Lisa Scottoline - Everywhere That Mary Went

“But, Tom, the license plate.”

“Half the cars in this city got no plate. The crackheads take ’em off to sell; the thieves take ’em off for the registration stickers. Look, the way I see it, the guy who killed Brent jumped the curb, trying to avoid the construction. AID told me they had two fender-benders on Walnut Street the same day, all on account of the construction.”

“Then why did he drive away?”

“Happens a lot, Mary. More than you think. Somebody’s drinkin’ a little too much, especially on a Friday night, and before they know it-boom-they’re up on the sidewalk. They’re juiced, they panic. We usually catch up with ’em in a couple of months. Some of ’em even come clean from a guilty conscience. That’s what happened with the architect.” He pauses and returns the notebook to his back pocket. “AID don’t have that many open fatals, you know. The doctor, a kid in a crosswalk in the Northeast, and your husband. He’s one of three.”

I feel numb again. Mike’s a fatal. An open fatal.

“What about the calls?” Ned asks testily.

“You get any more over the weekend, Mary?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been home yet.”

“And what about the notes?” Ned says.

Lombardo glares at him. “I’ll come by and get ’em from Mary. I’ll look ’em over and send ’em to the Document Unit, but I don’t think they have anything to do with Brent. They don’t sound like the kinda notes you see with a killer.”

“What do you mean?”

“The notes don’t say ‘I’m gonna kill you,’ ‘I’m gonna mess you up,’ ‘You ain’t gonna live another day,’ like that. That’s the kind of notes you get from a freak who kills. A freak withcipollines. You know what that means, buddy?”

“Educate me, Detective Lombardo.”

I know what it means, little onions. But the connotation is-

“Balls!”

“Tom, Ned, please.”

Lombardo hunches to replace his raincoat. “I want to see the notes, Mary, but I gotta tell you, I think they’re from some weak sister who’s got a thing for you. Could be someone you used to know, could be someone you know now. It could even be somebody you don’t know at all, like a guy in the mailroom at work. Some jerk with a crush. That’s the pattern, especially with ladies like yourself, career girls. Their name’s in the paper, they’re on this committee, that committee. You on committees like that?”

“Some.”

“This kind of guy isn’t a fighter, he’s a lover. He’s at home, swoonin’ over your picture, tryin’ to get up the nerve to talk to you. So don’t worry. Call me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time.” Lombardo’s attention is suddenly diverted by Delia, who appears out of the darkness, followed by Berkowitz.

“Thomas!” Berkowitz says heartily, grabbing Lombardo’s hand and pumping it. “Thanks for all you’ve done.”

“It’s nothin’, Sam.” Lombardo can’t tear his eyes off of Delia.

“Mary,” Berkowitz says, “I’m sorry about your secretary.”

“Thank you.”

“Why don’t you take a couple days off? I’ll cover your desk.”

Delia purses her glossy pink lips.

I’m surprised by the offer. Covering someone’s desk is strictly associate work. “Uh, thanks. I’ll see.”

“You let me know if you need me, Mary. It’s your call.”

“Sure.”

Berkowitz turns to go. “Thomas, thanks again.”

“No problem.”

Berkowitz strides off, his heavy trenchcoat flapping, and pauses to light a cigarette in a cupped hand. The flame from the lighter illuminates the contours of his face and Delia’s.

Lombardo jerks his head in Berkowitz’s direction. “He’s an all right guy, for a big shot. He thinks the notes are nothin’ too, Mary.”

“You told him?”

“Sure, we talked a coupla times over the weekend. He was very interested in the investigation.”

“Let’s go, Mary.” Ned squeezes my arm.

I feel tired, suddenly. I’m getting nowhere with Lombardo, I can see that. I know I’m right; I can just feel it. It all makes sense, but there’s nothing I can do about it tonight. Wearily, I give in. “Okay.”

“Call me, Mary,” Lombardo says.

I nod, and Ned steers me home. Neither of us says anything on the short walk to my apartment. I don’t know what’s on his mind, but my thoughts are muffled by a thick blanket of fatigue and sorrow. As we get closer to my building, I feel a distance between Ned and me. I want to be alone with my memories of Brent, and of Mike. I’m in mourning, and it’s déjà vu all over again. We reach the door to my building, near where Ned kissed me for the first time. A lot has happened since that first kiss. Brent was alive then.

“You want to pick up some clothes, Mary?”

“Actually, I think I should get some sleep tonight.”

“You mean you want to stay here? By yourself?” He frowns, causing his freckles to converge at the bridge of his nose.

I nod.

“I’m worried, honey. I don’t know what’s going on, and I have no confidence in that detective. I don’t think you’re safe.”

“Maybe I can call Judy or something.”

“You don’t want me to stay?” He looks confused.

“Ned, it’s not that it wasn’t wonderful…”

His green eyes harden. “Oh, is that it? Was it wonderful for you? Because it was wonderful for me too.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I got to you this weekend, Mary. I know I did. So don’t pull away from me, not now.”

“I’m not, but we’re only a part of what happened this weekend. I keep thinking about Brent.”

“Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“I just want to be alone for a while.”

“But call me, will you? Call me if you need anything, no matter how late it is. Call me.”

“Okay.”

“Lock the door.”

“Okay.”

“Eat your vegetables. And wear your muffler.”

“Thanks.” I give him a quick kiss and let myself into the front door of my building. I wave to him through the leaded glass in the outer door, and I think he waves back, but I can’t see him clearly. The bumpy glass transforms his silhouette into a wavy shadow.

I gather the mail and check each letter as I stack it up. I never thought I would be relieved to see a pile of junk mail addressed to Dee Nunzone, but I am. I climb up to my floor, regretting that I didn’t ask Ned to check the apartment. I reach the door, which still says LASSITER-DINUNZIO, and peek vainly through the peephole. I take a deep breath and unlock the door slowly. I open it a bit, then wider. The apartment is dark. I snap on the light with a finger and stick my head in the door. It looks just the way I left it. And it’s silent. No ringing telephone. No other sound. I walk slowly inside, then shut and lock the door behind me.

“Alice?” The window blinds rustle slightly. She’s on the windowsill. I walk nervously into the kitchen, refill Alice’s bowl, and take Mike’s samurai knife from the rack. I head into the bedroom, brandishing the knife. I figure I must look scary; I’m scaring myself. The bedroom looks absolutely normal. I take a deep breath and look under the bed. Dustballs as big as sagebrush, mounds of pink Kleenex, and a tortoiseshell barrette I’d been looking for. I grab the barrette and put it on my bed.

I leave the bedroom and walk into the bathroom. The makeup shelf, which I leave in a secret configuration now-moisturizer, foundation, eye pencil, lipstick-is still in its secret configuration. And the smell of the ripe cat box confirms that at least one other thing remains undisturbed.

I relax slightly and return to the living room.

“Alice?”

The window blinds move in reply, but Alice doesn’t leave her post.