Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“Thanks so much, and I can’t wait until then.” Mary grabbed a pen. “May I have those referrals?”

Ten calls later, Mary had made a testing appointment for April 10 and counseling for April 15. It was the best she could do, but could Dhiren wait that long? How could she tell Amrita? Her BlackBerry rang, and she checked the display, the caller a welcome one.

“How’s my little girl?” her father asked warmly.

“Great, Pop.” Mary had trained her father to call on the cell, to be sure to get her, and put on her earphone so she could check her e-mail while they talked.

“Did you hear from Bernice yet? Feet keeps askin’ me.”

Oops. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll call her right now and get back to you.”

“Okay, baby. Love you. Your mother says don’t work too hard.”

“Love you both, Pop.” Mary hung up, called information for Bernice Foglia’s number, and pressed it into the BlackBerry while she answered her e-mail. It was the only good thing about her hated BlackBerry-when she used it with the earphone, she could do three things at once, instead of merely two.

“Yeah?” Bernice answered, her voice quavering with age.

“Mrs. Foglia, how’re you? This is Mary DiNunzio. I’m calling about this situation with Dean Martin.” Mary couldn’t believe the words coming out of her own mouth.

“I heard your father’s gonna slap me with a lawsuit, me and my ladyfriends.”

“That’s not true, Mrs. Foglia. I don’t know how you heard that.”

“Feet told Johnny-From-The-Corner who told his wife Lillian and she knows Josephine who’s my camarr from Moore Street, so she called me right away.”

Mary smiled, checking her e-mail and typing responses as quietly as she could.

“Mare, you better mark my words. Just ’cause you’re a lawyer doesn’t mean you can push me around. You used to be nice when you were little, but you changed. Success got you a swelled head. Hmph!”

“Mrs. Foglia, no one is suing you. They were upset about what you said about Dean Martin, is all.”

“Why? It was true. The man was a drunk.”

He was not. “You know what I think, Mrs. Foglia?” Mary heard a noise and looked up from her e-mail. Judy was standing in her doorway, gesturing for her to come. Mary flashed her the one-minute sign, but Judy rushed in, grabbed her by the hand, and pulled her out of the chair, while she followed her with the BlackBerry.

“I don’t care what you think,” Mrs. Foglia was saying, and Mary let Judy lead her down the hallway by the hand.

“I think this is getting out of control. Everybody’s up in arms.”

“They don’t like what I said? They can lump it. That’s what Frank would say.”

“Frank who?”

“Sinatra.”

“Mrs. Foglia, would you consider apologizing for saying what you said? Then I think I can get them to apologize.” Mary hurried along under Judy’s power, toward the conference room.

“No, I won’t apologize. They should apologize to me and Frank. They said he was crazy.”

“Who said that?”

“Tony-From-Down-The-Block. What a cavone. And that hair! It’s red as Lucille Ball.”

“Let me ask you a question. If he apologizes, will you?” Mary followed Judy into the conference room, where Marshall was already inside, looking at the TV on the credenza. Mary couldn’t see the screen because Marshall was blocking it.

“No,” Mrs. Foglia said. “Honey, I got no regrets. I’m like Frank.”

Judy dropped her hand, Marshall moved aside for her to see the TV, and Mary’s mouth dropped open. The news was on, and she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“I chew it up and spit it out,” Mrs. Foglia was saying.

“What?” Mary said to Mrs. Foglia and the TV.

“I do it My Way!” Mrs. Foglia shouted, hanging up.

Leaving an incredulous Mary with the news.

M ary almost dropped the BlackBerry, the earphone still plugged into her ear. On the TV screen, a bright red banner read, LIVE BREAKING NEWS, and above it stood Giulia, Missy, and Yolanda, outside the Roundhouse. An excitable Giulia was being interviewed by an anchorwoman, who was flanked by the Mean Girls, like book-ends with estrogen.

Mary groaned. “What are they doing?”

Judy folded her arms. “This can’t be good.”

Marshall said, “Nice makeup.”

Giulia said into the microphone, “Please, please help us! Our best friend, Trish Gambone, is missing since last night and we need your help!”

Oh my God. The Mean Girls had just queered the deal with Brinkley.

“This is a picture of Trish, on vacation in Vegas.” Giulia held up her cell-phone photo of Trish, and the camera moved in for a closeup. “She looks exactly like this, only without the spray-on. She’s white, in her thirties, five foot two, a hundred and five pounds.”

“A hundred and twenty,” said a voice, off camera.

Yolanda.

“Like I said, a hundred and five,” Giulia said firmly, holding up her cell phone.

“What’s a spray-on?” Judy asked, but Mary was too stunned to answer.

Giulia continued, “We’re askin’ everyone to keep a lookout for Trish, and if you see her, please call Detective Mack Reginald Brinkley right away. I know everybody’s up in arms about that dumb baby, but doesn’t an abused woman deserve an Amber Alert, too? Why do only babies get it?”

The TV reporter grabbed the microphone and managed a smile. “You heard it here first. Trish Gambone, a South Philadelphia resident, is missing at this hour…”

Mary sank into a chair and pressed the number for information into the BlackBerry. “Any lasagna left?” she asked miserably.

The operator said, “Pardon me?”

“Sorry. In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, may I have the number for the police department, the Homicide Division?”

“Please hold,” the operator answered, and Judy left the conference room. The call connected but the line was busy. Mary hung up and looked at Marshall, who had a handbag and a light navy coat folded over her arm.

Mary asked her, “How did you know this was on TV?”

“I always check the traffic report before I leave and I recognized the girls from the fistfight.” Marshall patted her on the back. “Hang in. Gotta go. Gabe’s at daycare.”

“Thanks.” Mary pressed Giulia’s number into the BlackBerry, and after a few rings, the call connected.

“Mare, didja see me on TV?” Giulia sounded breathless. “Wasn’t that great? It was like an infomercial for Trish, like Proactiv!”

“How did you get on TV?”

“You remember those guys that Missy and Yolanda were talking to? The one was a reporter, and he hooked us up. How’d I do?”

“Terrible,” Mary answered flatly. “What were you thinking? We weren’t supposed to go public until Brinkley got back to us. Now we made him look bad and we broke our word. Besides, he’s not with Missing Persons. He’s Homicide. You gave out the wrong number.”

“Yo, Mare!” Giulia raised her voice. “Why you gotta be so negative? Nothin’ I do is good enough? First with Fung, now the phone number? So what? We got Trish on TV. Those babies don’t know who they’re dealin’ with.” Giulia’s voice cut off. “Hold on, I got another call. It’s T’s mom. Call you back.”

“Wait, no more interviews. Not another one, you hear?” Mary said, but the line went dead.

She listened to the silence for a minute, trying to collect her thoughts. Her gaze wandered to the window, where the skyline, marked by the tented rooftop of the Independence Blue Cross building, the granite spike of Mellon Center, and the distinctive ziggurat of Liberty Place cut into the early evening sky. Below, people would be streaming from their offices, piling onto trains, cars, and buses, and going home to their families. And somewhere, Trish was below, dead or alive.