Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

Trish eased the seat back down, turned away, and curled up like a very curvy ball. “Turn on the heat?”

“No. It makes me sleepy.”

“I know. I need it to sleep.”

“Do without.”

“I’m hungry. Can we stop?”

“Not yet.”

Trish looked over. “What’re you in such a bad mood for, Mare? Things are lookin’ up. We just got some great news.”

“A man’s murder is great news?”

“For me, it is.”

Mary laughed, but narcissists never get the joke.

“This proves it wasn’t me who did Bobby. It shows it had to be Cadillac or somebody in the Mob.”

Mary steered through the rain. “Not necessarily. Maybe it shows that somebody in the Mob thinks that Cadillac killed Bobby. Not that he actually did it.”

“Same difference.”

“Not exactly.”

“Either way, I’m in the clear.”

Mary considered it, uncomfortably. Barbi’s murder didn’t prove anything, but it made Trish look less like a suspect. Still, something was wrong, off-kilter. Mary should have been happier, having found the innocent Trish, but now she was worried that Trish wasn’t so innocent. Trish should have been sadder, because the man she once loved had been murdered.

“Trish, aren’t you sad about any of this? First Bobby’s dead, now Cadillac?”

“Bobby, a little,” she answered, though her tone sounded less than bereft. “I never liked Cadillac anyway. He shoulda minded his own business. If he killed Bobby, he got what he deserved.”

“But what if he didn’t do it?”

“I bet he did. He wasn’t a nice guy, Mare. You gotta wise up. These Mob guys, they’re not all nice like Tony Soprano.”

Huh?

Trish shifted in the seat, her back still turned. They traveled down the road in silence, then she said, “I wonder when Bobby’s funeral is.”

Mary felt her chest tighten. She’d been too busy to think that far ahead. “It depends on when the coroner releases the body. He was killed on Tuesday night, so my guess is Saturday.”

“You’re goin’, right?”

“I hadn’t even thought about it,” Mary answered, but she did want to go. Odd as it was, she couldn’t not.

“You’re my lawyer, and if I go, you should go.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll pick you up.”

“Nah, I’ll meet you there, with my mom and the girls. They didn’t like him, but they gotta pay their respects to his nutjob family.”

“You might not want to put it that way.”

Trish chuckled, her back turned like a sitcom husband, and Mary drove ahead, into the darkness, her own high beams suddenly no help. The red taillights she’d been using as a guide had vanished into the thunderstorm, and she drove ahead into the gray, rainy gloom. In time, she felt as if she and Trish were the only people afloat on a stormy sea, and she had to steer their little ship to harbor by herself. Weariness overcame her, and anxiety. She couldn’t imagine that tomorrow morning would ever come.

“Maybe this’ll work out, after all,” Trish said, satisfied.

But Mary looked over, uneasy.

D awn brightened the Philadelphia cityscape, turning it shades of gray, and a steady rain fell as Mary steered through the one-way streets, far easier to navigate than the wooded curves of the mountains. She was exhausted but had stayed awake for the drive by stopping for horrible coffee and more gas-station hot dogs, ensuring that she’d be completely nauseated by the time she pulled up in front of the Roundhouse.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Mary had been trying to wake Trish up since they reached the city limits, but she’d only slumbered away in the passenger seat, curled up like a black cat. Black ringlets strayed across her lovely features, but more important, her makeup looked perfect. Mary gave her a hard nudge.

“Wha?” Trish’s eyes fluttered open, and she frowned irritably, stretching her arms.

“Time to wake up.” Mary pulled up the emergency brake and eyed the parking lot, which was mercifully clear of the media at this early hour, maybe because they knew the press conference was later this morning. “We’re here to see Brinkley.”

“We’re not going home first?” Trish shifted up in the seat, squinting against the harsh gray light. Heavy rain pounded on the roof, matching Mary’s mood.

“No. He wanted to get your statement before the press comes calling.” Mary felt her fatigue lift, replaced by pre-game jitters. Her phone conversation with Brinkley had been brief, and she’d been surprised he’d wanted to see them so early, especially given how busy he sounded. “I think he might pump you for information, so I want you to follow my lead.”

Trish’s eyes flashed with alarm. “I’m no snitch, and I don’t want to get dead.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not making any deals. No immunity, nothin’.”

“I told him that. You won’t meet with the FBI at all. This is Homicide only.” Mary checked her watch. “Best-case scenario, we’re out of there by nine.”

“So this is it, huh?” Trish flipped the mirror visor down and fluffed her hair with her fingernails.

“Yes. All you have to do is tell him what you told me, about what happened at the house. Don’t answer when I tell you not to.”

Trish rubbed her teeth with an index finger.

“Don’t volunteer anything.”

Trish dug in her purse, found a bottle of foundation, unscrewed the shiny black top, and smeared a thin layer expertly over her skin.

“Trish. You hear me?”

“I know all that. I watch CSI, too.”

Mary let it go. Suffice it to say, she wouldn’t miss the girl when this was over. “Anything you say could make this interview last longer than it needs to. For your own safety, I want us out of there before the day gets started. If we do this right, nobody will even know you came in.”

Trish traded the foundation for a rosy red lipstick, which she twirled open and slid over her lips.

“Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

“Fine.” Trish shoved the lipstick back into the bag, and from the mess of Kleenex, cigarettes, and rewetting solution extracted her black Beretta, which she dangled at the end of her finger like a Christmas ornament. “What do I do with this?”

“Jeez!” Mary pressed it out of plain view, even though no one was around.

“Chill, Mare,” Trish said, but Mary couldn’t. She didn’t know if she could ever chill again and she didn’t know what to do with the gun. If Trish killed Bobby, it was a murder weapon. But then again, maybe she didn’t do it, or if she did, she wouldn’t have used that gun, like she said.

“Leave the gun,” Mary answered finally, which sounded oddly familiar. Then she remembered, from her dinner with Anthony. My favorite is, “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.” She hadn’t thought of him at all, with so much going on. She was supposed to call him back three years ago, but she had bigger worries, like the fact that she was having reasonable doubts about her own client.

“Okay, ready to go?” Trish opened up the glove box, popped in the gun, then shut it and looked over expectantly.

“Let’s rock,” Mary said, putting on her game face.

They settled into the interview room, with Brinkley looking weary from the night tour, his skin unusually shiny and a stubble shading his cheeks and chin. Still, he wore his dark suit with his tie knotted tight, rallying as he sat down across from Trish and pulled a thin pad from his back pocket. Kovich sat quietly in a chair slightly behind him, a reverse of their usual positions.

Brinkley flipped his pad open and slid a pen from the silky inside of his jacket. “Okay, so Mare, we wanted to talk to Trish to hear what happened to her, especially in view of the fact that Mancuso’s body was found Tuesday night.”