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Her father twirled his spaghetti against his plate. “So you and Mare were out to di
“Yes,” Anthony answered, suppressing a smile. “This is one of the more unusual first dates I’ve ever had.”
Mary smiled, uncomfortably. He was a sweet guy, but she didn’t know if she was ready for him to sit in Mike’s chair. Or maybe she was upset at everything that happened. The image of Mrs. Gambone, weeping, would stay with her always. She’d already called Brinkley and left two more messages for him, hoping that he wasn’t boycotting her. It made her feel guilty to be enjoying a meal. What had she been thinking, going out to di
“Mary doesn’t see anybody,” her father said, and Mary looked up.
“Pop. Please.”
“It’s all right. I don’t either.” Anthony stabbed a meatball with a fork. His sport jacket hung over the back of the chair, and he tucked a napkin in his collar, as if he’d eaten here before. He turned to her mother, who’d finally sat down to her meal. “These meatballs are great, Mrs. D.”
“Grazie molto,” her mother said, brightening.
“Prego.” Anthony caught Mary’s eye, and she faked a smile. He didn’t know her mother well enough to be calling her Mrs. D. Judy didn’t call her mother Mrs. D until she’d known her for a year, or after twenty-seven spaghetti di
“Parli Italiano, Antonio?” her mother asked, cocking her head.
Mary couldn’t shake her disapproval. Her parents were practically offering Anthony the house keys.
“Si, si,” he answered. “Ho insegnato all’Università di Bologna per tre a
“Excuse me,” Mary interrupted, rising with her BlackBerry. “I want to call the Roundhouse again.”
“Sure, Mare,” her father said, and she could feel his puzzled gaze on her back as she left.
She entered the darkened dining room, pressed Redial for the Homicide Division, and listened to the inevitable busy signal while the conversation resumed in the kitchen. She was in no hurry to go back into the light and the warmth and the family around the table, with all the chairs filled. For the time being, she sat alone in the dark.
Beep beep beep, went the busy signal.
It wasn’t until ten o’clock that Mary and Anthony got back to Center City and the silvery Prius cruised to a stop on her ski
Anthony pulled up the emergency brake and looked over with a tight smile. “Was it something I said?”
“Why? What do you mean?” Mary felt her face flush.
“You’ve been so quiet and well-behaved.”
“This, from an altar boy,” Mary shot back, more harshly than she’d intended. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just that this was such an awful night.”
“In some ways. But in other ways, it was great. I got to know you.”
Mary smiled, but somewhere inside she felt like crying.
“No, really, going to your house, it felt like home. It was wonderful. It was…real.”
Mary heard a soft, masculine note in his voice that she liked, even though she wasn’t ready to like it yet.
“Your parents were terrific, the food was delicious, and we’re in agreement on my sexuality.”
Mary reached for the door handle and saw Anthony’s eye catch the movement. If he was even thinking about kissing her good night, which it was way too early for anyway, she’d head it off with her patented going-for-the-door-handle move.
“I’d love to see you again. Okay with you?”
No. “Yes.”
“Are you free this weekend?”
Yes. “No. Maybe next, I’m not sure. Gimme a call.”
“Okay, well-”
“See you later and thanks for everything. ’Bye.” Mary grabbed her bag and got out of the car, closing the door. Through the glass she could see the corners of Anthony’s mouth turn down, and superimposed on his troubled expression was her own reflection, frowning back at her. She couldn’t begin to deal with him. She couldn’t make it better for him. She couldn’t even make it better for herself.
She turned away and escaped to her building, let herself in and grabbed her mail without looking at it, then climbed the stairs to her apartment. She was unlocking her door when she heard her phone ringing inside.
She burst through and flicked on the living room light.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
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.