Free Tragic by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page A

not long after it accepted its first client. She was in a dark period of her life as well, pushing the boundaries of the law as well as her marriage when dealing with men who abused women. She’d even killed a few—always in self-defense, though she’d certainly put herself in positions where the violence had been inevitable. That little fact had earned her Duran’s grudging acceptance if not her friendship. Nor had Duran turned down the substantial funds that Marlene donated, which had earned a gruff “thank you,” but little else.
    Mattie had disappeared several years earlier. No one knew if it was because the mercurial woman, who had never been able to quiet the ghosts of her own disturbed past, had decided to try a different path to peace. Or perhaps one of the many enemies she’d made over the years had finally caught her in a moment of carelessness and silenced the ghosts forever.
    Marlene had devoted quite a bit of time and money to trying tolocate Duran but had come up with nothing. However, she continued to donate money and volunteer at the shelter and knew the type of clientele it served, most of whom didn’t carry themselves with the same confidence and aplomb as the three women she was speaking to now.
    “When do you want to meet again?” Marlene heard one of them ask the others.
    “In thunder, lightning, or rain?” the black woman added in a thick Jamaican accent.
    Suddenly, the woman who’d spoken first noticed Marlene and poked the other white woman, who had her back to her, in the shoulder and nodded. “Here she is now, Anne,” she said. “Go on, tell her what you know.”
    Marlene smiled as Anne turned and saw her. A fleeting storm of emotions—fear, uncertainty, anger—played across the woman’s face. “Tell me what, Anne?” Marlene asked.
    “Are you Marlene Ciampi, the wife of the district attorney?” Anne responded.
    Marlene’s expression turned serious. Plenty of people asked her that question, but rarely just out of curiosity. “I am,” she replied. “Why do you want to know?”
    The woman’s face contorted as if mirroring some internal debate, but then she shook her head. “Nothing, it’s nothing,” she said. “Sorry to bother you.”
    The woman turned back toward her friends. But Marlene reached out and touched her arm. “Really? Nothing?” she asked. “Your friends seem to think you have something important to tell me, something to do with my husband.”
    Though she didn’t turn back around to face Marlene, the woman’s shoulders sank and she sighed. “Not so much your husband as Charlie Vitteli and Vince Carlotta,” she said.
    Marlene’s radar suddenly went on full alert. Her husband had told her about Dirty Warren’s remarks that the murder was a “setup,” as well as Butch’s own suspicions that Charlie Vitteli wassomehow involved. In the weeks that had passed since the murder, there’d been plenty of rumors phoned into the police and DAO, but so far no leads had panned out, nor had any credible witnesses stepped forward. This woman might be just another street person who tended to mix fantasy with reality, but Marlene had been around long enough to know that sometimes the information that tipped the scales of justice came from the most unusual places. “What about them?” she asked.
    The woman turned and looked at her for a long moment and seemed about to speak, but then her hand went to her mouth. “I don’t want to get involved,” she said. “Nothing good ever comes of it.”
    “If you’re afraid, my husband can arrange for your protection,” Marlene said. “And I’ll help, too. What’s your last name, Anne?”
    The woman backed away from Marlene as if Marlene were holding a poisonous snake. “No one could protect my Sean; no one could protect Mr. Carlotta,” she said. “And you can’t protect me. No one gives a shit about me.”
    Marlene took a step toward the woman as she tried to think of what to say to assuage the woman’s fears.