scream. China wouldn’t cry.”

The room fell quiet.

“I don’t know how many times I had to resort to high collars, scarves, sunglasses, or just staying inside. Twice I was admitted to St. Francis.” Ben could see no light in her eyes. “Of course, you tell them you fell down the stairs or tripped over a potted plant. But they don’t believe you.”

“That must’ve been horrible.”

“It wasn’t the worst. As a result of one of Tony’s fits, we lost a baby.” Her eyes met Ben’s. “I won’t be having any more.”

“When did you leave?” he managed to ask.

“When he came home with a taser. Wouldn’t you?”

“I hope,” Ben said, choosing his words carefully, “I would have left a long time before that.”

Margot’s head began to shake. “Easy to say,” she said. “Easy—” She choked, then covered her face with her hands. “I think you should go now, Mr. Kincaid.”

As Ben drove back to his office, he replayed the conversation in his head. Strange—he had been looking for a killer, but instead, he found another victim. Another victim of cruelty, and greed, and organized crime.

Another victim of the murderer.