Lisa Scottoline - Everywhere That Mary Went

“If you’re asking me do I look forward to reading those files, the answer is no. But I have to.”

“Okay,” Judy says, with a sigh. “Let me know what AID says on the phone, okay? I’ll go down with you. We can go through the files together.”

“Thanks, but you look busy enough. Very industrious, with the clean desk and all. What are you working on?”

She picks up her pencil. “TheMitsuko brief. If this argument’s accepted, it’ll make new law in the Third Circuit.” Judy tells me about her argument with the degree of detail that most people reserve for their children or their dreams the night before. She loves the law. I guess it’s her river.

Later, as I climb the busy stairwell to my office, what Judy said begins to sink in. I can’t imagine sitting at my desk reading the police file on Mike’s death or Brent’s. Open fatals, my husband and my friend. I’m kidding myself that it’s just like any other case. It’s harder than any other case, but it’s also more important. I’ll call AID when I get back to my office. Maybe I can get a meeting this morning.

But when I reach Gluttony, Miss Pershing is pacing in front of her desk in an absolute panic. “My goodness, where have you been? You didn’t come back yesterday the whole day, and you didn’t call! I left messages on your machine. I even tried your parents, but they didn’t know where you were. Now they’re waiting upstairs in the reception area for the deposition!”

“Who is? What deposition?”

“Your parents, they’re waiting.”

“My parents are upstairs?”

“They’re very worried. They wanted to see you the moment you arrived. And Mr. Hart! He’s upstairs with his lawyer now.”

“Hart is here for his deposition? Oh, Christ.” I didn’t notice a deposition inHart for today. I didn’t see a notice in the pleadings index, so I assume that nobody at Masterson noticed a dep, either. Maybe the notice got lost when the file was sent to Stalling. Or maybe somebody deliberately took it out.

“Miss DiNunzio, they’re waiting. All of them.” Miss Pershing’s thin fingers dance along the edge of her chin.

I steady her by her Olive Oyl shoulders. “Here’s what I need you to do, Miss Pershing. Get us a conference room and have Catering Services set us up for breakfast. Then call Legal Court Reporters, the number’s on the Rolodex. Ask them to send over Pete if he’s available. Pete Benesante, got that?”

“Benesante.” She’s so nervous she’s quivering, and it makes her look vulnerable. Her job is all she has. She’s me in thirty years.

“After you do that, take the Harts to the conference room for me. Tell them I’ll be right there. I have to see my parents first. Okay?”

She nods.

“Are they having a shit fit?”

She colors slightly.

“Excuse me. My parents. How are they?”

“They’re fine. They’re very nice people. Lovely people. They invited me over for coffee this Saturday. They said perhaps you’d be free as well.”

“Maybe, Miss Pershing. But right now we have to get moving. Welcome to litigation. This is called a fire drill.”

She looks nervous again.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“It’s in God’s hands.” She walks unsteadily out the door, chanting Benesante, Benesante, Benesante, like a Latin prayer.

I go through my drawer for the thinHart file and page through it quickly. As I remembered, the only papers in it are the complaint and some scribbled notes from the lawyer at Masterson who represented Harbison’s. I’ve seen the notes before, on the way to the pretrial conference with Einstein. They’re practically indecipherable, written in a shaky hand. I can make out sentences here and there-what I told Einstein about Hart’s rudeness to company employees-but most of it’s a mess.

Who took these notes? Who did we steal this case from, anyway? I flip through the notes, three pages long. On the last page is a notation: 5/10 CON OUT/FS 1.0 NSW. I recognize it as a billing code. Stalling’s is almost identical. The notation means that on May 10, the Masterson lawyer had a conference out of the office with Franklin Stapleton, Harbison’s CEO. Their conference lasted an hour. The Masterson lawyer must be NSW.

NSW. Nathaniel Waters?

Ned’s father.

“Everything’s ready, Miss DiNunzio,” says Miss Pershing, practically hyperventilating in the doorway to my office. “You have Conference Room C. Mr. Benesante’s on his way.”

“Thank you, Miss Pershing.” I stare at the notation. Is NSW Ned’s father? It would make sense, because only a megapartner would get an hour’s audience with Stapleton. Even Berkowitz has never met Stapleton. He deals with Harbison’s through the GC.

“Also, there’s someone on the telephone.” She frowns at the message slip. “It’s a Miss Krytiatow…Miss Krytiatows…” She looks up, exasperated. “Her first name is Lu Ann.”

“I don’t know her, Miss Pershing. Take her number. I’ll get back to her when I can.”

“All right. I’ll be back at my desk if you need anything.” She turns to go.

“Miss Pershing, the Harts, remember?”

Her hand flutters to her mouth. “Oh, my. I forgot. I’m so sorry.”

“No problem. Just take them to the conference room and tell them I’ll be there.”

“You mean,stall them. Like Jessica Fletcher.” She winks at me.

“Jessica who?”

“Jessica Fletcher, onMurder, She Wrote. She’s a sleuth!” Miss Pershing’s eyes light up.

“You got it. Like Jessica Fletcher.”

“Right-o.”

“In fact, I have a favor to ask you. Something I need to have done while I’m in the dep. The kind of favor a sleuth would like.”

“Now this is my cup of tea,” she says, brightening.

“Get a district court subpoena from my form files. Then call up the Accident Investigation Division-they’re a part of the Philadelphia police. Don’t tell them who you are. Get some information about who’s in charge of their records on open investigations for fatal accidents. Put that name on two of the subpoenas. My guess is that it’s the Fatal Coordinator Sergeant, but I’m not sure. Just don’t tell them why.”

“Got it,” she says, with another wink, and hobbles off.

I return to the file and read the notation again. 5/10 CON OUT/FS 1.0 NSW. If NSW is Ned’s father, does that explain why the deposition notice is missing? Did he tamper with the file to make me look bad in comparison to Ned? Is Ned’s father the note writer? The killer?

I slap the file closed and tuck it under my arm. I head up the stairs slowly enough to give Miss Pershing time to get the Harts out of the reception area. My parents must have been worried sick. I wonder if they got hold of Angie and how much she told them. It had to be the whole story for them to come here. They’ve only been to Stalling once, when I was first hired. My father got lost on the way to the bathroom.

The Harts are gone when I reach the reception area. A CEO type, his lawyer, and his lawyer’s bag carrier are engaged in a whispered confab at one end of a glass coffee table, leaning over slick copies ofForbes, Time, andTown and Country. At the other end of the table is the redoubtable team of Vita and Matthew DiNunzio. They sit together in their heavy car coats, a worsted mountain of concerned parenthood, slumping badly in the soft whiter-than-white sectional furniture. I know what my mother is thinking: This sofa, it cost a fortune, and it has no support.

“Maria!” shouts my father, with joy. He stands up, arms outstretched. “Maria! Doll!”

Every head in the place turns. The CEO and his lawyer break off their expensive conversation. The bag carrier stifles a laugh. Two young associates, running by with files, look back curiously. Stalling’s veteran receptionist, Mrs. Littleton of the purple hair, just beams. I wonder if she’s invited to coffee too.