Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“Like a second house?” Mary asked, puzzled.

“I don’t know.”

Mary thought of the diary. There had been no mention of a second house.

“He said it, just once, and I wasn’t sure he was telling the truth. I told him, you can’t quit, they don’t let you quit. And he said, you can quit if they can’t find you.”

Mary’s heartbeat quickened. “That could be where he took Trish.”

Rosaria nodded. “It could.”

“So where could it be?”

“I don’t know.”

Mary thought a minute. “It would have to be out of the city. Away.”

“That’s possible.”

Mary felt on edge. “You have no idea where he could have been talking about? This is important.”

“Sorry. I’d like to help, but I can’t.”

“How could he buy another house? Could he afford it?” Then Mary realized. Maybe that’s why he’d been skimming profits from the drug sales. She knew herself how hard it was to make a down payment. Still, where was the house? “Did he have any hobbies, so he’d buy a house with that in mind?”

“Hobbies?” Rosaria looked at Mary like she was crazy.

“Did he fish? Hunt?”

“Are you kidding?” Rosaria laughed, but Mary didn’t. She wracked her brain.

“Did he like the ocean? Would he buy in Jersey?”

“It’s expensive.”

“Was there any place he talked about? A place he considered a refuge?”

Rosaria snorted. “Who has a place like that?”

“I do.” Mary thought about it. “Church.”

Rosaria stopped laughing, then looked away. “Not that I know of.”

“Any place you went as children, that he would go back to?”

“No, not that I remember.”

“How about in summers?”

“No.” Rosaria moved back her hair with her hand.

“Where did you go on vacation? Like, we went to Atlantic City.”

“We weren’t a family-vacation kind of family.”

Mary tried a new tack. “Do you know the names of any of the guys he knew, in the Mob?”

“Only my cousin.”

Mary thought about the name in the diary. “Does Cadillac ring a bell?”

“No. I didn’t know a Cadillac. I didn’t wanna know.”

“How about your father? Is he connected, too?”

“My uncle, no, but my cousin is. He is the one that got my brother involved.”

“Anybody else?” Mary was trying everything. She wouldn’t get another chance. “So he had nobody he trusted enough to tell about the house?”

“No, not that I knew.”

“Everybody trusts somebody.”

“Me. He trusted me.” Rosaria looked at her, eyes flinty. “Honestly, I don’t know anyone else he trusted. I never heard him talk about any friends. I guess he kept the house a big secret. He’d have to.”

Whoa. It struck a chord. Maybe the house was the secret he was going to tell Trish about, on the night of her birthday. The fact that she didn’t mention it in the diary suggested she hadn’t known about it.

“That’s all I know, sorry.”

“Thanks. If anything else occurs to you, will you call me?” Mary extracted a business card from her wallet and handed it to her.

“Sure, thanks.” Rosaria slipped it into her pocket, and the little dog jumped around, excited to be back on the move.

“Thanks for the help. It was great seeing you again.”

“You, too.” Rosaria stood up. “Take care.”

“You, too.” Mary rose, gave her a brief hug, and turned to go.

“Mare? One last thing.”

“Yes?” Mary turned, and Rosaria’s expression was pained.

“I don’t want to know about it, if he kills her.”

“I hear that.” Mary turned away and hurried back to the car.

Back in the car, Mary checked the clock. 2:25. She had to do something with the information about Ninth amp; Kennick. She considered calling Giulia, but she couldn’t trust her not to blab the information and that wouldn’t do any good, anyway. When traffic slowed, she reached for her phone and plugged in Brinkley’s cell number, reading the pen marks still faint on her hand. The call connected with his voicemail, and she left a complete message, telling him about Ninth amp; Kennick. Still she felt vaguely unsatisfied.

She called information, asked for the Missing Persons department, and the call connected. “Hello, I’m calling about the abduction of Trish Gambone. I may have information as to their whereabouts. With whom should I speak?”

“Hold, please,” a man answered, and the call went click, then came back on. “Sorry, is this a tip about the Amber Alert? We’re fielding calls in that case.”

“No, this is a woman, an adult. She was on the TV news last night.”

“Oh, is this the case that they had in Homicide?”

“Yes.”

“We have it logged in here. Who did you say you are?”

Mary told him, spelling her name and giving her cell number, against the background noise of ringing phones.

“Give me your information. I have to get these other calls. The Amber Alerts are just a monster.”

Mary sighed. The car moved an inch. She told him everything she knew and hung up, feeling assured of nothing. The BlackBerry rang again before she could even set it down, and she checked the display before she answered. It was Amrita, returning her call.

Yay! Mary could give her the good news about Dhiren’s upcoming appointment. She pressed the green button. “Amrita?” she said, excited until she found out what had happened to Dhiren.

Then, the good news didn’t matter anymore.

M ary fought traffic for two hours to reach Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. She parked on the street and hurried down the hospital corridor, its tile floors gleaming. A male nurse walked past in blue scrubs, a plastic daisy attached to the stethoscope that lay doubled around his neck. At the end of the corridor, she could see two older women standing outside the door to the room, and when she got closer, she recognized Elvira Rotunno, Anthony’s mother, in her old-school housedress and black plastic slip-ons, with another older woman.

“How is he?” Mary asked, walking up, and they both turned.

“Good as he can be.” Elvira managed a shaky smile. “It’s nice you came, Mare. Rita’s calm now, but she was a mess.”

“I can imagine.” Mary turned and introduced herself to the other woman, whose hooded eyes and lined expression were disapproving behind her oversized plastic eyeglasses.

“Sue Ciorletti,” the woman said, barely getting the words out before her mouth snapped back to its previous tightness, like a rubber band returning to shape. She seemed too cranky to wear a pink sweatsuit that read COOL GRANDMA.

Elvira continued, “Sue and me were talkin’ to Rita when the school called, and Sue gave her a ride here ’cause we didn’t want her drivin’ so upset. Amrita’s in there with the doctors now.” Elvira gestured at the closed door behind them, with a gnarled hand. “She’s been in there for a long time. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, right, Sue?”

Mrs. Ciorletti didn’t answer, maintaining her silence, and Mary assumed it was another neighbor who hated her.

“You okay, Mrs. Ciorletti?”

Elvira answered, “Sue don’t like hospitals because you could get an infection. Even if you’re just vistin’. She heard a report on the TV news.”

“I see,” Mary said. “Mrs. Ciorletti, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I have a car and I’ll take Elvira home.”

“I’ll stay,” Mrs. Ciorletti answered. The door opened as if on cue, and the women watched as two young male doctors came out, led by an attractive woman doctor with an authoritative air, Dr. Sharon Satterfield, according to the red script embroidered on her white jacket. Three young male interns followed her, with weary faces and professional smiles.