Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“So where’d you get the tip on the location?”

“The sister, in Jersey.”

“Fill me in later, will you.”

“Sure. Did I redeem you?”

“More or less. Thanks.” Brinkley half-smiled.

“Good.” Mary felt some satisfaction, if only for that reason. The body had been discovered by a uniformed cop, sent there by her tip about Ninth amp; Kennick. It was why Brinkley had called her when they found the body, and he had sounded grateful. Mary felt herself recovering from the shock, trying to understand. “So where’s Trish? I mean, now that he’s dead?”

“I’m not gonna speculate.”

“But what do you think? He turns up dead, so is she still alive? That’s possible, right?”

“Mare, I can’t speculate. It’s all what-if.”

“Reg, it’s me. Just tell me what you think.”

“Okay, fine.” Brinkley lowered his voice. “You have to prepare yourself for all the possibilities.”

Mary felt her knees weaken and prayed she could keep it together, especially in front of all these people.

Brinkley was asking, “You sent that diary to Missing Persons, like I asked?”

“Sure.” Mary forced herself to think clearly. “I had it hand delivered to them today.”

“Good, I’ll get it. Anything else I should know?”

“A mob guy named Cadillac, who suspected he was skimming.”

“Cadillac?” Brinkley pulled a thin steno notebook from his back pocket and a ballpoint from his inside pocket.

“Yes. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No.” Brinkley made a note. “That’s in the diary, too?”

“Yes. Trish was worried about him.” Mary tucked her emotions away. She had to help. If Trish was still alive, maybe it could help find her. “His sister told me he had a house somewhere. She doesn’t know where, they’re estranged. He wanted a place he could get lost to.”

“What’s her name again?”

Mary answered him, then asked, “When was he killed?”

“We think late last night. That’s unofficial, you know that. We found Trish’s cell phone on him, and it has the call she made to her mother, at seven thirteen. There’s no other calls after that.”

“He had her cell?” Mary tried to wrap her mind around it. It couldn’t be good. The thought made her sick. “Did you find his car? It’s a black BMW. New.”

“We don’t have the car.”

“It’s gotta be parked here somewhere. They left in it. The neighbor saw them. Unless it’s back at home.”

“We’ll check on it.” Brinkley made a note.

From the alley came the clinking sound of the gurney being erected, metal hitting metal, bearing the body.

Brinkley was saying, “I did the notification and I also called the mother, Mrs. Gambone. She was pretty upset. Your friend was with her, the one on TV.”

“Giulia.”

Brinkley put a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “The M.E. agreed to do the autopsy as soon as possible. The body could have evidence of where she is, and one way or the other, we’ll find her. Don’t worry.”

Suddenly there came shouting from beyond the barricades and they looked over. A fight was breaking out in the mob, the crowd pushing and pulling. Policemen hurried from all directions toward the spot, and Mary craned her neck to see. The crowd surged toward the barricades, and the TV lights swung around and spotlighted the chaos.

“Stay here!” Brinkley took off, hustling toward the fracas.

But when Mary saw what the problem was, she knew it could take more than the Philadelphia Police Department.

R itchie Po exploded through the crowd toward the barricades. Men flanked him, running interference, though cops tried to stop them, pulling them back. People shouted, and there was a panicky scream as cops brandished pepper spray. Ritchie thrashed this way and that, throwing punches. Brinkley reached the barricades and signaled to other cops to help. A metal stalk of lights toppled over, scattering onlookers and crashing to the street. People started yelling, and in the melee, reporters got shoved aside and the rowdy crowd took up for Po, hollering at the police.

“What a mess!” Anthony said, almost drowned out by the din.

“Stand aside, people!” came a shout from behind, and Mary realized that she and Anthony were sandwiched between the alley and the shouting crowd. They sidestepped out of the way, and crime techs, startled at the sudden violence, scooted from the alley. The coroner’s assistants bent over and rolled the metal gurney with the black vinyl bag, rushing it bumping on the street.

Ritchie and his friends charged the barricades, and in front of him, the press struggled to catch the bag shot as the coroner’s assistants collapsed the wheels of the gurney and hoisted it into the van.

“I wanna see my brother!” he was screaming. “Get outta my way! Lemme see my brother!”

“Hurry!” The coroner’s assistants shoved the gurney into the van and darted to safety as the crowd rolled toward them, Ritchie in the lead.

Suddenly, reporters and cameramen were pushed forward from behind, the barricade toppled over, and a crowd of uniformed cops, Brinkley, Kovich, and Ritchie Po trampled the barricades and barreled ahead. “Stop right there!” Brinkley yelled, reaching out as Ritchie, carrying cops with him, rushed the van.

Mary watched, stunned. The cops grabbed Ritchie and the men around him, finally tackling them to the street. The crowd booed and shouted, and above the din, she could hear Brinkley and the cops. Ritchie stopped screaming, and the shoving and pushing finally subsided, ending almost as quickly as it had begun.

Mary stood speechless, trying to process what she had seen. She felt a squeeze around her shoulder and looked over, realizing that somehow she and Anthony had ended up at the edge of the crowd, out of harm’s way.

“Jeez, this is incredible.” Anthony looked down at Mary with a bewildered smile. “Is your life always like this?”

She couldn’t share the joke. Someone in the restless crowd had caught her eye. There, at the edge of the white light, stood Mr. Po, in a tan windbreaker and baggy pants. He rested a gnarled hand on a remaining sawhorse, and he was looking toward the black van. Wisps of his flyaway gray hair blew in the night air, and the ragged edge of light fell on the sunken planes of his face, reducing his eyes to black slits.

Mary was struck by a single thought: He’s not half as upset as he should be.

Later, Mary and Anthony followed Brinkley and Kovich down to the Roundhouse, where they were taking Ritchie Po and his father for questioning. She was dying to watch Ritchie’s interview, but unlike TV and movies, there were no two-way mirrors in Homicide. Instead, Mary, Anthony, and two FBI types, Special Agents Jimmy Kiesling and Marc Robert Steinberg, found themselves thrown together in another interview room, sitting in their mismatched chairs with cooling cups of terrible coffee. The agents were undoubtedly wondering why two civilians were getting so much respect, and Mary could feel how much they wanted to be in on the Po interview. The feds didn’t like to sit at the kiddie table.

“Michael Chiklis,” one of the agents said abruptly, looking from his newspaper. He was Steinberg, the quieter and older of the two, with a cute gray mustache, chubby cheeks, and ruddy skin. He’d pushed his wire-rimmed glasses on top of his head, which made his coarse salt-and-pepper hair stand up like a boar-bristle brush.

“What?” Kiesling asked, looking over with an amused frown.

“Remember I was saying that Po looks like somebody? The guy’s name just came to me. Michael Chiklis. The bald guy in The Shield.”

“I don’t watch The Shield.”