“It’s an appetizer. You can join Frank and me at dinner.” Judy meant her boyfriend Frank Lucia, the grandson of Pigeon Tony. They’d found love on a case together, but Mary couldn’t even find lasagna.
“I can’t go. I gotta work.” Mary moved to call Brinkley again, but Judy grabbed the BlackBerry away.
“Enough! It can wait.”
“Brinkley’s gonna be so angry.”
“Give him time to cool down. Eat.” Judy pointed at the plate, and Mary picked up the plastic fork. After one mouthful of her mother’s cooking, she knew it was the right thing to do. After the lasagna and Judy were gone, Mary went back to her office and stayed on the phone until she finally got through to Homicide.
When the call connected, she asked, “May I speak with Detective Brinkley?”
“If you’re calling about the missing person on TV, this isn’t the number to call.” A male voice sounded testy, and Mary knew she was speaking with the detective whose job it was to answer phones on that tour of duty. “You need to speak with Missing Persons, and I’ll give you that number.”
“I don’t need it. I’m a friend of Detective Brinkley.”
“Leave a number, and I’ll tell him you called. He’s out.”
Mary gave him her name and cell. “Please tell him to call on the cell, so I don’t miss him, and I’m so sorry about what happened, with my friend Giulia going on TV. I didn’t have any control over that. I didn’t even know about it.”
“Hold on.” The detective’s tone cooled. “That was your friend, on TV? Are you that lawyer from Rosato’s office, was in here with her?”
“Yes, and—”
“What were you doing, going on the tube like that?” The detective’s voice turned hostile. “You know how many calls we got already? We won’t be able to get our regular phone calls now, calls we need to get.”
“I’m so sorry. I can imagine.” Mary felt terrible, but couldn’t resist asking, “But were there any leads?”
“Of course not. Every turkey in the tristate area’s calling Homicide. I just hung up on my second drunk dial.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll give him the message. He’ll definitely want to talk to you. ’Bye.”
Mary hung up, troubled. She should have warned Giulia not to say anything. She should have stayed in control of the situation. What if she had gotten Brinkley in trouble? Missing Persons wouldn’t like Homicide usurping its role. Nobody took jurisdiction more seriously than the police department, except a federal court, or maybe a waitress.
Mary checked her desk clock. 5:15. She hadn’t answered her mail yet and she still had a ton of calls to make. She started to look through her mail, but couldn’t concentrate, preoccupied with Trish and now Brinkley. How could she have let this happen? When was Giulia going to call about the flyer? Soon Bennie and Anne would be back from court. It set Mary’s teeth on edge. She had work to do, no help in sight, and at some level, her clients would pay the price. Dhiren. Mr. Nunez. Trish. She didn’t have the time to do anything. Right when she was feeling sorriest for herself, her phone started ringing.
Mary picked up, hoping it was Brinkley. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mary? It’s Anthony Rotunno.”
“Hey, Anthony.” Mary stifled her dismay. Her new gay friend. She didn’t have time for the Freedom of Information Act right now. She shouldn’t have picked up.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a question or two. I’m really stuck.”
No. “Well—”
“I’m downtown today, only a block from your office. You wanna grab a quick bite? I could really use the help.”
“I’m kind of busy.”
“You have to eat. My mother says.”
Mary’s stomach growled in response. She was too distracted to work and she wanted to be out of the office when Bennie got back. She wouldn’t miss Brinkley because he’d call on her cell, and Giulia might be boycotting her.
“Whaddaya say, counselor? My treat.”
“Be right down.” Mary grabbed her purse.
She needed a friend, about now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mary had been on so many blind dates that it was a pleasure to be with a man who had a medical excuse for not being attracted to her. She couldn’t pass or fail the date and she hadn’t even bothered freshening her makeup. No matter how hard she tried, Anthony wasn’t falling in love with anyone but the waiter.
“This is fun,” Mary said, and Anthony raised a glass.
“To Italian-American studies.”
“Cent’anni.” Mary raised her glass and they both sipped their wine, which tasted cold and great. She knew nothing about wines, but Anthony had selected it from a bewildering array on the leather-bound list. She said, “Nice choice, sir. That wine list was harder than the bar exam.”
“You could have picked a bottle. It’s not as difficult as people think.”
“Like the Freedom of Information Act.”
“Exactly. You answered all my questions on the way over.” Anthony grinned, his eyes crinkling photogenically. He had on a dark cashmere blazer with a white shirt and khaki slacks, and his smile was as warm and friendly as last night, if even handsomer in the candlelight, which lent his eyes the rich warmth of dark chocolate.
“Were you ever a model, Anthony?”
“No.” He grinned crookedly. “Why?”
“You’re so hot.”
“Thank you.” Anthony smiled, a little surprised.
Mary eyed the menu, feeling the wine affecting her, already. She hadn’t eaten all day and was always a cheap drunk. Giulia, Brinkley, and even Trish floated farther back in her mind. The restaurant, a casual bistro, was dark and uncrowded, and the menu was completely in French. She stumbled over the béarnaise and mumbled, “Why is the menu never in Latin?”
“What did you say?” Anthony leaned over his menu. “You like Latin food?”
“No, forget it.”
“I cook very good Cuban. I learned it in South Beach from a Cuban friend.”
“I feel inferior, with no Cuban friends. I know people from Jersey, however.”
Anthony laughed. “I even went to Havana with him. What a city. Very wild.”
“I’m sure. I saw The Godfather.”
“I memorized The Godfather. I even read the book.”
“That’s hardcore.” Mary smiled. “What’s your favorite line?”
“‘Leave the gun, take the cannoli.’”
“Good one. Mine’s ‘Fredo, you broke my heart.’” Mary smiled again. She was buzzed. Anthony was fun. Gay men were always fun. She wished suddenly that all men were gay. “So you’re a good cook?”
“Excellent. I love to cook. My idea of a perfect night is a wonderful dinner.”
“Me, too. You know, it’s too bad I didn’t know you in high school. The only boys I knew were the ones who needed tutoring.”
“Not me. I studied hard, I was a good boy. In fact, I was an altar boy.” Anthony smiled, and Mary laughed.
“You’re like the male version of me. It’s really too bad we didn’t know each other.” Her thoughts turned to Trish and the boy she did know in high school. Not a good boy, decidedly a bad boy.
“What?” Anthony asked. “Your face just fell.”
“It’s a long story.”
“So, tell me. The waiter’s never coming back anyway.”
“He’d better.” Mary checked her watch but it was too dark to see it. “I have to go back to work and this thing that’s exploding. If you saw the TV news today, you know that Trish Gambone is missing.”
“How do I know that name?” Anthony asked, with a slight frown.
“High school.” So Mary told him the story, and his expression darkened.
“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, after she had finished the story. “I don’t get some men.”
“Me, either.” Mary didn’t elaborate.
“Wait a minute. Why is this your problem? You and Trish weren’t f
riends, were you?” Anthony cocked his head. “She was so conceited in high school, and he was a dumb jock.”
“She came to me for help.”
“So she’s your client?”
“Not really.”
Anthony arched an eyebrow. “Then if you ask me, I think you did plenty. You found the diary and you told the police. This is their job now. Let them do it. They’ll go forward with their investigation, even though Giulia went on TV.”
Mary nodded. It was exactly what Judy would have said. “Still, I hate doing nothing.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s time for the police to take over. You’re not responsible for everyone from the neighborhood.”
Yet it was exactly how Mary felt. “But that’s what a community does. That’s what it is, to me. Take Dhiren for example, who lives next door to your mom.”
“I’ve seen him. Nice kid.” Anthony sipped his wine.
“He needs help, but I can’t find a psychologist who can test him because everybody’s too busy.” Mary knew that she had just divulged confidential information, but she was a little drunk, so it was permissible under the Tipsy Exception. “Nobody feels the remotest responsibility for others in this world. It’s all the bottom line and the schedule and it’s-not-my-table, and a little boy hangs in the balance. Even the cops have their issues between Homicide and Missing Persons, and Trish falls through the cracks.”
Anthony set down his glass. “You’re not a big drinker, are you?”
“Does it show?”
“Absolutely, but it’s cute.” Anthony smiled softly, and their eyes met over the cozy table, in the candlelight’s glow. It would have been a romantic moment, if not for that pesky homosexual part.
“So, tell me about you,” Mary said. “Do you have a partner?”
“What kind of partner? I teach.”
“You know, a partner. A lifemate. A lover.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“No. Oh, no.” Anthony started to smile. “You’ve been talking to my mother.”
“Your mother? About what?”
“Oh, no.” Anthony laughed, covering his face with his hands. “This is so embarrassing.”
“What is?”
Anthony looked up from his hands. “You think I’m gay.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No! Oh my God, no. Not at all. I’m not gay.”
“What?” Mary asked, puzzled. “Your mother said you were.”
“She thinks I am, but I’m not. She was always fixing me and my brother up, and I would never like any of the girls. Each one was worse than the next.” Anthony couldn’t stop chuckling. “So she decided that I’m gay because I like wine, good food, and books. The books alone will convict you in the neighborhood.”
Mary reached for the wine, dumbfounded. “Why don’t you tell her you’re not gay?”
“Because she’ll start fixing me up again. My brother Dom wishes he had the same scam, but nobody would believe such a slob is gay. She never asked me if I am, so I never lied to her. It’s don’t-ask, don’t-tell, only I’m straight.”
Mary laughed, incredulous.
“Now, we have a running gag. Dom and my sisters are in on it, too. He gives me Cher and Celine Dion CDs for Christmas. My sister took me and my mother to the Barbra Streisand concert last year. They think it’s a riot. I did, too. Until now.”
Mary blinked. “What about when you bring home a girl? Someone you’re seeing?”
“I say they’re my friends, because they are, and she assumes it’s platonic.”
“And when it gets serious?”
“I haven’t met anyone I wanted to get serious about, yet.”
Mary tried to wrap her mind around it. “The funny thing is, I only went to dinner with you because I thought you were gay.”
“Oh no. Are you seeing someone?”
“No, but I’m really sick of fix-ups.”
“Perfect.” Anthony raised his glass, his easy smile returning. “To no more fix-ups.”
Mary took a big swig of wine, suddenly stiffening, and Anthony met her eye in the candlelight.
“So you didn’t know this was a date?” he asked softly.
“Uh, no.”
“It is, and I hope it’s not the last.”
Mary’s mouth went dry.
“Is that okay with you?”
No. Yes. No way. Sure. Mary felt a warm rush inside, but it had to be the alcohol. If Anthony was straight, her makeup needed freshening. She set down her glass. “Order for me, please,” she said, getting up and grabbing her bag just as her phone started ringing. She stepped away, dug in her bag for her cell, and slid it from its case while she fled to the ladies’ room.
“Yes?” she said into the phone, on the fly.
“Mare?” It was her father.
“Pop, hi.” Mary pushed the swinging door into a tiny ladies’ room. “Sorry I didn’t call you back. I spoke with Bernice.”
“That’s not why I’m calling.” Her father sounded panicky. “Can you come home right away?”
“What’s the matter? Are you okay? Is Ma?”
“She’s fine. Just get home. Hurry.”
Mary’s heart tightened in her chest.
“Hurry.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The sun ran for cover behind the flat asphalt roofs, and Anthony pulled the Prius in front of her parent’s rowhouse. “I’ll park and be right back,” he said, and Mary thanked him. She got out of the car in front of her two older neighbor ladies, who were standing close together on the sidewalk. They turned and looked at her, oddly hard-eyed in their flowered dresses and worn cardigans.
Mary ran up her parents’ steps. “Hey, Mrs. DaTuno. Mrs. D’Onofrio.”
“Hmph.” Mrs. D’Onofrio sniffed, uncharacteristically chilly, but Mary didn’t have time to deal. She shoved her key in the front door and hurried inside, where a small crowd filled the dining room.
“You’re just in time,” her father said, upset.
“Dad, where’s Ma?” Mary asked, and just then, the sound of a commotion came from the kitchen.
“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Her father took her arm and hustled her back through the crowd, as fast as he could on bad knees and slip-ons. They all frowned at Mary as she passed, but she didn’t understand why.
Her father was saying, “Thank God we got the heads-up from Cousin Joey. That’s when I called you.”
“It’s okay, Pop, I’ll handle it,” Mary said, but when they reached the kitchen, she wasn’t so sure.
An angry Mrs. Gambone stood on one side of the kitchen table, an older version of Trish, too much makeup, deep crows’-feet, and tiny wrinkles fanning out from her lips. Stiff black curls trailed down the back of her long black jacket, which she wore with black stirrup pants and black half-boots. Mary’s mother stood near the oven, distinctly Old World with her puffy hair, smock apron, and flowered housedress, and she held a clear plastic bag in her hand. Christening dresses blanketed the kitchen table, as if she’d been interrupted while she was wrapping them.
“Mrs. Gambone?” Mary asked, and Trish’s mother turned on Mary, her dark eyes flashing.
“You!” Mrs. Gambone said in a chain-smoker’s rasp. “What do you have to say for yourself? You let that monster take my daughter.”
“No, that’s not true.” Mary felt stung, and her mother stepped forward, shaking her fist holding the plastic bag and defending her daughter in rapid Italian.
“Don’t you dare talk to our daughter that way,” her father said, a running translation. “This is our home.”
“Don’t talk to me that way!” Mrs. Gambone yelled back, straining her voice and setting her neck veins bulging. “You’re scum, Mare, pure scum!”
“Mary’s a big shot now!” a man shouted from the dining room, and the crowd murmured in angry assent. All that was missing were the burning torches, and Mary felt like Frankenstein with a law degree. If she wasn’t Responsible For The Neighborhood, somebody for
got to tell the Neighborhood.
“Let me explain,” Mary began, but Mrs. Gambone cut her off with a hand chop.
“My daughter came to you for help. You coulda helped her but you didn’t! Now she’s gone!”
“I wanted to help her,” Mary almost cried out, as the words hit home.
“She knew he was gonna kill her and now he did. She’s gone!” Mrs. Gambone’s lower lip trembled. “I told her to go to you. She didn’t know what to do. She was too scared to leave him. But you didn’t lift a finger! You didn’t care what happened to her!”
“Mrs. Gambone, I did care. I wanted her to go to court and I went to the Roundhouse today—”
“Yeah, right, and you yelled at Giulia because she went on TV! She’s tryin’ to save my baby’s life. Why didn’t you help my Trish? If you had done something, she’d be home now. All safe.”
No, no. Mary felt stricken. It was true. Once she set aside her lawyerly rationalizations, the fact remained that she was the one Trish had gone to for help.
“She called me, last night, but I musta missed the call. She left a message, she said he was gonna kill her, she said where she was, but it was all static.”
“What?” Mary couldn’t process it fast enough. “Please, slow down and tell me what happened.”
“What do you care?” Mrs. Gambone shot back. “I told the police, they know. She called me for help. She said he was with her, he was going to kill her. Then he grabbed the phone. She didn’t have time to talk, she said he was comin’ right back in the room.”
“What time did she call you?”
“It was around ten o’clock she called, but I didn’t get her message till today. I must not a heard the phone, sometimes it’s weird, it don’t get messages right away.” Mrs. Gambone’s voice broke, anguished. “I came here because I wanted your family to know what you did to my daughter. She’s all I had, all I had, and he took her! She’s gone!” Mrs. Gambone’s eyes welled up. “My beautiful, beautiful baby. My only baby, my little girl.”
Mary felt her heart break. Her father, her mother, and the crowd fell silent, stunned by the depth of Mrs. Gambone’s agony, raw and unvarnished, echoing in the quiet house.
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