Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

Mr. Po eyed the sfogliatelle, then pulled the pastries to him by hooking an index finger inside the cardboard box, his fingernail oddly long.

“They didn’t tell anybody they were going anywhere, and her girlfriends are all worried. Giulia Palazzolo, Missy, Yolanda. You remember that crowd?”

Mr. Po snorted softly. “Spaccone.”

Mary translated. Show-offs.

“Not good girls. Not like you.”

Mary felt a weight on her leg and looked down. Mr. Po’s gnarled right hand was resting on her skirt, while he was biting into a pastry as if nothing were happening. It was so unreal that it took her a second to process. She stood up abruptly.

“Who’re you, honey?” asked a loud voice behind them, and Mary turned. A brawny man in a T-shirt and blue polyester sweatpants stood in the doorway, his expression a scowl, his posture a challenge. He thrust his strong jaw forward, threw back his massive shoulders, and displayed unashamedly his substantial paunch. His head was shaved, exposing a script neck tattoo, and he had rough features, like Mussolini in sweats.

“Used to go out with your brother in high school,” Mr. Po answered, slowly eating his pastry.

“I was wondering where he was,” Mary answered, standing between the two of them, suddenly afraid. No one knew she was here. She hadn’t told anyone. She had lied to Judy. She went for the door, but the brother stood his ground, blocking her.

“Where you goin’?” His breath told her he was the cigar smoker. A diamond stud glinted from a fleshy earlobe.

“I was just leaving.”

“Then why were you comin’?” He grinned at the double entendre, then his grin vanished. “You one o’ these bitches callin’ baby bro a murderer? You one o’ them?”

“No, I was just looking for him.”

“It’s his business where he is, not yours.” The brother raised his voice. “He’s lyin’ on a beach somewhere with his girl. He don’t need anybody goin’ on the TV news, tellin’ this, that, and the other that he killed her.”

Mr. Po said, “Lay off her, Ritchie. She’s a lawyer. Trish went to see her, but she threw ’er out. She knows your brother wouldn’t hurt his girlfriend. They go back.”

Mary’s mouth went dry. She’d been foolish to think Mr. Po wouldn’t have heard something, accurate or not. But it could play to her advantage.

“Right, Mare?” Mr. Po asked, looking up. “My son’s your old flame.”

Gulp. “Right.”

“You’re still in love with ’im, aren’t you?” Mr. Po chuckled, dropping pastry flakes onto the table.

Mary didn’t know what to say. She had to get out of here.

“You were into baby bro?” Ritchie’s grin returned, menacing. He took a step closer, but Mary edged backward, like a nightmare cha-cha.

“Yes.”

“How come I never met you?”

“I don’t know. Did you go to Neumann?”

“Neumann?” Ritchie laughed. “No, honey, let’s just say, I was away.”

“Stop scarin’ her,” Mr. Po said from the table, his tone sterner, and Ritchie stepped aside with a ham-handed flourish.

“Excuse me. Please, go.”

“Thanks. ’Bye now.” Mary walked to the door as calmly as possible, but heavy footsteps pounded behind her. She startled as Ritchie appeared beside her and opened the door, flinging it wide.

“Boo,” he said, with a wink.

It wasn’t until Mary was safely in the backseat of a cab that she breathed easily enough to get out her BlackBerry and plug the word Brick into Google. The results came up after a nanosecond: Brick the movie, Acme Brick, Brickwork Design, the Brick Testament, whatever that was, Brick Industry, and finally, the Official Township of Brick site. She connected to the link, and a glorious green-and-blue website filled the little screen. Brick Township was in south Jersey and was known locally as Brick. The site boasted, Brick Township Celebrates “ Safest City in America ” Honors!

She scrolled down farther, and there was no other town on the first five pages. It had to be Brick, New Jersey, that Rosaria had moved to. Mary logged onto www.whitepages.com and plugged in Rosaria with her last name, praying that she’d kept her maiden name. In the next second, a single address and phone number popped onto the screen, in glowing blue letters. She called it.

“Hello?” a woman answered, and Mary recognized the distinctive alto.

“Sorry, wrong number,” she said, and hung up. She leaned forward and asked the cabbie to take a right, toward her garage.

She’d need her own wheels.

I t was a two-hour trip on the New Jersey Turnpike because of the congestion, and Mary returned as many phone calls and e-mails as she could without crashing. She called twelve more shrinks for Dhiren and on the thirteenth, got lucky. There was a last-minute cancellation and the psychologist would see Dhiren tomorrow. She almost cheered, then called Amrita’s cell phone. No answer, but Mary left a message, her spirits soaring.

In time, the traffic let up and she hit I-95 East, toward the coastline. The clouds dissipated and the sun burst through, which she couldn’t help but take as a good sign. She opened the car window and inhaled a lungful of fresh air, bearing a hint of the Atlantic, a smell she remembered from happy summers down the Jersey shore. The DiNunzios used to go to Bellevue Avenue, in an Atlantic City that didn’t exist anymore.

She took a right, then a left, following the directions in www.yahoo.com, and finally passed a grassy stretch along the Metedeconk River. Seagulls squawked overhead, and the huge houses were uniformly lovely and well maintained, with costly cars parked in driveways. She could see why Rosaria would move here, away from the graffiti, even if a cannoli was harder to come by.

Mary was trying to find the house when she spotted a slim woman in a pink tracksuit walking a little dog that danced at the end of the leash. The woman’s hair was gathered into a reddish brown ponytail that Mary recognized immediately. Rosaria had lost her studious, meek air and had come into her own, an attractive woman with the same blue eyes as her brother’s, a similarly long nose, and full lips. Mary grabbed her bag, got out of the car, and crossed the street, intercepting her in the middle of the block.

“Hey, lady, weren’t you in choir?” she asked with a smile, holding out her arms for a hug, and Rosaria laughed and returned the embrace.

“Mary? What’re you doing here?”

“It’s a long story.” Mary released her, and the little dog hopped on its hind legs, pawing her shins like a miniature black lion. Its fur stuck out like a fright wig and it had the ears of a kitten. “What kind of beast is this?”

“A toy Pomeranian.” Rosaria bent over and baby-talked to the dog, “Aren’t you adorable? Aren’t you?” She straightened up. “She’s my baby replacement, now that my son’s in high school.”

“So cute.” Mary scratched the dense black fur of the dog’s domed head, which only made her jump higher, springing around like she had pogo sticks for legs. “Mind if I walk with you, for a minute?”

“Sure, okay.” Rosaria smiled uncertainly and got back in stride. “How did you find me?”

Mary fell in step beside her. “I was at your father’s, saw a photo, and put two and two together.”

“My father’s?” Rosaria’s expression changed instantly, her smile fading. Sunlight fell on her face, trying to fill the creases that had just popped onto her forehead. “I hate that he calls himself that. He’s my uncle, not my father.”

“Sorry.”

“It must’ve been an old photo.”

“Your son, in a baseball uniform.”

“Ha. Like I said. I don’t send him photos anymore.”