Lady Killer

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Michael Chiklis,” one of the agents said abruptly, looking from his newspaper. He was Steinberg, the quieter and older of the two, with a cute gray mustache, chubby cheeks, and ruddy skin. He’d pushed his wire-rimmed glasses on top of his head, which made his coarse salt-and-pepper hair stand up like a boar-bristle brush.

  “What?” Kiesling asked, looking over with an amused frown.

  “Remember I was saying that Po looks like somebody? The guy’s name just came to me. Michael Chiklis. The bald guy in The Shield.”

  “I don’t watch The Shield.”

  “It’s almost as good as Barney Miller.”

  “So you say, Dad.” Kiesling almost smiled. He was in his forties, with a pointy chin and his skin stretched tight over gaunt cheekbones. His eyes were small and brown, and his dark hair thinning. He’d mentioned that he ran marathons, but to Mary, he looked like he could use a nice cannoli.

  She asked, “So, do you two deal with organized crime?”

  “We’re on the Task Force.” Kiesling cocked his head. “What do you know about the case?”

  “Kind of a lot.”

  “Anything that could help us? Why don’t we compare notes?”

  “Good idea.” Mary realized they should know what she’d told Brinkley. She wasn’t about to play jurisdictional games, not after tonight’s murder. “Here’s what I know that you might not: Trish Gambone thought that her boyfriend was skimming profits on his drug sales.”

  “How do you know?” Kiesling asked.

  “She told me, and it’s in her diary.” Mary filled him in on all the details, and his expression changed. “There’s a mobster named Cadillac, who also suspected he was skimming.”

  Kiesling shifted forward on his seat, and Mary caught a glint of recognition in his eyes. Steinberg eyed her over the top of his newspaper.

  “Do you guys know who Cadillac is?” she asked.

  “I can’t really discuss that,” Kiesling answered.

  “I’ll keep it confidential. Who’s Cadillac?”

  “Sorry, I can’t.”

  “Listen, I’m a lawyer, representing Trish. I have a right to information that could lead to her whereabouts.”

  “I wish I could tell you but I can’t.”

  “You said we could compare notes. I told you what I knew.” Mary knew it sounded lame. “My client’s out there somewhere, and I’d like to know where she is.” She couldn’t bring herself to say, or if she’s dead or alive.

  “They’ll find her, don’t worry.” Anthony put a hand on Mary’s arm, but it didn’t comfort her, or shut her up.

  “Are you thinking that the killer could be someone else in the Mob? Like a competitor who wanted his corner, to sell drugs.”

  “Anything is possible.” Kiesling clamped his mouth shut, and Mary simmered like her mother’s gravy.

  “It would depend on who he sold drugs for, wouldn’t it? Do you know who he sold drugs for in the Mob?”

  “We can’t discuss that with you.”

  “I know he hung at Biannetti’s. He was there all the time.”

  “What makes you say that?” Kiesling cocked his neat head.

  “I read it in Trish’s diary. Do you know about Biannetti’s?”

  “I’m not going to discuss that.”

  “Fine, I get it. It’s a one-way street.” Mary’s emotions bubbled over, which never happened with her mother’s gravy. “But here’s what I don’t get—if everybody knows the Mob hangs at Biannetti’s, why don’t you guys just go there and take them in for questioning? Why not take those thugs in one by one, and ask them if they know where Trish is?”

  “It’s not as simple as that, as you should know. You’re a lawyer, correct?”

  “As a lawyer, I don’t understand it.” Mary couldn’t help but raise her voice. “I think you should go there and get to the bottom of this. A woman’s life is on the line.”

  Anthony interjected, “Mary, I have a question, for you, as a lawyer. Ritchie Po and his father are being questioned about Trish’s whereabouts. They don’t have to cooperate, do they?”

  “No, and they probably won’t,” Mary answered, knowing that he was either trying to distract her or preempt her assault charge. “Their lawyer’s probably in there already, and he would’ve told them to shut up, even if they knew where she was.”

  Steinberg lowered the newspaper. “Don’t kid yourself, they know where the girl is.”

  “You think?” Mary asked, turning to him.

  “Of course.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Don’t be naive.”

  Gulp. “I admit it, I’m naive. Are you saying that’s not how the Mob works?”

  “No.”

  “That’s not how it works, or you’re not saying that?”

  Steinberg pursed his lips somewhere under his mustache. “Look, in my opinion, they know where she is and they also know who left that body tonight. The brother, Ritchie, is a lousy actor.”

  “I disagree,” Mary said, speaking from the heart. “I think it was real. Ritchie was genuinely surprised that his brother was killed, but his father wasn’t.”

  Kiesling and Steinberg looked at her like she was too dumb to live.

  Mary added, “I saw Ritchie, and I heard him, and I know them, at least a little.”

  “How do you know them?”

  “From high school, and I’m from the neighborhood. To an extent, I’m of them. I know their people.”

  “Their people?”

  Anthony nodded, understanding.

  “Forget it.” Mary couldn’t explain the concept to the FBI agents, who her mother would have called ’Medigan. Growing up, it took years until Mary realized that her mother was saying American, with an Italian accent. “Let me ask you this, do you think there’s a chance that Trish is alive?”

  “We don’t speculate about cases.”

  “I’m asking in general, then. You’re experts. Have you ever heard of situations in which someone is found alive, after their abductor is found dead?”

  Kiesling answered, “Usually, with adults, kidnapping and false imprisonment happen for two reasons—ransom or sex. Obviously, ransom would be the motive in the Donchess kidnapping.” His tone lapsed into lecture mode, his expression official. “With an adult, especially a female, we typically see a sex-slave situation.”

  Mary scoffed. “But that’s not this case. Trish was his girlfriend.”

  Kiesling lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t think we were talking about this case. You asked in general.”

  Oh.

  “A friend of mine worked a case in Wisconsin where a neighbor kidnapped a teenage girl and held her in a basement.”

  “Did they find her?”

  “They did, and they prosecuted, too.”

  Mary smiled, hopeful.

  “She lived right next door.”

  “Really? How long did it take to find her?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Two weeks, and she was right next door?” Mary asked, aghast, but Kiesling was unfazed.

  “More often, in the sex cases, they aren’t found that quick. Take that case in Belgium, where the girl was held for ten years. She finally escaped.”

  Steinberg looked up from the sports page. “Natascha Kampusch. In Belgium, I believe it was. A man held a group of schoolgirls for over ten years. Marc Dutroux. If memory serves, two of the girls starved to death in the basement when Dutroux went to jail for car theft. Nobody knew they were there.”

  Mary felt heartsick. That could happen here, and that was if Trish were still alive. Guilt, exhaustion, and grief washed over her, threatening to take her under. She needed a bathroom break and stood up. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

  Anthony met her eye with a sympathetic smile, but Mary felt too crappy to respond in kind. She crossed the small room and left, closing the door behind her.

  She couldn’t have timed it worse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “What the he
ll?” somebody shouted, and Mary froze. It was Ritchie, standing with his father in the open doorway of the other interview room, his cheek bruised and black T-shirt torn from the melee. “What’re you doin’ in there?” he bellowed.

  “That’s enough, Ritchie.” Brinkley strode from the interview room and put a strong hand on Ritchie’s arm. Stan Kovich shot out, too, and another suit, while detectives hustled from the squad room to them, anticipating trouble. Only Mr. Po blinked calmly.

  “Not here, big guy.” A stocky lawyer in an Italian suit hurried to Ritchie’s side. “We’re outta here.”

  “Not until she tells me what she’s doin’ here!” Ritchie stepped forward, but his lawyer and Brinkley restrained him.

  Mary edged backward, trying to process what was happening. Ritchie wouldn’t have known she was here. She and Anthony had arrived after they’d been taken in for questioning. Agents Kiesling and Steinberg came out of the interview room with Anthony.

  “Mary, let’s go,” he said, touching her arm.

  “What’s going on?” Kiesling asked, alarmed, and Steinberg stood protectively at Mary’s side.

  “You with them now, Mare?” Ritchie glowered. “You were my brother’s girlfriend. Now you’re with the feds?”

  Oh no. Mary felt exposed. Brinkley’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing, and she could read his expression. Betrayal. She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t told him about her history, and he was blindsided. Kovich’s lips formed an uncharacteristically tight line, his disappointment plain.

  “Stay cool, big guy,” Ritchie’s lawyer said. “We’re outta here.”

  “Not yet.” Ritchie’s eyes bored into her. “Not until I understand what’s goin’ on.”

  Brinkley gestured to Anthony. “Get her out of here.”

  Anthony grabbed Mary’s arm. “Let’s go,” he said, and they hurried her from the squad room, to the sound of Ritchie shouting after her. She let herself be swept to the elevator, through the lobby, past the display cases and finally out the front door, where the press mobbed them with cameras, flashes, and questions.

  “Ms. DiNunzio, what’s your role in this?” “Mary, do police say this is the start of a Mob war? Is the Merlino crime family involved?” Reporters surged forward out of the dark, shoving microphones in Mary’s face, but she and Anthony hurried ahead, their heads down. “Any comment on the disappearance of Patricia Gambone? Do the police have any leads?” “Mary, Mary, look over here!” Videocameras whirred, and flashes fired from still cameras, bright and fleeting as lightning. “Ms. DiNunzio, is there a suspect in the murder—”

  Mary and Anthony broke into a light run to his car, and they jumped in. He started the ignition instantly, gunned the engine, and zoomed out of the parking lot. They made the sharp left onto the Expressway entrance, and Anthony looked over.

  “Let me take you home,” he said. “We can get your car another time.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Mary looked away, wondering what Anthony was thinking. She hadn’t told him she knew the body in the black bag. He accelerated onto the Expressway, and Mary gripped the hand strap. Something to hold on to, when everything was falling apart.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to get the look on Brinkley’s face out of her mind. He’d think she was a liar, playing games with him and the Homicide Division. Why hadn’t she told him? The first time she’d seen him, she’d been with Giulia and she hadn’t wanted Giulia to know. But why hadn’t she mentioned it later?

  The car streaked uptown in light traffic, barreling through the black night. The body bag flashed through her mind. The marble-gray of the flesh on his cheek. The blue of his eyes, frozen as ice. Could Trish be alive? The kidnapping cases that Kiesling and Steinberg had told her about were a gruesome sideshow. Dutroux. Girls dying while he was in jail.

  “You okay?” Anthony asked gently, but she couldn’t begin to answer. “You hungry or anything?”

  “No, I’m okay,” she answered finally. She spent the rest of the car ride facing out the window, watching the passing cars, red taillights, and drivers on cell phones, hiding her face from Anthony, and from herself. They reached her street in no time, and it was quiet and still, with most of the neighbors gone to sleep, the houses dark. A parking space was open near her front door, and Anthony pulled into it and turned to her.

  “Thanks so much,” Mary said, making her door-handle move.

  “I’d like to come in, if you wouldn’t mind.” Anthony’s voice sounded soft. “I don’t think you should be alone just yet.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Mary retrieved her house keys and got out of the car, but so did Anthony, closing his door.

  “At least let me walk you in.”

  Mary went to the doorstop, dug her keys from the bottom of her purse, and looked up as Anthony appeared in front of her on the sidewalk. He had shoved his hands into the pockets of his sport jacket, and his dark eyes were concerned.

  “Listen,” he said. “Why don’t you let me come in? I won’t attack you or come on to you. I know you’re not interested.”

  Ouch. “It’s not that. It’s that…I don’t think I’d be great company tonight.”

  “I don’t mind. Let me come in for a bit. You could use a friend. A nice, safe, gay friend.”

  Mary couldn’t find a smile. She felt empty and numb. She couldn’t believe what she’d seen tonight, and what it meant for Trish.

  “Come on,” Anthony said softly, slipping the keys from her hand. “Let’s go inside.”

  Mary entered her apartment, and Anthony followed, throwing the deadbolt and putting her keys on the side table. She’d grabbed the mail downstairs and set it on the coffee table, then shed her purse and jacket on a chair in the dark living room. On autopilot, she headed for the kitchen across the hardwood floor. She switched on the light and found herself going straight for the fridge.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked, surveying its contents. Two old tomatoes, a slim container of skim milk, and a plastic tub of mozzarella balls, which she knew would stink. She hadn’t been food-shopping since her last confession.

  “Come here.” Anthony took Mary’s arm and gentled her into a kitchen chair. “Please, sit. The doctor is in.”

  “You’re doing the honors?”

  “Yes. You stay there and check your BlackBerry three hundred more times.”

  “I’m not that bad.”

  “Oh yes you are. You’re more addicted than I am. We should enter rehab.”

  “Hey, I left it in my purse.”

  “Uh-oh, it won’t like that.” Anthony slid out of his jacket, placed it around the chair opposite her, and rolled up the sleeves of a white shirt with a European fit, showing lean forearms. His waist was trim in a nice black belt, and his dark pants kept a perfect crease. He went to the fridge and opened the door. “Sure you’re not hungry?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Got wine?”

  “In the cabinet.”

  “Which one?” Anthony shut the door, turning, and when Mary pointed, he went to the cabinet and opened the door. “Let’s see, a can of white clam sauce, ceci beans, and four boxes of Barilla spaghetti, each half full. Here we go. A single bottle of merlot. You sot.”

  “It was a gift.” Mary’s head was still pounding.

  “Corkscrew?” Anthony asked, and Mary pointed until he had located a corkscrew, two wineglasses, two napkins, and a wedge of hard locatelli that he shaved into fragile, thin slices and set on a salad plate with green olives. He smiled, holding the wineglasses crossed in one hand. “Let’s go in the living room. It’ll be more comfortable. Come along.” He tucked the wine bottle under his arm, grabbed the corkscrew and the cheese plate, then led the way into the darkened living room, where he set the stuff on the coffee table.

  Mary trundled behind, as if it weren’t her own house. “I’ll turn on a light.”

  “No. Let it be. It’s better.”

  “Leave it off?”

  “Sure. It’s not that dark
. I can see.” Moonlight streamed through the front window, falling on Anthony’s back, bringing out the whiteness of his shirt and making a ghostly circle of the rims of the wineglasses. He bent over and poured some wine, which made a sloshy sound when it hit the glass.

  “Okay.” Mary sank onto the couch and kicked off her pumps.

  “Drink up. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Thanks.” Mary took her first sip, which was delicious. She couldn’t help feeling awful that she was home, drinking merlot, while Trish was missing, maybe dead.

  “This is good wine.” Anthony sat in the soft chair catty-corner to her, the moon shining on the dark filaments of his hair. Shadows obscured his eyes, but not his smile, which was a little sad. After a minute, he said, “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.”

  Mary took another sip of wine, the thin crystal warming under her fingers. “That makes two of us.”

  Anthony didn’t laugh, which was good because she wasn’t kidding. He leaned over and slid the cheese plate close to her. “Mangia, bella.”

  Mary felt herself respond to his voice, soft and deep, or maybe the Italian, the language of her childhood. She broke off a piece of locatelli and nibbled it before it crumbled between her fingers. It tasted tart and perfect with the wine.

  “You’re exhausted.”

  “You might be right.”

  “I won’t stay long.”

  Mary looked out the window, and from her third-floor vantage point, she could see the lights of the other rowhouses, and beyond that, the Philly skyline, twinkling in the distance. She wondered if Trish was somewhere in the city, then thought of Mrs. Gambone. “People are crying in the city tonight.”

  “Yes. It’s all very ugly and sad.”

  “You’re right. Well said.” Mary felt at such a loss. She rubbed her face. She sipped her wine, then changed it to a gulp. “I can’t believe this all happened. That Trish is gone. That he’s dead.” He’s dead. “It’s awful.”