Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“You ladies want to help or not? Because when Trish shows up, I’ll be happy to tell her how funny you all were.”

“Okay, whatever,” Giulia said defensively. “I don’t know his license plate. It wasn’t a vanity plate. It was normal.”

“Thank you.” Mary cleared her throat. “Okay, so obviously, wherever he and Trish went, they took his car. So she probably went with him voluntarily, because he couldn’t have forced her into the car and driven it at the same time.”

Giulia stopped smiling, and so did the others. She squinted through the cigarette smoke, or maybe her tattooed eyeliner made it look that way.

“He coulda drugged her,” Missy said.

“He coulda killed her and put her in the trunk,” Yolanda said, and Giulia turned on her, red-and-black curls flying like a blurry checkerboard.

“Shut up with that, Yo. It’s like you want T to be dead.”

“I don’t want her to be dead,” Yolanda shot back. “Ga’ forbid!”

Mary sensed another catfight. “While you guys mix it up, I’m going inside and look around. Can I have her house key?”

“Here.” Giulia clamped her Marlboro between her lips, dug in her black purse, and produced a key ring that held a red Barbie pump, a Taj Mahal ersatz-gold horseshoe, two red plastic dice, and a St. Christopher medal. Mary took the key ring without bringing up what had happened to St. Christopher, then walked up the two-step stoop, unlocked the door, and pushed it open, surprised by the sight.

In contrast to the house’s mundane exterior, inside it was glistening, modern, and expensive, with warm white walls, a shaggy white area rug, and white marble flooring. It had been remodeled to make one large room out of the first floor, with the entrance hall, living and dining room divided by frosted white screens, like a high-end Winter Wonderland.

Would this have been my life?

Mary walked through the contemporary entrance area, where a fake ficus provided a splotch of color, passing a white laminated side table and a louvered closet. Light shone from a white Murano-glass chandelier, and when she walked around the divider, the focal point of the living room was an oversized, colorized photograph of the couple, he in a wide-lapel tux and she in a low-cut, melon-hued dress. Mary’s gaze shot to the boyfriend, who had once been her boyfriend, at least for a time. His face hadn’t changed; the same eyes, the strong, wide nose, and a smile just this side of I-don’t-care. He had prominent cheekbones and a strong chin, and Mary used to imagine it on an ancient gold coin, but she was always too into Latin Club.

“That picture was taken at my wedding,” Giulia said, coming up from behind, her stilettos clacking on the marble floor. “The first one, that is. T was my maid of honor both times.”

“So how long have they been living here?”

“Five years or so.” Giulia crunched an Altoid, releasing a blast of toxic peppermint. “They remodeled the whole thing. Gorgeous, huh?”

“Yeah, wow.” Mary looked around. A sectional couch of white leather sat against the wall, catty-corner to two matching chairs and a white laminated coffee table, spotless but for a white marble ashtray and three silvery remote controls. Hanging on the opposite wall was a huge plasma TV.

“To me, it’s too clean, but T had to keep it that way, for him.”

“Trish told me.” Mary looked back at the entrance hall. “No sign of a fight or struggle on the way out.”

“Maybe Missy’s right. Maybe he drugged her. Or slapped her one.” Giulia pursed her lips. “I know he knocked her around. T told me once, and I think it was worse than she said.”

“I do, too.” Mary considered it. “But if he hit her, how would he get her out, then? Carry her? It’s still light at seven o’clock this time of year. People would see.”

“He could kinda hold her up, like she was drunk or somethin’.”

“Maybe, but look.” Mary gestured at the entrance hall. “The rug near the door is still flat, not even moved or wrinkled. It’s the kind that slips easily. That suggests they went peacefully.”

“You’re right, Mare.”

“We’ll see. It’s just a working theory.”

“I like it, a workin’ theory.” Giulia smiled. “That sounds good. Now what do we do? I mean, what’re you lookin’ for in here?”

“I’m trying to learn what I can and hope it gives us a clue about what happened to Trish. We’ll test our theory as we go along.”

“Another good idea. Thank God you’re here.” Giulia clapped her on the back, and Mary couldn’t help but smile.

“Giulia, what kind of coat does Trish usually wear?”

“Call me G, everybody does. I’m G, Trish is T. Yolanda is Yo.”

“What’s Missy?”

“A pain in the ass.”

Mary laughed. “When Trish came to my office, she had on a fox coat.”

“That’s what she wears to dress up. The one she normally wears is just like mine.” Giulia gestured at her coat. “We bought them together.”

“Okay, so do me a favor. Go check in the closet and see if her fox coat or her leather coat’s in there.”

“I’m on the case.” Giulia pivoted on her heel and clack-clacked over to the entrance hall.

“Thanks.” Mary walked ahead into a white dining room, which had a long, white laminated table and eight high-backed chairs. A matching breakfront displayed a Franklin Mint plate of Madonna and Child, next to photos of the couple with their arms wrapped around each other in front of Epcot Center, the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, and on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. There was even one of them in front of some palm trees with Joey Merlino, the mobster who kept South Philly on the crime map.

“Mare,” Giulia called out, clacking back to the dining room. “Her fox coat’s not there.”

“Interesting, good. So she took her dress coat and she had time to take it and to make a choice. So she wasn’t drugged. She went voluntarily. So far, our theory is holding up.” Mary picked up the photo with Joey Merlino. “They went away with Merlino?”

“Nah, that was taken in prison.”

Mary blinked. “But there’s palm trees.”

“That’s a fake background they have in the joint. Didn’t you know that?”

Uh. “No.” Mary set it down. “I was just looking at the photos, and they seem so happy. When did it turn bad?”

Giulia squinted, thinking. “About two years ago.”

“What happened?” Mary opened a drawer in the breakfront, but it was empty, then reached for the next.

“He’s old school. He wanted her home at night, dinner on the table, makin’ babies. Like a homebody, a wife. But T’s not that type. She liked to have fun.” Giulia’s expression darkened. “Then he started drinkin’ more and more. I hate him, I hate the way he treated her. He was a loser and he blamed her for everything, like that he wasn’t movin’ up fast as he wanted.”

“In the Mob, you mean?”

“Yeah, the Mob. Oooh.” Giulia made claw-hands with her fingernails, but Mary walked into the kitchen area.

“So why did she stay with him?”

“In the beginnin’, she kep’ hopin’ it would get better, then she was too afraid to leave him. I woulda been, too.” Giulia crunched her Altoid. “The only way out was if he dumped her. My husband says if you’re with a wiseguy, it’s like a roach motel. You’re gettin’ in, but you ain’t gettin’ out.”

Mary glanced around the kitchen, so clean it appeared unused. She walked over to a pad under the wall phone, and nothing was written there. She asked, “When did he get involved with the Mob?”

“After high school, I think.”

“I don’t remember that. His family wasn’t in the Mob, were they?”