Free Damaged Goods by Stephen Solomita Page A

had to tell her. They want to cover their asses, let the victim make the final decision.” He glanced at his watch. It was nearly two o’clock. “They’ve most likely been and gone by now.”

EIGHT
    M OODROW STOOD IN THE entranceway of St. Vincent’s Hospital’s cafeteria and watched the four women seated around Styrofoam coffee containers at a far table. Leonora Higgins was there, of course, as sharp as ever in a no-nonsense charcoal business suit. He didn’t recognize any of the others, but he knew they were from the Haven Foundation, a committee met to evaluate his personal worth. It wasn’t the first time he’d been through the process. Having done just enough corporate work to be familiar with the politics of selection, he fully understood that his task was to reduce their choices to Stanley Moodrow or Stanley Moodrow.
    Time for the show, he said to himself as he crossed the cafeteria floor. Time for the game face.
    “Stanley.” Leonora stood up. She extended her hand, but refused to meet his eyes. “There are some people here you need to know. Margaret Cohen, Patricia Burke, and Toni Alicea. They’re from the Haven Foundation.”
    Moodrow nodded to each in turn, wished, not for the first time, that he knew his client’s room number. He snatched a chair from a nearby table and sat down.
    “Did you see Jim Tilley?” Leonora continued.
    “I just left him.” He glanced at the women, saw no question marks on their faces, and assumed they’d been well briefed.
    “What’s your take on the police effort?” Leonora was playing to his strengths. The way any good prosecutor would display a friendly witness.
    “Except for Ann’s personal protection, they dropped the whole thing in Jim’s lap. No help and he’s expected to continue working his caseload while he looks for Jilly. Jim’ll put the word out to the patrol cops in the Seven, supply them with mug shots and a history, tell ’em to be on the lookout. Given the crime rate on the Lower East Side, that’s the best he can do.”
    “That’s it?” Toni Alicea’s dark eyes flashed an obvious anger, just as Moodrow had hoped. She, like the other women, appeared to be in her mid-thirties. And, like the others, she was dressed for business.
    “What could I say? The cops are running it as two assaults and a robbery. They’re leaving the kidnapping to the FBI, which is par for the course.” He didn’t mention Carol Pierce, figuring to pick his spots, leave it for later.
    Alicea glanced at the other women before turning back to Moodrow. “That’s just not good enough,” she said.
    “Look, Ms. Alicea.” He leaned toward her. “Theresa Kalkadonis has a better chance if the cops stay out of it. You have to understand something here. Jilly Sappone is a dead man and he knows it.” Moodrow went on to describe the Stuyvesant Town crime scenes, including the relationship between Carmine Stettecase, the two victims, and Jilly Sappone. “Carmine’s going to kill Jilly,” he concluded. “If he doesn’t catch Jilly on the outside, he’ll have him hit in prison. It’s just a matter of time.”
    “Then why did Sappone do it? Is he suicidal? Is he crazy?”
    Moodrow took a moment to consider the question. As far as he was concerned, Jilly Sappone had ceased to be human; something or someone had reduced him to the status of a natural disaster. In fact, Sappone reminded Moodrow of a crack-crazed psychotic named Levander Greenwood who’d once terrorized the Lower East Side. At the time, Moodrow recalled, he and Jim Tilley had thought of Greenwood as a force of nature. To be dealt with, but not hated.
    “That’s the wrong question,” he finally announced. “Jilly Sappone’s gonna keep on killing. Like I just explained, the man has no reason to stop, no way out.” He leaned back, swept the table with his eyes. “The question you need to ask is this: What would Jilly Sappone do to Theresa Kalkadonis if, for instance, Jilly woke up from his afternoon