Lady Killer

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Of course it’s not my problem,” she answered.

  “I’m betting that you’re far too busy to be running around, if what you said the other day was any indication.”

  Mary flushed. “I am. Far too busy.”

  “Good.” Bennie seemed satisfied. “Anyway, I’d like you both to clear your calendars today, to give me a hand at trial. Last night, Anne got food poisoning at dinner with the client, and I’m putting on a slew of witnesses.”

  Gulp. “Poor Anne.” Mary had to stall until she could think of a reason not to help. Or maybe the office would catch fire. “Where did you eat?”

  “Muggy’s, on Walnut Street.”

  “What did Anne eat?”

  Bennie blinked. “Something that made her sick.”

  “No, I meant, what was it she ate that made her sick?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It would, if I were taking a client to Muggy’s.”

  “Are you?” Bennie asked.

  “Hell, no. Not anymore.” HELP!

  Judy cleared her throat. “I can give you a hand, Bennie. I’ve got the whole day. You won’t need Mary if you have me.”

  “No, I need you both.” Bennie turned to Judy. “Carrier, you’ll sit second-chair, in court. There’s about three hundred documents in this case, so I need the assist.” She turned back to Mary. “DiNunzio, I need you to prep witnesses for me. I’m starting our case in chief today. Can you free up?”

  Mary froze.

  “I know you’re busy, but it’s an emergency. All hands on deck.”

  “I can’t do it,” Mary blurted out.

  “Why not?”

  “I have a meeting out of the office,” Mary answered, shakily, and in the background, even Judy started frowning.

  “What kind of meeting?” Bennie asked.

  “A meeting about a case.” Mary felt panic rising. She wished she had a Starbucks venti. She felt pretty sure she could lie better if she were sucking down a Starbucks. She would use her Starbucks for good, and not evil.

  “What case?” Bennie asked, impatient. “And why do I have to take your deposition to find out?”

  “You don’t,” Mary answered, though it wasn’t funny anymore. She didn’t have to lie. She wasn’t going to lie. She had a good reason to be doing what she was doing, and that was that. She straightened up. “I can’t help you today. I’m sorry. I have something important to do, and I have to get going.”

  “But there’s work to be done here.”

  “I have work, too, and I can’t drop it. It’s about Trish. She’s still missing, and I’m going to help find her.”

  In the background, Judy’s eyes flared, and Bennie’s eyes narrowed.

  “So it’s not a case. Weren’t you the one telling me you were so inundated with work? Now you can take a day off?”

  “I know, I am inundated. But I can’t turn my back on this girl.”

  “Your clients are firing you. Is this why?”

  Mary felt stricken, wondering how she’d found out.

  “I know what goes on here, DiNunzio. It’s my firm.”

  “They’re firing me because they think I turned my back on Trish.”

  “And you’re doing this for them?”

  “No.” Mary shook her head. “I’m doing it for me.”

  “Either way, it’s unprofessional and dangerous. Mancuso was in the Mob.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Mary reached for her bag. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “Don’t go. Your place is here.”

  “I have to.”

  “Are you walking out on me?” Bennie looked as angry as Mary had ever seen her.

  “I have to go, Bennie.”

  “But I forbid it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mary locked eyes with Bennie, in an interoffice version of the age-old struggle between parent and child. “I have no choice.”

  “You always have a choice.” Bennie stiffened. “If you go now, then don’t come back.”

  No. Mary felt stricken.

  Judy yelped, “Bennie, really? She’s just doing what she thinks is—”

  “Enough.” Bennie raised a hand, never taking her eyes from Mary. “DiNunzio, you’re either an associate here or you’re not. If you are, you’ll stay. If you’re not, you’ll go. For good.”

  Mary didn’t know what to say. She felt her chest tighten but she couldn’t speak. She didn’t want to cry. She had worked for Bennie for as long as she could remember, but she couldn’t turn her back on Trish, not again. She looked from Bennie to Judy and back again, then decided. She slipped her bag on her shoulder, turned, and left the office without another word.

  “Mary!” Judy called after her.

  But she didn’t look back. She hurried down the hall, her eyes filling with tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Mary grabbed the stiff hand strap as the Yellow cab lurched down Market Street and around City Hall in stop-and-go traffic. She had to pick up her car from the impoundment lot; she’d need it for her next move. The morning rush hour was coming on, and the sky was clouding up, as if heaven and earth were on nasty parallel tracks. Mary tried not to take it as a bad sign. Or maybe you saw bad signs everywhere after you’d walked out on your life.

  “Reg?” she said into the cell phone, having finally reached Brinkley. “First, I want to explain about last night, about me and Bobby Mancuso.”

  “No need.”

  “I dated him in high school, and that’s it. I would’ve mentioned it to you but didn’t get the chance, and it’s kind of personal. It really didn’t—”

  “No matter, thanks for the tip,” Brinkley said coldly, so Mary moved to her next point.

  “Anything new on Trish?”

  “No.”

  Mary could’ve guessed as much. She’d been checking online like a fiend. “I assume Ritchie and his father didn’t tell you anything last night.”

  “Can’t go into that. By the way, I hear you talked to the feds.”

  “I thought it would help the cause. I hope that was okay.”

  “Sure,” Brinkley said, but Mary wasn’t convinced.

  “Did you learn anything from Mancuso’s autopsy?”

  “I can’t discuss that with you.”

  “I swear, Reg, the more I know, the more I can help.”

  “Don’t help. Sorry. Listen, I gotta go.”

  “But what about Trish?”

  “Mary, we’ll follow up.” Brinkley’s tone softened a little. “We’ll do our job. Go back to work. Make like a lawyer.”

  Gulp. Mary pushed those thoughts away. “Just tell me, what did the trace evidence show? I would assume there’d be dirt on his shoes, threads on his clothes, stuff that would show where he’d been and where the house could be—”

  “That’s for us, Mary.”

  “The feds know who Cadillac is, but they wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Please, God in heaven, don’t go anywhere near the Mob.” Suddenly Brinkley sounded like himself again, her pal of old. “If anything happens to you, your mother will never forgive me.”

  “Okay, but I thought of something else.” Mary had a new idea this morning. “A good place to look around would be his old friends. Trish’s diary doesn’t mention any old friends, but everybody has old friends. He needed a friend, that’s what his sister told me. If he were going to confide in someone about his house, obviously it wouldn’t be someone in the Mob. It could—”

  “Mare, I gotta go. Stay out of it. We’ll find Trish, one way or another. See ya.” Brinkley hung up, and the cab stalled past the federal courthouse, heading east toward the Delaware River.

  Mary pressed the button to end the call, feeling suddenly at a loss. She inched farther from Bennie, Judy, and her job, and watched traffic fill Market Street. She was unsure where she was going, even where she’d been. A white SEPTA bus rocked side to side in front of the cab, then took a right turn, unblocking the orangey sun that rose at the end of Market, bathing the stre
et momentarily in a golden light. She squinted at the momentary brightness, then held on tight as it flickered away, thinking to herself.

  And planning her next move.

  Half an hour later, Mary had parked outside the main entrance of her old high school, St. Maria Goretti. The school occupied a three-story yellow-brick building in the heart of South Philly, at Tenth and Moore Streets. It had since been renamed Neumann-Goretti High School, having merged with its brother school, but it was housed in the same building, remarkably unchanged paneled windows with steel sills and a bank of stainless-steel-framed glass doors. A tall concrete statue of St. Goretti watched over Tenth Street, and Mary hurried past her up the steps, an unexpected lump in her throat as she pulled open the door and stepped inside.

  The school was smaller than she remembered, but it smelled the same, an overheated mix of city street, floor wax, and drugstore hair product. It was characteristically quiet because classes were in session; an empty, glistening corridor with tan floor tiles extended ahead of her and to her left. The cinderblock walls had been repainted beige, and the lockers that lined the hall were a matching color. Inside was the same as when she’d been here, except that the walls had been white, and when she turned the corner she stopped short at the sight of the old school uniform, displayed in a glass case, as if she herself were an artifact.

  Mary felt a pang, standing there in the fluorescent lights, eyeing the heavy blue jumper with the SMG emblem displayed next to a set of four ribbons, each a different color. The ribbon used to be fastened to the uniform at the underarm, to hold her locker key in her jumper pocket, and they all used to twirl it endlessly, a Goretti trademark. For a minute, she couldn’t leave, standing in front of herself, her emotions rushing back at her, all the joy and shame of her senior year.

  Then she straightened up and willed the feelings away. She had to get to work.

  Not long after, Mary was sitting in the cozy Development Office, at a spare desk near a turquoise tin of imported almond biscotti, neat piles of the school’s promotional materials, and a coffeemaker. Carolyn Edgar, the development officer, was an attractive middle-aged woman with a warm smile, a chic brush of grayish-blond hair, rimless glasses, and a camel-hair sweater she wore with herring-bone slacks. Mrs. Edgar was new to the school, and her position hadn’t existed when Mary had gone here, before God needed marketing.

  “Here we go, dear.” Mrs. Edgar set the two Bishop Neumann yearbooks in front of her, one padded green, with the Crystal and Crossroads crossing over each other like an X, embossed with the old Neumann logo. On top, Mrs. Edgar set a red yearbook that read Goretti Graffiti. “I thought you might like to see yours, too.”

  “Good idea.” Mary smiled, though it wasn’t on her agenda. She picked it up and opened to a page of black-and-white photos, big-haired girls in itchy jumpers, recognizing the faces right away. Joyce DelCiotto, Madeline Alessi, and Eileen Duffy, all wearing their NHS pins proudly as a cartoon sheriff wears a badge. “I remember the dress code. Earrings no bigger than a quarter.”

  “We still have that rule.”

  “Good. I suffered, so should they.” Mary skipped ahead to her own picture in the seniors section. “Oh, no.”

  “Everybody says that.” Mrs. Edgar smiled, taking a seat behind her orderly desk and hitting a few keys on the computer.

  Mary cringed at the way she used to look. Her eyes were tiny behind thick glasses, her curled hair stiff with hairspray, and her teeth a tangle of braces. It wasn’t until then that she remembered Trish used to call her Tinsel Teeth.

  “Why is it you needed those Neumann yearbooks again?” Mrs. Edgar asked, looking through her bifocals at the computer monitor. A large wooden crucifix hung on the cinderblock wall, and behind her were bookshelves and an air conditioner wrapped with a Hefty bag and duct tape.

  Mary tried to think of a good reason. “I’m doing a reunion party, and I just want to jot down a few old addresses.”

  “Oh, you don’t need the yearbook for that. I’ll just print you out a copy from the database. It’ll only take a minute or two.”

  Uh-oh. “Great. Well, maybe, I’ll just look at the books anyway, for fun.”

  “Go right ahead. Now, you want both Goretti and Neumann addresses for your year, correct?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Mary set the Goretti yearbook aside and reached for the Neumann yearbook. She opened the book and thumbed through it quickly, the front section a black-and-white flip book of grinning boys, nuns, and coaches. She slowed when she got to the next section. Sports. Bobby had played football, and she turned the pages until she saw him, front and center, in the team photo.

  “Here we go,” Mrs. Edgar said, half to herself. “I’ll just print this and you’re good to go.”

  “Thank you.” Mary looked at Bobby’s football photo, ignoring the catch in her throat. It was so hard to believe he was really gone, or that he’d grow up to be a monster. In the picture, he stood tall in a black-and-gold football uniform, grinning self-consciously and holding the football, displaying the old-fashioned Wilson script. The team grinned in a say-pizza way, and Mary scanned the young faces, none of which was familiar. Who would have been his friends, back then?

  Mrs. Edgar was saying, “I see your name and address in the database. Do I have them correct?” She read off the name and address.

  “Yes, right.” Mary eyed the photos, her memories coming back. She never went to football games at Neumann and didn’t travel in the jock crowd. She didn’t recognize any of them except for Bobby. She read the names under the front row of the photo: J. Ronan, M. Gordon, R. Mancuso, G. Chavone, B. Turbitt. None of the first names was listed, and none of the last names jogged her memory. She wracked her brain. Chavone maybe, but she didn’t remember that he was Bobby’s friend.

  Mrs. Edgar was saying, “We’ve been sending you the materials for Spirit Day, the walkathon, and the new journalism scholarship. Did you get them?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Mary flipped through the yearbook, looking for Bobby among the candids of boys in plastic goggles in chem lab or hanging in the hall. He wasn’t in any of the activities photos, either. She skipped to the back of the book, to the seniors’ individual photos, and turned pages until she found the M’s. Robert Mancuso.

  “I see that we have an office address for you, and it’s a law firm. Are you a lawyer, dear?”

  “Yes.” Mary looked at Bobby’s senior photo. His eyes were clear and his smile broad, and her gaze dropped to the caption he’d written: Wildwood forever! Shout out to the Bad To The Bone Gang—Jimmy 4G, PopTop, and Scuzzy! We’re history!

  “I ran into Sister Helena in the office while I was fetching those yearbooks, and she remembered you fondly. She had to go, but sends her love to you and your parents. She said you’d been in all the papers, apparently involved with another Goretti grad, who’s gone missing. Are you she? The famous lawyer?”

  “Not exactly.” Mary hid her excitement, not over the alumnae lists, but over the caption of Bobby’s senior photo. Jimmy 4G, PopTop, and Scuzzy had to be Bobby’s three best friends. Now that the caption had jarred her memory, she recalled him talking about a Jimmy. She flipped backward to the G surnames and scanned them, but there was no last name that started with a G that also had Jimmy or James as a first name.

  Mrs. Edgar continued, “I’m not surprised that you’re a big success, of course. So many of our Goretti girls have gone on to be professionals. Doctors, lawyers. Kathy Gandolfo, you know, the TV newscaster, she went here.”

  “Really.” Mary considered the Jimmy 4G problem. So it was a nickname, not a last name. She flipped back and scanned the pictures of the Jimmys until she found one with the last name she recognized. Waites. Jimmy Waites had to be Bobby’s friend. She had no idea what the G stood for, but it didn’t matter. She made a mental note.

  “By the way, Mary, I notice that you haven’t made a contribution to the school in quite some time. We have so many items on our wish list. We need computers, and desks for one ro
om are $5000. Audio-visual equipment is $1000, and we still need $6000 to paint the cafeteria.”

  “Really, hmm.” Mary tuned her out, searching for the other two of Bobby’s friends, cross-checking their senior photos to see if they mentioned him. She skimmed the first names and found one. Paul Meloni. He mentioned the Bad to the Bone gang, too. Bingo!

  “Of course, if those amounts aren’t within your means, we’d be happy for any amount you can spare. It all adds up, and I know you understand that much of your professional success is due to the education and values you learned here.”

  “I sure do,” Mary said, but she was turning the pages, looking for Scuzzy.

  “So, do you think you’re in a position to make a contribution? I hate to be so direct, but it’s rare that I get a captive in my office. You’re like the little fly in my web.” Mrs. Edgar laughed. “May I put you down for a hundred dollars?”

  Mary lucked out on the next page. John Scaramuzzo. He had to be Scuzzy. She set down the yearbooks, having identified all three members of the Bad to the Bone gang. She felt like cheering. “Yes!”

  “Wonderful!” Mrs. Edgar turned to the printer, slid out some sheets, and handed her the address lists, across the desk. “Don’t forget these.”

  “Thanks so much.” Mary could barely hide her excitement, and Mrs. Edgar beamed.

  “You’re welcome. Now, did you bring your checkbook, dear?”

  Huh? Mary blinked.

  Fifteen minutes later, she burst through the front doors of the school with the addresses, a hundred bucks lighter.

  Hurrying from her past into her present.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Mary found it almost impossible to believe that the short, overweight accountant in a Bluetooth and an Italian suit was Jimmy 4G Waites. He had a salesman’s grin, but had aged more than his thirty-odd years; two deep wrinkles divided his eyebrows, and soft jowls draped his mouth like a pug’s. His hair was almost gone, with a brown-gray fringe encircling a thick, flattish head.

  “I understand, but you’re not hearing me.” Waites spoke to the air, his brown eyes darting around the large, bright office, alighting on nothing in particular. “You wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t a friend. He’s asking you to invest five mil? Tell him you’re comfortable with one. You can afford to lose one.”