“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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
M ary hurried down the street under the gray sky, her trenchcoat billowing behind her, her handbag bumping against her side, and her pumps clacking self-importantly on the filthy pavement. There was no one else on the street this early, especially in this seamier side of South Philly. Trash blew in the gutter, and the rowhouses were badly maintained, the awnings cracked here and there. Plywood boards covered most of the first-floor windows, and she hurried past a noisy auto-body shop where she drew an anachronistic wolf-whistle.
She picked up the pace. His house used to be number 3644. She wasn’t sure if his father still lived here, but nobody moved in South Philly, or if they did, the neighbors would know where they’d gone. It wasn’t the kind of information you got from Google. Mary approached the house, the typical two-story with shutters that needed painting, and she noted with a city-girl’s eye that the brick hadn’t been repainted in years. She walked up the steps, knocked, and waited. There was no answer, so she knocked again, trying not to be nervous.
In the next minute the door opened, and an older man she barely recognized stood stooped in the threshold. He had to be around seventy, but seemed much older. He was bald, and his skin was gray as the stormy sky. Lines
