“I understand that, but she doesn’t know anything, and it can’t circulate that she does or she ends up dead.”
Brinkley frowned. “I don’t leak. You know that. None of my investigations leak. That’s why you didn’t read about the gun.”
“I’m not saying you’d leak it, Reg. For all we know, the Mob could be watching the Roundhouse right now. I’m Trish’s lawyer and all I care about is her interest. Not yours and not the city’s.”
“If she talks to me, she doesn’t have to talk to the feds. You know, they can subpoena her.”
“And she can shut up.” Mary felt anger rising in her chest. She figured that this had been why Brinkley had been so nice to Trish and why he’d wanted to see her so early. “This doesn’t seem fair to me, Reg. She was ignored by the police, and I’m not gonna let her be used by them.”
“She wasn’t ignored, and it was only a day. We don’t move that fast, especially with an Amber Alert.”
“It was still a day she couldn’t afford. She wouldn’t be alive today if she hadn’t run away from him. She had to protect herself.”
“Trish,” Brinkley turned and appealed to her. “We’ve been in touch with the feds and we can get you into the witness-protection program, if you help us. You don’t have to worry. We can find Barbi’s killer and prevent an all-out war. You’ll be saving lives.”
“No comment,” Trish said, as if Brinkley were a pesky reporter.
“I’m sorry.” Mary rose, hoisting Trish to her feet. “I assume we’re free to go.”
“Of course you are.”
“Thanks.” Mary had her answer. They weren’t charging Trish with anything, and she wasn’t even a suspect in Bobby’s murder. Mary felt somewhat reassured that Trish hadn’t done it, because she respected Brinkley and Kovich’s judgment, and they were privy to facts she’d never know. Their bets were clearly on the Mob for Bobby’s killer. Mary opened the door. “See you guys later. Hope there’s no hard feelings.”
“I wish you’d reconsider,” Brinkley said softly.
“Sorry, Reg. Stan.” Mary took Trish by the arm and got her out of there, without a look back.
If only she could leave her own doubts behind as easily.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Mary pulled out of the parking lot, heading south, and rain sprayed into the car as Trish held her cigarette outside the passenger-side window. The Expressway was congested, heading into the morning rush hour, and Trish seemed to relax only after the Roundhouse had receded into the distance.
“Think the FBI will call me?” she asked, taking a deep drag.
“Yes.” Mary didn’t see the point in lying to her. “They know you have information and they want to pick your brain.”
“So what do I do?”
“Good question.” Mary hit the gas, frustrated. Bennie would know what to do, but God knew where that stood. “Truth is, I never handled the FBI before. I’m not really sure of the procedure. I should probably get you a lawyer with experience in this kind of thing.”
“Not you?”
“Not me, but I can help you find somebody.”
“No.” Trish blew out a cone of smoke that blew back inside the car. “You did good in there. You stood up for me. So all you gotta do is stand up for me when the FBI calls. How hard can it be?”
“Thanks, but—”
“You tryin’ to ditch me?” Trish asked flatly, and Mary realized the truth. She didn’t know for sure that Trish hadn’t killed Bobby and she could never really trust her again.
“You did pull a gun on me.”
“Don’t take it personal.”
Mary looked over in disbelief, and when she did, Trish burst into laughter.
They pulled up in front of Trish’s mother’s house in the steady rain, and almost simultaneously, the front door of the rowhouse flew open. Mrs. Gambone appeared in her threshold, throwing open her arms.
“My mom’s a trip.” Trish smiled crookedly.
“She loves you.” Mary’s heart lifted to see Mrs. Gambone, happy again, and she was hurrying down the steps, heedless of the rain, followed by an excited Giulia, Missy, Yolanda, and a horde of well-wishers, more jubilant than if the Prize Patrol had pulled up curbside.
Trish looked surprised. “You believe this? It’s like a party.”
“It’s your fan club, girl. Enjoy it. And tell them you’re sorry for worrying them.”
“Stop the lecture.”
“I can’t. You have so much to learn.” Mary reached over and popped open the glove box. “By the way, don’t forget your toy.”
“Whoops.” Trish laughed, slid out the gun, and slipped it into her purse. “Wanna come in?”
“No thanks, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Where you goin’? You said you got fired.”
“Oh, yeah. There’s that.” Mary faked a laugh. “Home, then. I’m beat.”
“I’ll call you if the FBI calls me.”
“See you at the funeral.”
“Oh yeah, right.” Trish gave her a brief hug just as her mother reached the car and opened the door wide.
“Thank God! My baby!” Mrs. Gambone rejoiced. She reached for her daughter and lifted her bodily from the passenger seat, and Trish returned the embrace.
“Sorry I worried you,” Trish said, with a pointed glance back at Mary, but Mrs. Gambone was too happy to hear.
“You’re home!” Mrs. Gambone hugged Trish again, then let her go and waved to Mary, her eyes bright with joyful tears.
“Mare, thanks,” she called, through the open car door.
“You’re very welcome.” Mary felt the warm rush of redemption, and outside on the sidewalk, love was all around. Giulia squealed and group-hugged Trish and Mrs. Gambone, and Yolanda and Missy started jumping up and down on the rain-swept sidewalk. Front doors up and down the street were being thrown open, and neighbors emerged from their houses, under umbrellas, and cars even pulled up, honking for fun.
Mrs. Gambone and Trish went back up the stoop, followed by Yolanda, Missy, and the rest of the crowd, except for an excited Giulia. She turned around and hustled back to Mary in the car, stutter-stepping in her tiny black boots, covering her hair with her hand.
“Yo, Mare,” Giulia shouted, and Mary happily opened the car door and got out in the rain. She had started to like Giulia, who threw herself into Mary’s arms. “You found her, Mare! You did it! I love you!”
“Love you, too, Giulia.” Mary hugged her back, not surprised to find they were both professional, if not expert, huggers. Giulia’s hair smelled of its trademark mousse-and-Marlboros, but for the first time, Mary almost liked the scent. It smelled kind of grown up. Maybe she should start smoking.
“You’re the best. I knew you could do it.”
“You did your part, too, girl.” Mary extricated herself from Giulia’s embrace.
“Not like you. I’ll never forget that, ever. You never gave up. You’re a good friend, Mare. Aren’t you comin’ in an’ eat?”
“Can’t, thanks. I gotta go.” Mary gave her a final squeeze and got back into the car.
“You sure?” Giulia leaned over the open door. “We’re partyin’! We been up all night waitin’ for you to get back!”
“Nah, I should go.” Mary spotted Yolanda, waving to Giulia from the front door. “Go in, I’ll call you guys later.”
“A wright, see ya, honey.” Giulia hustled back to the house, and Mary turned on the ignition just as a white minivan pulled up in front of her, double-parking her in. She got out of her car to ask the driver to pull up, and when the minivan doors slid open, a stream of kids poured out, yelling and racing to the Gambone’s.
“Watch for cars, you guys!” their mother called after them, emerging from the van.
“Excuse me, can you pull up?” Mary asked.
“My God, are you Mary? I saw you in the paper! Thanks for finding my cousin!” The woman gave her a hug, and Mary hugged her back, on estrogen overload.
�
��Thanks.” Mary went back to her car, in time to see a driver who had just double-parked down the street. He stood by his car, opening an umbrella that caught her eye—a familiar flash of blue and white.
Mary waited for him to open it all the way, then did a double take. It was the blue-and-white golf umbrella that read Dean Witter. He chirped his car locked, and she checked the car. A black Cadillac. She watched, astounded, as he walked briskly toward the Gambone house. Was it Trish’s stockbroker boyfriend? Here? Only one way to find out. Mary made her way through the cars and intercepted him on the sidewalk.
“Sir, excuse me,” she said.
“Yeah?” The man smiled from under the umbrella, and if, by some chance, he recognized her from the motel parking lot, it didn’t show in his brown eyes and handsome, if coarse, features. His black hair looked a little puffy and moussed, and Mary sensed he was using the umbrella because he didn’t want to get it wet.
She introduced herself, then felt at a sudden loss for what to say next. I’m the one who chased your car at the motel?
“Oh, you’re the lawyer.” The man brightened, grinning with bleached teeth. He extended a large hand in a warm, earthy way, and Mary shook it, his grip scratchy and strong as he pumped away. “My wife told me all about you.”
“Does your wife know me?”
“Everybody knows you, now. You’re the one who helped find Trish, right?”
“Yes, thanks. And you are?”
“Oh, sorry. I don’t have the best manners. My name’s Joe. Joe Statio.”
“Oh, well hi, Joe. How do you know Trish? Are you a cousin or something?” Which would be creepy.
“No, I’m just a husband.”
“Well, husbands count.” So I hear. “Whose husband are you?”
“Trish’s girlfriend, Giulia. Giulia Palazzolo.”
Mary froze. Trish was sleeping with Giulia’s husband? Trish had lied to her at the motel? Joe Statio was Miss Tuesday Thursday?
“You know G from Goretti, right?”
Mary found her voice. “Sure, she’s great.”
“Sure is.”
“So what do you do for a living, Joe?”
“Got a plumbing supply on Oregon Avenue.”
“That’s good.” Mary grinned uncomfortably, which wasn’t difficult. So Trish had lied about that, too. What else had she lied about? Killing Bobby? “I thought you were some kind of stockbroker, because of the Dean Witter.”
“Who’s he?”
“Your golf umbrella. It says Dean Witter.”
“Oh yeah?” Joe looked up, as if he’d forgotten he held a multicolored tent above his head. “It ain’t mine. Guy left it at the shop, and I kep’ it.” He glanced toward the Gambone house. “I better get inside. I’m late.”
“Right, see you.”
“Later.” Joe gave her a toothy smile, then hurried up the sidewalk toward the house.
Mary waited until he went inside, then pretended she’d dropped something and walked casually around the back of his car. She double-checked the license plate, hoping against hope. But it was the car from the motel. RK-029.
She looked up at the house, wondering, in the rain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Mary arrived home, shed her purse and coat on the chair, and flopped on the living room couch. Her apartment was quiet, and even her block outside had the stillness that comes from endlessly bad weather. Nobody home was going out in this rain, and everybody else was at work. She felt out of sync, neither here nor there, and reflexively retrieved her BlackBerry. She e-mailed Judy a quick note telling her she’d found Trish and not to worry about her, then she read her long-neglected e-mail, trying not to think about Trish, Bobby, Giulia, or Joe Statio.
No, I’m just a husband.
Mary deflated as she scanned her e-mail, each piece an electronic demand, a mile-high mess of get-back-to-me and I-didn’t-get-a-reply and you-have-to-let-me-know. Randomly she picked one to answer, but couldn’t find her old groove. She didn’t care about any of them. She didn’t even know if these clients were still hers. She tossed the damn BlackBerry aside. Could she take her clients with her? Should she leave them with Bennie? Would she ever work with Judy and Anne again? Could she get another job? What would she do now?
T was my maid of honor, both times.
Mary checked her watch. 10:05. Brinkley had said his press conference would be held at ten. She found the remote in the cushions, aimed it at the TV, and stared glassy eyed at a Slim-Fast commercial, until the news came on. On the screen, the police commissioner, in a dark suit and tie, stood behind a lectern that bore the bright blue-and-yellow emblem of the Philadelphia police. Brinkley, Kovich, and an array of suits stood behind him, flanked by the American flag and the bright blue flag of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, in an official voice. “We would like to make a brief statement regarding the recent outbreak of violence among certain elements of organized crime…”
Mary listened with complete attention and somehow, in the next minute, fell sound asleep.
Bzzz! She woke to the sound of her downstairs buzzer, in a darkened room, disoriented for a moment until she realized she was home, it was Friday, and she was jobless and dateless. The TV flickered, and the evening news was talking about the stock market, down by sixty points. Bzzz!
“Coming.” Mary roused, dry-mouthed, got up, and sleepily made her way to the buzzer next to the door, navigating by the light from Katie Couric’s smile. She pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”
“Lemme in,” Judy said, her voice tinny through the antiquated speaker system.
Mary hit the button. “We don’t want any.”
“I got double cheese, triple sauce.”
“Then hurry.” Mary switched on the living room light, and in the next minute heard the ladylike clomping of Dansko clogs on the staircase.
“Open, sesame!”
Mary opened the door to see her best friend walking down the hall in baggy painter’s pants, a turquoise T-shirt, and a jeans jacket covered with embroidered patches, colorful smiley-face buttons, and silver jewelry, all of which she wore with a pink bandanna wrapped around her forehead like an effeminate ninja.
“How was court?” Mary asked with a smile.
“Good one.” Judy balanced an aromatic pizza box on her spread fingers as she came through the door. “You been busy, huh? You’re all over the newspapers.”
“Great.” Mary closed and locked the door. “I’m Rip Van Winkle. What year is it? Do I have a date yet?”
“Listen to you, all funny.” Judy clomped ahead to the kitchen, turning on lights as she went, and Mary followed like her small and slightly errant child.
“My self-esteem is at an all-time low.”
“So what else is new?” Judy set the pizza box on the table. “You’re not happy unless you’re unhappy.”
“That’s not true,” Mary said, unhappily. Or happily.
“You should be overjoyed.” Judy went into the cabinet for two dinner plates, retrieved them, and plunked them down. Amber light glowed from the ceiling fixture centered over the table. “You completed your mission. You found Trash. Sorry, Trish.”
“No, she’s Trash again.” Mary went for two glasses, scooped some ice out of the freezer, and grabbed two cans of Diet Coke.
“Whatever you say. She’s alive, you found her, and the cops are after the Mob guy who killed Bobby Mancuso.”
“I wish them luck.” Mary popped open a soda and filled the glasses. “Because I think Trish killed Bobby.”
“What?” Judy frowned as she opened the pizza box, filling the room with the aroma of hot mozzarella and wet cardboard.
“You heard me.” Mary sat down. “I think she did it.”
“Then she’s in trouble.”
“On the contrary, she’s in the process of getting away with it.”
“Really.” Judy’s eyes widened like a fourth-grader’s. She took her seat, then
pulled a piece of pizza from the pie and dripped goopy mozzarella onto her plate.
“You should wait before you eat that.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Judy folded the slice expertly and chomped down on the pointy end, squinting as she seared the roof of her mouth.
“First degree or second?”
“Mmmm. Burny.”
“You’re so silly.” Mary smiled and slid a piece of pizza out from the pie, waiting for the slice to cool properly, Gallant to Judy’s Goofus. “Who woulda thought that between us, I’d be the one who got fired?”
Judy laughed, and then so did Mary, until they had to put their slices back down and laugh some more, and when they were finally finished, Judy said, “Okay, so fill me in.”
And Mary did.
“Quite a story,” Judy said gravely, eyeing the empty glasses of melting ice. Pizza crusts sat piled in the open box, like ribs bleached by a desert sun.
“There’s at least a circumstantial case against Trish.” Mary slid off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, having taken out her contacts. “She had motive and opportunity, and she even admitted that she had time enough to kill him and get back to the Poconos. Also, she has a gun, and they found her opal ring in the alley.”
“But why would she keep the murder weapon?”
“Good question. Maybe to throw the cops off.”
“Nobody’s asking but you.”
“To throw me off, then.”
“And risk it being tested?” Judy shook her head. “You’re over-thinking it, Sherlock. Sometimes the obvious answer really is the right one. Mancuso was a mobster. When murder is an occupation, death is an occupational hazard.”
“But that’s not all. I have no idea when she’s lying to me. I believed who she said her boyfriend was, until I met him. So now I think she was lying when she told me she didn’t kill Mancuso. Or at least I’m kinda sure.”
“You’re confused, Mare.”
“I’ll say.”
“No, you’re really confused.” Judy pursed her lips. “You’re a defense lawyer. Trish’s defense lawyer.”
Mary looked away. She knew where this was going.
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