Lady Killer (11 page)

M
ary dropped her purse and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“It’s Reg Brinkley.”

“Reg, thanks for calling.” Mary couldn’t miss the chill in her old friend’s voice. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I didn’t know they’d go on TV, I swear.”

“I figured. I got your messages but didn’t want to call you from work or on your cell. This conversation is confidential, correct?”

Gulp.
“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. Nothing like that will ever happen again, I promise.”

“I gotta make this fast, we’re busy tonight. Please don’t call me at work anymore. You’re radioactive.”

“I won’t,” Mary said, taken aback. She sank onto the living room couch.

“Take my cell number. If you need to contact me, call me there.”

“Okay, thanks.” Mary grabbed a pen from the table and scribbled his cell number on her hand when he rattled it off. “I hope I didn’t get you in too much trouble.”

Brinkley chuckled, which made Mary feel worse. She’d let a friend down, not to mention endangered his job, and all because he’d tried to help her. It didn’t feel good. She was screwing up left and right this week.

“Reg, yell at me or something.”

“Don’t worry about it. Officially, I have to bow out of the picture. As far as your friend Trish Gambone goes, let Missing Persons do its thing. They didn’t appreciate me sticking my nose where it didn’t belong, but they’re on it, even if they are busy with the Donchess case.”

“I heard Trish called her mom.”

“I know. How’d you know?”

“Her mom told me.” Mary gave the details. “Do the cops have any idea where she could be? Can they locate where the call came from?”

“I’m not discussing it further. Missing Persons knows about it and they’re on it.”

“So that’s the only lead?”

“Enough, Mare.”

Mary took it as a yes.

“Also, please tell your nutty friend Giulia to stop calling me.”

Mary moaned. “She’s calling you?”

“All the time.”

Great.
“By the way, I have Trish’s diary. Does Missing Persons want it?”

“Yes. Anything in it?”

“Like what?” Mary asked.

“References to a getaway place they like. Their habits as a couple. People have patterns.”

Mary made a mental note. “I haven’t even had a chance to read it yet. Today was wall to wall.”

“Messenger it to them tomorrow.”

“I could take it over myself, first thing in the morning.”

“No,” Brinkley answered quickly. “I don’t want you anywhere near the Roundhouse.”

Mary tried not to take it personally.

“Sorry I can’t help you anymore. Hope they find your friend. Give my best to Mama.”

“I will,” Mary said, and Brinkley hung up before she could say she was sorry again.

Half an hour later, she was leaning against the soft down pillows in her bed, wearing her Eagles sweatshirt, her hair on top of her head in its Pebbles ponytail, and wearing her glasses, getting ready to read Trish’s diary. She would look for the references that Brinkley mentioned, and it could tell her more about their relationship. Not that it would be fun reading.

My daughter came to you for help.

Mary felt a deep pang, then pressed the image of Mrs. Gambone to the back of her mind. She grabbed a pen and propped her legal pad up on her knees. The best way she could help Trish was to do exactly what she was doing. She took a sip of decaf Lipton and began to read on page one.

My birthday!!! Yay, T!! We went out for a great dinner and he gave me diamond studs, 2.3 carats if you add them together!!! G’s are only 1 carat each and also they’re flat, so it’s a cheat. They look bigger but aren’t really heavier and the cut isn’t as good. BTW, I’m starting a journal. But tonight, I drank too much to write much. TTYL.

Mary made a note, then thought a minute. So that was why she didn’t find any other diaries in the house. She read on, and pretty quickly the November and December entries fell into a pattern. Trish seemed to write at night, on a weekly basis, after they’d gone out to dinner and a movie, a club, or a party. The entries were glowing and loving. Entries about the Mean Girls concerned weight gained and lost, and the time Yolanda got a butterfly tattooed on her lower back, which led to a flock of butterfly tattoos.

It hurt like a mother!

Mary smiled, sadly. Trish could be so cute, even conscientious, recording details about work, her increasingly large number of clients, formulas for mixing lowlights, and gripes about one Shawna, who appeared to be the salon’s Mean Girl. Trish wrote about her mother, worrying that Mrs. Gambone
never went out
and
needed a man.
She worried even more about Giulia, who seemed
so moody
lately, and Yolanda was
so jealous of me.

Mary sipped some tea, and by February, the entries were changing. After the dinners, there were fights.
He drank too much, again.
Or,
He yelled at me for no reason.
There were fewer exclamation points, fewer dates they went on together, fewer notes about the Mean Girls.

Many of the entries read that
He came back late from Biannetti’s, drunk.
Mary recorded and counted them, finding 28 such entries until March. And about that same time, Trish wrote that
he’s skimming, I just know it. He always has so much cash on him, and always when he comes back from work.

By June, Trish was becoming frightened. The fights became worse, the drinking more frequent, and the skimming worried her more and more. On June 4 and June 10, she worried that
they’ll
find out. On June 23, she wrote that
Cadillac thinks he’s stealing
because at a wedding,
Cadillac said that my watch must have cost an arm and a leg
, and said,
I didn’t know your boyfriend was earning that much.
Mary made a note of the name Cadillac, but couldn’t find a last name.

She read on, noticing that the verbal abuse intensified in the June entries, and she stopped flinching at the
whore, slut
, and
lying bitch
. Trish wrote that
he’s slipping up on the job
and
not doing as good as he used to
. On July 4th, she felt snubbed by the other Mob girlfriends at a barbecue because he’s
not doing as good as he should be, even as good as his brother, who’s a dumbass on top of it.

Mary read on. The story reached a climax of sorts, when Trish confronted him about his stealing, but he denied it to her, and she wrote,
he told me I’m nuts to think he’d be dumb enough to steal from the boys, and if Cadillac thinks it, he’s an idiot, too.
Cadillac keeps
having his suspicions
, which led to Trish being accused of having an affair with Cadillac, which she would never do
because he’s a pig
. Again, no last name supplied.

More suspicions that led to the incident where
he shoved me in the closet and held the door closed so I couldn’t get out! I was so scared he was gonna trap me or something!
Mary read the following entries, in which a newly mistrustful Trish didn’t believe the apologies:
And when he socked me in my stomach like four times and I couldn’t get my breath.
In the next pages, the violence escalated.
He beat the shit out of me after Biannetti’s again
and the very next night,
he won’t stop with the biting.
More assaults after Biannetti’s, more reconciliations, more I’ll-never-do-it-again, and at least ten Polaroids, each one uglier than the next.

Then Mary turned the page and it got worse:
he made me suck his gun and he kept laughing and wouldn’t let me stop or he said he’d shoot me and blow my brains out my neck.
Her stomach turned over. He had become a sadist, a sociopath. She shook her head in disgust and bewilderment, then kept reading. Entries in the days following were filled with
I’m so scared
and
what do I do
and
what if he sees me writing in the diary
. There were no references to any weekend getaway, as Brinkley had said, or any clue as to where they would be now. It was the chronology of a nightmare, and Mary reread the final entry:
I went to see Mary but she didn’t do anything. Now I don’t know what to do. If you’re reading this now, whoever you are, I’m already dead. But at least this can prove he did it.

She closed the diary, her heart leaden, and looked aimlessly around her bedroom, hoping to see something that would lift her out of Trish’s world and restore her to her own. It was a feeling she had after reading any book, a reentry issue when she was finished, as if she’d been out of earth’s orbit, but this diary was more powerful than any story. It was real, and Mary herself had let the heroine down, resigning her to a fate that admitted no happy ending.

She was scared he was gonna kill her and now maybe he did. Ya happy?

Mary felt her eyes moisten and blinked it away. A white ginger lamp filled the cozy bedroom with a warm glow, and a blue-and-yellow flowered chair sat in the corner. Two landscapes hung on the wall, and a pine dresser sat nearby with a large mirror, which still had Mike’s photos stuck in the side. They weren’t photos of Mike; rather, they were photos he’d taken, loved, and put there, of his parents, his fraternity brothers, and the class he taught, third-graders, missing teeth here and there. He had loved teaching, and every time Mary saw those photos, she remembered him. She didn’t need to see his face in a photo; she had his face in her heart. She wanted to see what he saw, through his eyes. That’s what the photos showed. His soul.

She felt suddenly lucky that she’d been married to Mike. She wouldn’t have married anybody but him, least of all Trish’s mobster. She wouldn’t have changed a single thing about her life, except losing Mike. And that, she couldn’t do anything about. So she set the legal pad and the diary aside, then took off her glasses and set them on the night table, faceup so they didn’t scratch. She reached over and turned out the light, and darkness covered her like a down comforter.

She scooted down in bed, thinking in the silence of her room. Her solitude seemed more obvious to her now than ever, after the noise and violence of the relationship she’d been reading about, though she finally understood some things. Trish had stayed in the relationship because she was afraid to leave it, that much was obvious. But what Mary learned was that Trish had gotten into it because she didn’t want to end up in a bedroom alone, with her hair in a Pebbles ponytail and a mug of decaf tea cooling by the bed.

Trish didn’t want to be her.

Nobody did.

Nobody wanted to be the girl avoiding a good-night kiss from a perfectly nice and handsome man whose only fault was that he liked her. Finally, there in the dark, Mary understood something about Trish, and about herself, too.

And if Trish were still alive, Mary vowed to find her.

M
ary’s office window was a harsh pewter square, and the dawn sky cloaked her desk in a cold, gray light. She was at work by six thirty, moving the computer mouse and logging on to
www.phillynews.com
for the latest. The headline read
DONCHESS BABY STILL MISSING.
She skimmed the top stories, all about the child’s kidnapping, but there was no new news about Trish. Mary hadn’t slept well last night and she’d come into the office to get work out of the way before she made her next move, which she couldn’t do until nine o’clock. She was dressed for it, in a brown tweed suit, overpriced pumps, and with her hair back in its loose twist. Sleuthingwear.

She flipped through her phone messages from the past two days, a dangerously high stack. The top one was from somebody named Alfred Diaz, Esq., then she read Marshall’s neat notation on the message:
Diaz is Roberto Nunez’s new lawyer, he wants you to send file.

“I’m fired?” Mary asked aloud, in dismay. She’d worked the Nunez case for six months, but she couldn’t blame Roberto. He’d wanted his lawyer with him at his deposition and he had a right to that. She thumbed unhappily to the next message, from Tom DeCecco, canceling their appointment tomorrow on a workmen’s comp case, and another was a cancellation from Delia Antoine, of a meeting at her house on Friday, about lead paint removal.

Hmm.
Mary would’ve rescheduled those meetings anyway, to deal with Trish, and she usually prayed for cancellations. But two? Uneasy, she sipped her take-out coffee, which tasted hot and good. Was something going on with her clients? Was it related to Trish? She flashed on the scene last night in her parents’ dining room.

Mary’s a big shot now.

Her BlackBerry started ringing, and she startled, wondering who could be calling so early. She checked the display, alarmed, and picked up. “Amrita, what’s the matter?”

“Sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour, but I don’t know what to do. Dhiren won’t come out of the bathroom. He’s missed the bus. He says he won’t ever go back. He’s in there, crying.”

“Poor kid. Don’t make him go.”

“He’s so upset. He was taking a shower and one of the scabs on his head started bleeding. He’s afraid they’ll mock him.” Amrita sounded beside herself. “Did you make any progress with getting him tested? I can’t take this much longer, nor can Dhiren.”

“They can’t see him or test him until April, but I want to improve on that.”

“He needs help now.”

“I understand.” Mary’s face burned. “I’ll get on it.”

“Thank you. I must go. Talk to you later.”

“’Bye,” Mary said, but Amrita had already hung up. She got back on the computer and logged on to the white pages to find a qualified child psychologist in Philly. She’d skip all the red tape. She couldn’t listen to Dhiren cry like that and she didn’t want to let another client down. In fifteen minutes, she had a list of psychologists to call, and a grinning Judy Carrier materialized in her threshold.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Judy said, fresh-faced in a yellow rain slicker. She carried a paper bag. “I thought you’d be in. I’m bearing breakfast.”

“Wow. Why are you in so early?”

“Same reason as you. Work, work, work.” Judy flicked on the light, entered the office, set down the paper bag, and shed the slicker, revealing a funky dress with orange-and-white swirls.

“My God, you’re a Creamsicle.”

“Thank you.” Judy flopped into a seat with a grin. Her blond hair was swept back from her wide face with a stretchy purple headband, emphasizing her broad cheekbones and forehead. Mary couldn’t see what color clogs she had on. She didn’t want to know.

“Do they even have orange clogs?” she asked, anyway.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“They’d be perfect for deer season.”

“Or for feeling sunny and bright, on a gloomy hump day.” Judy dug into the bag and pulled out a corn muffin with a top like a mushroom cloud. “Look, your favorite.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Mary said, though the muffin showered crumbs on her desk, threatening to make grease spots on her letters, which she moved hastily aside.

“So fill me in. What’s up with Trish?” Judy reached in the bag and produced two tiny golden packets. “I got butter, too.”

“Oooh, butter,” Mary said, succumbing to the inevitable. She hit a button to print the list of psychologists’ names, then cleared a legal pad for a placemat and reached over for the muffin. “For starters, she called her mother the night she disappeared.”

“Really?” Judy asked, and Mary told her about the scene at her parents’ house, and later, about Anthony. By the time she’d finished, Judy had sprouted little worry lines on her forehead. “Hopefully, the cops will find her.”

“Right.” Mary didn’t tell her about the plans for the day, because she’d be sure to object.

“But you had a date? Hallelujah!”

“I guess.”

“So what’s the matter?”

“I’m not ready, I decided.”

Judy almost spit out her coffee. “You’re so ready you’re dying on the vine.”

“Thanks.” Mary smiled.

“Mare, why don’t you like him?”

“At my parents’, he sat in Mike’s chair.”

“He needed a place to put his ass. Your parents have four chairs at that table. When I eat there, I sit in Mike’s chair. There’s no other choice.”

“He’s going too fast, is all.”

Judy’s eyes glittered evilly. “Why? Did he go for the tongue?”

“No. We didn’t kiss.”

“Then how is he going too fast?”

“I don’t know.” Mary tried to shrug it off, but couldn’t. She reached for her coffee and noticed her e-mail in-box had gotten a new e-mail, the sender in boldface:
Giulia Palazzolo.
The re line read,
Have you seen Trish Gambone?
Mary said, “Uh-oh, incoming Mean Mail.”

“What?” Judy brushed crumbs off her fingertips and came around the desk, while Mary opened the e-mail and they read it together. It was a flyer that showed the photo of Trish from Giulia’s cell phone, and underneath was a description of Trish, with Giulia’s phone number and Reg Brinkley’s, too.

“Oh, no.” Mary moaned. “Brinkley will go nuts. Giulia’s been calling him, but I didn’t get a chance to yell at her yet.”

“Not a bad idea, to send a flyer. But they’re going about it the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?” Mary looked up, and Judy’s clear blue eyes moved rapidly back and forth as she read the screen, its light throwing white shadows on her chin and cheeks.

“The flyer, it’s all about Trish, and that’s not good. They don’t need to find her, they need to find him.”

Mary felt like kicking herself. “You’re right. I’m the one who told them to send a flyer. How could I have missed that?”

“They’ll never find her this way. This is all wrong.” Judy gestured at the screen. “They need a photo of him. They need to find out where he went last, where he hangs, where he was last seen, where he could have taken her. Once you find him, you find her.”

“You’re a genius.” Mary reached for her phone, searched the received calls, pressed Call, and set it on speakerphone. It was almost seven o’clock, so Giulia should be getting up soon.

“Hello?” she answered sleepily.

“Hi, Giulia, it’s Mary. Sorry to wake you.”

“Wha?”

“Giulia, I’m here with Judy and we have you on speaker. First, do me a favor and please don’t call Brinkley anymore. We almost got him fired. Second, I got your flyer and instead of making it about Trish, we were thinking you should do a new one and—”

“Oh, yo, Mare. Yo, Judy. Thank God you bitches woke me up to tell me what I’m doing wrong.” Giulia’s voice went from sleepy to angry faster than a Maserati. “What a relief that you called. You know, I been sleeping on my back but maybe I should turn over? Whaddaya think?”

“Giulia, it’s just that—”

“What’s your freakin’ problem, Mare? I heard you dissed Trish’s mom last night. How ignorant can you get?”

“No, I didn’t.” Mary controlled her temper, remembering what Mrs. Gambone had said about her rebuking Giulia. “I’m not trying to be critical of you. I’m—”

“We’re the ones runnin’ around—me, Yo, and Missy. I was up until three in the mornin’. We went to all the places where they know Trish, askin’ everybody if they seen her, postin’ the flyer on telephone poles around work and the bars she used to like. Everywhere she goes or used ta go.”

“That’s the problem. You need to go where—”

“What’re
you
doin’ for Trish, Mare? Makin’ with Ant’n’y Rotunno, who, p.s., in case you didn’t know, is friggin’ gay?”

Judy’s eyes widened.
He’s gay?
she mouthed, but Mary waved her off.

“Giulia, I understand that you’re working hard, but you should think about going after—”

The line went dead. Giulia had hung up. Mary rubbed her forehead. “That went well.”

Judy cocked her head. “He’s gay?”

“No.”

“Then why did she say that?”

“It’s a long story,” Mary answered, sipping her coffee, preoccupied.

“You look worried.”

“I am.”

“You think she’s dead already?” Judy’s expression went grim, and Mary didn’t want her muffin anymore.

“I pray not.” Their eyes met over the desk, and Mary lied, “I guess I have to let it be.”

“You do, you can’t help anymore. You don’t know anything about the boyfriend.”

“No, not really.” Mary kept her mouth shut. She knew a lot about the boyfriend, but this wasn’t the time for a confession. There was no confessional, for one thing.

“It’s for the best. I don’t want to worry about you getting mixed up with the Mob.”

“Me neither.” Mary faked a shudder, which wasn’t difficult. She had a second chance to help Trish and she wasn’t about to blow it. She got up, gathered their muffin trash, and said, “I gotta go.”

“Where?” Judy asked, rising.

Mary tried to think of a lie, grateful she hadn’t told Judy about the cancellations. “A breakfast meeting with a new client.”

“Will you be back for lunch?”

“I doubt it.” Mary tossed her trash into the wastebasket, slid the list of shrinks from the printer tray, and grabbed the manila envelope that held Trish’s diary, to be hand-delivered to Missing Persons.

“Okay, have fun.” Judy handed her her trenchcoat from the hook, and she took it with a smile.

“Thanks,” Mary said, avoiding the trusting eye of her best friend.