Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“Trish!” she called out, then jogged back down the hall, went downstairs, and looked around for a cellar door, then found one in the kitchen. She hadn’t seen it before. She told her heart to stop jumping around, and her brain began to function. If Bobby were going to kill Trish, he wouldn’t leave her body in his basement, incriminating him, would he? Maybe she was locked down there, alive?

Mary descended the skinny staircase. It had no rail, and as she went down she could see that nothing was amiss in the basement. The concrete floor was clean, with a new washer and dryer against one wall, of gray cinderblock. A hot-water heater sat on the right, next to the usual collection of incomprehensible heating things. She reached the bottom and looked around. No Trish.

She went back upstairs, unaccountably spooked that somehow she’d be locked in the basement for the rest of her life, then breathed a relieved sigh when she reached the kitchen again. She took the time to search the drawers, which had been filled with new kitchen gear. She found a set of striped dishtowels, still with their price tags from Target. Clearly Bobby had been setting up house. She turned to the last drawer and pulled it open. It was full of bills and papers, and she recognized the logos for Verizon, and PECO. She picked up the first few and looked at the name: Marty Slewinsky.

Mary knew that name, heard it like an echo from her past. It was a name that Bobby always called himself when he felt dumb. His stupid alter ego. He’d be struggling with his declensions, and when she quizzed him and he got the answer wrong, he said it was Marty Slewinsky. She didn’t know if anybody but her knew the nickname. Bobby wouldn’t be telling his fellow mobsters about his insecurities, and by the time he’d grown up, he’d be masking those feelings with vodka. She reached for a thick packet of papers and opened the trifold. The yellow one on the top was a purchase agreement for a Ford 150, 4WD, also in Marty Slewinsky’s name. She remembered what the realtor had said, no four-wheel drive and no flannel.

Bobby would need that truck in this terrain. So this was his house. His bills. His new identity, just waiting for him whenever he left the Mob. But where was the truck? Had he driven it back to the city? And what was his grand plan, anyway? Trish would leave her mom, friends, and job for a cabin in the middle of the woods? And if he had proposed that to her, what had happened?

Then Mary remembered about the cheating, and Trish’s nooners with Miss Tuesday Thursday. Had Trish told him she’d been cheating? Had he found out? What would he do to her if he did? She shoved the bills back inside the drawer and went over to the lamp, broken on the floor. She examined the shards without touching them, bending over, which was when she saw it, on the jagged edge of one of the broken pieces. Red-brown droplets spattered against the light green. She looked closer. The flecks were dried blood.

“Trish,” she heard herself whisper.

Mary ran back to the car in the rain, hardly feeling the chilly drops. The sight of the blood had set something loose inside her. Her worst fears. She ached to find Trish. It wasn’t a lot of blood. It hadn’t been a mortal wound. Maybe she was still alive.

Mary hit the gas. She had to tell Brinkley about the house and the blood. He would know what to do. She fumbled for her cell phone as she drove, then pressed in his cell number, heading for the main road, which she remembered was off to the left. The call connected, and she waited while it rang and rang.

“Please pick up, Reg,” she said, but the call went to voicemail. She cursed to herself, then waited for his message to end. “I found Bobby’s house in the Poconos, but no Trish. Call as soon as you can.”

She pressed End, taking one turn in the woods, then another. Should she call 911, for the local police? Did that make any sense? Maybe. She pressed 911 as she drove.

“What is…emergency?” the dispatcher asked when the call connected, but Mary could barely hear her for the static and the rain.

“I was just at 78 Tehanna Lane in Bonnyhart and I believe a woman may have been injured, if not killed in that house. She’s been missing for two days and her name is Trish Gambone.”

“Did you…see…woman?” the dispatcher asked, breaking up.

“No, but I saw her blood.”

“Who…you, miss?”

Mary filled her in, but couldn’t hear what she was saying. “Hello? Hello?”

“Miss…you must…cell phone. You’ve reached the Bruman Police… New York.”

“What?”

“We must be the nearest…relay station…not a bona fide emergency… Pennsylvania State Police…they can follow up.” The dispatcher gave Mary the state police number, and she repeated it while she drove, then pressed it in and waited for it to connect.

“Pennsylvania State Police,” the new dispatcher answered, and the connection was improved, but still not good. Mary had just begun when the dispatcher cut her off. “Excuse me, but we’re stretched pretty thin tonight with this weather, and it doesn’t sound like we need to send a car over there tonight.”

“But you do. She could be in the vicinity, still alive. She could be hidden somewhere or even buried alive.” Mary had been spinning nightmare scenarios in the back of her mind since she’d seen that blood. “I almost got out and started looking myself.”

“I’m sorry, but it sounds as if the Philadelphia police are handling the matter, and we wouldn’t interfere with them.”

“But the house is up here. I think he brought her here, and I can’t reach anybody in Philly.”

“Miss, please give me your name and number and we’ll call you as soon as we can.”

“When will that be?” Mary sensed she was pressing a lost cause but she couldn’t help herself.

“Tomorrow, business hours. That’s the best I can do for you, miss.”

“Okay, thanks.” Mary gave her the information, then hung up, and when she set the cell on the passenger seat, she looked up and realized she didn’t know where she was. She slowed to a stop at an intersection of two gravel roads, disoriented in the woods and the rain, then pulled over and flicked on the interior light to read the realtor’s map. She traced the route from Bonnyhart with a finger, then looked around for a road sign. Rain pounded the windshield, and she could barely see outside. There were no street signs. She couldn’t use the map if she didn’t know where she was.

She set the map aside, switched off the light, and drove farther, sensing that the main road had been in this direction. She tried to plug the street name into the BlackBerry but didn’t have enough info to retrieve the map. Last, she tried to call Judy to tell her what was going on and ask her to help, but there was no answer and the phone kept cutting out. Fifteen minutes later, Mary still hadn’t hit any paved road. She must have been wrong. She started to panic a little. Where was she? How had she gotten so turned around? She thought the turnpike was off this way, but she’d been mistaken. She checked the dashboard clock. Almost midnight.

Brinkley still hadn’t called her back. She took a right, then another right when she saw some lights through the trees, then kept on the roads that headed toward the lights, vowing to buy herself a navigation system when she got back to the city. In another half hour, she saw the lights getting closer. They were the lights of a snowmobile and used-tractor dealership, but up ahead twinkled new lights.

“Yay!” Mary shifted upward in the seat and hit the gas, feeling reassured as she took a right onto a paved road, which counted as progress. Ahead was an auto-body shop and a hunting-supplies store, both closed, but at least she was out of the woods. The sky glimmered gray up ahead, and she guessed it was the reflected lights of a town or maybe from the turnpike. She breathed easier and accelerated, and when she took a left turn, found herself behind another vehicle, an old red Jeep.