Lady Killer

by Lisa Scottoline

“You defended her, very successfully, so far. They didn’t charge her and it looks like they won’t. You handled it just right, going in to Brinkley. You did your job, and, in fact, you paid for it with your own.”

  “If she killed him, she’s going to walk.”

  “Right, which is this little thing we call the adversary system. Ever hear of it?”

  Mary felt sick. “So, happy ending. He gets buried tomorrow, and she gets away with murder.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “She’s sleeping with her best friend’s husband.”

  “That illegal now?”

  “She’s a bad person, Jude.”

  “You knew that going in. You call them the Mean Girls for a reason.”

  “Giulia’s not like them. Giulia’s a sweetheart. She’s my girl.”

  “Gimme a break.” Judy sighed. “Look, I know you care about the justice of the thing, and so do I. But you can’t do anything about that, not in your position. It would be unethical.”

  Mary knew justice wasn’t the problem. It wasn’t even that Trish was getting away with murder. It was that Trish was getting away with murdering him. But she still couldn’t bring herself to tell Judy the whole story, about her and Bobby.

  “I don’t understand why you’re so on his side, all of a sudden. Please recall, off the record, that he was abusive. Inhuman. A killer. You had a terrified woman crying in your office. I’m not feeling for him, are you?”

  The words hit home. Mary was feeling for him, but she couldn’t tell Judy why.

  “You’re way too involved with these people. It’s like you forgot your own life. You live in a different world from them now. They’re your past. They’re high school. They’re the past.” Judy threw up her hands. “I went to three different high schools. I can’t remember the name of even one of my classmates.”

  “And I can’t forget them.”

  “I’m the army brat who never stayed put, and you’re the home-town girl who never moved away.” Judy smiled, more gently. “But you went to college, then law school. You got a chance to reinvent yourself and stop being who you were in high school.” Her tone grew reflective. “The Mean Girls never got that chance, so they don’t understand. You’re not the loser they remember. You’re a lawyer now. You got a life.”

  It rang true, but Mary couldn’t get past it. Somewhere inside, she sensed that she’d never get past it unless she started to look the truth in the eye, and that couldn’t happen unless she came clean. She’d told Anthony about Bobby. Why couldn’t she tell Judy?

  “You gotta get your ass back into the office and beg Bennie for your job. Go in and face the music.” Judy leaned over the table, on her elbows. “I didn’t bring you up with Bennie, but I know she feels bad about what happened, I can tell.”

  Mary wasn’t thinking about her job, she was thinking about what would have been her baby, and Bobby’s. Now he and the baby were gone, and she owed it to them both to find his real killer. She realized then that was why she’d cared so much.

  “Bennie’s trial’s over, and the jury should be back on Monday. If she wins, she’ll be in a much better mood. She’ll listen to reason.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it,” Mary said, after a minute, only because Judy was looking at her so expectantly, for a response.

  “I know you can. Don’t worry. I’ll go in with you. I’ll be right there.”

  Mary felt tears come to her eyes, at the offer.

  “What?”

  Mary couldn’t speak for a minute, her eyes filling.

  “You didn’t know that? Of course I would do that, sweetie.” Judy put her hand across the table, and Mary swallowed hard, then took her hand.

  “I have something to tell you, something very bad.”

  “Like what?”

  “I had an abortion,” Mary blurted out, before she lost her nerve. For a minute, Judy remained motionless. They both did, as if the words cast a spell on them both, freezing them in a girlfriend nightmare.

  “You did?” Judy asked, after a moment, her voice quiet.

  “I went out with Bobby in high school and I was so happy he asked me.” Mary tried to stop her lips from trembling, but it didn’t work. “And later, in the car, we were making out and he kind of pushed the issue and told me something about his blue balls or whatever and then we sort of, we sort of, we had sex, and I got pregnant. It was my first time.”

  “That’s so terrible,” Judy said, her voice hushed, but Mary felt her heart breaking inside.

  “I’m afraid you won’t be my friend anymore.” A deep sob gave way, and Mary’s nose began leaking like crazy, and while she wiped it with her greasy napkin, she heard the chair across the table move, the clogs clomp across the hardwood floor, and in the next second, Judy put her arms around her, hugging her.

  “I’ll always be your friend, Mare.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You know what I love about you, Mare?”

  “What?”

  And Judy answered: “Everything.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The next morning, Mary picked out her best suit and hung it on the closet doorknob, feeling somber and wretched after a terrible night’s sleep. She didn’t know how she’d get through what lay ahead. She’d showered, put in her contacts, and blew out her hair for the occasion, though she tried not to think about where she was going. She took the black crepe jacket from the hanger and put it on, and the lovely fabric slipped chilly over her skin. Anne had made her buy the fitted Prada suit, and Mary usually felt like a million bucks in it, maybe because that’s what it cost.

  She buttoned up the three buttons to the jacket, then took the skirt from the hanger and stepped into it barefoot, zipping it up on the side. She wondered who would be dressing Bobby this morning. She pictured the funeral directors buttoning his white shirt, arranging his hands so they were loosely linked, then threading a rosary through his fingers. It would have black beads, the boy rosary.

  She slipped into her black pumps, then went to the bathroom sink, dug in her makeup kit for her foundation, opened the bottle, and patted some under her eyes and smeared it on her face. Were they putting makeup on his face, now? On his hands, too? They had done that for Mike, she knew, because when she went to touch his hands one last time, she’d come away with a stickiness like putty on her fingertips, and when she’d looked down at her fingers, her husband’s skin had made its own imprint on her. She’d cried then, for him.

  And last night, right before sleep, she’d even cried for Bobby.

  Outside it was still drizzling, the aftermath of the storm, but that didn’t account for the traffic standstill on Broad Street. The cab drew closer to the funeral home, and Mary realized that the jam was caused by the funeral itself. Parked cars filled the passing lane that ran down the center of the street, and uniformed cops in long slickers directed gawkers and other traffic around the bottleneck. A Mob funeral was Saturday’s big game.

  “I’ll get out here, please.” Mary handed the driver a ten and stepped out of the cab. She put up her umbrella and hurried to the sidewalk, walking with her head down against the rain, her pumps splashing water. Noise and chatter emanated from the block ahead, where a crowd had formed, their umbrellas fighting for space.

  She wedged her way into the crowd, holding her umbrella high and excusing herself all the way to the entrance, where a thin, synthetic red carpet covered the steps of the funeral home, as if this were a movie premiere. Stocky men in dark suits stood smoking around the entrance, their gaze shifting toward her. One thick-necked man looked her up and down, unashamedly. Mary hurried up the steps, braced herself against a rising nervousness, and went inside as if she belonged there, a lawyer among felons.

  The scent greeted her first, as she knew it would, the sickening fragrance of refrigerated flowers, and vases of gladiola, lilies, and roses lined the walls on the console tables. She’d never been in this funeral home, the showiest on Broad Street, a dubious distinction. Gol
d-flecked walls surrounded her, and she sank deep into the blood-red carpet. She kept her eyes down, scanning the crowd when she could, but she didn’t see Trish or the girls as she made her way into the viewing room, which was packed. At the front stood a closed casket of glistening walnut, and the bier was mounded with massive sprays of flowers. To the left of the casket stood Mr. Po and Ritchie, both in dark suits, their expressions solemn.

  Mary bypassed the reception line and took a seat on the right side, in the middle of the throng, hidden from the front. She didn’t want Mr. Po or Ritchie to see her because she didn’t know how they’d react, and she felt a tiny tingle of fear. She eyed the crowd, which seemed oddly quiet, without the incongruous, if typical, outbreaks of laughter or happy hugs when friends and relatives were reunited. Women talked among themselves in low tones, and the men gave each other quick and furtive glances. Mary wondered if they were wondering who among them was the killer, but to her the answer was simple. All of them.

  She bent her head and said a prayer. The reception line shifted forward, and when Mary looked up, she spotted Trish and Mrs. Gambone, with Giulia and her husband behind them. She felt a pang for Giulia, betrayed by her husband and her best friend, a heartbreak double play. Trish walked with her head bent and her arm linked in her mother’s, apparently grief stricken in dark coats, but Mary couldn’t stop her doubts.

  She hid her thoughts as Trish stepped forward to the casket and knelt down on the knee pad, with her mother hovering behind her. Every head in the room turned to the front, and all eyes focused on the scene. Trish rested a hand on the coffin, then bent down and kissed it. It was so convincing a portrayal that Mary almost wondered if it was real, and when Trish rose and turned away from the coffin, she wiped a tear from her eye, Exhibit A in the Grief Department.

  Ritchie came forward and gave Trish a meaty hug and Mrs. Gambone hugged Mr. Po, and at the sight, the mourners nodded and murmured with approval. Mary had been to enough Italian funerals to recognize the big peace-making scene, though it usually took place between people who hadn’t spoken because of an ancient grudge, not people who kidnapped and tried to kill each other, like, last week. But then again, every opera was different.

  Giulia and her husband Joe did the same thing, then Yolanda and Missy appeared and followed suit, and Mary wondered if there was such a thing as collective amnesia. In the aisle behind her, someone said “hey” and “what’s your problem, lady,” and she turned around to see an attractive couple bypassing the receiving line and hurrying up the aisle. The man was behind, but the woman stormed ahead, her russet hair flying and her face contorted with anger. It was Rosaria, Bobby’s sister, from Brick.

  Mary should have expected her, but with all that had been going on had forgotten about her. The man with Rosaria, wearing an expensive silk tie, must have been her boyfriend, because he was trying to catch her arm as she charged forward. Her gaze fixed on the casket, then shifted to Mr. Po and Ritchie, who had just released Trish and Mrs. Gambone.

  “You! You did this!” Rosaria called out, storming down the aisle toward the casket. Mourners gasped, heads wheeled around, and a dangerous wave rippled through the crowd, but Rosaria was oblivious, grief stricken, her eyes teary. “You’re responsible for this. You got my brother killed. You.”

  “Whoa, Ro,” Ritchie said, putting up his palms, and a shocked Trish, the girls, and Joe edged back behind Mr. Po, who whirled around with an agility surprising in a man his age.

  “Rosie, show some respect,” he said loudly.

  “Respect for you?” Rosaria shouted back. Her boyfriend pulled her away, but she wouldn’t stop. “Why? You’re criminals, common criminals, both of you. You’re not good enough to know my brother, much less bury him.”

  “Shut your mouth!” Ritchie yelled, and men collected behind him.

  Mary found herself on her feet with the rest of the mourners, craning their necks.

  “You were nothing compared to Bobby, and you know it,” Rosaria hollered. “You were always jealous of him. He was the star, not you. He was the one everybody loved, not you. That’s why you ruined him!”

  “That’s enough outta you.” Ritchie gritted his teeth, and a short, elderly priest appeared up front, raising his arms and stepping between the Pos and Rosaria and her boyfriend.

  “Please, no, stop,” the priest said, his voice quavering with age and alarm. “This isn’t the time or the place, not the time or the place.”

  “Don’t tell me, Father.” Rosaria turned on him. “You don’t know these people. They’re sick, the both of ’em. You wanna know what he did to me, Father? My supposed father? Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Rosaria, no!” her boyfriend shouted, finally grabbing her from behind and wrapping his arms around her, holding her fast while she writhed and struggled in his arms. Ritchie, Mr. Po, the priest and the men stood still, watching while she finally stopped fighting and dissolved into tears, collapsing in her boyfriend’s arms. He managed to get her back down the aisle, and she sobbed against him for support, tears running down her cheeks, letting herself be taken from the room.

  Up front, Mr. Po spoke with the priest, and Ritchie huddled with his partners in crime. Mrs. Gambone, Trish, and the girls formed a fluttery circle, and the room returned slowly to normal, with the mourners talking among themselves and taking their seats. Mary sat down, her emotions in tumult, her thoughts confused. She was thinking about Ritchie and what Judy had said.

  Maybe the easy answer was the right one.

  Maybe a mobster had killed Bobby, and maybe the mobster was Ritchie. Mary remembered that day at the Po house, when she’d met him.

  Boo.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Sunlight beamed into her bedroom, and Mary felt almost herself by Sunday morning, lounging in bed in her oversized Eagles T-shirt, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of loafing. Newspapers made messy tents all over her comforter, and Meet the Press was on TV, all the politicians in gray suits, red ties, and flag lapel pins. She watched idly, thinking that Tim Russert was cute in an altar-boy kind of way, but that reminded her of Anthony, who still hadn’t called. She was too old-fashioned to call him. She looked over and checked the answering machine beside the bed, but nothing had started blinking since five minutes ago. She wasn’t ready for a relationship anyway.

  But if he calls, I’m ready.

  She sighed and told herself it was a relief. After all, she’d almost gotten back to her life, having spent last night catching up on her e-mail, answering her clients as if she were still an associate at Rosato. She’d called Amrita to check on Dhiren, and he was improving, and she’d even drafted a brief due next week. She hadn’t decided what to do about Bennie yet, but it had felt good to be back in business, dealing with roof leaks and slip-and-falls, and there had even been a ton of e-mail from her clients, congratulating her on finding Trish alive. She wondered if the other clients would come back, now that she had found Trish. Not that it gave her comfort, not completely. The whole time she’d worked, Trish had been in the back of her mind, and Bobby.

  Mary picked up the front page and skimmed the article again. OTHER SHOE DROPS WITH BARBI MURDER read a sidebar, and the article went on about the history of the Mob in South Philly, with a list of so many Italian names it sounded like a menu. Mary hated the Mob stereotype because she knew that most Italian-Americans were smart, honest, and hardworking citizens, who kept her in business by slipping on wet sidewalks, crashing their bumpers, and winning the occasional contracts case. She scanned the other news articles, all on the Mob war, and pictured the crowd at Biannetti’s, excitedly comparing notes and trading gossip, murder as spectator sport.

  She turned back to the front page, and the lead article reported that there were still no suspects in the Mancuso and Barbi murders. Another sidebar showed the blurry cell-phone photo of Trish and reported that the mobster’s “former live-in love” had returned to her family’s home and wasn’t returning reporters’ calls. There was no suggestion t
hat Trish was suspected of his murder in any way. Brinkley wasn’t mentioned in any of the articles, and neither he nor the FBI must have contacted Trish or she would have called.

  Mary watched Tim Russert and tried to think good thoughts. She was a defense lawyer, and the representation was over. Judy, the world’s best girlfriend, had been right. Bobby had been buried, and that chapter of her life closed. She had to pick up the pieces, and right now they were messier than all the newspaper sections. She wanted to feel better. She was so sick of being down on herself for being down on herself, for having no job and no boyfriend, and she felt lost and empty, betwixt and between.

  Which told her exactly what to do.

  “Ma, I’m hungry,” Mary called from the door, but the noise and commotion from the kitchen took her aback.

  “Honey!” her father called back, emerging with a small crowd following him. They flowed into the dining room and expanded to fill it, like last time. But as angry as that crowd had been, this one was joyful.

  “Pop?” Mary asked, bewildered. “What’s going on?”

  “At church, the neighbors were so happy that you found Trish and they came over to visit.”

  “Mare, you done good.” Mrs. DaTuno smiled at her and so did Mrs. D’Onofrio, dressed in their nice church housedresses. Everyone called out “Way to go” and “Congratulations, Mare,” unanimously restoring her status as Neighborhood Girl Who Made Good.

  “I’m so proud a you, I could bust,” her father said softly. He gave Mary a bear hug, pressing her to the freshly pressed white shirt he saved for Mass, and she breathed in his mothballs scent, mixed now with meatballs.

  “Thanks, Pop. Thanks, everybody.” Mary waved like a Windsor, and they all started clapping. She swallowed the lump in her throat, her emotions mixed. Would they feel the same if they knew Trish could be guilty of murder? Or would they forgive it, given Bobby’s abuse? So she hammed it up and took a low bow, feeling vaguely like a fraud.