Lisa Scottoline - Killer Smile

“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” Judy walked into the conference room and plopped into a swivel chair.

Mary looked up, vaguely annoyed. Judy was pretty in a wide-open, all-American way, with round, bright blue eyes, a small, straight nose, and an easy, optimistic grin. Her chin-length hair had been dyed most recently the canary of legal pads, which Mary hoped was coincidental. And in contrast to Mary’s stiff navy suit, Judy wore a tie-dyed T-shirt, baggy jeans, and yellow clogs that looked like bananas for the feet. The total effect was Business Casual meets Cirque du Soleil, but Mary didn’t say so. Best friends know when to shut up. “So you just gonna sit there and stare at me?”

“I want you bad.”

“Weirdo.”

“When can we eat?”

“After I find Amadeo’s file.” Mary held up the paper she’d been reading. “These are inventory sheets of property and bank accounts from other internees. If I find his inventory sheets, I’ll know what happened to his boats.”

“What’s the difference?”

“If I can trace what happened to his boats, I can get his estate reimbursed for their loss. All the money he had he put into that business and it was lost when he was interned. You read the Korematsu case, you know the great dissent by Brennan. That’s the justice part.”

“True, except that the dissenters in Korematsu were Murphy and Jackson. You and Bennie always get that wrong. Brennan wasn’t even on the Court at the time.” Judy smiled. “And justice can wait until after dinner.”

Mary knew Judy was kidding, at least about justice. An honors graduate of Boalt Hall, editor in chief of the Law Review , and a former law clerk to the Chief Judge of the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, Judy Carrier had legal credentials that enabled her to correct everybody in the office, and far surpassing others who dyed their hair with Jell-O.

“Wait a minute,” Judy said, frowning at the documents scattered over the conference table. “You must have read these documents at the National Archives when you Xeroxed them. Did you see Brandolini’s file then?”

“No, but I’m double-checking. I could have missed it. It has to be here.” Mary skimmed the next document and sent up a silent prayer to St. Jude, Patron Saint of Lost Causes and Document Productions.

“ You miss it?” Judy’s eyes flared in blue disbelief. “You never miss anything. You’re the most careful girl I know.”

“Except for the dissenters in Korematsu . Besides, I couldn’t concentrate when I was Xeroxing. I had to find the right files and I could only use the copy machine for five minutes at a time. They had so many rules, between the declassification stickers and the Identicards and the one-folder-at-a-time.” Mary didn’t add that she’d gotten distracted by just being at the National Archives. The College Park building was sleek, modern, and beautiful, a fitting edifice for the documented history of her country. She’d loved every minute of her research there, down to the cheery red pencils they gave you for free and the sign that read THIS IS YOUR HERITAGE!

“Mare, you’re wasting your time.”

“My time is officially worthless. This case is pro bono, remember?” Mary finished reading the letter, which was USELESS, too. She reached for a Post-it, slapped it on the letter, and instead of USELESS, scribbled THIS SUCKS. For variety.

“Okay. Fine. You force me to Plan B.” Judy produced an almond Hershey bar from her jeans and unwrapped the tinfoil. She took a huge first bite, ignoring the perforations around the chocolate rectangles. Judy didn’t like to be told what to do, even by candy.

“Don’t get chocolate on my files,” Mary said, but Judy was already chomping a coveted almond and soon would begin excavating all of them, saving for last the nutless chocolate remnants. It was one of her saturated fat fetishes. “Jude, I mean it, with the chocolate.” Mary set her letter aside and scribbled THIS SUCKS, TOO on a Post-it. “Don’t touch anything.”

“Hey, what’s this?” Judy picked up a sheaf of papers, which Mary grabbed back.

“Please! They’re Amadeo’s personal papers.” Mary set the stack safely on her side of the table, but when she looked up, Judy was picking up something else. “Stop! That’s an original, too!”

“An original what?”

“It’s his alien registration booklet.” Mary grabbed it back, relieved to see it wasn’t chocolate-covered. A pink booklet, it measured slightly larger than her palm and its faded paper cover was as soft as her old Catechism manual. It bore a round purple stamp dated MAR 6, 1941. “Amadeo had to register as an enemy of the country, even though his son fought for us in the same war. I can’t believe that my country did this to its own people, to Amadeo. It’s not the American way.”

“Amadeo wasn’t an American.”

“He was too. He lived here for thirty years. He offered up his only son to the war, to fight for the country. If that isn’t an American, what is?”

“But he wasn’t a citizen, was he?”

“You’re being legalistic.”

“I’m a lawyer. What do you expect? Don’t get your thong in a bunch.”

“I don’t wear thongs. What kind of girl wants people to think she doesn’t wear underwear?” Mary sounded crazy even to herself, and Judy was looking at her like she was nuts. “All I’m saying is that I’m Catholic, okay? I welcome visible panty lines.”

Judy put up a hand. “You’re hungry, that’s why you’re so cranky. So let’s go walk my dog, then eat.”

Mary returned to the booklet. The caption read, United States Department of Justice and under it, Certificate of Identification. There was an inky, rolled-out fingerprint on the left, and on the right, a black-and-white photo of Amadeo Brandolini, who was movie-star handsome. His eyes were dark under a strong forehead, his full mouth formed an easy smile, and his thick black hair glistened, evidently pomaded for his meeting with his adopted government. Mary held up the photo. “Doesn’t Amadeo look like George Clooney?”

Judy squinted at the thumbnail-size photo. “No, freak, he looks nothing like George Clooney.”

“He does, too. Exactly.”

“You’re getting bizarre. It’s like you have a crush on him or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mary’s gaze shifted to the right page of the booklet, which recorded that Brandolini was five seven and only 155 pounds. Under Distinctive Marks, someone had written scar on forehead left side . It said that he was born on August 30, 1903, in Ascoli-Piceno and had resided at 4933 Thompson Street in Philadelphia. Under Length of Residence in United States, someone had written 32 years . Mary shook her head. Thirty-two years in this country, but he’d never applied for citizenship because he couldn’t read and write. It would be his undoing.

“Where did you get that registration book? That wasn’t at the National Archives, was it?”

“No, it was in his son Tony’s personal effects. I got it from the lawyer for the estate, Frank Cavuto.” Mary looked at the last page of the booklet. On the line that read Signature of Holder was scrawled a scratchy X . Next to it, someone had written his mark. Mary couldn’t stop looking at that X . The unknown.

“Girls!” came a shout from the door, startling them both. It was Bennie Rosato towering in the threshold, her thick blonde hair piled into an unruly topknot. She wore jeans and a Fairmount Boat Club sweatshirt and hoisted a heavy handbag, trial bag, and black suitcase. She didn’t look at all hungover to Mary, which was only one of her superpowers. “I gotta go to New York, I got called to trial in Preston on Monday. I’ll be two weeks, tops. Can you tykes hold the fort?”