NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,72
strode to the reception desk. He gripped my hand and shook it firmly. Then he reached for Kylie and gently cupped her hand in both of his. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can we talk in private?” Kylie asked.
“Say no more.” He escorted us to his office. The walls were covered with awards and photos, some dating back decades: Bruno with Mario Cuomo, Bruno with Mayor Koch, Bruno with Cardinal O’Connor.
“Rosemary can make you a nice cup of espresso,” he said as the three of us sat down at a conference table.
“No, thank you,” Kylie said. “We just have a few questions about one of your clients, BD Rentals.”
“I may not have the answers. I never even met them. One brief phone call about six months ago, and since then everything is handled electronically.”
“They’ve been wiring you money every month,” Kylie said. “Can you tell us what it is they’re paying you for?”
“Detectives, I love the NYPD,” he said, gesturing to a picture of himself with the CO of the Forty-Fifth Precinct. “But surely you know I’m bound by lawyer-client confidentiality.”
“Your client is dead. Does that unbind you or do we need to get a subpoena?”
“Subpoena? There’s no call for that. How do you know my client is dead?”
“It was in all the papers. BD Rentals was owned by Bobby Dodd.”
He sat back in his chair. “The kidnapper?”
“Yes, sir. Can you tell us where the money is going?”
He nodded. “It’s a very simple transaction. BD would send me the check every month, and I would then deposit it into a 529 college savings fund for three children.”
“Do you know if they’re Dodd’s children?”
“They’re not. They’re the grandchildren of a woman I know from my church.”
“What’s her name?” I asked.
He put his fingertips to his head and rubbed his temples. “This woman is very much alive, Detective, so I’m afraid we’re back to lawyer-client confidentiality again.”
“Counselor, your client is doing business with a man who kidnapped, raped, and murdered,” I said. “Do you really want to—”
“Wait a second. What am I thinking? She asked me to be the go-between as a favor. I didn’t charge a fee. She’s not a client.” He lowered his voice. “Her name is Lucille Speranza.”
“Dodd’s landlady?”
“I guess you know her,” Bruno said. “Ever since it got out that he lived in her basement, she’s been all over the television and the newspapers.”
“We met her before she was famous,” Kylie said. “But she told us Dodd had paid up through the end of August. So what are the thousand-dollar checks for?”
“I told you. It’s for a college fund for her grandkids—Samantha, Nina, and Ryan.”
“That’s not my question. If the rent was paid, what else is she doing for Dodd that nets her a thousand dollars a month?”
“That’s none of my business. You’d have to ask Lucille. Do you need her address?”
“No, sir, we don’t. Thank you for your time, Mr. Bruno.”
We stood up and started to leave.
“Detectives,” he said, “I shared Lucille’s information with you because I don’t think she and I have a lawyer-client relationship. But she may see it differently, and to be honest, she can be sort of a … a difficult person.”
“That would be putting it mildly, sir,” Kylie said.
“Maybe you can do me a favor, then. Even though it’s after the fact, maybe you could issue me a subpoena. Then I’d have no choice but to tell you what I told you.”
“Understood,” Kylie said. “We’d be happy to do it, sir.”
He flashed us a victory smile. “Thank you.”
The Mayor of Crosby Avenue may well have been beloved by all, but he was also smart enough to cover his ass.
CHAPTER 63
LIFE FOR LUCILLE SPERANZA had changed dra-matically since we’d last seen her. Newspapers printed her picture. TV networks ran her sound bites. Magazine editors wanted her story. Overnight, she had become to Bobby Dodd what Kato Kaelin had been to O.J. Simpson.
Even now, five days after she’d become known around the world as the Kidnapper’s Landlady, several news vans were parked outside her home.
“She’s quite the celebrity,” Kylie said as we walked up the stairs. She rang the bell. “You think she’ll still remember her old friends Jordan and MacDonald?”
I barely recognized the woman who opened the door. Gone was the mop of unruly orange hair. It was now a soft brown and styled. Gone was the baggy red-flowered dress. She now wore one that was navy and tailored. Someone—probably a TV producer—had gone to the trouble of getting her camera-ready. But