Lady Killer

“That picture was taken at my wedding,” Giulia said, coming up from behind, her stilettos clacking on the marble floor. “The first one, that is. T was my maid of honor both times.”

“So how long have they been living here?”

“Five years or so.” Giulia crunched an Altoid, releasing a blast of toxic peppermint. “They remodeled the whole thing. Gorgeous, huh?”

“Yeah, wow.” Mary looked around. A sectional couch of white leather sat against the wall, catty-corner to two matching chairs and a white laminated coffee table, spotless but for a white marble ashtray and three silvery remote controls. Hanging on the opposite wall was a huge plasma TV.

“To me, it’s too clean, but T had to keep it that way, for him.”

“Trish told me.” Mary looked back at the entrance hall. “No sign of a fight or struggle on the way out.”

“Maybe Missy’s right. Maybe he drugged her. Or slapped her one.” Giulia pursed her lips. “I know he knocked her around. T told me once, and I think it was worse than she said.”

“I do, too.” Mary considered it. “But if he hit her, how would he get her out, then? Carry her? It’s still light at seven o’clock this time of year. People would see.”

“He could kinda hold her up, like she was drunk or somethin’.”

“Maybe, but look.” Mary gestured at the entrance hall. “The rug near the door is still flat, not even moved or wrinkled. It’s the kind that slips easily. That suggests they went peacefully.”

“You’re right, Mare.”

“We’ll see. It’s just a working theory.”

“I like it, a workin’ theory.” Giulia smiled. “That sounds good. Now what do we do? I mean, what’re you lookin’ for in here?”

“I’m trying to learn what I can and hope it gives us a clue about what happened to Trish. We’ll test our theory as we go along.”

“Another good idea. Thank God you’re here.” Giulia clapped her on the back, and Mary couldn’t help but smile.

“Giulia, what kind of coat does Trish usually wear?”

“Call me G, everybody does. I’m G, Trish is T. Yolanda is Yo.”

“What’s Missy?”

“A pain in the ass.”

Mary laughed. “When Trish came to my office, she had on a fox coat.”

“That’s what she wears to dress up. The one she normally wears is just like mine.” Giulia gestured at her coat. “We bought them together.”

“Okay, so do me a favor. Go check in the closet and see if her fox coat or her leather coat’s in there.”

“I’m on the case.” Giulia pivoted on her heel and clack-clacked over to the entrance hall.

“Thanks.” Mary walked ahead into a white dining room, which had a long, white laminated table and eight high-backed chairs. A matching breakfront displayed a Franklin Mint plate of Mado

“Mare,” Giulia called out, clacking back to the dining room. “Her fox coat’s not there.”

“Interesting, good. So she took her dress coat and she had time to take it and to make a choice. So she wasn’t drugged. She went voluntarily. So far, our theory is holding up.” Mary picked up the photo with Joey Merlino. “They went away with Merlino?”

“Nah, that was taken in prison.”

Mary blinked. “But there’s palm trees.”

“That’s a fake background they have in the joint. Didn’t you know that?”

Uh. “No.” Mary set it down. “I was just looking at the photos, and they seem so happy. When did it turn bad?”

Giulia squinted, thinking. “About two years ago.”

“What happened?” Mary opened a drawer in the breakfront, but it was empty, then reached for the next.

“He’s old school. He wanted her home at night, di

“In the Mob, you mean?”

“Yeah, the Mob. Oooh.” Giulia made claw-hands with her fingernails, but Mary walked into the kitchen area.

“So why did she stay with him?”

“In the begi

Mary glanced around the kitchen, so clean it appeared unused. She walked over to a pad under the wall phone, and nothing was written there. She asked, “When did he get involved with the Mob?”

“After high school, I think.”

“I don’t remember that. His family wasn’t in the Mob, were they?”

“Sure, and his brother might even be made.”

“There’s something to be proud of.” Mary started searching the kitchen drawers, which contained only ladles, silverware, and the like. While she looked, she tried to remember what she knew about his family. He had an uncle who had raised him and an older sister. She didn’t remember him talking about a brother, but most of their conversations were about school or the Gallic war.

“Anyways, we haven’t hung here for a while. My house is our hang.”

“I didn’t see Trish’s purse. Did you?” Mary thought that Trish’s big black bag would have stood out on the sea of white.

“I don’t see it, either.” Giulia frowned, looking around.

“I keep mine in the living room.”

“So do I.”

“Hers isn’t here, not that I saw. If it’s not upstairs, then she took it with her, which supports our theory, too.” Mary opened the next drawer. “She took her purse and coat.”

“Our workin’ theory is workin’!” Giulia gri

“Doesn’t she have a junk drawer? I thought everybody had a junk drawer.”

“I du

“Bingo.” Mary rifled through the drawer, keeping an eye out for receipts or anything that might suggest where they could be. Or maybe even the diary Trish had mentioned, or the gun. But there was nothing inside the drawer except old Chinese take-out menus, Valu-Pak coupons, and a YMCA brochure, along with pencils, pens, matches, and more matches. “You were telling me about how they were in the begi

“Okay, right. At first, T liked it he was co

Mary kept looking in the junk drawer, but wasn’t finding anything, which made sense because she didn’t know what she was looking for.

“He was so crazy about her. He loved her since high school. T was everything to him.”

Mary felt a stab of envy, then caught herself. Was she really jealous of an abused woman? Lusting after a mobster? Had she lost her mind? She closed the drawer and reached for the phone, lifted the receiver, and heard an interrupted dial tone, which meant there were messages. Verizon was the most common Philly carrier; Mary had it at home, too. She pressed 00, reached a prompt, then turned to Giulia.

“What password does Trish use generally, do you know?” Mary asked. “I want to check her messages.”

“Try Lucy. She uses that for everything. It’s her mom’s old dog.”

“Thanks.” Mary pecked the keys, then the voicemail said that there was one new message. She pressed 1, but it was a telemarketer. She hung up. “Rats.”