Lady Killer

by Lisa Scottoline

  Mrs. Gambone remained silent, her lips a resigned line, but Mary could see she was mulling it over.

  “It’s not for me to say, Mrs. Gambone, and I don’t want to judge you. I can’t put this back in the bag, or pretend I don’t know, which gives you a compromised lawyer. I can’t be objective about your case, so I can’t be the one to represent you.”

  Mrs. Gambone frowned, and Trish looked at Mary, astonished, the pain of betrayal reminding Mary of that first day in her office.

  “I can’t believe you’re doin’ this, Mare.”

  “I have to. There’s also a conflict of interest here, Trish. Right now, I’m your lawyer, and we both know you’re not completely in the clear. There’s lots more evidence to come, like that lamp in the cabin, and it’ll show Bobby’s blood on it. What if any of it points to you?”

  Trish’s outrage diminished.

  “The best way for me to get you off the hook is to take your mom in to confess. Is that what you want? Should I sell your mom out—for you? That’s in your interest, but not hers, understand?”

  Trish nodded, reluctantly.

  “You see the issue, then.”

  “So you’re gonna leave my mom in the lurch?”

  “Of course not.” Mary rose on knees that felt surprisingly weak. “Mrs. Gambone, I’ll get you the best criminal lawyer I know. Then you can decide what you want to do, with solid legal advice. Be right back.” She crossed to the door and slipped outside, taking her phone from her purse. She closed the door behind her, then sat down at the top of the stairs, and pressed in the number, ignoring a bad case of jitters. When the call connected, she said, “Bennie?”

  “DiNunzio. It’s about time you called. Are you clearing out your office tomorrow?”

  Ouch. “No, uh, it’s not about that.”

  “What else do we have to talk about?”

  “I…don’t know who else to call. I just heard a murder confession.”

  There was a pause, then Bennie asked, “Are you serious?”

  “Can you come?”

  “Tell me where you are,” Bennie answered, and the sudden softness in her tone made Mary feel like crying.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mary, Bennie, and Trish didn’t leave the Roundhouse until past midnight, the three women crossing the parking lot in a silent little group. That they had left one of their number behind hardly needed saying. The drizzle hadn’t let up, and the night felt heavy and muggy, the dampness making a vaporous halo around the streetlights. The lot was busy, but not with the clamoring media, only with routine hustle and bustle, the everyday business of murder and mayhem.

  Mary led the walk to her car, feeling a heaviness she had never known, her heart a weight. It was a grown-up perspective, new to her, but she was coming to the understanding that not every ending could be a happy one.

  “I’m gonna catch a cab,” Bennie said abruptly, waving a hand, and Mary looked over, surprised. In the lights from the building, she could almost see the boss’s expression, impassive. They hadn’t exchanged a word in private, like a couple keeping their fight before a dinner party a secret.

  “I can drop you at home,” Mary said, anyway. They had all come together, and she felt funny just letting Bennie go, an attack of separation anxiety. She wondered if they’d ever work together again or if she’d ever even see her another time.

  “Understood, but I’ll get a cab.” Bennie’s blond hair curled in the humidity, a fuzzy topknot, and her trenchcoat hung open. She turned to Trish and extended a hand. “It was good meeting you. Don’t worry about your mom.”

  “Thanks, Bennie.” Trish smiled wanly. “I guess I shoulda told you, I don’t know how soon I can pay you. If we could do installments—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bennie answered easily, turning toward the street. “This one’s a favor to DiNunzio.”

  “For real?” Trish sounded as incredulous as Mary felt.

  Huh? “You don’t have to do that, Bennie.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Trish, take care now. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks,” Trish called after her.

  But Mary didn’t know what to say. “Bennie, can we talk?” she blurted out. “Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Tuesday’s better, nine o’clock,” Bennie answered, then she walked to the street, her trenchcoat billowing.

  “That was nice of her, not to charge me,” Trish said quietly.

  “It sure was.” Mary nodded, watching her go. She was thinking about what Judy had said about Bennie’s clients not paying. Maybe it was because she’d been doing nice things, like that.

  They got into the car and slammed the doors, and Mary turned on the ignition, rewinding the events of the night like a video. Mrs. Gambone had confessed, and Bennie had proposed a plea bargain that would reduce the charge to voluntary manslaughter, with a two-to-four-year term. She had argued that the murder was the misguided act of a loving mother, the inevitably tragic response to domestic abuse, and that Mrs. Gambone deserved credit for coming in voluntarily and preventing an all-out Mob war. The young A.D.A. had said he’d take the offer to his boss and even he appreciated the sympathy factor. The whole time, Mrs. Gambone had remained stoic, if shaky, but Trish had cried hard.

  Mary cruised through the drizzle, and her thoughts clicked ahead. She was already thinking of ways to help the cause, maybe with a well-placed leak to the press, to help spin the story in Mrs. Gambone’s favor. She could even notify women’s groups and domestic abuse organizations and tell them what had happened. They might file briefs on Mrs. Gambone’s behalf or support her in the media. Certainly the neighborhood groups would get involved, and Mary made a mental note to contact local magazines like South Philly Rowhome and the newspapers, too.

  Mary stopped at a light and glanced over, with concern. Trish’s face was turned away to the window, her shoulders slumped. “How you doin’?” she asked.

  “Okay.” Trish voice was hoarse.

  “It was a really good deal.”

  “I know.”

  “Four years, if they go for it, isn’t forever. She might not even serve the whole time.”

  “I know.”

  “Your mom did the right thing. The smart thing.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Brinkley and Kovich will take good care of her. Believe me, they take no satisfaction in locking up someone who could’ve been their own mother.”

  “I saw.”

  Mary stopped trying to make conversation. She couldn’t begin to imagine how Trish must be feeling, knowing that somehow she was responsible for her mother’s ruin, and even Bobby’s murder. It would change her life. It would change everything. In time, they hit South Philly, and Mary steered the car through the neighborhood. Most of the houses stood dark at this hour, and Mary flashed forward to how difficult it would be for Trish in the morning, when everybody in the neighborhood knew.

  “One more thing,” Mary said, and Trish turned, shadows flashing on her face as they drove under the streetlight haloes.

  “What?”

  “I was thinking we should call Giulia and the girls. Have ’em come over. Agree?”

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?” Mary asked, and Trish looked away again, out the rainy window.

  “What’re they gonna do?”

  “They can help.”

  “How?”

  “Be your BFFs. Do girlfriendly stuff. Hold your hand. Listen to you cry.”

  “Gimme a break.” Trish reached for her purse, anticipating Mary’s turning onto her street.

  “I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It would be nice to have some company. Who wants to go home to an empty house?”

  “I better get used to it, huh?”

  Mary didn’t reply, but pulled up in front of the Gambones’ and set the emergency brake. “Hope you’re not mad at me, but the girls are inside waiting for you.”

  Trish turned in s
urprise. “What girls? Who is?”

  “G, Missy, and Yo-Yo Yolanda. I called Giulia when you were with your mom, at the Roundhouse.”

  Just then the front door opened, sending a sliver of warm yellow light slicing through the darkness, and there appeared in the threshold three curvy silhouettes, topped by curls. In the next second, the girls hurried down the steps in the rain to meet the car.

  “It wasn’t your worst idea,” Trish said, her voice suddenly thick. She looked back, her eyes glistening. “By the way, that thing with Joe is over.”

  “Good,” Mary said, relieved. Before she could say good-bye, Trish got out of the car and closed the door, and the girls surrounded her, then swept her up the stoop and inside the house. They closed the door behind them, plunging the street back into darkness.

  Mary sat alone with her thoughts, in the idling car. She’d worn a brave face the entire night, the professional mask that came with her law degree. Now that she didn’t have to pretend for anybody else, the reality was hitting home. She stayed in the car for a minute, watching the raindrops creep down the windshield, then pressed the gas and cruised down the deserted street. She steered the car toward Center City on autopilot, then fast-forwarded to a picture of herself at home, in bed, under her comforter in her Eagles jersey.

  Who wants to go home to an empty house?

  On impulse, she turned left two times and headed back. She knew the address; she remembered it. She didn’t know if she was ready, but she was going anyway. She figured she’d know for sure when she got there, or maybe six months from now.

  In no time, she found herself parked in front of the rowhouse Anthony was renting, looking up at the second floor, where a light was on. In the window she could see his head and shoulders as he sat in front of a laptop. The monitor lit his handsome profile with white shadows, and he typed quickly, working away. Mary turned off the engine, dug in her purse for her BlackBerry, and texted him:

  Come to the window.

  She hit Send and waited, her heart starting to pound. She wasn’t a forward girl. She’d never even asked anybody out. She didn’t know if it was crazy or not, or if she was getting ahead of herself, or him, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t thinking of the end point, or the destination, or even the purpose. The future or the past. She was thinking only of the present, and her heart was telling her she couldn’t do anything but what she was about to do, right this minute.

  And upstairs, Anthony jumped from his seat, came to the bedroom window, then left just as quickly, and Mary climbed out of the car, hurried to his front stoop, and reached it just as he threw open his door. She didn’t say anything because she was crying, and Anthony scooped her up in his arms and took her inside.

  Finally, out of the rain.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The morning sun shone through the window, making a lemony parallelogram on the comforter over Mary’s feet, warming them like a curled-up tabby cat. The house was quieter than in Center City, and the bedroom was larger. The walls were a darker blue than hers, the bedroom had a neater dresser, and the air smelled of better coffee.

  The other side of the bed was empty, with only a messy white comforter, a thin pillow, and an excellent instant replay to remind her that she had slept with Anthony. She squirmed, happily nude under the covers, and checked the clock on the night table. It said 9:20, in numbers big enough to read without her contacts, which must have gotten lost in the melee.

  “You’re up, huh?” Anthony appeared in the doorway, holding a mug in one hand and with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He was barefoot but dressed, wearing a pair of jeans, his white shirt partway open. His dark hair glistened wetly from a shower, and he came into the room, smiling. “I let you sleep. You needed it.”

  “Thanks.” Mary pulled up the covers, self-conscious. She didn’t know if her body was ready for daylight, though she’d shown the good sense last night not to worry about it. Anthony came over, set the coffee on the night table and the paper on the bed, then propped himself on one hand while he leaned over to give her a soft kiss. Mary clamped her lips shut. “No, stop. Save yourself. You’ll die on contact with my breath.”

  “Aw, come on.”

  “Let me have the coffee, then let’s try again.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.” Anthony handed her the mug, and Mary accepted the coffee and took a quick swig, which tasted hot, sweet, and delicious.

  “Okay, now.”

  “Done.” Anthony leaned over again and gave her a softer, slower kiss that tasted of Colgate, and Mary felt herself respond as naturally as she had last night. He smiled and stroked her hair from her eyes. “Nice.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “I like the way you kiss.”

  “Kissing is fun.”

  Anthony kissed her again. “I’m so glad you came over last night.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I have a craving for peppers and eggs. How about you?”

  Mary smiled. “Is this a dream?”

  Anthony smiled back. “You have time before work?”

  “Work is Tuesday, so yes. Is that a newspaper?”

  “Yes, and it’s good news.” Anthony opened the paper and handed it to her, headline first: A MOTHER’S JUSTICE, it read, and Mary held her breath until she turned the page and skimmed the article, which reported that Mrs. Gambone had allegedly confessed to killing the mobster who had abused her daughter for years.

  “They’re with her.” Mary gathered that Bennie had leaked the story already, before she’d had a chance. “If public opinion goes with Mrs. Gambone, the D.A. will be more likely to give her the deal.”

  “I’m sure, and who’s gonna object? Ritchie and his father? Is the Mob gonna stand up for law and order?”

  “Good point, but he does have a family.” Mary skimmed the article again, but there were no quotes from Rosaria. “On the other hand, Mrs. Gambone will do time.”

  “The punishment will fit the crime. It’s fair.”

  “I guess that’s right.” Mary’s eye caught the sidebar. “The neighborhood will be behind her.”

  “They already are. My mother called this morning.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “You can imagine, they’re with Mrs. Gambone. Hell hath no fury like an Italian mother, and she took down a Mob guy.” Anthony hesitated, and Mary saw doubt flicker across his features.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  Anthony paused, eyeing her frankly. “There’s talk about you.”

  “Oh no,” Mary said, her heart sinking. She set down the paper. “What now?”

  “It’s gossip.”

  “Tell me.”

  Anthony shifted over on the bed, touching her arm with a warm hand. “Rumor is that you turned Mrs. Gambone in.”

  “I would have, but so what? What’s the point?”

  “That it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. You know, you snitched on somebody from the neighborhood.”

  “All over again?” Mary gulped her coffee. “I can’t take these people. They’re impossible to please. They hate me when I lose Trish, they love me when I find her, they hate me again when I take her mother in.” Mary felt the caffeine kick in, making her angrier. “They’re unprincipled.”

  “Right.”

  “Emotional.”

  “Exactly.”

  “They don’t have all the facts.”

  “Not in the least.”

  “And they’re laymen, on top of it. They’re not lawyers. They don’t know.”

  “Of course they don’t.” Anthony cocked his head, his smile sympathetic. “So why let them bother you?”

  “Who said I’m letting them bother me?” Mary almost wailed, then heard herself. “Okay, I am, but I can’t help it.”

  “Of course you can. Why can’t you just consider the source?”

  “Because the source is my client base.”

  Anthony scoffed. “That’s not what’s b
othering you. You’ll always get business from the neighborhood and you know it. You’re our girl.”

  “I’m not too sure about that.”

  “The problem, if I may say, is that you want them to love you. You want them to approve.”

  It struck a chord. “Okay, I do. Guilty.”

  Anthony eyed her, his brown eyes soft. “You need to stop being guilty, and you need to understand that it’s your opinion that matters and not theirs. Not anybody else’s. Not even mine.”

  Mary listened, and Anthony’s tone was tender enough that she didn’t hit him.

  “Are you proud of what you did, babe?”

  Babe? Mary couldn’t let herself be distracted by any instant replays. “Yes.”

  “You think you’re in the right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let it go, let it all go. Some people will agree, some will disagree, and the ones who stay with you are the ones who count.”

  Mary considered it, and Anthony leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “For what it’s worth, I agree with you and I’m staying. If you’ll let me. Will you?”

  Mary looked at him, touched. He was staying. And she was happy about it, she could feel it inside. She didn’t hesitate before she kissed him back. Slower.

  And after another kiss, Anthony slid the coffee from her hand and set it on the night table.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Mary and Anthony dropped by her parents’ for a quiet dinner, but the first clue that something was different was the music playing when they opened the front door. They got inside and stood mystified by the sight: octogenarians packed the living room, their gray heads and bald pates bobbing as they fox-trotted or stood in groups, talking, laughing, and drinking beer. Mary was astounded. It was getting crazier and crazier at her parents, and she suspected AARP was behind it.