Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

Archer: Eddie something, or maybe Andy something, I don’t remember his last name. What’s the problem?

Lewerke wasn’t stupid, that’s for sure. He didn’t have to wait for Lori to tell him why she believed that Archer was behind Ricetti’s death. Lori arranged with the chief deputy for the security of the tapes and more listening in a couple of days. She returned to her office and called McNamara in Worcester. “Is there any way that Ricetti’s identity got out?” she asked him.

“None. It’s still right here in my desk, ready to go.”

“Do you have a local called Gonzo?”

“Yes. Gonzo Patreska. A bad one, hits for the drug trade to enforce payment.”

“Freelance?”

“Some, but mostly on staff.”

Lori pondered things. Then she said, “We have a tape that he’s with our boy up here, and seems to be paid, but it’s not really clear. And the warrant might not hold up. But that’s the way it is. You can focus on him.”

“I’ll let it out about Ricetti.”

“I’ll send out an affidavit when you put out the information on his identity. Change it as you like, then send it back right away, it’ll help me with my guy.”

Lori reached up and stretched. The pieces were in place. Now it was up to her to maneuver them. But first, a good night’s rest.

Lori called Lewerke at ten A.M. the next day.

“I have some bad news for you, Don. I’m thinking of dropping the assault charges, and filing a murder charge.”

“Did one of the men die?” He was keeping his cool.

“No. The witness, Ricetti, was killed the other night.”

“Accidents happen.”

Lori paused for several seconds.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“It was murder. We have your boy paying off the killer.”

“How so?”

“Gonzo Patreska, in Worcester. He was up here two nights ago.”

“Have him how?”

“You’ll find out at the arraignment.”

“Is that it?”

“Your guy will find out what else when he sees the trial information.”

“You’re bluffing.”

Lori sighed. She didn’t want to move too fast. “I wanted to dispose of this, but Archer was sure he had it beaten. When he turned down my offer, he probably told you that Ricetti wouldn’t testify against him. If he told you that, he knew that Ricetti was dead, but it hadn’t been put out by the Worcester police. In fact, it wasn’t released by them until last night. Maybe Archer didn’t tell you that Ricetti was dead, but that’s why he turned down the deal.”

The silence at the other end of the line was very informative. Finally he said, “You’re stretching, Lori.”

“Ask him, if you’re so sure. Then you’ll be called as a witness to confirm what Archer knew—”

“Attorney-client privilege.”

Lori licked her lips and steadied her harpoon. “He wasn’t alone when he told you that Ricetti wouldn’t testify and maybe that Ricetti was dead. That does away with the privilege. When you testify, and the cops bring in this Gonzo person, it’ll make a fine, tight case.”

“You’re building a house of cards.”

“All of the earlier offers are withdrawn. I’ll take guilty pleas on the two charges, seven years on each, consecutive, no parole.”

“Lori, be reasonable.”

“You have until tomorrow at noon, otherwise I file the information for murder one, and ask for no bail. With his record, and considering the facts, he’ll be in solitary, not even phone calls, until trial, which will be in about a year.”

The line was silent for several seconds. Then Lewerke asked, “Why will you let the homicide charge go, if you think it’s so strong?”

“You know what will happen. He’ll be under the gun, literally, by Gonzo and his cronies, whether he beats the rap or not. Tomorrow, noon, Don. Goodbye.”

Judge Robertson looked out over his half-moon glasses. He stated his intention to accept the plea bargain, went through the colloquy, recited into the record his conclusions that there was a factual basis for the two guilty pleas and that the defendant was aware of rights that he was freely and voluntarily giving up, and went through the immediate sentencing steps.

Lori stared at the shuffling Archer, leg irons and waistband shackles securely in place. She was satisfied that fourteen years of maximum security would at least protect the public from Archer’s depredations during the felon’s turbulent thirties and into his middle age, when she could hope that he and the demi-monde that spawned him might be out of sync.

“We’re finished,” Lori said to her clerk, who hefted most of the files left over from the afternoon’s business and returned to the office.

Judge Robertson rose and signaled to Lori that she should join him in his cramped chambers.

Lori walked past the courthouse personnel, who were milling around preparing to leave, and into the judge’s chambers. She rested on one leg for several moments, then on the other, while the judge hung up his robe.

He stopped and stood, flat-footed, legs spread, hands on hips. “A neat piece of work, Miss Prewitt.”

Lori ignored his old-fashioned form of address. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

“What magic did you work to cause Lewerke to cave in so thoroughly?”

“We had the goods on him.”