Lady Killer Page 8

  “Chinese,” the man corrected good-naturedly, in thickly accented English.

  “We went up and down the street like you said, and nobody saw nothin’ except Fung.”

  “Good work, ladies.” Mary introduced herself and shook Fung’s hand, though his attention remained glued to Giulia. He nestled next to her body, fitting neatly beside her breasts, obviously enjoying his new best friends.

  Giulia smiled down at the man. “Fung goes to the corner store the same time each night to buy a lottery ticket. He always goes at six thirty, right before they announce the winner, because he thinks that’s good luck.”

  Fung nodded, ensconced.

  “So I showed him the photo, and he recognized T because he sees her all the time, goin’ in and out of the house. He lives around the corner with his daughter and her husband.”

  “Got it.” Mary held up a hand. “Let’s let him say what he saw, in his own words, okay?”

  “Sure, Mare.” Giulia bristled, but Mary didn’t want words put in Fung’s mouth.

  “Fung, what did you see last night?” she asked. “Can you tell me?”

  But Fung only smiled up at Giulia, his free arm encircling her waist.

  “Fung?” Mary repeated.

  “Talk louder, Mare,” Giulia said, snuggling him, but Mary suspected his hearing wasn’t the problem, unless a breast blocked his ear. She raised her voice before he reached orgasm.

  “Fung! What did you see? Did you see something at the house last night?”

  “Tell her what you told us, doll,” Giulia said, gesturing at Mary. “It’s okay. She’s a lawyer. She can’t help being mean.”

  Fung answered, “I see woman. Woman from picture.”

  Giulia interjected, “I showed him Trish’s picture.”

  Fung continued, “Woman very pretty. She with man. Leave with man and go in car.”

  “What kind of car, do you know?”

  “Black.”

  “Was anyone else with them?”

  “No. Woman and man only.” Fung looked up at Giulia.

  “Did they seem happy or unhappy?”

  “Not happy. Man very angry. Door close. Bang!”

  Mary felt her gut tense. “Did the man yell? Shout?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Wo bu zhi dao. Don’t know.” Fung pointed to his ear, and Mary understood he didn’t hear that well.

  “What was the woman doing?”

  Fung shook his head.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Was she crying?”

  “No.”

  “Did she call to you, or anybody?”

  “No.”

  Mary got a bad feeling. “What time was this, about?”

  “Six thirty exact. I go store.”

  Giulia interjected, “I told you, he goes to the store at six thirty because the luck is better.”

  Mary asked, “Did the woman have a purse?” She held up her purse. “Purse?”

  Fung thought a minute. “Yes.”

  “Did they have a suitcase?”

  Fung frowned, not understanding.

  “A suitcase is like a big purse.” Mary wanted to double-check and played charades for a second. “Like for a trip, for vacation.”

  Fung frowned, not understanding.

  Giulia held up her huge purse. “Suitcase.”

  Fung shook his head, with a smile for her. “No.”

  Good. “And they drove away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which way?”

  Fung pointed north.

  It told Mary nothing. She didn’t know why she’d even asked. “Did the woman see you, do you think?”

  “Don’t know. I go corner. She go car.”

  “Did she try to signal you? Show you a sign?”

  “No.”

  “Were other people on the street?”

  “Yes. Family. Baby.”

  Mary looked at Giulia. “I thought you said nobody saw anything.”

  “Like I said, you wanna be the one who IDs him?”

  Good point. Mary paused. “Fung, is there anything else you can remember about what you saw?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, thank you.” Mary stuck a hand in her purse and extracted her wallet, then slipped out a business card and handed it to him. “This has my phone number. Please feel free to call if you remember anything else.”

  Fung took the card, then looked up at Giulia. “You have?”

  “Awww,” Giulia said, and kissed him on the cheek.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were back in another cab, with Mary giving another aged driver the address and the Mean Girls squeezing in the backseat. She took the seat up front again, feeling like the chaperone on a field trip of underachievers. She twisted around in the seat and eyed Giulia, whose red highlights blew in the breeze from the open window. “You did a good job, girl.”

  “Hmph,” was Giulia’s only reply. She’d barely said a word since Mary had rebuked her in front of Fung.

  “We helped, too,” Yolanda said, beside her, and Missy nodded.

  “My feet are killin’ me from all that walkin’.”

  “You all did great. Fung placed Trish’s departure in time and confirms our working theory.” Mary managed a smile, but Giulia still held her grudge. “By the way, I’m curious, did you guys know that they were sleeping in separate beds?”

  “Get out.” Giulia came to life, her dark eyes wide.

  “For real?” Yolanda asked, blinking.

  “Why didn’t she tell us?” Missy raised a permanent eyebrow.

  “That’s my question.” Mary looked to Giulia for the answer, and so did the others.

  “I guess she was embarrassed?”

  “Why?” Mary asked. “She told you they were having problems. She told you she wanted out, right?”

  Giulia nodded, curls blowing in her face, and she speared one with a long nail and pushed it back.

  “So, why?” Mary asked again.

  Yolanda slid her gaze toward Giulia. “We woulda blabbed it.”

  “We would not!” Giulia shot back. A frown folded in the shape of a pitchfork on her forehead.

  “You woulda,” Missy said, and Mary let them fight it out, watching.

  Giulia: “I can’t believe you said that, Miss! I wouldn’ta told nobody.”

  Yolanda: “Who you kidding, G? You woulda told Joey.”

  Giulia: “Well, yeah, Joey. I mean, whaddaya think, I’m married to the guy.”

  Yolanda: “Just ’cause you’re married don’t mean you have to tell him everything.”

  Giulia: “No? That’s why you’re divorced. Twice.”

  Yolanda: “Whatever, Joey woulda told Tommy and Tommy woulda told Jerry and Jerry woulda told Johnny Three Fingers who woulda told Cooch, who hangs at Biannetti’s because he’s a wannabe. And Cooch woulda told the boys at Biannetti’s and T woulda gotten herself dead.”

  The Mean Girls fell silent, suddenly chastened. Giulia said, “She’s right. That’s exactly what woulda happened. That’s why T didn’t tell us.”

  Mary still didn’t get it. “But Trish told you that he roughed her up. Why is it okay to blab that and not that they had separate beds?”

  Giulia snorted. “Hello? One makes him look like a man, and the other makes him look like a jerk.”

  Mary didn’t have to ask which was which. She’d already learned more than she wanted to know about Trish’s world. They all fell silent again, and the cab lurched through the streets, the driver pretending he wasn’t watching the girls in the rearview and the traffic increasing as the noon rush approached. On the radio, KYW news was reporting still no suspects in the disappearance of baby Sabine Donchess, who turned out to be the only daughter of the Gentech CEO. Even the governor had weighed in, already calling it the crime of the century.

  “Stupid baby,” Giulia muttered, looking out the window.

  Mary changed the subject. “By the way, Trish did
keep a diary.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Giulia said, certain.

  “Then what’s this?” Mary teased the diary from her purse, and the Mean Girls reached for it, talons outstretched.

  “Gimme that!” Giulia said.

  “What’d she say about me?” Yolanda asked.

  “And me?” Missy asked.

  “Sorry.” Mary slid the diary back into her purse, gloating like crazy. “I’m surprised at you guys. I would think you’d respect Trish’s privacy.”

  “Oh, come on.” Giulia snorted. “You read it, didn’t you?”

  “Of course, but I can. It’s covered by attorney-client privilege.” Sorta kinda.

  “Gimme an effin break.” Giulia rolled her eyes.

  “That doesn’t sound right,” Missy said.

  “What a bunch a crap!” Yolanda said.

  Mary turned back around in the seat, smiling to herself. “Maybe you should’ve been nicer to me in high school.”

  The driver looked over, lifting an eyebrow.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Half an hour later, they arrived at the police administration building, called the Roundhouse because it was a round concrete building, circa 1970s. The cab pulled to the curb, and Mary paid the driver while the Mean Girls piled out of the backseat and reached in their bags for their cigarettes.

  “Okay, listen, kids,” Mary said. She stood downwind while they lit up. “I can only take one of you inside. But whoever comes with me has to behave.”

  “What do you mean by ‘behave’?” Giulia cocked her head, eyes flinty behind the smoke.

  “I do the talking, and you stop moping.”

  “Whatever.” Giulia stepped forward, clearly an underboss to Trish’s capo di tutti capi.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  “I’m not finished my cigarette.”

  “Yes, you are.” Mary turned and walked toward the building through the parking lot, which buzzed with media covering the baby Donchess kidnapping. The case had been all over the cab radio on the way over, with audioclips of the parents pleading for her safe return. Reporters milled around, talking in groups, and cameramen sipped coffee, resting their videocameras on their shoulders.

  “Mare, wait up!” Giulia hollered.

  “G, catch up!” Mary hurried past a male TV anchor with orangey makeup and a paper towel folded into his shirt collar like a bib, doing sound checks with a logo microphone. She reached the smoked-glass entrance doors, opened them, and stopped at the plastic security window, manned by an older uniformed cop with an official smile. She introduced herself and said, “I’m here to see Detective Brinkley.”

  “This about a homicide?”

  “No, I’m a personal friend of Mack’s,” Mary said, using Detective Brinkley’s in-the-know nickname. She had worked a case with him not long ago, and they’d become friendly. He adored her mother and had even fixed her pilot light, but that was another story. The desk cop looked skeptically from Mary to Giulia, who appeared beside her.

  “Who’re you?” he asked.

  “My paralegal,” Mary answered, but Giulia was miffed.

  “I’m no paralegal. I can walk.”

  Oops. “She likes to joke around. I’ll sign us in, Officer.” Mary spun the clipboard toward her, signed them both in, and grabbed Giulia’s arm, hustling her to the metal detector.

  “Don’t yank me around.” Giulia took her arm back. “Like I said, I can walk.”

  “The deal was, say nothing. Capisce?” Mary got through the metal detector, entering a lobby crowded with uniformed police and other employees. She passed display cases of old police cars, but noticed that the clatter of stilettos had stopped. She looked back to see Giulia chatting up two cops, who were smiling down at her. Mary called out, “Giulia?”

  “Comin’, Mare!” Giulia called back, looking over. She blew the cops a good-bye kiss and clacked to the elevator bank, her dark eyes reanimated. “Are they hot or what? How’s my makeup?”

  “Permanent.” Mary hit the elevator button. “They friends of yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d you meet ’em?”

  “They arrested me once.”

  “Really?”

  “Okay, twice,” Giulia said sheepishly, and the elevator doors opened.

  Five minutes later, Mary was hugging her old friend, Reginald “Mack” Brinkley. Brinkley was typically well dressed in a brown sport jacket and khaki pants, with a crisp white shirt and shiny loafers. He hugged her back warmly, then held her off, smiling at her like her own father—if her father were tall, thin, and black.

  “How you been, Mary?” he asked, his voice deep and soft.

  “Great, thanks. How about you?”

  “Good. Fine.” Brinkley was handsome, with a long, slim face, a narrow nose, squinty, if benevolent, eyes, and a tight smile. He must have been in his forties and hadn’t added a wrinkle since she’d seen him last, though his short hair was a tangle of silver at the temples. “Got remarried and all.”

  “That’s great, congrats.” Mary felt happy for him. He’d had a tough divorce, but he kept all of that to himself. They were friendly, but not that friendly. She introduced Giulia, who had been looking distractedly around the squad room.

  “It’s sure ain’t like Cold Case,” Giulia said with a frown, and Brinkley half-smiled, leaning against his desk.

  “No. They clean it up for TV.”

  “They’d have to.” Mary smiled. A few detectives in shirtsleeves were talking in a group, near beat-up gray file cabinets of different sizes and colors. Messy metal desks were placed in the largish room in no particular order, and the chairs didn’t match the desks. The old-fashioned tile floor looked grimy, and dingy beige curtains that covered the expanse of curved window had brown stains on them and hung off the valance, letting bright sun into the room in odd places. It wasn’t a total dump, but it wasn’t ready for prime time.

  Brinkley asked, “Mary, you at the same place, working for Rosato?”

  “Yes.”

  “She still tough as nails?”

  “Nails have nothing on Bennie Rosato.”

  Brinkley chuckled. “You got that right. How about Jack? You still seeing him?”

  Mary hadn’t thought of Jack Newlin for a while. “Nah, didn’t work out. Or the guy after him, either. Any day now, I’m entering the convent. Does God take lawyers?”

  Brinkley laughed softly. “If I got lucky, you will, too.” Then his relaxed manner faded, and he straightened up, folding his arms over a slight paunch. “So how can I help you? This about a case?”

  “Kind of. Can we talk alone?”

  “Sure. This way.” Brinkley gestured to his left, and they went inside a small greenish interview room that needed repainting. It contained a few odd wooden chairs and an old pine typing table with a few Miranda waiver forms. Brinkley closed the door. “Welcome to my summer office.”

  Mary smiled, and after Brinkley and Giulia had taken their seats, she told him about her meeting with Trish, the Mob connection, the search of Trish’s house, and what Fung Lee saw. She knew that Brinkley was respected at the Roundhouse and if she could convince him, he would make things happen for Trish behind the scenes. She argued her case like a lawsuit, with all the facts supporting the proposition that Trish’s disappearance gave cause for real alarm.

  Brinkley’s expression grew grave as she spoke, and Giulia stayed obediently silent, even when Mary produced Trish’s diary. The detective bent his neat head over the pages, and she pointed out the terrifying entries and photos, which Giulia craned her neck to see, shaken. He examined them in silence, then looked up when he was finished, his expression concerned.

  “Okay, I hear you.” Brinkley closed the dairy. “It doesn’t sound like two lovebirds who decided to take a vacation.”

  “No, it’s not,” Mary said, holding her breath for his decision.

  “Hang on to this.” Brinkley handed Mary back the diary, then stood up, moving his sport jacket aside with bot
h hands and hitching up his pants from the sides of a black belt. “Here’s the problem. To start with, you know this isn’t my bailiwick. This is a case for Missing Persons, not Homicide.”

  Giulia exploded, jumping up. “When are you guys gonna wise up aroun’ here? Did you see those pictures? What more do you want? She could be dead, and all you guys worry about is whose job it is not to do!”

  “Whoa, settle down.” Brinkley put up his hands, and Mary stepped between him and the crazed Goretti girl.

  “Giulia, basta!” She shot her dagger-eyes and turned to Brinkley. “We know there are jurisdictional issues, but this really seems like a hybrid case, between Missing Persons and Homicide. We have proof-positive from the diary that Trish is in danger and that her boyfriend’s a mobster. He’s a man with the means and the wherewithal to kill.”

  “I see that.”

  “So if you spoke with Missing Persons, I’m sure they’d understand it’s not the typical situation. Maybe they’ll give Trish’s case some attention. Speed things up, or put out an APB or something.”

  “You know they have their hands full with the Donchess case. Amber Alerts get priority, it’s state law.” Brinkley gestured toward the door. “You saw the press outside. It’s the Lindbergh baby.”

  Giulia interjected, “There’s another baby, now? Those effin babies can just wait their turn.”

  Mary hushed her again. “Reg, Trish can’t be far, and if we find her, maybe we can prevent her murder. Doesn’t an abused woman deserve an Amber Alert, too? Why are we making value judgments between victims, anyway? Besides, the press doesn’t run the police department, does it?”

  “Don’t pull that on me, Mare.”

  “But it’s right, isn’t it?” Mary felt desperate. Brinkley was her best and only chance. “I would never ask you for help if the case didn’t merit it. Trish was terrified in my office. He’s going to kill her, if he hasn’t already.”

  “Come on, help us already!” Giulia held up her cell phone over Mary’s shoulder. “We have photos of her, right here!”

  “The Mob angle makes this tougher for us, you know.” Brinkley puckered his lips, still deciding. “The feds won’t like us moving ahead without checking in. For all we know, they’re watching him already.”

  Mary hadn’t thought of that, and Brinkley nodded.