Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“Watch for cars, you guys!” their mother called after them, emerging from the van.

“Excuse me, can you pull up?” Mary asked.

“My God, are you Mary? I saw you in the paper! Thanks for finding my cousin!” The woman gave her a hug, and Mary hugged her back, on estrogen overload.

“Thanks.” Mary went back to her car, in time to see a driver who had just double-parked down the street. He stood by his car, opening an umbrella that caught her eye-a familiar flash of blue and white.

Mary waited for him to open it all the way, then did a double take. It was the blue-and-white golf umbrella that read Dean Witter. He chirped his car locked, and she checked the car. A black Cadillac. She watched, astounded, as he walked briskly toward the Gambone house. Was it Trish’s stockbroker boyfriend? Here? Only one way to find out. Mary made her way through the cars and intercepted him on the sidewalk.

“Sir, excuse me,” she said.

“Yeah?” The man smiled from under the umbrella, and if, by some chance, he recognized her from the motel parking lot, it didn’t show in his brown eyes and handsome, if coarse, features. His black hair looked a little puffy and moussed, and Mary sensed he was using the umbrella because he didn’t want to get it wet.

She introduced herself, then felt at a sudden loss for what to say next. I’m the one who chased your car at the motel?

“Oh, you’re the lawyer.” The man brightened, grinning with bleached teeth. He extended a large hand in a warm, earthy way, and Mary shook it, his grip scratchy and strong as he pumped away. “My wife told me all about you.”

“Does your wife know me?”

“Everybody knows you, now. You’re the one who helped find Trish, right?”

“Yes, thanks. And you are?”

“Oh, sorry. I don’t have the best manners. My name’s Joe. Joe Statio.”

“Oh, well hi, Joe. How do you know Trish? Are you a cousin or something?” Which would be creepy.

“No, I’m just a husband.”

“Well, husbands count.” So I hear. “Whose husband are you?”

“Trish’s girlfriend, Giulia. Giulia Palazzolo.”

Mary froze. Trish was sleeping with Giulia’s husband? Trish had lied to her at the motel? Joe Statio was Miss Tuesday Thursday?

“You know G from Goretti, right?”

Mary found her voice. “Sure, she’s great.”

“Sure is.”

“So what do you do for a living, Joe?”

“Got a plumbing supply on Oregon Avenue.”

“That’s good.” Mary grinned uncomfortably, which wasn’t difficult. So Trish had lied about that, too. What else had she lied about? Killing Bobby? “I thought you were some kind of stockbroker, because of the Dean Witter.”

“Who’s he?”

“Your golf umbrella. It says Dean Witter.”

“Oh yeah?” Joe looked up, as if he’d forgotten he held a multicolored tent above his head. “It ain’t mine. Guy left it at the shop, and I kep’ it.” He glanced toward the Gambone house. “I better get inside. I’m late.”

“Right, see you.”

“Later.” Joe gave her a toothy smile, then hurried up the sidewalk toward the house.

Mary waited until he went inside, then pretended she’d dropped something and walked casually around the back of his car. She double-checked the license plate, hoping against hope. But it was the car from the motel. RK-029.

She looked up at the house, wondering, in the rain.

M ary arrived home, shed her purse and coat on the chair, and flopped on the living room couch. Her apartment was quiet, and even her block outside had the stillness that comes from endlessly bad weather. Nobody home was going out in this rain, and everybody else was at work. She felt out of sync, neither here nor there, and reflexively retrieved her BlackBerry. She e-mailed Judy a quick note telling her she’d found Trish and not to worry about her, then she read her long-neglected e-mail, trying not to think about Trish, Bobby, Giulia, or Joe Statio.

No, I’m just a husband.

Mary deflated as she scanned her e-mail, each piece an electronic demand, a mile-high mess of get-back-to-me and I-didn’t-get-a-reply and you-have-to-let-me-know. Randomly she picked one to answer, but couldn’t find her old groove. She didn’t care about any of them. She didn’t even know if these clients were still hers. She tossed the damn BlackBerry aside. Could she take her clients with her? Should she leave them with Bennie? Would she ever work with Judy and Anne again? Could she get another job? What would she do now?

T was my maid of honor, both times.

Mary checked her watch. 10:05. Brinkley had said his press conference would be held at ten. She found the remote in the cushions, aimed it at the TV, and stared glassy eyed at a Slim-Fast commercial, until the news came on. On the screen, the police commissioner, in a dark suit and tie, stood behind a lectern that bore the bright blue-and-yellow emblem of the Philadelphia police. Brinkley, Kovich, and an array of suits stood behind him, flanked by the American flag and the bright blue flag of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, in an official voice. “We would like to make a brief statement regarding the recent outbreak of violence among certain elements of organized crime…”

Mary listened with complete attention and somehow, in the next minute, fell sound asleep.

Bzzz! She woke to the sound of her downstairs buzzer, in a darkened room, disoriented for a moment until she realized she was home, it was Friday, and she was jobless and dateless. The TV flickered, and the evening news was talking about the stock market, down by sixty points. Bzzz!

“Coming.” Mary roused, dry-mouthed, got up, and sleepily made her way to the buzzer next to the door, navigating by the light from Katie Couric’s smile. She pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”

“Lemme in,” Judy said, her voice tinny through the antiquated speaker system.

Mary hit the button. “We don’t want any.”

“I got double cheese, triple sauce.”

“Then hurry.” Mary switched on the living room light, and in the next minute heard the ladylike clomping of Dansko clogs on the staircase.

“Open, sesame!”

Mary opened the door to see her best friend walking down the hall in baggy painter’s pants, a turquoise T-shirt, and a jeans jacket covered with embroidered patches, colorful smiley-face buttons, and silver jewelry, all of which she wore with a pink bandanna wrapped around her forehead like an effeminate ninja.

“How was court?” Mary asked with a smile.

“Good one.” Judy balanced an aromatic pizza box on her spread fingers as she came through the door. “You been busy, huh? You’re all over the newspapers.”

“Great.” Mary closed and locked the door. “I’m Rip Van Winkle. What year is it? Do I have a date yet?”

“Listen to you, all funny.” Judy clomped ahead to the kitchen, turning on lights as she went, and Mary followed like her small and slightly errant child.

“My self-esteem is at an all-time low.”

“So what else is new?” Judy set the pizza box on the table. “You’re not happy unless you’re unhappy.”

“That’s not true,” Mary said, unhappily. Or happily.

“You should be overjoyed.” Judy went into the cabinet for two dinner plates, retrieved them, and plunked them down. Amber light glowed from the ceiling fixture centered over the table. “You completed your mission. You found Trash. Sorry, Trish.”

“No, she’s Trash again.” Mary went for two glasses, scooped some ice out of the freezer, and grabbed two cans of Diet Coke.

“Whatever you say. She’s alive, you found her, and the cops are after the Mob guy who killed Bobby Mancuso.”