“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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
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.”
“I wish them luck.” Mary popped open a soda and filled the glasses. “Because I think Trish killed Bobby.”
“What?” Judy frowned as she opened the pizza box, filling the room with the aroma of hot mozzarella and wet cardboard.
“You heard me.” Mary sat down. “I think she did it.”
“Then she’s in trouble.”
“On the contrary, she’s in the process of getting away with it.”
“Really.” Judy’s eyes widened like a fourth-grader’s. She took her seat, then pulled a piece of pizza from the pie and dripped goopy mozzarella onto her plate.
“You should wait before you eat that.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Judy folded the slice expertly and chomped down on the pointy end, squinting as she seared the roof of her mouth.
“First degree or second?”
“Mmmm. Burny.”
“You’re so silly.” Mary smiled and slid a piece of pizza out from the pie, waiting for the slice to cool properly, Gallant to Judy’s Goofus. “Who woulda thought that between us, I’d be the one who got fired?”
Judy laughed, and then so did Mary, until they had to put their slices back down and laugh some more, and when they were finally finished, Judy said, “Okay, so fill me in.”
And Mary did.
“Quite a story,” Judy said gravely, eyeing the empty glasses of melting ice. Pizza crusts sat piled in the open box, like ribs bleached by a desert sun.
“There’s at least a circumstantial case against Trish.” Mary slid off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, having taken out her contacts. “She had motive and opportunity, and she even admitted that she had time enough to kill him and get back to the Poconos. Also, she has a gun, and they found her opal ring in the alley.”