Lady Killer

by Lisa Scottoline

  Mary waited in a leather sling chair opposite a glistening glass desk. The accounting firm had three floors in swanky Mellon Center, and Waites’s office was beautifully appointed with Danish modern furniture. A huge square of window overlooked the mirrored skyline, the reflections of the skyscrapers dull in the overcast sky. Mary had introduced herself to Waites’s secretary as an old high school friend, and Waites had gestured her in just as he picked up the phone, waving his fleshy hand with enthusiasm, thinking she was someone he was supposed to recognize.

  Waites was saying, “Then if it doesn’t work out, which we know it probably won’t, you two stay friends. I always say, you can have bad deals with good people, but you can’t have good deals with bad people. Got it? Good. See ya.” He pressed his Bluetooth to hang up. “Sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay.” Mary introduced herself. “I went to Goretti, graduated the same year you did, from Neumann.”

  “You look familiar.”

  “I had braces, glasses, and an inferiority complex.”

  Waites laughed. “That makes two of us.”

  “But I’m here about Bobby Mancuso.”

  Waites’s smile faded. “I read that he was killed last night. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “I know. You two used to be friends, right?”

  “Hold on, not recently.” Waites’s gaze darted nervously to the hall outside his office, then he lowered his voice. “I haven’t talked to Bobby since the summer after graduation. That was a long time ago. I heard he got in with the Mob, but I didn’t know anything about that. Live by the sword, die by the sword.” Waites focused on her, frowning behind costly rimless glasses. “Wait a minute. Who did you say you were, anyway?”

  “I was a friend of his, I don’t know if he mentioned me. I tutored him and we went out a few times.”

  “I don’t remember your name, but my family only moved here in the second half of senior year.” Waites rubbed his face. “I saw in the paper they think he kidnapped Trish Gambone. I didn’t even know he was still seeing her. Is that what this is about?”

  “Yes.” Mary cut to the chase. “I’m trying to find Trish. She’s still missing. I thought if you had stayed in touch, you might know—”

  “Like I said, we didn’t stay in touch. Not at all.” Waites sounded like he was speaking for the record, though none existed. “I don’t know what he did with her, if that’s where you’re going.”

  Mary switched tacks. “Okay, that aside, I’m trying to locate a house he bought, where he could have taken her.”

  “I didn’t know he bought a house.” Waites looked outside again. “Look, we didn’t stay in touch, as I said, and I don’t want to get involved.”

  “Did he ever talk about a place he went, a place he liked especially?”

  “No.”

  “Did he have any hobbies, that you knew of?”

  “Does boozing count?” Waites snapped, and Mary faked a smile.

  “Did he drink, even then?”

  “Oh yeah. Too much, and he was a mean drunk. Yelled. Screamed. Not good. Punched a hole through a wall more than once.”

  “Scary.” Mary shuddered.

  “Yes.”

  “Was there anyplace you went together, back then? In the yearbook, he mentioned Wildwood.” She took the photocopied page from her purse and handed it to him. “Does that help?”

  “Bad to the Bone, eh?” Waites eyed the photo, reminiscing for a minute. “It’s sad.”

  “It sure is.” Mary was liking him better. “It all turned out so well for you, and obviously not for him. I wonder how that happens.”

  “I’ll tell you how.” Waites looked up, his thin lips a grim line. “I had a great dad. Bobby didn’t. That guy was a jerk.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He just was.” Waites tossed the page back to Mary. “He put Bobby down all the time. Favored the real brother, who was a thug, always in and out of trouble. Bobby’s house was hell. He did everything he could to get out of it. It’s the reason he played ball, I think. He never talked about it, but you could tell. Except for the sister. He was tight with his sister.”

  “Rosaria.”

  “Right.” Waites nodded. “Bobby was a great guy, a quiet guy, but he kept a lot inside. You knew that, if you knew him. We did go to Wildwood, once. Rented a house there one summer, bussed tables. Kids gettin’ crazy down the shore, you know.”

  “Where was the house?”

  “God knows.” Waites scoffed. “I doubt it’s even there anymore.”

  “Did you ever go anywhere else, back then or later?”

  “No.”

  “Did he say he liked Wildwood or anything like that?” Mary was thinking of Rosaria, in Brick. “Did he mention liking the Jersey shore?”

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “He couldn’t swim. Almost drowned that summer, one day when the undertow was bad.”

  Mary hadn’t known. She eliminated the possibility of a shore house. “Did he have any hobbies you knew of? Fishing? Hunting?”

  “Not that I know. I wasn’t that close to him. Scuzzy was the closest. They were tight.”

  “Scaramuzzo?” Mary’s heart leaped with hope.

  “Yes. They stayed in good touch, too, at least until Scuzzy died.”

  “When was that?” Mary groaned inwardly.

  “Two years ago. Blood cancer. He wasn’t even thirty.”

  “How about PopTop? Paul Meloni? Was he close with Bobby?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t stay in touch. I liked the guy but I’m busy.” Waites gestured at the credenza, covered with school pictures, like kiddie mug shots. “I got six kids.”

  “A good Catholic.”

  “No, married three times.” Waites chuckled again, then stopped. “Last I knew, PopTop was in drug rehab. Neumann graduated the best, but I hung with all the losers. I’m a late bloomer, let me tell you.”

  “Does he still work for the school district?” Mary checked the addresses she’d copied from the library.

  “No. He got fired. I know where you can find him, though.” Waites tore a Post-it from a yellow cube, scribbled an address on it, and handed it to her, stuck to his fingerpad. “Here you go. Now, if I could get back to work.”

  “Sure, thanks for your time. If you think of anything else that might help me, will you let me know?” Mary stood up and handed him her business card, though now it had an expiration date. “Call on the cell.”

  “No sweat. Thanks for coming by.” Waites stood up, nodded a little good-bye, and Mary went to the door, then turned, curious.

  “By the way, what’s Jimmy 4G stand for?”

  “I didn’t have a lot of dates, back then. It means ‘Jimmy waits for girls.’ Get it?” Waites smiled. “Bobby gave me that nickname. He was king of the nicknames.”

  “What was his?”

  Waites paused. “Come to think of it, he didn’t have one. He gave out the nicknames, so I guess he never got one.”

  “Thanks,” Mary said, and for some reason, it made her sad.

  Olde City was the colonial section of the city, a grid of skinny cobblestone streets bordered by the Delaware River. The oldest street in America, Elfreth’s Alley, was here, and many of the vintage brick buildings had been refurbished to house hip restaurants and artsy shops. But gentrification hadn’t reached everywhere, and on one of the grimier back streets sat a skinny glass storefront, mashed like a ham sandwich between two brick houses. It was a tattoo parlor, and a chipped black-iron grate covered the front door, which bore a printed sign that read, UNDER EIGHTEEN PARENTS MUST SIGN WAIVER! Mary yanked open the door and went inside.

  Every square inch of the walls of the small room was plastered with samples of colorful tattoos: American flags, orange koi fish, flowers, hearts, banners of every color, and Chinese and Egyptian letters. Dragons with curling tails and flaring nostrils hung next to Jesus himself, and the praying hands looked incongruous, if not sacrilegious, ne
xt to hollow-eyed skulls and daggers that dripped blood. The shop wasn’t busy, and a man with a shaved head and a faded CitySports T-shirt was tattooing a black banner on a young man’s forearm, which read IN MEMORY O. The machine made a loud buzzing sound, attached to a cord wrapped with electrician’s tape.

  “Can I help you?” asked a man behind the counter, and Mary walked over, trying not to freak at the inked tarantulas that crawled up his bare arms to encircle his neck. He obviously worked out, because his shoulder caps bulged under a jungle of green-and-black leaves, hiding a striped Bengal tiger about to pounce.

  “My name’s Mary DiNunzio and I’m looking for Paul Meloni.”

  “That’s me.” He extended a multicolored hand across the counter and they shook. His brown hair was cut so close that his head looked like a rifle bullet, and he had round, dark-brown eyes and a long, bony nose. He wore a blue tank top and jeans, and a row of small hoop earrings hung from one ear. “How can I help you?”

  “I came to talk to you about Bobby Mancuso. I knew him in high school.”

  “Oh, man.” Paul’s features went suddenly soft under his illustrated exterior. “What a shame, huh? I couldn’t sleep last night after I saw it on the TV.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s a cryin’ shame, is what it is. Bobby, man.” Paul exhaled, looking away.

  “I’m trying to find Trish Gambone.”

  “I read about that, I know.” Paul’s ripped shoulders fell. “I couldn’t believe it. I knew they were having problems, he told me that, but it sounds like he just lost it.”

  “You two stayed in touch, huh?”

  “Yeah, more or less. We saw each other maybe every couple months or so.”

  Mary considered it. An odd alliance, a drug dealer and a former addict. “Do you know where Trish could be? Where he could have taken her?”

  “No idea.”

  Mary tried not to get discouraged. She felt so close to something. “Did you know he was planning anything like that?”

  “No, not at all.” Paul looked puzzled. “Far as I knew, they were fine.”

  “Did he tell you he was going to ask her to marry him?”

  “No, not really. We used to talk about me, with my sobriety and all, and I was on him about his drinking. Either that, or we talked sports.”

  “Did he tell you that he used to yell at her, threaten her?”

  “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. When Bobby drank, he lost it, even in high school. We used to drink together, him and me, but I been clean and sober for five years now.” Paul cocked his shorn head. “How did you know him, again?”

  “I used to tutor him in Latin.” Mary couldn’t give up. “I really need your help. I know he bought a house. Do you have any idea where that house might be?”

  “Nah. Didn’t even know he had a house. I thought they lived together.”

  “They did, but I think he had another house he kept a secret. Did he tell you about that?”

  “No. He mighta told Scuzzy, but he passed.”

  “But he confided in you.”

  “Yeah.”

  Mary switched tacks. “Did you know he was in the Mob?”

  Paul checked behind him, but no tattoos appeared to be listening. “Look, it got him dead, and I don’t wanna speak ill. He was my friend. He stuck by me through some hard times, and when I got the job here, he’d drop by.”

  Mary was starting to panic. If she learned nothing here, she was out of leads. “Paul, I’m trying to find that house. Trish could still be alive.”

  “I don’t know anything.” Paul edged back from the counter, and the other tattoo artist looked over.

  “Do you know if he was close to anybody in the Mob?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he ever bring anybody from the Mob here?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever mention anybody, any names?”

  “We didn’t talk about that.” Paul chuckled. “Do I look stupid?”

  “Did he ever mention anybody named Cadillac?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever get picked up or dropped off by someone driving a Cadillac?”

  “No, he drove the new BMW. He loved that car.” Paul hesitated, then frowned, thinking. “I heard him on the cell, a few times. He used to get calls, you know, and he’d go outside to take them. He’s not gonna take a call like that in front of me.”

  “So do you remember any of the names?”

  “Yeah. One.” Paul leaned closer, over the counter. “I’ll tell you, but you didn’t hear it from me, right?”

  “Right.”

  Paul looked uncertain.

  “Please, I swear.”

  “Okay.” Paul sighed. “He used to get calls from a guy named Eyes. I remember that name more than the others.”

  Mary felt her pulse quicken. “Eyes. A nickname, obviously.”

  “Yeah. That was Bobby, with the nicknames.” Paul looked over when the door opened behind them, and a gaggle of young women entered, chattering and laughing. He acknowledged them with a wave. “Be right with you, ladies.”

  “You know anything else about Eyes?”

  “No, just what I told you.”

  Mary handed him a business card she had ready in her coat pocket. “If you remember anything, or think of anything that might help, will you call me?”

  “Sure.” Paul slipped the card in his jeans and smiled at the girls. “What’ll it be, ladies?”

  “Butterflies!” they answered.

  And Mary took off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The press mobbed the parking lot in front of the Roundhouse, and Mary parked in the public lot next door, to ease her escape later. She had tried to reach Brinkley to tell him about Eyes, but his cell phone wasn’t taking any more messages, so she’d come to the Roundhouse to tell him. She knew he’d said he didn’t want her here, but she had to let him know what she’d found out. And she’d promised she wouldn’t follow up on any Mob leads, so she wanted credit for being a good girl.

  Also she was a big chicken.

  She parked and got out of the car, and though the sky had gone gray, slipped on sunglasses to avoid being recognized by the press. The Donchess kidnapping was still in the news, the baby fighting the Mob for space above the fold. She kept her head down and hurried to the entrance of the Roundhouse, barreling past microphones and cameras. She entered a lobby bustling with uniformed cops, staff, and lawyers, and suddenly she heard somebody call her name. She turned, and a delighted Giulia was steaming toward her with Mean Girls in her wake, trailing their red, white, and blue extensions like an American flag on a speedboat.

  “Yo, girlfriend!” Giulia wrapped Mary in a warm embrace. “I called your cell, did you get the message? Can you believe they killed Bobby? And they still can’t find T? Her mom’s freaked!”

  “I bet.” Mary extricated herself, feeling oddly happy to see her. “What are you doing here? You’re not bothering Brinkley, are you?”

  “Nah, we’re tryin’ to see the dude from Missing Persons. I left him a buncha messages but he won’t return them, so we’re waitin’ for him to come down.”

  Missy added, “He’s gotta leave, sooner or later.”

  Yolanda cracked her gum. “There’s only one way out. We checked.”

  “Why’re you here?” Giulia was blocking the elevator, so Mary moved her out of the way and the two other Mean Girls followed like shavings to a cartoon magnet.

  “I’m going up to talk to Brinkley.”

  “Good.” Giulia grinned. “I knew you’d be on it. I knew you wouldn’t desert us. We been outta our minds. We wanna help but we don’t know how.”

  “I do,” Mary said, getting an idea. “Bobby was friendly with a mobster named Eyes. Does that nickname mean anything to you?”

  “Eyes?” Giulia repeated, frowning in thought. “No, not off the top a my head.”

  “Me either.” Yolanda popped her gum. “I know One Eye Petrone, but that ain’t
the same thing.”

  Missy nodded. “I know Bobby The Nose and Chicken Neck Timmy. That’s it for body parts.”

  Mary felt discouraged, and Giulia must have read her expression because she touched her arm. “Don’t stress, Mare,” she said. “We don’t know all the wiseguys, only the ones we slep’ with. How about we ask around the neighborhood who Eyes is?”

  “I don’t know,” Mary answered. “It could be dangerous. Forget it. I’ll tell Brinkley. The cops can follow up.”

  “Are you for real?” Giulia scoffed. “Nobody in the neighborhood’s gonna talk to the cops about that. Let us do it.”

  “Us, they’ll talk to.” Missy nodded.

  “Okay,” Mary said, reluctantly, “but you have to promise me one thing, crazy. Don’t go asking the actual guys in the Mob. Only ask normal people, neighborhood people. I don’t want you dead unless I kill you myself.”

  “No problem.” Giulia jigged with happiness, drawing admiring glances from more than a few cops. “Now will you write down the questions for me, like before?”

  “Sure.” Mary dug in her purse for her Filofax. “Let me get some paper.”

  “Use this.” Yolanda offered her the Daily News, and the paper fell open to the obituaries, which were dominated by a large photo of an elderly woman with a sweet smile.

  “Hey, look, that’s what’s her name!” Giulia tapped the woman’s photo with a lacquered fingernail. “She musta died. It’s a sin.”

  Mary found her Filofax and glanced at the obit, of one Elisa Felton. “Did you know her, Giulia?”

  “No, but Trish did. She was one a her clients. She’s Miss Tuesday Thursday.”

  “What?” Mary only half-listened, opening the Filofax and pulling out a blank page.

  “T was an assistant when she met Miss Tuesday Thursday and when she got old, T went to her condo at the Dorchester every Tuesday and Thursday at lunch and blew her out.”

  “Like room service for your hair,” Missy explained, and Yolanda nodded.