Bury the Lead

22



NO MATTER WHO killed Linda Padilla, one of the many secondary effects of the crime was to take away Michael Spinelli’s meal ticket. It’s a safe bet that Spinelli, as Padilla’s campaign manager, was planning to follow her to the governor’s mansion and beyond. Her death means it’s time for him to come up with a new plan.

Vince has set up my meeting with Spinelli at Padilla campaign headquarters. I’m sure a couple of weeks ago this place was bustling with activity, but as I enter no one asks me or cares who I am. It has become an organization without a reason for being, and dejection surrounds the place like faded wallpaper. The few remaining staffers are quietly packing their things, and I ask one of them where Spinelli might be. He points to an office and returns to what he is doing.

I enter Spinelli’s office and introduce myself, which prompts an immediate and unsolicited soliloquy. “I damn well shouldn’t be talking to you,” he says. “I mean, I know everybody’s entitled to a defense, but nobody forced you to represent the son of a bitch. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t talk to you. But you know what a pain in the ass Vince can be.”

“That’s something we can agree on.”

“So what do you want?”

“I want to know about Linda Padilla.”

“You mean, like, what did she eat for breakfast? Or how fast she could run a mile? You think you could be a little more specific? Because I don’t feel like chatting about this forever.”

“Okay,” I say, “here’s how it works. At the end of the day I want to find out who killed Linda Padilla. So I ask questions about her. I can’t only ask what’s important, because I won’t know what’s important until after I’ve asked a hell of a lot more questions. Of course, if you know who killed her, and why, you can blurt it out and save us both a lot of time.”

“The police think your client killed her,” he says.

I nod. “Yes, they do. I’m working on a different theory. My theory is that he’s innocent.”

He sighs and sits at his desk. “So where should I start?”

“With your relationship to her,” I say.

“I’m a political consultant; I find politicians and try to move them up the ladder. I teach them what to say, how to say it, and who to say it to. But they need to have something special going in, something that’s there before I get to them, or they can only go so far. Linda had it, and there was no ceiling for her. None at all.”

“Why did she want to go up that ladder? What was in it for her?” I ask.

“The real reason, or the one she would give if your client hadn’t killed her and you could ask her yourself?”

The question isn’t worthy of a reply, so I don’t give him one.

“She would tell you she wanted to help the people on the bottom,” he continues. “So that everybody could have a shot at the American dream like she did. She would even have believed it while she was saying it.”

“So what was it really? The power? The celebrity?”

“Duhhh . . .” is his mocking reply, letting me know that of course it was the power and celebrity, that it’s always the power and celebrity.

“Was she wealthy?” I ask.

He nods. “Loaded. Linda had the first nickel she ever made, and the last couple of years she was making a shitload of nickels.”

I continue asking questions, but he answers mostly in generalities, not providing much insight into who Linda Padilla was. There’s a good chance he has no idea, that she never let him get close.

I finally ask about the rumored connections to Dominic Petrone and organized crime, and he’s careful and measured in his response. “I never saw them together. Nothing was ever said in front of me.”

“But you have reason to believe she knew him?” I ask.

“I don’t have reason to do anything.”

Finally, probably to get me out of there, he suggests I talk to Padilla’s boyfriend, one Alan Corbin. Corbin is a high-powered businessman and had only recently been seen with Padilla in public. According to Spinelli, they were considerably closer than they let on to the press.

“Just don’t tell him that I sent you to him,” he says.

“Why not?” I ask. The fact is, Corbin was next on my list to talk to anyway, so Spinelli’s naming him is not in any sense a big deal.

“He’s not a guy I want pissed at me.”

My next stop is Sam Willis’s office, to ask him to use his computer expertise to help us on the case. It’s a move I make reluctantly because of the death of his assistant. But we need someone, and Sam has often expressed a desire to contribute, so I convince myself it’s okay.

I spend about ten minutes repeatedly and obnoxiously telling him to be careful, that if he senses anything unusual or dangerous, he is to stop and call me. There’s no reason to think he’s in any danger, but I want to make totally sure he’s safe. He promises he’ll call, more as a way to shut me up than anything else.

“I want you to find out as much information as you can about these people,” I say, referring to the victims. I give him the documentation we’ve accumulated from the police reports and other sources. “I especially want you to look for any connection at all between them. If they ate at the same restaurant, sat in the same section at Mets games, whatever, I want to know about it.”

He glances through the documents. “Not much here,” he says. “Is there a last name on this one?”

He’s talking about Rosalie, whom we and the police know almost nothing about. “She was a street hooker. I’ll get her roommate to try and come up with any information she can, but there won’t be much. Hold her off for last.”

He nods. “Okay. This could take a while.”

Sam’s ability to hack into computers and come up with information is legendary. It also was once criminal, and I represented him when charges were brought against him for hacking into a large corporation’s computer system. He had done it in retaliation for the corporation’s mistreatment of one of his clients. I got him acquitted on a technicality and in the process developed a healthy respect for his unique talents.

“If you can’t come up with anything, don’t worry about it,” I say, knowing he will take it as a challenge.

He motions me closer. “Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?”

He’s doing the Beatles, but I pretend not to notice. “I promise,” I say, though he knows I noticed.

“If it’s in the computer, and it always is, I can find out anything about anyone.”

It’s a process that truly amazes me. “How does it all get in there?”

He shrugs. “Companies that people deal with share the information with other companies—that’s part of it. But you wouldn’t believe how many people sit in their rooms and type their life into their computers.” He shakes his head sadly. “All the lonely people . . . where do they all come from?”

My mind, already cluttered, races to find a Beatles reference that I can counter with. Alas, I cannot, so I decide to leave and let Sam get started. “Call me if you come up with anything good. Okay?”

Sam nods. “Okay. And take it easy, Andy. You look tired. Something wrong? Did you have a hard day’s night? Been working like a dog?”

Got it. “I don’t know,” I say, “it must be this case, but suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be. There’s a shadow hanging over me.”

He nods. “Let it be. I’m speaking words of wisdom. Let it be.”