Killer Smile Page 17

“He calls me Jim, and I never told him I was from the News. I doubt he knows what I do.”

  Mary filed it away. Skinny Uncle Joey wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Still she didn’t trust this guy. “Also I called you twice. Did you get my messages?”

  “No, so what happened to your face? Did somebody punch you?” Mac leaned over and squinted. “It’s so fresh, like you just got slugged.”

  “It’s not. I didn’t.” Mary prayed for a good lie. “It happened when I was out west.”

  “Someone hit you in Montana?”

  “No, it was a horse.” Yikes. “A horse kicked me.”

  “A horse kicked you in the face?” Mac’s eyes flared. “I had a friend who got kicked in the face by a horse, and it broke her cheek. She needed a whole series of operations to even talk again.”

  “No, that’s not what happened.” Please God help me. I said a good lie. “The horse didn’t kick me in the face. It kicked me on the leg, and I fell down and hit my face.”

  “Now, I understand,” Marshall said helpfully, and Mary faked a smile, which stung.

  “Sorry, Mac, I have to go get ready for my dep.”

  “But we said we’d meet again, so I could write the second installment of our Brandolini story, remember?”

  “You never did the first installment, and I have to go.” Mary started to leave, but Mac fell into step with her.

  “I was waiting until both installments were done, to show them to my editor. And we should talk, since Frank Cavuto has been murdered. Shame, isn’t it? You two went way back, didn’t you? I heard you played softball on his team. Word is, you had a mean right arm.”

  Mary picked up the pace. “How did you know that?”

  “I called Frank after we met. He liked you very much. He said you were a great lawyer, doing your best for Brandolini.”

  Hmm. “My comment is that it’s awful and sad that Frank Cavuto was murdered. Now I have to go.” Mary turned on her heel in the tight hallway. “Listen, you can’t follow me to my office. I have to get ready for a dep.”

  “I can wait until after your deposition is over. I need to catch up, and you could tell me what you learned about Brandolini at Fort Missoula. After all, I was the one who suggested you go there.”

  Mary gritted her teeth. “I have another dep in the afternoon. It’s wall to wall today, and I didn’t learn anything in Montana anyway.”

  “Is that for the record? Because that’s not what the director said, at Fort Missoula. He and the staff were very impressed with you. He said you’d tracked down an old mechanic, a Mr. Milton, at the camp.” Mac frowned. “He said you found some old pictures, and even identified a friend who was with Brandolini when he committed suicide.”

  The reporter had learned everything. I hate the First Amendment.

  “Then he put me in touch with a widow you met, who said the friend was named Giovanni Saracone. I spoke to her yesterday, and she really liked you. She seemed to think you’d head right for this Saracone.”

  Die, asshole! “Nah, I have to get back to work. Please, I gotta go.”

  “Call me ASAP!” Mac called out as Mary hurried away.

  She escaped into Judy’s office, where she closed the door with herself on the inside. When she turned around, she let out a little yelp of surprise. Judy was sitting behind her cluttered desk, and leaning against the wooden credenza opposite her was Bennie Rosato herself, her blonde hair up in its tangly twist and her arms folded in her trademark khaki suit.

  Help! “Bennie, you’re back!” Mary tried to sound delighted, but her cheek wound and true emotions combined to thwart her. “Did you win, boss?”

  “DiNunzio?” The boss’s eyes widened when she saw the bruise, and Judy’s jaw dropped open.

  “Mare, are you all right?” the associate asked, rising alarmed from her desk chair. “What happened?”

  Mary quickly considered her options, and there were none. One woman was her boss and the other her best friend. She was fresh out of lies, even lousy ones. Busted. So she wasn’t bulletproof after all. She dropped her bag, set down her messages and mail, and sank into the chair opposite Judy’s desk to give her second confession of the day. When Mary was finished telling them everything, both Bennie and Judy looked terribly grave, their lips set in almost identical hyphens, so that side by side their mouths formed a dotted line. At times like this, Rosato & Associates would morph into the Supremes; Bennie would became Diana Ross, so she’d yell in the lead, and Judy, or any other associate, would yell backup, like Cindy Bird-song.

  “DiNunzio!” Bennie began, her hands on her strong hips. “How could you possibly, ever, ever, get yourself in this much trouble? What were you thinking? Were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking. I had to follow up on Amadeo, and when I found out that—”

  “Don’t backtalk me! You lied to me! Running around Montana, breaking into murder scenes, stealing evidence, losing evidence! How’d you act so nuts?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” Mary reverted instantly to her old forte. It was a serviceable forte, applying to so many different situations, and she should never have abandoned it. Also, not everyone was good at apologizing, and Mary had heard of people who couldn’t part with a single I’m sorry, even when they were totally in the wrong.

  “You almost got yourself killed! Do you realize that? Instead of dumping you in your car last night, they could have dumped you in a shallow grave! You could be dead today!”

  “You could be dead!” Judy yelled backup. Doo-wap, do-wa.

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” Mary said, meaning it. She did feel bad. She could be dead, and she had lied to Bennie, which was even worse. The phone on Judy’s desk started ringing but everybody ignored it, and Bennie began to pace the office like a Bengal tiger. In a bread box.

  “I have no idea what to do about this! I’m too furious with you to even think straight! I came down this weekend, thought I’d give you a little support at the funeral, and this is what’s going on?” The phone’s ring turned to buzzing, which meant Marshall was trying to signal Judy to pick up. “Get that call, Carrier!” Bennie yelled, not even breaking stride, then she focused again on Mary. “DiNunzio, this time you’ve gone too far! This is over, you get it? Over! No more Brandolini! No more Saracone! It’s done! You hear me? DONE!”

  “Yes, Bennie,” Mary said, and Judy turned her head to listen to her phone, clamping a free hand over her other ear.

  “Starting right now, DiNunzio, you will get back to work, unless I decide to fire you! You will write briefs, bill time, and go on blind dates! Above all, you will start acting like yourself again!” Bennie stopped pacing long enough to glare down at Mary, her skin color shading to Harvard beet. But Mary tried not to think about beets right now. Or Fort Missoula. Or knots.

  “Excuse me, Bennie?” Judy said, turning with the phone in her hand. “The phone—”

  “Tell whoever it is I’ll call back!”

  “No.” Judy looked at Mary. “It’s for you, Mare. Marshall transferred the call to my line.”

  “Who is it?” Mary and Bennie asked in unison.

  “Detective Gomez from Homicide.”

  My God. Mary jumped to her pumps, but Bennie reached for the phone first.

  “Gimme that!” she shouted, then cleared her throat before she spoke into the receiver. “Detective Gomez, this is Bennie Rosato speaking. We haven’t met, but I expect we will soon.”

  Mary went weak in the knees. What was Bennie going to do? Had Gomez talked to Saracone? Was he on his way to Birchrunville right now?

  “Detective,” Bennie continued, “I want you to understand that I’m representing Mary DiNunzio in the event that she’s charged with burglary or any other crimes. I’ve talked with her, and our position is that she acted appropriately in every respect and that any such charges would be frivolous!”

  Mary couldn’t believe her ears. Two minutes ago, Bennie had been screaming at her. Now, she was screaming for her.
/>
  “Before you file, Detective Gomez, I want you and the department to understand that I’ll fight any such charges with every resource my firm can muster. Charges like that could destroy the career of one of the finest young attorneys in this city!”

  Huh? Me? Mary swallowed hard at the praise. It felt good and bad at the same time.

  “I won’t permit you or the D.A.’s office to ruin this lawyer’s good name. You’ll have to get through me to get to her, do I make myself clear? My next call is to the sergeant, and I’m sure that he and I can come to terms before this goes any further. Thank you so much.” Bennie seemed to catch her breath, and the redness ebbed from her face. “I’ll permit you to talk with Ms. DiNunzio, provided that I’m a party to the conversation. May I put you on speakerphone? Thank you.” Bennie pressed hold and turned quickly to Mary. “Okay if I’m on with you? You’re represented now, by me.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Mary answered, overwhelmed, and Bennie winked, then hit another button on the phone. The red light went on and they were on speaker.

  “Detective Gomez,” Bennie said. “My associates, Judy Carrier and Mary DiNunzio, are here. What is it you want to discuss?”

  “Mary, can you hear me?” It was the detective’s voice, and it didn’t sound good.

  “Yes, Detective Gomez. I’m listening.”

  “I see you got yourself a good lawyer.”

  “Damn right. Did you call Saracone?”

  “I have some bad news,” Gomez began.

  Twenty-Eight

  Mary spent the afternoon in her office behind a closed door, feeling sorry for herself. She had decided long ago that everybody was entitled to feel sorry for themselves, and its bad reputation was completely undeserved. She therefore ignored the phone when it rang, didn’t bother to recall clients she couldn’t reach the first time, and didn’t do productive work on any of her cases, least of all Amadeo’s. She’d tried online, only briefly, to find out some background information about Justin Saracone, Melania, or Chico Escalade, but she gave up when she got nowhere.

  She let her coffee get cold and sat slumped in her chair, propping her face up by a fist to her one good cheek. Sunlight poured through her window, but she wouldn’t let it cheer her up. On the contrary, she made a point of noticing that it reflected harshly on the internee files scattered across her desk, none of which mattered anymore. All her work had been for nothing, almost a year’s worth. She had figured out that Amadeo had been murdered by Giovanni Saracone, only to have the killer himself pass away this morning.

  Mary felt like crying but her eyes remained dry. Her heart was hollow, her chest oddly empty. She hadn’t gotten to Saracone in time. If only she’d gone to Montana when she’d first gotten the case. If only she weren’t such a chicken. Montana wasn’t scary, it was just another state. The people there weren’t aliens, they were normal. Airplanes weren’t all that amazing, they were just three billion tons of sheet metal, bolts, outdated copies of Forbes, and little tiny soaps which managed not only to stay aloft but also to fly through thin air.

  Okay, maybe airplanes were amazing.

  Mary sighed. At some level, even she had to admit it was time to lay Amadeo to rest. She had to let him go. Stop thinking of him as some sort of a ghost, George Clooney, or even Mike. She had discovered the unspeakable, but both Amadeo and Saracone had passed from this earth; murdered and murderer, good and evil. They would reconcile with their God; one embraced and the other reviled. She would have to be content with that justice.

  And, after what Gomez had told them, there was no chance now of proving that Frank’s murder was connected to Saracone. Gomez liked his lead in Frank’s murder, and the police were about to arrest a man who had committed another office burglary farther down Broad Street, also in which a small safe had been wheeled away. Gomez hadn’t gone out to Saracone’s house, and the Cavuto case was officially cleared. Saracone was dead. Amadeo was gone.

  It was over, all of it.

  It was history.

  The parish church brimmed with neighbors, nuns, priests from the Archdiocese, beat cops, bowling buddies, and the latest softball team Frank had sponsored, girls and boys squirming next to an array of small businessmen. Mary flashed on the bills she’d seen in the file drawers: dry cleaners, carpet cleaners, window blind cleaners; car repairs, shoe repairs, roof repairs; plumbers, electricians, carpenters. All of them mourned the passing of Frank Cavuto. And she knew that miles outside the city, far from the auto body shops and the check cashing agencies, in an elegant country mansion in a lovely town called Birchrunville, people were gathering to mourn the passing of Giovanni Saracone — his very young wife, his son, that felon in the Escalade, and undoubtedly an array of businessmen in custom suits and silk ties, who trafficked in stocks, bonds, and mysterious investments.

  Mary sat with Bennie and Judy behind Frank’s grieving wife and sons, in one of the glistening wooden pews toward the front of the parish church. Mary’s parents clutched soggy Kleenexes, and the rest of the weepy circolo filled her pew and the three pews behind her. The church was dark because the sun wasn’t bright enough to penetrate the stained glass depictions of the Stations of the Cross, in jewel tones of merlot and rich midnight blue. Refrigerated flowers and everybody’s best perfume sweetened the air.

  Mary raised her eyes to the altar, where the white-robed priest was holding the host over his head, reciting the familiar prayer. She responded with the rest of the congregation, as she had her entire life, but her thoughts kept straying to work. She had ten active cases piled on her desk and clients shaking their fists at her. She had briefs to file and motions to write. She had depositions to take and defend; cases to settle or try, the day-to-day business of being a trial lawyer. Part of her missed it, which came as a surprise, even to her. Amadeo had taught her that, brought her that; she had never felt happy with her choice of profession before this case. She sent him a silent prayer of thanks.

  She bowed her head to the sound of sobs and sniffling, the cadence of praying and chanting, and next an unwelcome sound. The intrusion of a cell phone, set on generic ring. Briing. Briinnnggg. It rang startlingly close to Mary, and she glanced over at Bennie, who remained impassive. Briiinnngg. Everyone began looking around the pews; the cell phone Nazis on alert. Her mother heard the ring, swiveling her puffy pink-gray hair, but her father remained oblivious, since he never wore his hearing aid in church. Brriinngg. Then Mary realized the ring was coming from her own purse.

  She opened her bag, grabbed her cell, flipped it open, and pressed Power, instantly turning it off. Her mother frowned. Her father smiled. Bennie eyed her coolly, then looked away. Mary felt redness warm her aching cheek. She hadn’t recognized the caller’s number on the glowing blue display, but the call had been from a 215 area code, local to Philly. Probably one of the clients she’d been avoiding. She wished her cell number wasn’t on her damn business cards.

  Mourners were rising to receive Holy Communion, and with a crowd this size it would take twenty minutes at least, so Mary got up on autopilot, helped her mother to her orthopedic shoes, and the DiNunzios excused their way out of the pew to join the line, hands folded and heads bowed. She tried to focus again on her work, but all she could think about was Amadeo, Saracone, and Frank, and the emotion she felt most fully was grief. Grief for all three of them, oddly. Sorrow that they had all gone. Her heart weighed in her chest as she walked to the altar, hearing people sniffling, the occasional smoker’s cough, and the regular clack clack clack of her pumps on the hard marble floor. And when she reached the altar and it was her turn to kneel, the Communion wafer tasted bitter and her eyes were wet. Mary was in mourning. For everything.

  After the funeral mass, crowds thronged outside on the granite steps of the church, covering the pavement and spilling off the curb and onto a busy Sixteenth Street. Cars couldn’t afford to be heedless of the crowd letting out and gave the foot traffic wide berth. Men talked in groups at the curb, lighting up cigarettes and puffing cigars, blowi
ng cones of gray smoke into the gray clouds, where it was carried off and disappeared. Women chattered in small groups, hugging, kissing, and dab-bing their tears from the side, so as not to smear their mascara. The circolo formed a large group of its own, swarming around Mary, thanking her, kissing her, and even pinching her. With love.

  “Mary, you’re such a good lawyer! So good to us! So hard, you worked!” they all said, and Mary’s mother nodded, her father beamed, and Mary accepted the congratulations, feeling like a complete fraud. She hadn’t recovered even a dime of Amadeo’s estate and she hadn’t vindicated his murder. She hadn’t even told any of them that he had been murdered, though in truth, they seemed to have forgotten altogether about Amadeo. It was as if Frank Cavuto had been Mary’s mentor, and with his death, she had succeeded him in being the circolo’s favorite lawyer. A prominent woman in the community, Bernadette Gibboni, grabbed her hand with glistening eyes, and said, “Poor Frank, he loved you so! He thought the world of you! He told us, if anybody can get justice, it’s Mary DiNunzio!”

  “Mary! Mary! Itsa sin, that Frank’s gone!” yelled Joe Grassi, from the back. “He woulda been so proud, to see what you accomplished. He tol’ me last week, you been workin’ for no pay!”

  “No, wait, everybody!” Mary put up a hand. Enough was enough. “It was my boss who paid, Bennie Rosato. Give her the credit!” She pointed to the edge of the throng, where Bennie had been collared by a circolo member who wanted to franchise his chain of nail parlors. “Pop, take Joe over, to thank Bennie!” Her father and the circolo changed direction as quickly as a school of guppies, leaving Mary and her mother standing face-to-face with Jim MacIntire, the reporter. He’d evidently been at the funeral, because he’d slapped a tie on his workshirt. It was a look Mary used to love.

  “My God, you have lots of fans, Mare!” Mac said. “The circolo, is it called, they all want you to take over Frank Cavuto’s practice, now that he’s gone.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Mary said, recoiling. He’s not even buried yet, you jerk.