Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“Seems like dog years,” Mary said, and Brinkley half-smiled.

“I hear that.”

“Before we start, do you have any leads on Mancuso?”

“No.”

“What about the autopsy or ballistics tests? What type of gun killed him, anyway? I haven’t read a paper in days.”

“You won’t see it in the papers, not on my case.”

“So what was the gun?”

“We probably shouldn’t discuss those details,” Brinkley answered, an official response that took Mary by surprise.

“We have an obvious interest in the case, and I’ll keep it confidential, if that’s your worry.”

“I know you well enough to know you will. We need to keep our friendship out of it, like I told you before. Let’s move on, and we’ll get you two ladies out of here.”

“Fair enough.” Mary let it go. “Just tell me, has the coroner released the body yet? I’m curious about when the funeral will be.”

“It’s released, and I think they’re burying him tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Mary said, looking over at Trish, who remained stony in her wooden seat, her legs pressed tightly together and her hands linked in her lap. She showed no reaction to the news of the funeral. Earlier, she had refused Brinkley’s offer of fresh coffee and declined to participate in the small talk about the storm. Mary didn’t know if Trish was afraid or contemptuous of the detectives, or a little of both.

“So, Trish,” Brinkley said with only the briefest of smiles, “I’m happy to see that you’re well, after your ordeal.”

Trish nodded, her glossy lips pursed.

“You’ve been missing since Tuesday night, around six, is that right?”

Trish nodded.

“Why don’t you begin by telling us what happened that night?”

Mary cleared her throat. “Reg, I wanted to reiterate that Trish is here at your request, that she’s been through a terrible and exhausting time, and that we’d like to conclude this interview as soon as possible. Also, we won’t be going into areas related to Mancuso’s murder or his involvement in the Mob, which Trish knows nothing about. She was his victim for many years, subject to domestic violence at his hands, and was very poorly served by the Philadelphia Police Department and Missing Persons.”

“Duly noted,” Brinkley said, and turned his attention to Trish. “My apologies for the way your case was treated. Missing Persons was dealing with the Donchess kidnapping, as you know, and still is.”

Trish nodded again, her mouth still tight, and Mary saw her in a new light. Out of her element, with her sensational looks doing nothing for her, Trish was a Queen Bee dethroned.

“Now, please tell me about Tuesday night, in your own words.”

“What do you want to know?” Trish shot back, but Brinkley looked undaunted.

“I understand from Mary that it was your birthday, and you were going out to dinner with Mancuso, with whom you lived, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me what happened the night of your birthday.”

“We went out.”

Mary kept her own counsel. If Trish wanted to be tight-lipped in the beginning, she’d let it go for a short time, but she’d stop her if it kept up. It could make her look guilty, at least it did to Mary.

“Where did you go?” Brinkley asked, his tone characteristically quiet.

“To a house.”

“Where was the house?”

“I don’t know.”

Mary interjected, “Near Bonnyhart, in the Poconos.”

Brinkley made a note.

Mary looked at Trish, who pointedly didn’t catch her eye. The rest of the interview continued in that vein, with Brinkley pulling teeth to get each answer, like the most patient of dentists. Trish never relaxed, nor did she refuse to answer, cooperating just enough to get the story out. It took longer that way, probably by half an hour, but Brinkley was handling Trish with kid gloves. If he suspected her of Bobby’s murder, he was too professional to show his hand. The interview seemed to be winding down when he reached into an accordion file, extracted a transparent evidence bag, and held it up. Inside was an opal ring with a gold band.

Brinkley asked, “Can you identify this?”

Trish peered at the bag, but didn’t touch it. “Sure.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a ring.”

“Is it yours?”

“Yes.”

Huh? Mary held out a hand. “May I see that?”

“Yes.” Brinkley handed her the evidence bag, and Mary double-checked it.

“Where’d you get this, Reg?” Mary asked.

“Uh…in the alley, by Mancuso’s body.”

Whoa. Mary handed the bag back, realizing she might have inadvertently messed up his interview. If he suspected Trish at all, he would’ve asked her any questions before he told her where it was found. Mary had done some fancy defense lawyering, if only by accident.

Brinkley asked Trish, “Were you wearing the ring the night Bobby was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how it got in the alley?”

Mary made her face a mask. The ring could’ve gotten in the alley if Trish had dropped it there, when she went to kill Bobby.

“He took it from me,” Trish answered.

“When?”

“That night, at the house in the woods. Right before he showed me the engagement ring, he took my ring off my finger and put it in his pocket.”

“Got it.” Brinkley made a note, as did Kovich.

But Mary couldn’t visualize that scene. It didn’t sound like Bobby at all, elegantly slipping a ring from Trish’s finger. It sounded like some fairy-tale engagement story. He would’ve been drunk by that point, too. But if that didn’t happen, how did the ring get in the alley? Mary avoided looking at Trish as Brinkley pulled out from the accordion a second evidence bag, which held a silvery LG cell phone decorated with pink rhinestones, thick as sugar frosting.

“This yours, too, Trish?” Brinkley asked.

“Yeah.”

“We found this on the body, too.” Brinkley rattled off a phone number. “That’s the number of the last call. Do you know that number?”

“Yeah.”

“Whose is it?”

“My mother.”

“That would be the call you told us about?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re in the homestretch, ladies.” Brinkley flipped to a clean page of his notebook. “Now, Trish, you lived with Mancuso for how long?”

“Seven years.”

“And during that time, he sold drugs for the Mob, didn’t he?”

Mary interjected, “We’re not going there, Reg.”

“You opened the door. You told me he was in the Mob the first time we spoke.”

“That was when she was missing, and I had to go begging to get somebody to look for her.”

“You gave us her diary, too.” Brinkley went into an accordion file he got from the floor, and Trish’s head snapped around, glaring at her.

“You gave them my diary, Mare?”

“Please,” Mary said, and at this point, she didn’t know who was making her madder, Brinkley or her own client.

“Here, Mary, she discusses Cadillac at length.” Brinkley pointed to a photocopy of the diary, underlining an entry with an index finger. “We believe that it’s a nickname for Al Barbi, who was just killed, and she may have information about him that may help our investigation of his murder.”

Mary shook her head. “That’s the end of the Mob questions. She told you everything she knows about that night, and I can’t let you pump her to get information.”

“Mare, I’ll level with you.” Brinkley leaned forward, his elbows resting on his legs, lean in pressed slacks. “We have information that both Mancuso and Barbi were members of the Guarino crime family. They’re the up-and-comers, the young Turks waiting to take over now that Stanfa’s defunct and Merlino’s in jail. Both were low-level soldiers.”