Chapter One
Boston Commons on Tremont Street near Pemberton Square was in full green in early spring. It was around three o’ clock and vendors and shoppers crowded the sidewalks. I was at a hot dog stand where other customers ignored a man who was bent on selling me a shoe.
“Hey, lady, you wanna buy it or not?” He resembled a young Lieutenant Columbo, dated trench and all, and shoved the leather loafer in my face. “It’s brand new, and cost a pretty penny, too.”
In addition to his illegal soliciting, his gloves and padded wardrobe indicated he was homeless. “Look…” I smacked the shoe from my line of sight. “I already told you. No.”
He tugged my suit jacket’s sleeve and held the footwear as if he were presenting me with a Fabergé egg. “You don’t get quality like this at Payless. This here’s Norman Marcus.”
I paid for my chilidog and cola then turned toward him. “What am I supposed to do with one shoe? And, it’s a man’s shoe.”
I walked off with my lunch. A distinct feeling of being followed, I peeked over my shoulder. He was still pursuing me as I went toward the tall, mirrored building of McCarter & French LLP.
“Why don’t you give it to your boyfriend then?” he called ahead to me.
I waited at the entrance for him, so I could end his sales pitch once and for all. “If I ever get a boyfriend with an amputated foot, I’ll be sure to come and see you.” I tugged the glass door open and said, “It’s Nieman Marcus, by the way.”
“Nieman, Norman…pfft…they all got money in the bag.”
I wasn’t about to give him another minute of my time. I entered and greeted Thomas guarding the doors. Immediately passing him, I heard, ‘Hey, buddy, you can’t come in here,’ and turned.
Thomas had his palms pressed against my stalker’s chest. “Ms. Ferrelli, is he with you?”
“Absolutely not.” I contemplated the homeless man’s fortitude on the way to the elevator then watched Thomas get in a shuffle with him before ejecting him from the building.
The elevator’s Up button blinked green, a chime dinged, and passengers unloaded. I wondered what it was that seemed off about the guy, and what was so important about the shoe that I had to have it. A couple seconds before boarding, I got a hunch.
I whipped around and hurried toward reception, dropped my belongings off at the counter then darted outside.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Usually people did what I told them, but my single-shoe salesman raced onward to the intersection of Tremont and Bromfield Street. “Christ.” I flung off my Jimmy Choos and scooped them up.
He was fast, healthy and fit, not the normal qualities of someone destitute in downtown Boston. Also out of character was his advice I give the shoe to my boyfriend. True, I didn’t wear a ring. Unlike most people who assumed I was married, he was more observant.
On Bromfield, I saw him turn right for Morris Meats’ loading bay, a dead end. I reached the maw of the alley and sidled the wall. There were large dumpsters, piles of crates, and a delivery van, plenty of hiding places. I had no idea if this was a setup, if someone else would join this party, or if my host intended to do me harm. I crept a few feet in and he came out in the open.
“Man…” He panted and chuckled. “Aren’t you a thick one?”
“Who are you?” He and I both were catching our breath as I inched near. “What do you know about Norman Kane?”
“Well, she caught on after all.”
Also, true. It took me a while to realize the clever play on the name of my client—Nieman versus Norman—hence the expensive shoe for the charade. ‘Money in the bag’ alluded to rumors that rippled the surface when Kane was arrested, claims that a competitor hired him to sabotage his family’s business.
Once I pieced it together, I had one—
“Uh-uh!” He stretched out a gloved hand and reached inside his trench with the other. “Close enough.”
I stifled my movement as a chill iced my spine despite the fair April weather, my sight locked on the breast of his coat.
His voice came low and threatening, “A gift from your uncle Lou.” I balled fists upon hearing the name and my fingernails dug into my palms. “Work quickly.”
He removed a manila envelope, let it drop to the ground, then whirled and hopped onto a wire fence. He climbed over in a parkour style and landed upright on the opposite side. A tenacious smirk, then in a less than graceful exit, he shot off through the side street.
I had to admit I didn’t see that coming. I breathed normally at last, put on my high heels, and picked up the delivery from Louis Fernoza. For the past seven years, I dodged family, old friends, and ex-colleagues, leaving no trace to my former life. The realization he found me left me numb.
I returned to McCarter & French LLP and stopped by the visitor’s desk. The lobby reeked of onions. A group of lawyers departed, and the receptionist gave me my purse and lunch bag stained with chili grease. I thanked her for holding my belongings, apologized for smelling up the place, and boarded an elevator.
A glimpse of myself in the rear mirror panel. My hair was tormented, skirt did a creepy-crawl toward my hips, and my silk blouse showed perspiration stains.
“Dear Lord.” I quickly spruced myself up, and without further embarrassment, made it to my office on the fifth.
Today was Tuesday, the second day of the Norman Kane trial. Assistant DA Jason Shahaman, whom I lovingly call the Shaman behind his back, claimed my client manipulated a patented QR system to obtain prescriptions for the black market.
I unwrapped a chilidog that had turned to mush, opened a warm can of soda, and ate while I reviewed hearing notes.
In court, Jason had risen from his seat, and fastened a button on his Paul Smith blazer with his fawn-beige hand at his trim waist. He’d stepped out from behind prosecution’s table, flashed his amber brown eyes and gave me a dimpled-cheek smile, then stood before the jury.
He’d addressed the five men and seven women with an opening statement in query form. How could massive doses of pills go missing during Mr. Kane’s shift; hospital records stipulate the defendant’s scanner logged the unaccounted amounts; and the only person capable of rigging the software to do so is the man who created it—but somehow be innocent?
It was a fair question. True, Norman wrote the program and had access to the barcode application. It was software Kane Code & Technology supplied for Mercy General. He and other hospital staff used the system to scan patient files and distribute medicine accordingly. But by the same argument prosecution presented in court, anyone in ICU tech-savvy enough could scan doses repeatedly and pocket the extras throughout an extended period.
Nevertheless, when Jason had finished, he’d strode close to my aisle seat and wagged his head in a fashion customary to Punjabis, neither a shake nor nod but a bobble somewhere in between.
Cocky. I was now determined to recheck everything I’d collected during discovery to ensure I was on track with countering the state’s argument tomorrow. No priors, a fairly model citizen, and not a whisper of substance abuse, the charge of pharmaceutical drug trafficking against Norman Kane would never hold up. I was confident the evidence against my client was circumstantial at best.
A couple hours later—God help me—I wanted to hear the Shaman’s voice. I unlocked my cell phone and dialed him.
“Isis, you were supposed to ring me when you got back.”
“Sorry, I had to chase down a lead.” Literally… While I couldn’t verify Norman (or anyone else at Mercy General) was affiliated with the Fernoza Family, I feared details I could now learn from Uncle Lou would prove detrimental to my case. The envelope lay on a corner of my desk, out of reach from an impetuous grab.
“Anything I should know?”
“Nope.”
He made a scraping sound with his throat. “Ms. Ferrelli, why don’t I believe you?”
“Believe what you want, Mr. Shahaman.” I shut down my computer and switched off the green shade banker’s lamp. “Oh, I will tell you though. The weirdest thing happened earlier.” I told him the story, up to a point and absent certain details. I then belted an appalled groan and added, “He then had the gall to say—I can’t believe he had the nerve—you know what he said?”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“He mocked ‘Nieman, Norman… they all got money in the bag.’”
Jason laughed. “My sentiments exactly.”
“Oh, whatever,” I grumbled, “You’re going to lose and you know it. Anyway…he followed me to work and security kicked him out.”
“Sounds like you had a fun afternoon.”
“Yeah, well, it never stops around here. Gotta go.”
“Me too. Talk to you later.”
I placed the phone on the desk then crumpled the food wrapper and bag, and a nasty glob of chili dripped. “Christ.” I searched a drawer for a napkin, found one, and cleaned the toe of my shoe then tossed the garbage in a metal filigree bin.
Voices of the five o’ clock exodus hightailing it from work passed my room and the elevator dinged in the hall. The bell seemed to have chimed in my brain. I glimpsed the mysterious envelope on my desk and realized there was another item I should’ve gotten from my single-shoe salesman.
I sprang from my seat, packed the Norman Kane file in my briefcase, and tucked the “gift” from Uncle Lou under my arm. I hurried to the wall with the standard office fern in a Grecian pot and hit the lights. Large windows filtered horizontal splits of faded daylight through the silver Venetian blinds into the room.
I stepped out and shut the door then boarded an elevator. Riding down to the garage, it stopped on the second floor and Thomas stepped in. “How are you, Ms. Ferrelli? That bum didn’t upset you too much, I hope.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“If that wasn’t the darnedest thing I ever came across… crazy.” It had been the strangest encounter for us both. He bridled the cabin door on the ground floor and said, “Going to get pretty nasty outside. Got an umbrella?”
“No, it’s all right. I drove.”
“You have a good night.”
“Wait, Thomas.” I held the lift from proceeding. “Did he happen to leave something for me?”
“Who?” He came back. “That guy? Not anything I thought you would’ve wanted, but he dropped a shoe when I was throwing his butt out.”
“Where is it?” It couldn’t have been coincidence my stalker wore gloves when he attempted to pawn a man’s shoe.
“I threw it away.”
We went to the reception area and then behind the counter where the office trash brimmed to the top. I lowered my belongings then removed the garbage bag and gave it to him to hold. Underneath were clean sacks the janitor left for the next time he emptied the can. I tore one off and used it to fish out the loafer then bagged it without leaving prints.
Thomas set the trash back in the bin. “I guess it’s important?”
“Could be.” Uncle Lou exhausted great efforts to make sure I got his delivery, especially since he wasn’t supposed to know I was here.
“Hey, sorry about that.”
“It’s all right,” I replied. “It might be nothing at all, but I have to make sure.”
I picked up my effects and walked downstairs to the garage with my brain stuck on the conundrum of the day. Why had the mob’s henchman made good on giving me the envelope yet hadn’t asked about the Nieman Marcus loafer? Maybe in the tussle with Thomas, he figured I retrieved the shoe before I hunted him down. Or, it was simply a prop to lure me back into Uncle Lou’s ranks.
I couldn’t help but think how my uncle got me to where I am today—and in return, I’d abandoned him. Today was it. Seven years for a reckoning to come in the form of a package that could mean either forgiveness or retribution.
Right now, I couldn’t determine which.
Comments