“Just keep her out of view,” said Angelo.
“Oh, no!” Tony cried.
“What’s the matter now?” Angelo demanded.
“This chick isn’t Laurie Montgomery,” Tony said, looking up from a piece of identification. “It’s a Maureen Wharton, an Assistant D.A. But she looks just like that photo.” Tony leaned forward and picked up the newspaper with Laurie’s photo. Brushing Maureen’s hair to the side, he compared her face to the one in the photo. “Well, it’s pretty close,” he said.
Angelo gripped the steering wheel so hard that the blood drained from his hand. He was going to have to tell Cerino about Tony whether he asked or not. Because of Tony they had whacked the wrong woman, an Assistant D.A., no less. This kid was driving him berserk.
“It’s me—Ponti,” Franco said. He’d put a call through to Vinnie Dominick. “I’m in the car heading for the tunnel. I just wanted you to know that I just watched the two guys we’ve discussed hit another young woman in broad daylight. It’s crazy. It makes no sense.”
“I’m glad you called,” Vinnie said. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. That snitch you set me up with, that friend of a friend of Tony Ruggerio’s girlfriend, just clued me in. He knows what they’re doing. It’s unbelievable. You’d never have figured it out.”
“Want me to come back?” Franco asked.
“No, stay on those two,” Vinnie said. “I’m heading out now to talk directly with some Lucia people. We’ll figure out what to do. We got to stop Cerino but in a way to take advantage of the situation. Capisce ?”
Franco hung up the phone. Angelo’s car was about five carlengths ahead. Now that Vinnie knew what was going on, Franco was dying to know as well.
Cupping her hands around her face, Laurie pressed them against the locked glass doors of the converted brownstone on East Fifty-fifth Street. She could make out a set of marble steps that rose up to another closed door.
Laurie stepped back to view the front of the building. It was five stories tall with a bow front. The second floor had tall windows from which light poured. The third floor had lights as well. Above that the windows were dark.
To the right of the door was a brass plate that said MANHATTAN ORGAN REPOSITORY: HOURS NINE TO FIVE. Since it was after five, Laurie understood why the front doors were locked. But the lights on the second and third floors suggested that the building was still occupied, and Laurie was determined to talk with someone.
Going back to the door, Laurie knocked again just as loudly as she had when she’d first arrived. Still no one responded.
Looking to the left, Laurie noticed a service entrance. Walking over to this door, she tried to peer inside but saw nothing. It was totally black. Returning to the main door, Laurie was about to knock again when she noticed something she’d not seen. Below the brass plate and partially hidden from view by the ivy that snaked up the building’s facade was a small brass bell. Laurie pushed it and waited.
A few minutes later the foyer beyond the glass doors illuminated. Then the inner door opened and a woman in a long, tight, unadorned wool dress came down the few marble steps. She had to walk sideways because of the snugness of the dress about her legs. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties. Her humorless face was stern and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.
Coming to the door, she pantomimed that they were closed. To emphasize her point, she repeatedly pointed at her watch.
Laurie mimed in return, indicating that she wanted to talk with someone by making her hand move as if she were operating a hand puppet. When that didn’t work, Laurie took out her medical examiner’s badge and flashed it despite Bingham’s dire warnings that he’d have her arrested. When that didn’t work its usual wonders, Laurie took out the business card she’d taken from Yvonne Andre’s apartment and pressed it against the glass. Finally the woman relented and unlatched the door.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the day,” the woman said.