Lady Killer

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Miss Tuesday Thursday tipped Trish a hundred bucks each time. You believe that? A hundred bucks! Must be nice.”

  Mary wrote sample questions on the tiny sheet of paper, each a variation of Do you know a guy named Eyes?

  But Giulia was studying the obit. “Hey, this is whack. It says that Miss Tuesday Thursday was in the hospital for a long time. She even went into a coma last week.”

  “Wrong.” Missy frowned. “Show me.”

  “Where?” Yolanda asked, and the women clustered around the newspaper while Mary finished writing her questions. When she tore off the sheet, they were looking at her in confusion.

  “I don’t get it.” Giulia held up the obit. “It says here Miss Tuesday Thursday was in the hospital for two months. But T blew her out last Thursday. She told me. T got a two-hundred-buck tip from her, last time. She even showed it to me when she got back to the salon.”

  “I saw the money, too. I was there.” Missy chimed in. “But how could Miss Tuesday Thursday get blown out if she was in a coma?”

  “T lied to us,” Yolanda said flatly, and Giulia shoved her angrily.

  “Don’t be runnin’ T down, Yo. You don’t know she lied. I’m sure she had a good reason.”

  “She lied, G!” Yolanda snapped. “Don’t go takin’ up for her. She’s been lyin’ about it for the past two months, she had to be. So where’s she been at lunch, every Tuesday and Thursday?”

  Missy lifted an eyebrow. “And where’d she get that tip money from?”

  Giulia thrust the article at Mary, upset. “Read this for me. We must be readin’ it wrong.”

  “Okay, trade me.” Mary gave her the questions for the newspaper and skimmed the obit. Mrs. Felton lived in the Dorchester, on Rittenhouse Square, and was heiress to the Welder fortune. Hospitalized for two months. Fell into a coma last week. Mary looked up, intrigued. “Sorry, but Trish couldn’t have done this woman’s hair last week, or anytime in the past two months.”

  “So where did T go on Tuesday and Thursday?” Giulia frowned, mystified. “Where’s she been goin’? Why didn’t she tell me? I’m her BFF.”

  “No, I am.” Missy looked over with a scowl.

  “No, I am.” Yolanda folded her arms. “Or I was, but I’m not anymore. I knew it all along.”

  “Knew what?” they all asked, including Mary.

  “I knew she was cheatin’ on Bobby.”

  “Yo!” Giulia yelled, and every head in the lobby turned toward them.

  “Shhh!” Mary said, but her thoughts raced ahead. Every Tuesday and Thursday, Trish was going out at noon? Returning with cash in hand? And Bobby a nightmare at home? Yolanda was right. Trish had to be seeing somebody.

  “G, get real.” Yolanda sniffed. “T got hit on all the time by those rich guys at the salon. Remember Mikey the divorce dude? He had a mad crush on her. And the stockbroker, Damon? Sooner or later, she musta hooked up.” Yolanda wagged a finger. “Maybe that’s why Bobby freaked on her, on her birthday. He musta found out.”

  “For real?” Missy asked, and Giulia stalled, momentarily.

  Mary had to admit, it made sense. She remembered reading about his accusations of infidelity in the diary. They had seemed unfounded, but if Trish really were cheating, she wouldn’t take the risk of recording it, even in a hidden diary. Had Bobby killed Trish for cheating on him? Had that been his dark surprise for her birthday? In the next moment, the crowd behind them seemed to part, and a group of men hustled toward the exit. Mary looked up to see Brinkley heading out, flanked by two other men in suits.

  Giulia pointed. “Look, Mare, that’s Reg Mack, with the dude from Missing Persons!”

  But Mary was already in motion. “Reg, hi!” she called out, and Brinkley caught her eye, though his face fell the moment he spotted the Mean Girls. She sped up and fell into step beside him. “Reg, I need to talk with you and couldn’t reach you on the phone.”

  “Make it quick, Mary.” Brinkley took her arm.

  “Missing Persons Dude!” Giulia called out, as the Mean Girls surrounded the other men. “You got any word on T? We’re worried sick since Bobby got shot. We gotta find her.”

  “Settle down.” Brinkley raised his large hands. “Settle down right now.” He turned to Giulia with a scowl. “You. Don’t call me or Missing Persons anymore. We’re all working very hard to find Trish Gambone, but the more you keep bothering us, the less we can do our job.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” Giulia shot back. “It’s a free country, and my best friend’s still missin’.”

  “Shhh!” Mary nudged Giulia. Every head in the lobby had turned to watch. She recognized two lawyers she knew from when she was gainfully employed, earlier this morning.

  “What did you find out, Mary?” Brinkley asked, his voice low.

  “Bobby was close with a guy in the Mob whose name was Eyes. He might know where Trish is, or maybe where that house is.”

  “Thanks, but I thought you were getting back to work. No more playing cops.”

  “I’m not. That’s why I’m telling you about Eyes.”

  “Good girl. Keep it that way.” Brinkley made a beeline for the exit. “Take care. We gotta go.”

  “You get back here!” Giulia shouted, but Mary blocked her with raised arms, like an overeducated school safety. After Brinkley and the suits had gone, Mary lowered her arms and turned to Giulia.

  “Girl, you need to calm down.”

  “It’s not my fault my nerves are shot.” Giulia rubbed her forehead, raking it with her acrylic tips. “I’m so afraid she’s dead.”

  “Aw, don’t think that way.” Mary threw an arm around her and hoped she sounded convincing. “Come on, we got work to do. Trish is counting on us.”

  “You really think she was cheatin’?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. We gotta find Eyes.”

  “Okay.” Giulia smiled shakily. “You’re so smart. You always know what to do.”

  “Thanks.” Mary gave her a squeeze, feeling like a fraud.

  In truth, she had only one move left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The gray sky spit drizzle, and Mary put the Mean Girls in a cab and followed them in her car part of the way, then turned off. She didn’t want to do this, but she couldn’t leave it to anyone else and Eyes was her only lead. She thought it would be safe enough, especially in daylight. She drove down a few blocks, past neat rowhouses, then found a parking space. She glanced through the rain-spotted windshield at the lighted sign down Denver Street. Biannetti’s read black letters on a white plastic sign, next to a martini glass set sideways, a Rat Pack rewind. A modest corner tavern, a converted rowhouse, squatted at the end of the street, an alleged Mob hangout not twenty blocks from City Hall. She cut the ignition, braced herself, grabbed the newspaper and her bag, and left the car.

  The air smelled damp and humid, and she walked to the restaurant with her head down against the wet mist, telling herself that Biannetti’s was a public place like any other and people from the neighborhood ate there all the time. She walked along and checked out the cars on the street, wondering if any FBI agents were surveilling the place, after the murder last night. There were no telltale white utility vans in sight, only an array of older American cars. The street seemed unusually parked up, with a full line of double-parking, which Mary couldn’t explain until she reached Biannetti’s door, pulled on it, and went inside. The place was dim, but the noise level came up before the light, the loudness of a packed restaurant abuzz with animated chatter and laughter.

  At first Mary startled, thinking she’d walked into a party, but then her eyes adjusted to the scene. It wasn’t even noon, but all the tables were full, stocked with men and women yapping away, gulping coffee, and smoking despite the city-wide ban. Almost every table had today’s newspapers spread out on top of red-and-white-plastic tablecloths, and people mingled, reading the articles over each other’s shoulders. It was tailgating, at a mob murder.

  She slippe
d on her sunglasses, just in case someone had seen her picture in the paper. On the right was a short bar, where a crowd stood riveted by a TV that blared the local news. On the screen, a bright red banner read MOB WAR, complete with gang-related crawl. The crowd talked through the broadcast, waving Pilsner glasses, mugs of coffee, and unfiltered cigarettes to make their points. At the bar, older men hunched over their shots, their backbones curved like bows under pressure. Mary couldn’t see their faces, but their bifocals disqualified them as Eyes. They weren’t mobsters; they were retirees, with a calcium deficiency.

  She scanned the patrons, and none of them looked like criminals, either. They had lined faces that came from second mortgages, car payments, and Powerball losses, and they wore polyester sweatshirts, baggy pants, and pleather slip-ons. If anything, it looked like a roomful of people’s parents, none of them young enough to be a friend of Bobby’s, or even to drive at night. They gobbled pork sandwiches, an aroma Mary associated with Holy Communion lunches, Confirmation dinners, and wedding receptions. To the DiNunzios, any sacrament was a good excuse for a nice roasted pork.

  No hostess came to seat her, so Mary chose the only open table and pulled out a chair that faced the door, so she could spot entering felons. She put her purse on the other chair and her newspaper on the wipe-clean plastic tablecloth, then opened her newspaper like everybody else. She turned a page for show, but stole a glance at the patrons on the far side of the room. Same thing. A table of painters in spattered white pants loudly discussed the murder with two Coke delivery guys in red shirts. The only exception was a table of four elderly women, looking at Mary with disapproving frowns. She wondered if she was paranoid or if they had heard gossip about her.

  She looked away. None of these people was Eyes, it was obvious. What would she do now? How would she find him? Her gaze fell on the newspaper, and her own image stared back. It was the photo of her with Anthony, and she lingered on his expression to see if he really did have the look of love, suppressing the tiny quiver she felt inside. She remembered his voice, soft and tentative. She thought of the way the shadows fell on his face and back. She had told him everything last night, confided in him in a way she hadn’t anyone before, and he hadn’t judged her. On the other hand, he hadn’t called today. She pulled her BlackBerry from her purse and checked her call log, all of which were clients. She noted three e-mails from Judy and shot her back a quick I’m-fine, so she wouldn’t worry. Then she set the BlackBerry on the table in case Anthony called.

  This is what happens when single girls stalk the Mob.

  Mary got back on track, turning the pages and pretending to read a sidebar editorial, by one of the snarkier columnists whose byline she recognized. The headline alone scared her: THE PHILLY MOB: DEAD OR ALIVE? Her mouth went dry. Even though Biannetti’s seemed safe, she didn’t like tempting fate by reading about the Mob in a Mobbed-up restaurant.

  “Coffee, honey?” a waitress asked, and Mary jumped.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “You hungover?”

  “What?” Mary didn’t understand.

  “The sunglasses.” The waitress set down a red plastic menu, and on the front was a stereotypical Italian chef with a Mario Brothers mustache, holding a plate of steaming spaghetti and meatballs.

  “Right, yes. Ouch.”

  “The coffee will help.” The waitress plunked down a thick white mug and poured coffee into it from a Bunn glass pot. She had a pretty, if careworn, face, and was in her fifties, with brown hair in short, dark layers. She had on a casual blue blouse with Mom jeans and seemed approachable enough, so Mary gestured casually to the newspaper.

  “Pretty weird, huh? Think it’s a Mob war?”

  “Sure do.” The waitress nodded. “It’s been a while. You know what they say in The Godfather. It’s time.”

  “But that’s a movie.”

  “Oh yeah? Look around.” The waitress winked. “Try telling the fans that.”

  “Is that really why everybody’s here?”

  “After last night? You bet.”

  “You’d think they’d avoid the place, if there’s going to be trouble.”

  “No way. They wanna be where the action is.”

  Mary shuddered. “But it might not be safe.”

  “The Mob ain’t like those rappers, shootin’ the joint up. They only whack their own. Today, Biannetti’s is the safest place on earth.”

  “So Mob guys really do hang here?”

  “Why do you wanna know?” The waitress smiled slyly.

  “I’m just interested. None of these men look like gangsters to me, unless AARP’s fronting.”

  “This is the lunch crowd.”

  “So at night is when the Mob guys come?”

  “Midnight or later.” The waitress shifted her weight to the other hip. “You like the bad boys?”

  No. “Yes. Does it show?”

  “Please. You’re not the first girl to come in here, lookin’ to hook up.”

  Yikes! “I’m not?”

  “No way. Girls come in all the time, and they all look just like you. They got the Coach handbags, the cell phones, the nice suits. They’re like groupies. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Ever since The Sopranos, business is crazy. The owner’s talking about opening for breakfast. I see it all the time. You professional types like to take a walk on the wild side.”

  “Color me guilty,” Mary said, and they both laughed.

  “My husband says, you got women’s rights and all, and you ladies give orders all day to your secretaries and assistants, and sometimes, you just wanna get ordered around in bed. Me, I’m married thirty-five years. I’m dead below the waist.”

  Mary laughed, then turned to the front page of the newspaper and pointed at the photo of Bobby. “You know,” she said, “I used to hook up with this guy. Bobby Mancuso.”

  “The one that got killed?” the waitress asked, in admiration.

  “The very same.”

  “He was made, wasn’t he?”

  “No, just connected,” Mary answered, eager to try out her new lingo.

  “Still, he’s so good-lookin’.” The waitress leaned over like a coconspirator. “Was it great?”

  “Beyond great.” Mary suppressed a twinge.

  “Too bad they whacked him.”

  “It happens.” Mary paused. “You know, he always talked about this guy named Eyes, a friend of his. He said Eyes was a great guy.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Yeah. I’d like to meet him, but I can’t find him.”

  “Ha!” The waitress grinned crookedly. “You’re not wastin’ any time, are you, girl?”

  “The King is dead, long live the King.”

  They both laughed, and at a nearby table, an older man raised his coffee mug, requesting a refill, but the waitress ignored him. “So you’re interested in Eyes, huh?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “It doesn’t sound familiar.” The waitress frowned, thinking. “What’s his real name?”

  “I forget. Bobby always called him Eyes.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I never heard of a guy named Eyes.”

  Damn. “Maybe he came in with Bobby.”

  “The dead guy? I never saw him either, but the boys come in at night, after midnight. I’m not on then.”

  “Who is?”

  “Barb. Barb Maniaci.”

  “Maybe you could put in a good word for me, with her.” Mary reached for her wallet, extracted as many twenties as she could grab, and stuck them in the red menu, which she folded closed and handed to the waitress, who accepted it with a discreet wink.

  “I’ll let Barb know you wanna meet Mr. Eyes.”

  “Great. Can you make it happen tonight?”

  “Tonight is tough. They’re all layin’ low today. Nobody knows when all hell’s gonna break loose.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  The waitre
ss arched an over-plucked eyebrow. “You gotta, if you don’t know his real name. We been sendin’ sandwiches and baked ziti out all morning to, like, twenty different houses. For them, we deliver.”

  “Good move.” Mary considered it. Of course, everybody would be over at the Pos’ house, paying their respects. Maybe even Cadillac.

  The waitress pulled out her white pad. “Now, hot stuff, what’ll ya have for lunch?”

  “I’m not eating,” Mary answered abruptly. She had to get going.

  Even if it meant passing up a pork sandwich.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The drizzle had let up, and Mary was back in the car. She drove down the street, and the neighborhood seemed electrified by the murder, with people hanging out on their stoops, talking to each other. She turned on the windshield wipers and cruised ahead, then took a right, slowing down as she turned onto the street where Ritchie Po and his father lived.

  She suppressed a tingle of fear and cruised past the house, watching the people going in and out of the Po house. Some were older neighborhood types bearing pastry boxes, but most weren’t. Brawny guys in dark tracksuits climbed the front stoop, and black jackets got out of cars that double-parked out front. Mary checked them to see if they had funny eyes, but no.

  Then she got down to business, scanning the parked and double-parked cars and all of the cars that dropped people off at the house. She spotted one Cadillac, then another, and started counting. She even circled the block twice, checking the cars on each trip, ending up at twelve Cadillacs. She felt her hope slip away. Maybe it wasn’t such a great plan, since a Caddy was the official car of the South Philly Mob.

  Mary took another turn around the block, and when she stopped at the corner, a memory came drifting back, floating out of her subconscious. This wasn’t the first time she had driven around this block, semistalking Bobby’s house. She used to drive by in high school, after they’d broken up. She’d hoped to see him coming out of his house or going in; she was trying to decide whether to tell him about the baby, even after the fact. She felt a weight on her chest, like the one she’d felt when Mike died, and for a second she didn’t know who she was mourning, as if both loves had gotten tangled together, her first love wrapped around her last love like a sucker vine, choking the life from her.