Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

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Lady Killer: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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From Publishers Weekly
Philadelphia attorney Mary DiNunzio, last seen in Killer Smile (2004), agrees to help her high school nemesis, Trish Gambone, at the start of this less than convincing thriller from bestseller Scottoline. Trish, whom Mary used to regard as the quintessential Mean Girl, has turned in desperation to the lawyer, the all-around Most Likely to Achieve Sainthood at St. Maria Goretti High School, because she wants to escape from her abusive, and possibly Mafia-connected boyfriend, Bobby Mancuso. Trish rejects Mary's practical suggestions for dealing with Bobby, but once Trish disappears, Mary finds herself under pressure from other high school classmates as well as people from her old neighborhood who blame her for not doing enough. Mary unwisely hides a connection with Bobby from the Feds, who then shut her out of the search for Trish when they learn of it. Scottoline fans will cheer Mary as she stumbles toward the solution, but others may have trouble suspending disbelief.
From The Washington Post
Most mysteries have at least two plots: the murder or heist or conspiracy that gets things going, and the quest for a solution. Merging these two lines of action isn't always easy, and bad mystery-writing is often marred by coincidences that strain credulity. In Lady Killer, Lisa Scottoline finesses this problem by setting her tale in Italian-American South Philadelphia, where her protagonist, Mary DiNunzio, grew up and where the victims and suspects still live. If someone pops up at a convenient moment, the reader doesn't wince: Everybody knows everybody else in this tightly knit neighborhood.
Mary herself is one of the nabe's success stories: a lawyer who represents injured and wronged parties from families just like her own. She may be a bit chary of standing up for herself (as her best friend at the firm points out, Mary is enough of a rainmaker to deserve a partnership, but she can't seem to persuade the boss of her worth). In the courtroom, however, she's a tiger.
Having come a long way (figuratively) from South Philly, Mary is not pleased when the Mean Girls stop by her office: first Trish Gambone and later her acolytes, Giulia, Missy and Yolanda, all of whom made life hard for nerds like Mary in their years together at St. Maria Goretti High. They're the ones who dated the Big Men on Campus and mocked the kids who studied and took part in square activities like debate and student journalism, but they're now stuck in low-paying jobs and still wearing the miniskirts and excess makeup of their youth, while Mary flourishes. Even so, seeing them makes Mary wonder if she is "the only person who had post-traumatic stress syndrome – from high school."
Trish drops in on Mary to plead for help in dealing with Bobby, one of those former Big Men, now Trish's boyfriend. Except he has grown up to be a mobster who's in the habit of belting Trish when he gets angry and jealous; he does it craftily, though, giving her blows to the body rather than the face so that she's not a walking billboard for his brutality. Trish is scared that Bobby will carry out his recent threats to kill her, and Mary recommends going to court for a restraining order. Trish vetoes that idea because Bobby has been skimming money from his drug deals, and the notoriety of a court appearance could lead to his being whacked. When Mary can't think of any other solution, Trish walks out of her office in despair.
Shortly afterward, she goes missing, and the other Mean Girls blame Mary for stiffing their friend in her time of need. To make things right, Mary neglects her law practice while chasing leads all over South Philly and beyond.
In the meantime, Mary is getting to know Anthony, a handsome bachelor whose only drawback is that he's gay. This leads to some good quips: "Mary had been on so many blind dates that it was a pleasure to be with a man who had a medical excuse for not being attracted to her." But then new information develops. As Mary and Anthony find themselves having more and more fun together, only the dimmest reader will fail to guess that Anthony's gayness, like Mark Twain's reported death, is greatly exaggerated.
Scottoline brings her characters to vivid life, the two strands of her plot mesh seamlessly, and her sharp sense of humor makes an appearance on almost every page. About the only ingredient missing from her book, however, is a crucial one: suspense. It's a given, of course, that the protagonist/detective will survive in the end, but Mary never runs into any appreciable danger, and her creator fails to impart a sense of menace to the lives of any other characters. Lady Killer ends up being funny and stylish, but almost as cozy as an Agatha Christie novel. That's a hell of a complaint to have to make about a tale of the South Philly mob.

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“Not until she tells me what she’s doin’ here!” Ritchie stepped forward, but his lawyer and Brinkley restrained him.

Mary edged backward, trying to process what was happening. Ritchie wouldn’t have known she was here. She and Anthony had arrived after they’d been taken in for questioning. Agents Kiesling and Steinberg came out of the interview room with Anthony.

“Mary, let’s go,” he said, touching her arm.

“What’s going on?” Kiesling asked, alarmed, and Steinberg stood protectively at Mary’s side.

“You with them now, Mare?” Ritchie glowered. “You were my brother’s girlfriend. Now you’re with the feds?”

Oh no. Mary felt exposed. Brinkley’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing, and she could read his expression. Betrayal. She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t told him about her history, and he was blindsided. Kovich’s lips formed an uncharacteristically tight line, his disappointment plain.

“Stay cool, big guy,” Ritchie’s lawyer said. “We’re outta here.”

“Not yet.” Ritchie’s eyes bored into her. “Not until I understand what’s goin’ on.”

Brinkley gestured to Anthony. “Get her out of here.”

Anthony grabbed Mary’s arm. “Let’s go,” he said, and they hurried her from the squad room, to the sound of Ritchie shouting after her. She let herself be swept to the elevator, through the lobby, past the display cases and finally out the front door, where the press mobbed them with cameras, flashes, and questions.

“Ms. DiNunzio, what’s your role in this?” “Mary, do police say this is the start of a Mob war? Is the Merlino crime family involved?” Reporters surged forward out of the dark, shoving microphones in Mary’s face, but she and Anthony hurried ahead, their heads down. “Any comment on the disappearance of Patricia Gambone? Do the police have any leads?” “Mary, Mary, look over here!” Videocameras whirred, and flashes fired from still cameras, bright and fleeting as lightning. “Ms. DiNunzio, is there a suspect in the murder-”

Mary and Anthony broke into a light run to his car, and they jumped in. He started the ignition instantly, gunned the engine, and zoomed out of the parking lot. They made the sharp left onto the Expressway entrance, and Anthony looked over.

“Let me take you home,” he said. “We can get your car another time.”

“Okay, thanks.” Mary looked away, wondering what Anthony was thinking. She hadn’t told him she knew the body in the black bag. He accelerated onto the Expressway, and Mary gripped the hand strap. Something to hold on to, when everything was falling apart.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to get the look on Brinkley’s face out of her mind. He’d think she was a liar, playing games with him and the Homicide Division. Why hadn’t she told him? The first time she’d seen him, she’d been with Giulia and she hadn’t wanted Giulia to know. But why hadn’t she mentioned it later?

The car streaked uptown in light traffic, barreling through the black night. The body bag flashed through her mind. The marble-gray of the flesh on his cheek. The blue of his eyes, frozen as ice. Could Trish be alive? The kidnapping cases that Kiesling and Steinberg had told her about were a gruesome sideshow. Dutroux. Girls dying while he was in jail.

“You okay?” Anthony asked gently, but she couldn’t begin to answer. “You hungry or anything?”

“No, I’m okay,” she answered finally. She spent the rest of the car ride facing out the window, watching the passing cars, red taillights, and drivers on cell phones, hiding her face from Anthony, and from herself. They reached her street in no time, and it was quiet and still, with most of the neighbors gone to sleep, the houses dark. A parking space was open near her front door, and Anthony pulled into it and turned to her.

“Thanks so much,” Mary said, making her door-handle move.

“I’d like to come in, if you wouldn’t mind.” Anthony’s voice sounded soft. “I don’t think you should be alone just yet.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Mary retrieved her house keys and got out of the car, but so did Anthony, closing his door.

“At least let me walk you in.”

Mary went to the doorstop, dug her keys from the bottom of her purse, and looked up as Anthony appeared in front of her on the sidewalk. He had shoved his hands into the pockets of his sport jacket, and his dark eyes were concerned.

“Listen,” he said. “Why don’t you let me come in? I won’t attack you or come on to you. I know you’re not interested.”

Ouch. “It’s not that. It’s that…I don’t think I’d be great company tonight.”

“I don’t mind. Let me come in for a bit. You could use a friend. A nice, safe, gay friend.”

Mary couldn’t find a smile. She felt empty and numb. She couldn’t believe what she’d seen tonight, and what it meant for Trish.

“Come on,” Anthony said softly, slipping the keys from her hand. “Let’s go inside.”

Mary entered her apartment, and Anthony followed, throwing the deadbolt and putting her keys on the side table. She’d grabbed the mail downstairs and set it on the coffee table, then shed her purse and jacket on a chair in the dark living room. On autopilot, she headed for the kitchen across the hardwood floor. She switched on the light and found herself going straight for the fridge.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked, surveying its contents. Two old tomatoes, a slim container of skim milk, and a plastic tub of mozzarella balls, which she knew would stink. She hadn’t been food-shopping since her last confession.

“Come here.” Anthony took Mary’s arm and gentled her into a kitchen chair. “Please, sit. The doctor is in.”

“You’re doing the honors?”

“Yes. You stay there and check your BlackBerry three hundred more times.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Oh yes you are. You’re more addicted than I am. We should enter rehab.”

“Hey, I left it in my purse.”

“Uh-oh, it won’t like that.” Anthony slid out of his jacket, placed it around the chair opposite her, and rolled up the sleeves of a white shirt with a European fit, showing lean forearms. His waist was trim in a nice black belt, and his dark pants kept a perfect crease. He went to the fridge and opened the door. “Sure you’re not hungry?”

“Not at all.”

“Got wine?”

“In the cabinet.”

“Which one?” Anthony shut the door, turning, and when Mary pointed, he went to the cabinet and opened the door. “Let’s see, a can of white clam sauce, ceci beans, and four boxes of Barilla spaghetti, each half full. Here we go. A single bottle of merlot. You sot.”

“It was a gift.” Mary’s head was still pounding.

“Corkscrew?” Anthony asked, and Mary pointed until he had located a corkscrew, two wineglasses, two napkins, and a wedge of hard locatelli that he shaved into fragile, thin slices and set on a salad plate with green olives. He smiled, holding the wineglasses crossed in one hand. “Let’s go in the living room. It’ll be more comfortable. Come along.” He tucked the wine bottle under his arm, grabbed the corkscrew and the cheese plate, then led the way into the darkened living room, where he set the stuff on the coffee table.

Mary trundled behind, as if it weren’t her own house. “I’ll turn on a light.”

“No. Let it be. It’s better.”

“Leave it off?”

“Sure. It’s not that dark. I can see.” Moonlight streamed through the front window, falling on Anthony’s back, bringing out the whiteness of his shirt and making a ghostly circle of the rims of the wineglasses. He bent over and poured some wine, which made a sloshy sound when it hit the glass.

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