Crimson and Clover

-Chapter Seven-

Carmine Lupertazi looked at his eldest son. "I cannot permit you to do this."

"The family honor is at stake. Tony and Jackie screwed up, those lawyers lived, and now we look like fools."

Carmine studied Little Carmine, wondering again what gene went south when his son was conceived. He shook his head. "And Tony and Jackie will fix it. I've told you, nothing can connect us to this situation."

"Dad, we're at the crossroads of a precipice. We have to act."

Carmine looked at Johnny, who maintained a neutral expression. "What do you think?"

Johnny lit a cigarette, considering his words. Carmine loved Little Carmine, but he also knew the kid was an idiot. "I think we have to let Jackie and Tony clean up their mess. Right now those prosecutors are heavily guarded, no one can get near them. Jackie and Tony will wait it out, while we continue with business as usual." He stared at the younger Carmine. "Your father has to prepare for trial, he doesn't need this distraction, to worry about you taking matters into your own hands. Jackie and Tony will finish the job, trust me, they're jockeying for the position of acting boss when Carlo goes to the can. And he will, if my information is correct. The feds have enough RICO predicates lined up against him that he'll never get out. We sit tight, let Tony and Jackie assume all the risk, while we reap all the benefits. We've shown the other families that it's possible to hit a DA and live to do business. Once they're taken care of, the rest of those cocksuckers will fall all over themselves to do business with us."

"I hear Tony wants to bring his cousin Tony Blundetto into it."

Johnny shrugged. "So what? Blundetto's a smart guy, if he thinks the risk is worth it, why not? It's a smart move on Soprano's part."

Little Carmine chafed under Johnny's withering appraisal of his worth and intelligence, but he held his tongue. He knew his father would side with Johnny Sacrimoni. "OK, but they better do something quick, we're losing the respect of the guys on the street."

Johnny sneered. "The guys on the street? They shit in their pants at the thought of a district attorney. If anything, they're in awe that we'd whack two of them and get away with it."

"But we didn't whack them! They're still alive."

"And under heavy guard. Little Carmine, you have to learn patience. Look at your father, he never acts in haste. He's delegated the job and he patiently waits for results. And trust me, he'll get results."

"Listen to Johnny, my son. Jackie Aprile and Tony Soprano fear and respect me, fear and respect Johnny. They've promised to finish the job, and they will. Watch and learn. Not everything happens quickly. Some things are worth waiting for, and this is one of those things. Now. Get us some coffee and we'll go over the receipts for Sunday's game."

--xx—

It had been ten weeks since the shooting, and Claire was bristling under the continued presence of the Protective Services Squad. Liz Donnelly was ready to begin motion arguments in Carmine Lupertazi's trial, arguments she and Jack should be making. She was convinced any possible threat had dissipated, and she wanted her life back.

Jack didn't disagree. They spent the day interviewing witnesses for the homicide of an infant, which put Claire on edge. She hated these types of cases most of all. They got home late, escorted to the door by Piper Craig, who, sensing Claire's mood, didn't speak except to say good night. They'd eaten at the office, so Claire went straight to the shower when she got home. To her surprise, Jack joined her.

When they were dry, he led her to the bed and began massaging her back. He leaned over and turned on the radio, then returned to the rigid muscles of her lower back. "It's terrible, I know," he whispered, "but we'll get justice for that little boy."

"I don't understand how Ruthie can defend that woman. Ohh, god, yes, there."

He moved his fingers in circles on the knot. "Ruthie's doing her job. Just like we are." He expanded the circles. "What's bugging you more, the case, or our security detail?"

"I don't know. I'm so tired of them, always there, I can't even pee by myself."

"Neither can I." His hands moved up her back. "I'm going to talk to Adam in the morning, it's time to call off the dogs." He worked her shoulders, feeling the tension evaporate.

She turned over and grabbed his hands. "I want to forget it all," she whispered.

He eased down on the bed and kissed her. She let his hands go and put her arms around him. He felt her need, the desire to obliterate everything but physical sensation. He rolled between her legs, supporting his weight on his elbows, looking into her soul through her eyes. If screwing her senseless would help, he would do it; there were times when raunchy sex was the only way to drive the demons away, times when she was insatiable. He would take his cues from her. He hoped sound didn't carry through the door, but then he reached the point where he didn't care. He drove her to orgasm after orgasm, then rolled on his back and let her ride him until she could move no longer. She was drained, so he gently rolled her on her back again and quickly reached his own pleasure as she whimpered in total surrender. They were asleep in less than a minute.

--xx—

Jack waited in Adam's office, pacing. When the old man finally walked in, he was surprised to see a jittery Jack McCoy. He hung his coat and hat, put his lunch in a drawer, then sat and looked at Jack.

"Adam, the security has to go. It's driving Claire nuts, and we don't need them. Whatever threat existed has passed. The cops are never going to catch the bastards, and I doubt they're stupid enough to try again. Please, call them off."

Adam weighed Jack's words against his body language. "It's really Claire who's going nuts?"

"Yes. The Carmel case is bad enough, but not having a moment to herself, to process all the feelings the case evokes, is too much. We don't have a life. We can't go out to dinner, for a drink, hell, we can't even go to the store and shop like normal people. Those agents do all the shopping, do our laundry, clean the apartment – you get the idea. And Claire is a very private person. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is for her to have Agent Craig do her personal shopping, go to the pharmacy with her, follow her into the bathroom? It has to stop, Adam. Now."

Adam nodded. "OK. I think you're right, the threat has passed. I'll make the call."

"Thank you." Jack relaxed. "And I promise Claire thanks you."

Adam's smile was tinged with sadness. "I just hope I don't have cause to regret this down the road." He picked up the phone as he waved Jack away.

--xx—

They went out to dinner that night, reveling in freedom like teenagers whose parents were out of town. After dinner, they went to Devlin's for a nightcap. Many of their friends were there, they couldn't buy a drink. Claire truly laughed for the first time in months, and Jack felt good, very good, watching her return to normal.

When Ruthie Miller joined them, Jack felt a momentary apprehension. Ruthie was opposing counsel on the Carmel case, but she was also Claire's friend. Claire was so happy to be free of the guardians that she actually hugged Ruthie.

"Whoa," Ruthie said, signaling the bartender for her usual white wine, "what happened, did you finally get laid or something?" She looked around. "And where are your jailers?"

Claire grinned. "Oh, I got laid alright, and the jailers are history. Adam called them off this morning."

"Thank you," Ruthie said to the waitress, taking her wine glass. "Well. If Jack's that good in the sack, maybe I should invite him over one night when Andrew's with Martin." She winked at Claire. "It's great to see you smile again."

"It's great to breathe free air again." Claire sipped her scotch. "I know they were a necessary evil for awhile, but it went on too long, was too intrusive."

"I can only imagine. So, does this mean you guys will lighten up in court?"

Jack smiled. "When hell freezes over."

"Good to know some things never change." Ruthie swirled her wine, then sipped. "Let's do something to celebrate over the weekend. Anything to keep you guys smiling."

With a teasing smile, Jack said, "I'll have to excuse myself, but you and Claire go out and have a good time. Shopping isn't my thing."

--xx—

Claire met Ruthie for lunch on Saturday, at their favorite place in SoHo. They were seated at a table on the tiny patio, observing the sights and smells of a street fair along the block and spilling into a corner park. They picked out the vendors they wanted to hit while they ate; Ruthie paid the tab and then led Claire into fresh air and sunlight.

Claire picked up a bell-sleeved, collarless, white Mexican blouse and examined it while Ruthie sorted through scarves. Neither noticed the skinny man in black jeans and a red shirt amble up behind Claire. She felt cold steel on her neck, started to turn, and then the world exploded. The man cursed, his arm was bumped just as he pulled the trigger, and he ran without ascertaining if the shot was fatal. He tore through the little park and was quickly lost in the crowd.

--xx—

Chaos was the word Ruthie used to describe it when she gave her statement to police. She heard the shot, saw Claire drop like a sandbag, saw blood everywhere. She thought she'd screamed Claire's name before dropping to her knees beside her friend. Her jeans were soaked in the river of blood flowing from Claire, as tears streaked Ruthie's cheeks. She heard sirens, felt paramedics ease her away from her friend, and sat on a bench at the edge of the neighborhood park. She observed, from some detached point in her shocked brain, the EMTs work on Claire, strap her to a stretcher, and load her into the ambulance. Then two suits she didn't recognize flanked her, sunlight glinting off the badges dangling from their necks.

"I didn't get a good look at him," Ruthie said, dully, wanting to go to the hospital. "Male, he wore a red shirt, I think he was young. I saw his back as he ran through the crowd in the park, but my attention was on my friend." She looked at the senior detective as if seeing him for the first time. "She's an ADA, you know, and this isn't the first time she's been shot."

The detective looked at his partner. "Who is she?"

"Claire Kincaid, assistant to Jack McCoy."

"Oh holy fucking paperwork," the younger one said.

"Where did they take her? I need to be there." Ruthie stood, unsteadily, and the young detective grabbed her elbow to steady her. Ruthie looked at him. "I really don't have anything to tell you, but you can find me at the hospital. If you'll tell me what hospital," she muttered.

"Mercy," the young man said, fishing a card out of his jacket pocket. "We'll be in touch, but call if you remember anything when the shock wears off. Harmon!" He called a uniformed cop over. "Take Ms. Miller to Mercy, make sure she gets inside OK."

Ruthie sat in the front seat of Harmon's patrol car, staring straight ahead. She had to call Jack, and she dreaded it. The trip to Mercy took forever, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Ruthie kept replaying that brief scene in her mind: a gunshot, blood exploding from Claire's head, Claire's body collapsing on the ground, a man in a red shirt running, leaping over a bench before vanishing into the lingering crowd. The RMC rolled to a stop at the emergency entrance, and the cop called Harmon got out and walked around to open Ruthie's door. He escorted her inside, got the information from the triage nurse, and then walked Ruthie into the treatment area. Once they found Claire, surrounded by medical personnel, he left Ruthie to face it alone.

She watched from the curtain as these blood-stained people worked on Claire. Then the gurney rails were raised and Claire was wheeled past Ruthie. An older man, with tired eyes, noticed Ruthie and stood beside her.

"Can I help you?" He peeled latex gloves off his hands and tossed them in a trash can.

"That's my friend, she's an assistant district attorney, where are they taking her?"

"To surgery, sixth floor. It's not as bad as it looks." He looked around, there were other patients needing his attention. "There's a waiting room upstairs, someone will let you know how she is." He walked away, back into the mayhem of a big city ER.

Ruthie trudged to the elevators, suddenly aware that she had Claire's purse as well as her own. She got on the elevator with a few other people, and pressed six. She leaned against the wall, drained, and dreading the call she had to make. When she got off on the sixth floor, she went straight to the nurse's station.

"I'm Ruthie Miller, my friend Claire Kincaid was just brought up for surgery," she said to the middle-aged woman in pale blue scrubs.

The woman looked at a white board on the back wall. "Oh, our Jane Doe. I'll let the surgeon know she has someone waiting for her, he'll give you an update when he's finished." She moved to the white board and erased "Jane Doe," then printed "Claire Kincaid" in the rectangle. She looked back at Ruthie. "Maam, the waiting room is down the hall, on the left."

Ruthie nodded and turned. She saw a pay phone outside of the waiting room, and drew a deep breath. Time to unleash the flying monkeys, she thought, and she dropped a coin into the slot and dialed Jack's number, Claire's number, refusing to believe it would cease to be Claire's number. Jack picked up on the second ring.

"Jack, Ruthie. Something terrible has happened. Claire's been shot, she's at Mercy, in surgery." It poured out of her and left her deflated, sagging against the wall.

"Mother of God," Jack said. "I'll be right there." He hung up, and Ruthie hung the receiver, then pushed through the door into the waiting room. A couple sat against the back wall, holding hands. Ruthie sat as far away from them as possible, holding the purses in her lap, wondering how the hell this happened.

The door swung open, and the detectives from the crime scene walked in. They sat, flanking Ruthie. "We hear she's not as badly wounded as it appeared," the younger one said, Ruthie had to get his name, she couldn't keep calling him young dude. "And our captain says she's a mob target, that she was shot before, so where was her security?"

Ruthie looked at him, dulled by shock and worry. "Do you have a name?"

The man smiled patiently. "Scott, Jim Scott. Are you up for answering more questions?"

"I've told you all I know, Jim Scott. If you want background, talk to the detectives at the two-seven, they caught the original attack. All I know is we were out, she was enjoying her freedom from her protective detail, and this man in a red shirt shot her, then ran like hell."

"Did you get a look at his face?"

Ruthie thought. "He had long hair. I have the impression that he was ugly, and that red shirt was hideous. He was fast, like a track star." She shrugged. "I wasn't taking notes, you know. That's my friend in there." She jerked her head in the direction of the operating room.

"We talked to the guys at the two-seven. They're coming down with some photos, do you feel up to going through them, see if you recognize anyone?"

She nodded. "Don't hold out much hope." She looked at the clock, Claire had been in the OR for almost an hour.

The door swung open again, and Lennie Briscoe walked in, followed by Rey Curtis. Ruthie liked Lennie, barely tolerated Rey. Lennie tapped Jim Scott on the shoulder and he got up. Lennie sat beside Ruthie, holding photo array jackets.

"Hey, Ruthie," he said, gently, liking her and wanting to make this as easy as possible. "Any word on Claire?" When she shook her head, he sighed. "I know you told these guys you didn't get a good look at the perp, but will you look at these, see if something rings a bell?"

Ruthie took the first array and studied each face. She passed it back with a quick shake of her head. Lennie passed her the second one. She dutifully looked at each face, then froze. The last one definitely looked familiar. She tapped the black and white face with her index finger. "Maybe," she said. "Who is he? He might look familiar because I defended him."

"You're a defense attorney?" Scott said, incredulous and offended.

Lennie glared at him. "Yeah, she is, and a damned good one. She's also the victim's friend, remember that." He turned to Ruthie again. "His name is Tony Blundetto, he's from Jersey, runs with the Soprano crew."

Ruthie scratched her head. "I haven't defended any Jersey boys. Who are the Sopranos?"

"They run north Jersey, have strong ties to the Lupertazis. We think Carmine used them as muscle, but we can't prove it."

The door flew open and Jack charged in, trailed by a man and a woman, whose eyes took in each person before they melted into the background. Jack almost shoved Lennie out of the chair. "What happened?" The anguish in his voice betrayed the calm mask he wore for the public. Ruthie told him, taking his hand as she spoke.

The surgeon walked in, looking around for the person he should talk to. Jack stood and met him in the middle of the small waiting room. "Jack McCoy," he said, "I'm the executive assistant DA for New York county, and Ms. Kincaid is my assistant. And my girlfriend," he added, softly, holding the surgeon in place with his intense eyes.

"She's in recovery, Mr. McCoy. She was incredibly lucky, the bullet skimmed along her skull, taking a lot of scalp with it, but it didn't penetrate. She's going to have one hell of a headache for awhile, but she'll be fine. She has a tiny fracture where the bullet struck – one inch either way and we'd be calling the morgue. You can see her when she's out of recovery, probably an hour or so." He turned away and Jack watched him leave, relief overwhelming his nervous system. He trembled, and Lennie took his arm, leading him back to the chair.

"These are the detectives who caught it," Lennie said, and he introduced Jim Scott and Charles Jones. "We think it's a small time skell named Tony Blundetto, a Soprano cousin from north Jersey. We'll have the Jersey cops pick him up."

Jack nodded. The odds of nailing this guy were low. When would this end, he wondered, realizing he and Claire had been watched the whole time, that the shooter waited for an opportunity, for Protective Services to leave, thinking the threat was over. What did Lupertazi gain by killing Claire? She was no longer a player in his legal drama. He stared at the floor, thinking, wanting vengeance and knowing he couldn't have it.

An hour later, a nurse poked her head into the room. "Mr. McCoy?" She scanned the males. Jack stood. "You can see her now."

He followed the nurse into a room very similar to the one he'd spent a couple of weeks in with Claire. The nurse left him alone, and he approached the bed. Claire's eyes were black, and her head swathed in white. She was so still that for a moment he thought she was dead, then her eyes opened.

"Déjà vu all over again," she said, her voice raspy.

Jack grabbed a chair and pulled it to the bed. He sat and took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers. "You beat the bastard again," he said.

"Sheer luck." She reached up with her free hand and touched the bandages. "I think they shaved my head."

He smiled. "Haven't I told you I think bald women are sexy?"

She rolled her eyes. "I have one hell of a headache. Comparatively speaking, getting shot in the back is superior to taking one in the head."

"The doc said you wouldn't have any lingering effects."

"Guess not, if he's to be believed. Jesus, Jack, I'm getting tired of this."

"Yeah, me, too, and I'm not the one playing target on the firing range."

She tightened her grip on his hand. "Get me out of here, old pal, tell them you'll take care of me at home. I hate hospitals."

"I don't think they'll let you out until they think you're ready."

"I guess this means we'll have the pleasure of Ms. Craig and her underlings again." She sighed. "What did I ever to this man to make him so determined to kill me?"

Jack shrugged. "Graduated from Harvard Law? Went to work for Adam Schiff? Insulted his mother? Who knows." He stroked their joined hands. "But I promise he's not getting near you again. Adam's expediting a concealed carry permit for me." That was one phone call Jack made before he went to the hospital, demanding Adam get it done, and quickly.

The door opened with a soft rapping. Jack spun on the chair, relaxing when he saw Adam Schiff, bearing flowers. He put the flowers on the nightstand beside the bed, then said, "How are you, Claire? I'm terribly sorry."

"Not your fault, Adam," she said. "Thank you for the flowers, they're beautiful."

"Did you get my permit, Adam?"

He looked at Jack with exaggerated patience. "Yes, son, calm down. You can pick up the permit and a weapon from Lt. Van Buren, who will supervise your time on the range." He looked at Claire again. "I always said he was a cowboy in a previous life." His expression sobered. "I am so sorry we let them get to you, Claire. You're going to be all right?"

She nodded. "Just get this damned target off my back, Adam, I'm a little tired of being someone's idea of target practice."

--xx—

Tony Blundetto sat with his cousin and Jackie Aprile, going over the plan one more time. There was a truck leaving the port of Newark that night, carrying furs, and Tony would hijack it, sell it to Mickey the fence, and, after paying off his crew, take off until the heat died down. Tony Soprano would be part of the crew, as he had more experience than his cousin in these things.

--xx—

Blundetto paced, aware his young crew watched. Tony S was late, and they were going to have to move without him. With a final look at his watch, Blundetto said "OK, let's move. This is a piece of cake, boys."

They drove to the designated spot along the access road leading away from the port, and placed a car across the road. Headlights appeared not long after they were in position, and two of the boys began jumping up and down in the road, as if signaling for help. The big truck slowed to a stop and the driver opened his door. Tony and the other two jumped out of the brush lining the road, weapons drawn and aimed at the driver.

And then the back doors of the transport truck opened and federal agents swarmed out, automatic weapons aimed at Blundetto and his crew. Furious, Tony dropped his gun to the ground and put his hands in the air.

"Get his weapon," one of the feds commanded. An agent swiftly grabbed Tony's pistol and dropped it into a ready evidence bag. Realization dawned, and Tony was grateful he'd taken Aprile's advice and dumped the gun he used on Claire Kincaid. He was handcuffed, along with his crew, thinking of the possible rats. Aprile and Soprano stood to gain the most by his arrest, it would take the heat off where the shooting of the ADA was concerned, but he couldn't bring himself to believe his cousin would betray him. He was shoved in the back of one of the New Jersey State Troopers cars that pulled up, refusing to answer questions.

He was taken to an interrogation room in the Newark station. Two badly dressed detectives came in a few minutes later. "Mr. Blundetto," said one, sitting at the table across from Tony, "have you been in New York at any point in the last couple of days?"

Tony stared at him.

"It's a simple question, Tony," the other cop said, from his vantage point against the wall.

Tony glanced at him, dismissing him with a sneer.

"We think you have, Tony, and we think you're in big trouble. You match the description of a man who shot an assistant district attorney."

Tony shrugged. "Wasn't me. I never go into the city, too dangerous."

"We're running ballistics on your gun right now. This is your chance to give us your side of the story, because once the ballistics match with the bullet that hit the DA, you're toast."

Tony shrugged. "Guess we'll wait for those infallible ballistics."

The other cop moved forward. "You're looking at fifteen years for trying to hijack that truck, Blundetto. Help yourself, we know you didn't work alone in trying to kill the ADAs."

Tony looked at him and rolled his eyes. "You've lost me, dude, I don't know what you're talking about. Sure, I tried to lift those furs, but I didn't try to kill anyone."

The detectives exchanged glances, then the standing one left the interrogation room. "He's going for the ballistic report, Tony, c'mon, now's the time to help yourself."

"I didn't shoot anyone, so there's nothing to help." He leaned back and smiled. "You've got me on the attempted hijack, that's all. I can do the time."

Sighing, the cop got up and left the room. He met his partner in the observation area. "The ballistics don't match, Dave," the man said, offering the paper to his partner. "He must have dumped the piece and picked up a new one for this job."

Dave Sipple looked at the report. "We knew he wasn't stupid," he said, "but without a match, we can't give him to New York."

"So we arraign him on the hijacking charge and let it go. We've done our jobs, and if he is the shooter, then he's off the streets and the New York DA can breath easier."

"Works for me, I'm not busting my balls on a New York case. Let's book him and let New York worry about the rest."