The shooting happened yesterday morning in Spano's office at Chapel Pointe, a luxury Staten Island residential development. The circumstances surrounding the shooting are still under investigation.
Spano, as first reported by the
Also present was
When Spano ordered the three to leave, a fight began. Spano pulled a gun from his desk and pointed it at Keegan. Laura Stone said, “It just made him madder. He jumped on Spano and choked him. Constantine tried to pull him back and the gun went off.”
Police have subpoenaed the bank records for the escrow account Constantine maintained for the Keegan family. It is alleged by some sources that the cash for the payments was passed from Spano to Constantine by FDNY Captain James McCaffery, who died on September 11.
Edward Spano will be arraigned today on Staten Island. He is expected to enter a plea of self-defense.
The investigation is continuing.
LAURA'S STORY
Chapter 16
Morning in the newsroom. Laura, as always, early; other reporters drifting in one by one, stopping by her desk to ask, How are you doing? Are you okay? All of them sympathetic, all of them kind. But some—the honest ones, Laura thought—not suppressing their ironic and envious smiles when they said, Hell of a way to get a story.
Five clocks in plain view, none of them moving. Just get through the meeting, Laura told herself. Just that.
Laura's desk phone ringing. No, she thought, no, whoever you are and whatever you want, I can't. Even as she thought that, she grabbed the receiver up.
“Laura Stone.”
“Owen McCardle.”
An unfamiliar voice, a familiar name. Laura cast about. “I'm sorry—”
“Friend of Jimmy McCaffery's.”
Yes. “Yes, I remember. You were at Engine 168. Harry interviewed you.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Mr. McCardle, after what just happened—”
“I want you to come here.”
“I—”
“It's goddamn important, Miss Stone.”
Anger slammed Laura as though McCardle's fist had pounded her through the electronic distance between them.
Laura closed her eyes. But that brought, not longed-for emptiness, but—again, once again—the sight of Kevin Keegan, swaying, clutching his bloodied chest. Staring not at Edward Spano, the man who'd shot him, but at Phil Constantine, motionless, frozen. Only his eyes reached for Keegan. Then Keegan fell.
I want to go home, Laura thought. Not to Harry's empty apartment, or her own, not to anyplace in this ruined city.
“It's goddamn important.” McCardle's voice, each word separate, a boiling fury.
Too tired to argue, Laura said, “All right.” What choice was there? With the sinking feeling that she knew the answer, she asked, “Where is ‘here'?”
The ferry ride, one more time. Manhattan shrank as Laura stood on the back of the boat in the bright sun and watched. She didn't want to look forward, couldn't bear to see anything more coming toward her.
From the terminal she took a cab, leaning back against the seat. After yesterday, she was not ready to be seen in Pleasant Hills.
The cab drove past a school, a red-brick building she hadn't noticed before. The thought struck her:
The idea was comforting and also exciting. Yes. After this interview. Whatever McCardle had, she'd take it down, hand it to Jesselson, pack up, and fly home.
