Lisa Scottoline - Killer Smile

“Melania, I know it’s late, but do you think it would be possible for me to meet your husband?”

“No, sorry, but you can’t. He’s really ill.”

Mary wondered if she were telling the truth, but she seemed to be, and the nurse had said the same thing. “I’m sorry. What is he ill with?”

“He has cancer, pancreatic cancer.”

“How terrible,” Mary said, with an inward moan. She thought reflexively of her mother. “Can I come back another time? Tomorrow, maybe? I promise I’ll be brief, and I -”

“To be honest with you, he’s terminal. I’m not sure how much longer he has left.” Melania blinked away tears that barely challenged waterproof mascara. “The doctor can’t say, so we take it day to day.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mary said, with regret, not grief. She had come so far, from the National Archives to Montana and back, tracing Saracone to this very house. If he was alive, it wasn’t too late. “So there’s no way, just for a minute, I could see him?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Melania swallowed in premature grief, but Mary wasn’t buying it for a minute. Anytime a sophomore marries a rich eighty-year-old, she’s not only prepared for the death part, she’s counting on it. Melania added, “I only let you in because Keisha said you were so nice. It’s really only family at the house at this point.”

“Family, of course. Do you have children?” Mary switched tacks for the moment, taking discovery.

“Giovanni does, from his previous marriage. A son, Justin. He should be here any minute.” Melania checked her watch, a gold Rolex. “He must be running late, with this weather.”

Mary could meet him if she stalled. “Oh yeah, I think I met Justin once. In town.”

“You might have. He did graduate from law school, but he doesn’t practice anymore.”

Melania smiled with new interest. “Where did you meet him?”

“If memory serves, it was at a bar function of some kind,” Mary answered vaguely. “So many lawyers quit practice, nowadays. I think of quitting all the time. Why did he quit?”

“Justin didn’t really quit, he works for the business.”

“What business?”

“Giovanni’s. You know, his investments.”

How had Saracone made all this dough? “What type of investments?”

Melania’s smile faded. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just making conversation, to distract you from your grief. Is it working?”

“No.” Melania laughed, and Mary leaned over.

“Look, I know this sounds weird and awful, but can I please see Giovanni? I swear, I’ll stay three minutes and that’s it. I could show him the photo of -”

“No, of course not.” Melania recoiled. “My husband is on his deathbed .”

“Is he awake now? Did he get my message about Amadeo?”

“Yes, Keisha told him.”

“You’re sure?”

Melania bristled. “I was there. What’s wrong with you? Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that it matters so much, to my client’s estate. My client had a special affinity for your husband. What did he say when Keisha told him?”

“Now stop right there.” Melania’s fair skin flared in anger. “That’s none of your business!”

“I know it seems rude, but it is my business.” Mary struggled for an explanation. “It would mean so much to my boss if I could tell him what your husband said. Could you just let me know, girl to girl, so I don’t get fired? I need this job.” It was Keisha’s line, but it had hit home with Mary, and it seemed to hit home with Melania, too.

“All he said was, ‘Amadeo.’ Okay?”

Amadeo . “He didn’t say anything else?”

“No. He put his head back on the pillow and fell asleep.”

“You sure he didn’t say anything else? Something that didn’t mean anything to you could mean a lot to my boss.”

“No, nothing else. He’s been saying things all the time, things that make no sense, because of the morphine and the other drugs.”

“Things that make no sense? What do you mean? What things?”

“The man is dying! The man is dying, and he knows it. Have some decency, why don’t you!” Melania stood up suddenly and brushed her wool slacks down over her taut thighs. “I tried to be nice, but I’m over this. I’m going upstairs, and you’re leaving. Right now. I’ll walk you to the door.”

Mary couldn’t walk out, could she? She’d come so far and if she waited another day, Saracone could be dead. She rose to go, hoisting her purse to her shoulder. She couldn’t just give up and go home, but she didn’t know what else to do.

“You have some nerve, you know that?” Melania was saying, over her shoulder, but Mary was thinking.

Should I take a chance? No. Yes. No. “Sorry,” Mary said. She followed Melania to the front door, but her determination returned in the nick of time. As Melania opened the door, Mary spun about-face and bolted for the carpeted stairwell that led upstairs. She didn’t stop to question or wonder or even double-check.

She just ran .

“What! No! Hey! Don’t you dare!” Melania shouted from the door, but for once Mary didn’t apologize.

Go! She darted up the stairs as fast as she could. She could get there. She could see Saracone. She wasn’t too late, not if he was alive. She reached the landing at the top with Melania on her heels. Where was Saracone’s bedroom?

“Stop!” Melania shouted. “No!”

Mary looked wildly right and left, panting hard. Two rooms were at either end of the long carpeted hall. Which was Saracone’s? An open door, with lamplight behind it! Left! Go! She bolted for the lighted bedroom just ahead of Melania, fueled by thoughts of Amadeo, the hanging tree, and the noose, which trumped a StairMaster any day.

“No! Chico, help! Chico, hurry!” Melania screamed, the sound reverberating in Mary’s ears.

Go, go, go! Mary tore down the hallway. There! She could barely stop in time as she reached the bedroom door and grabbed the doorknob. She scooted inside the bedroom, slammed the door closed behind her with a bang , and twisted a brass thumbscrew above the doorknob to lock herself inside. Thank you, God!

Almost instantly, Melania started pounding on the other side of the bedroom door, which shook with the force of each blow. “Get out of there! Chico! CHICO!”

Mary didn’t want to meet anybody named Chico. She whirled around on her heels and came face-to-face with Giovanni Saracone himself.

The old man sat bolt upright in his huge, fancy bed, his wobbly head egg-shaped and bald. His dark, sunken eyes had gone wide with alarm in their withered sockets, and his parched lips formed a wasted circle of alarm. A transparent greenish oxygen tube snaked from under his nose to a portable tank beside the bed, and he was hooked up to an IV and a small home monitor for his vital signs.

The sight took Mary aback, or maybe it was just the shock of what she had just done, breaking into his bedroom. But what she saw in Giovanni Saracone was stark, cold fright. Saracone was afraid of her, terrified of her , and in that one instant, eye to eye, she knew exactly why. Because he had killed Amadeo. He had been told she was here and he knew why she had come. He must have been dreading this day, and now it had finally come, on his deathbed. The knowledge flooded Mary with unholy power.

“You killed Amadeo Brandolini!” she shouted at Saracone, against the pounding on the bedroom door.

“Stop!” Melania screamed from outside the door. “ Chico, here! Break it down!” In the next minute a huge thud pounded against the door, almost tearing it from its hinges.