Lady Killer

by Lisa Scottoline

  Mary put two and two together. “That explains why Brinkley hasn’t called back. He’s got his hands full.”

  “You’re tellin’ me. That’s Cadillac.”

  Mary almost veered off the highway. “You serious? You mean that guy who got killed, Al Barbi, is Cadillac? From the diary?”

  “Yeah.” Trish nodded matter-of-factly.

  “So what’s that mean?”

  “What do you think it means?” Trish snapped off the radio. “You can figure it out.”

  Mary wished for a gun. “Help me out, can you? I’m driving in a monsoon, I haven’t slept for three days, and I don’t know much about the Mob because I’m not a felon.”

  “Whatev.” Trish looked over, her eyes glittering in the dark car. “Cadillac knew Bobby was skimmin’ and he always had the knives out for him. Plus Cadillac was totally jealous of his business, I know that. So Cadillac musta been the one who whacked him.”

  Mary shuddered.

  “And somebody musta got pissed at Cadillac for it. Maybe he didn’t get the go-ahead. So he ended up dead for doin’ Bobby.”

  “The go-ahead? To kill somebody?”

  “Yeah, what’re you, stupid?”

  Mary felt like a mother driving her kid to school. Reform school.

  “Or maybe somebody didn’t want Cadillac movin’ up.” Trish paused. “Not that I know.”

  “You know more than you say.”

  “Yeah, but if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  Mary didn’t laugh, but Trish did.

  “Lighten up, yo. Way I see it, they all got what they deserved.” Trish folded her knees up and rested her spike heels on the dashboard.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Put your feet there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m the mommy, that’s why.”

  Trish slid out of her fur jacket, folded it in two, and put it beneath her head like a fox pillow. “Do these seats go back?”

  “On the right, there’s a handle.”

  Trish eased the seat back down, turned away, and curled up like a very curvy ball. “Turn on the heat?”

  “No. It makes me sleepy.”

  “I know. I need it to sleep.”

  “Do without.”

  “I’m hungry. Can we stop?”

  “Not yet.”

  Trish looked over. “What’re you in such a bad mood for, Mare? Things are lookin’ up. We just got some great news.”

  “A man’s murder is great news?”

  “For me, it is.”

  Mary laughed, but narcissists never get the joke.

  “This proves it wasn’t me who did Bobby. It shows it had to be Cadillac or somebody in the Mob.”

  Mary steered through the rain. “Not necessarily. Maybe it shows that somebody in the Mob thinks that Cadillac killed Bobby. Not that he actually did it.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Either way, I’m in the clear.”

  Mary considered it, uncomfortably. Barbi’s murder didn’t prove anything, but it made Trish look less like a suspect. Still, something was wrong, off-kilter. Mary should have been happier, having found the innocent Trish, but now she was worried that Trish wasn’t so innocent. Trish should have been sadder, because the man she once loved had been murdered.

  “Trish, aren’t you sad about any of this? First Bobby’s dead, now Cadillac?”

  “Bobby, a little,” she answered, though her tone sounded less than bereft. “I never liked Cadillac anyway. He shoulda minded his own business. If he killed Bobby, he got what he deserved.”

  “But what if he didn’t do it?”

  “I bet he did. He wasn’t a nice guy, Mare. You gotta wise up. These Mob guys, they’re not all nice like Tony Soprano.”

  Huh?

  Trish shifted in the seat, her back still turned. They traveled down the road in silence, then she said, “I wonder when Bobby’s funeral is.”

  Mary felt her chest tighten. She’d been too busy to think that far ahead. “It depends on when the coroner releases the body. He was killed on Tuesday night, so my guess is Saturday.”

  “You’re goin’, right?”

  “I hadn’t even thought about it,” Mary answered, but she did want to go. Odd as it was, she couldn’t not.

  “You’re my lawyer, and if I go, you should go.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Nah, I’ll meet you there, with my mom and the girls. They didn’t like him, but they gotta pay their respects to his nutjob family.”

  “You might not want to put it that way.”

  Trish chuckled, her back turned like a sitcom husband, and Mary drove ahead, into the darkness, her own high beams suddenly no help. The red taillights she’d been using as a guide had vanished into the thunderstorm, and she drove ahead into the gray, rainy gloom. In time, she felt as if she and Trish were the only people afloat on a stormy sea, and she had to steer their little ship to harbor by herself. Weariness overcame her, and anxiety. She couldn’t imagine that tomorrow morning would ever come.

  “Maybe this’ll work out, after all,” Trish said, satisfied.

  But Mary looked over, uneasy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Dawn brightened the Philadelphia cityscape, turning it shades of gray, and a steady rain fell as Mary steered through the one-way streets, far easier to navigate than the wooded curves of the mountains. She was exhausted but had stayed awake for the drive by stopping for horrible coffee and more gas-station hot dogs, ensuring that she’d be completely nauseated by the time she pulled up in front of the Roundhouse.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead.” Mary had been trying to wake Trish up since they reached the city limits, but she’d only slumbered away in the passenger seat, curled up like a black cat. Black ringlets strayed across her lovely features, but more important, her makeup looked perfect. Mary gave her a hard nudge.

  “Wha?” Trish’s eyes fluttered open, and she frowned irritably, stretching her arms.

  “Time to wake up.” Mary pulled up the emergency brake and eyed the parking lot, which was mercifully clear of the media at this early hour, maybe because they knew the press conference was later this morning. “We’re here to see Brinkley.”

  “We’re not going home first?” Trish shifted up in the seat, squinting against the harsh gray light. Heavy rain pounded on the roof, matching Mary’s mood.

  “No. He wanted to get your statement before the press comes calling.” Mary felt her fatigue lift, replaced by pre-game jitters. Her phone conversation with Brinkley had been brief, and she’d been surprised he’d wanted to see them so early, especially given how busy he sounded. “I think he might pump you for information, so I want you to follow my lead.”

  Trish’s eyes flashed with alarm. “I’m no snitch, and I don’t want to get dead.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’m not making any deals. No immunity, nothin’.”

  “I told him that. You won’t meet with the FBI at all. This is Homicide only.” Mary checked her watch. “Best-case scenario, we’re out of there by nine.”

  “So this is it, huh?” Trish flipped the mirror visor down and fluffed her hair with her fingernails.

  “Yes. All you have to do is tell him what you told me, about what happened at the house. Don’t answer when I tell you not to.”

  Trish rubbed her teeth with an index finger.

  “Don’t volunteer anything.”

  Trish dug in her purse, found a bottle of foundation, unscrewed the shiny black top, and smeared a thin layer expertly over her skin.

  “Trish. You hear me?”

  “I know all that. I watch CSI, too.”

  Mary let it go. Suffice it to say, she wouldn’t miss the girl when this was over. “Anything you say could make this interview last longer than it needs to. For your own safety, I want us out of there before the day gets started. If we do this right, nobody will even
know you came in.”

  Trish traded the foundation for a rosy red lipstick, which she twirled open and slid over her lips.

  “Don’t be nervous.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Good.”

  “Fine.” Trish shoved the lipstick back into the bag, and from the mess of Kleenex, cigarettes, and rewetting solution extracted her black Beretta, which she dangled at the end of her finger like a Christmas ornament. “What do I do with this?”

  “Jeez!” Mary pressed it out of plain view, even though no one was around.

  “Chill, Mare,” Trish said, but Mary couldn’t. She didn’t know if she could ever chill again and she didn’t know what to do with the gun. If Trish killed Bobby, it was a murder weapon. But then again, maybe she didn’t do it, or if she did, she wouldn’t have used that gun, like she said.

  “Leave the gun,” Mary answered finally, which sounded oddly familiar. Then she remembered, from her dinner with Anthony. My favorite is, “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.” She hadn’t thought of him at all, with so much going on. She was supposed to call him back three years ago, but she had bigger worries, like the fact that she was having reasonable doubts about her own client.

  “Okay, ready to go?” Trish opened up the glove box, popped in the gun, then shut it and looked over expectantly.

  “Let’s rock,” Mary said, putting on her game face.

  They settled into the interview room, with Brinkley looking weary from the night tour, his skin unusually shiny and a stubble shading his cheeks and chin. Still, he wore his dark suit with his tie knotted tight, rallying as he sat down across from Trish and pulled a thin pad from his back pocket. Kovich sat quietly in a chair slightly behind him, a reverse of their usual positions.

  Brinkley flipped his pad open and slid a pen from the silky inside of his jacket. “Okay, so Mare, we wanted to talk to Trish to hear what happened to her, especially in view of the fact that Mancuso’s body was found Tuesday night.”

  “Seems like dog years,” Mary said, and Brinkley half-smiled.

  “I hear that.”

  “Before we start, do you have any leads on Mancuso?”

  “No.”

  “What about the autopsy or ballistics tests? What type of gun killed him, anyway? I haven’t read a paper in days.”

  “You won’t see it in the papers, not on my case.”

  “So what was the gun?”

  “We probably shouldn’t discuss those details,” Brinkley answered, an official response that took Mary by surprise.

  “We have an obvious interest in the case, and I’ll keep it confidential, if that’s your worry.”

  “I know you well enough to know you will. We need to keep our friendship out of it, like I told you before. Let’s move on, and we’ll get you two ladies out of here.”

  “Fair enough.” Mary let it go. “Just tell me, has the coroner released the body yet? I’m curious about when the funeral will be.”

  “It’s released, and I think they’re burying him tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” Mary said, looking over at Trish, who remained stony in her wooden seat, her legs pressed tightly together and her hands linked in her lap. She showed no reaction to the news of the funeral. Earlier, she had refused Brinkley’s offer of fresh coffee and declined to participate in the small talk about the storm. Mary didn’t know if Trish was afraid or contemptuous of the detectives, or a little of both.

  “So, Trish,” Brinkley said with only the briefest of smiles, “I’m happy to see that you’re well, after your ordeal.”

  Trish nodded, her glossy lips pursed.

  “You’ve been missing since Tuesday night, around six, is that right?”

  Trish nodded.

  “Why don’t you begin by telling us what happened that night?”

  Mary cleared her throat. “Reg, I wanted to reiterate that Trish is here at your request, that she’s been through a terrible and exhausting time, and that we’d like to conclude this interview as soon as possible. Also, we won’t be going into areas related to Mancuso’s murder or his involvement in the Mob, which Trish knows nothing about. She was his victim for many years, subject to domestic violence at his hands, and was very poorly served by the Philadelphia Police Department and Missing Persons.”

  “Duly noted,” Brinkley said, and turned his attention to Trish. “My apologies for the way your case was treated. Missing Persons was dealing with the Donchess kidnapping, as you know, and still is.”

  Trish nodded again, her mouth still tight, and Mary saw her in a new light. Out of her element, with her sensational looks doing nothing for her, Trish was a Queen Bee dethroned.

  “Now, please tell me about Tuesday night, in your own words.”

  “What do you want to know?” Trish shot back, but Brinkley looked undaunted.

  “I understand from Mary that it was your birthday, and you were going out to dinner with Mancuso, with whom you lived, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So tell me what happened the night of your birthday.”

  “We went out.”

  Mary kept her own counsel. If Trish wanted to be tight-lipped in the beginning, she’d let it go for a short time, but she’d stop her if it kept up. It could make her look guilty, at least it did to Mary.

  “Where did you go?” Brinkley asked, his tone characteristically quiet.

  “To a house.”

  “Where was the house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mary interjected, “Near Bonnyhart, in the Poconos.”

  Brinkley made a note.

  Mary looked at Trish, who pointedly didn’t catch her eye. The rest of the interview continued in that vein, with Brinkley pulling teeth to get each answer, like the most patient of dentists. Trish never relaxed, nor did she refuse to answer, cooperating just enough to get the story out. It took longer that way, probably by half an hour, but Brinkley was handling Trish with kid gloves. If he suspected her of Bobby’s murder, he was too professional to show his hand. The interview seemed to be winding down when he reached into an accordion file, extracted a transparent evidence bag, and held it up. Inside was an opal ring with a gold band.

  Brinkley asked, “Can you identify this?”

  Trish peered at the bag, but didn’t touch it. “Sure.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a ring.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “Yes.”

  Huh? Mary held out a hand. “May I see that?”

  “Yes.” Brinkley handed her the evidence bag, and Mary double-checked it.

  “Where’d you get this, Reg?” Mary asked.

  “Uh…in the alley, by Mancuso’s body.”

  Whoa. Mary handed the bag back, realizing she might have inadvertently messed up his interview. If he suspected Trish at all, he would’ve asked her any questions before he told her where it was found. Mary had done some fancy defense lawyering, if only by accident.

  Brinkley asked Trish, “Were you wearing the ring the night Bobby was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how it got in the alley?”

  Mary made her face a mask. The ring could’ve gotten in the alley if Trish had dropped it there, when she went to kill Bobby.

  “He took it from me,” Trish answered.

  “When?”

  “That night, at the house in the woods. Right before he showed me the engagement ring, he took my ring off my finger and put it in his pocket.”

  “Got it.” Brinkley made a note, as did Kovich.

  But Mary couldn’t visualize that scene. It didn’t sound like Bobby at all, elegantly slipping a ring from Trish’s finger. It sounded like some fairy-tale engagement story. He would’ve been drunk by that point, too. But if that didn’t happen, how did the ring get in the alley? Mary avoided looking at Trish as Brinkley pulled out from the accordion a second evidence bag, which held a silvery LG cell phone decorated with pink rhinestones, thick as sugar frosting.

  �
�This yours, too, Trish?” Brinkley asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “We found this on the body, too.” Brinkley rattled off a phone number. “That’s the number of the last call. Do you know that number?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “My mother.”

  “That would be the call you told us about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re in the homestretch, ladies.” Brinkley flipped to a clean page of his notebook. “Now, Trish, you lived with Mancuso for how long?”

  “Seven years.”

  “And during that time, he sold drugs for the Mob, didn’t he?”

  Mary interjected, “We’re not going there, Reg.”

  “You opened the door. You told me he was in the Mob the first time we spoke.”

  “That was when she was missing, and I had to go begging to get somebody to look for her.”

  “You gave us her diary, too.” Brinkley went into an accordion file he got from the floor, and Trish’s head snapped around, glaring at her.

  “You gave them my diary, Mare?”

  “Please,” Mary said, and at this point, she didn’t know who was making her madder, Brinkley or her own client.

  “Here, Mary, she discusses Cadillac at length.” Brinkley pointed to a photocopy of the diary, underlining an entry with an index finger. “We believe that it’s a nickname for Al Barbi, who was just killed, and she may have information about him that may help our investigation of his murder.”

  Mary shook her head. “That’s the end of the Mob questions. She told you everything she knows about that night, and I can’t let you pump her to get information.”

  “Mare, I’ll level with you.” Brinkley leaned forward, his elbows resting on his legs, lean in pressed slacks. “We have information that both Mancuso and Barbi were members of the Guarino crime family. They’re the up-and-comers, the young Turks waiting to take over now that Stanfa’s defunct and Merlino’s in jail. Both were low-level soldiers.”

  “Why do I care?” Mary heard herself say. Trish remained mute, watching the action.

  “If she knows anything about the Guarino organization, it’s going to prevent a lot of murders in this town. We have information that Barbi’s murder is just the beginning.”