“All right, maybe I would.” And even though I was getting married, I hadn’t quit poker. With a great deal of prodding, my future husband decided he would at least try the game and join us on Tuesday nights. “But I still don’t remember any bet.”
“Fifty dollars sound familiar?”
“Fifty?” I was too jittery to think. Everyone was out there waiting. Fiske and Kate. Mack and half my firm, including Janine. Cam, Herman and Essie, Sal and Betty. David Moscow and his bread-baking lover. Only the press was excluded; I didn’t care if I never saw another reporter in my life. Just last week I had declined another offer for a TV movie. Based on a true story, my ass.
“We made the bet when I was in the hospital,” he said. “On who you’d marry, remember?”
The first strains of Purcell’s “Trumpet Voluntary” floated through the door, and my mouth went dry. “Dad, we have to go.” I grabbed his arm, tottering on stiff ivory pumps, and we hustled together out of the anteroom.
“We made it when I was sick, in the hospital. Not the eye operation, the time before.”
We stood arm in arm at the entrance to the main room, waiting for our cue. The room was actually a huge greenhouse, with white wooden chairs set in rows amid exotic hibiscus and fragrant gardenia. Rubber and palm trees grew all around, and tiny white lights twinkled from the tropical foliage. It was pretty, but hotter than I’d ever expected. Only Italians would rent humidity in a Philadelphia summer.
“Rita, remember? I bet you fifty dollars that you’d marry Paul.”
The music swelled, our cue came, and we stumbled forward onto the white paper runner. Guests turned around, craning their necks. I moistened my lips in an attempt to look virginal. “You put fifty on Paul?” I said, out of the side of my mouth.
“Yeah. Remember now?”
I looked at Paul, who smiled back at me nervously. My heart actually fluttered, he always looked so handsome in a tux. Tall and strong, with nice, long sideburns. “You actually bet I’d marry Paul, Dad?”
My father nodded as we passed the last row of guests. Heads turned when we walked by. Everyone I knew, everyone I loved, grinning. My heart felt light, giddy. I knew I’d made the right decision. I looked down the aisle at the best ponytail that ever happened to me, and Tobin, my husband-to-be, smiled back. I squeezed my father’s arm.
“Sucker,” I said.
And he laughed.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Rita Morrone was harder to contain than most Italian girls, so I needed a great deal of advice in writing this book. I relied heavily and shamelessly on Lieutenant Jerry Gregory of the Radnor Police Department, who gave me so much of his time and expertise. I can’t thank him enough, and hope he’ll forgive the liberties I’ve taken here with his lovely police station, which is cleaner than my house. Special thanks, too, to Detective John Moroney (no relation, merely excellent karma) and Detective Lennie Azzaroni of the Philadelphia police, who answered all of my questions with patience and humor. Thanks to Maureen Rowley, Esq., of the superb federal public defenders office in Philadelphia. Any errors or omissions are on me.
This was the first time I was published between hardcovers, and for that I want to thank Geoff Hannell, my wonderful publisher, and Jack McKeown. Thanks to Gene Mydlowski, associate publisher and art director, for the best covers on legal thrillers anywhere and for his improvements to this manuscript. Special thanks to Carolyn Marino, my editor, who has been so supportive of me and my career from the outset. Carolyn is solely responsible for my content (when it’s good, that is), and her suggestions for improving this manuscript were, as always, right on the money. She is, quite simply, invaluable.
Permit me a kind word to the staff at HarperCollins, who have worked so hard on my behalf, including Laura Baker, publicist extraordinaire, her assistant, Marshall Trow, and the sales representatives. No author ever acknowledges the sales reps, but they should, because their efforts, though unseen, are the reason this book gets from me to you. Thank you, all of you. And for the Krispy Kremes, Bruce Unck.
Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Linda Hayes of Columbia Literary Associates, who made it all happen and who looks out for me and my work every day, and to Maggie Field of the Maggie Field Agency.
Thank you to the Giuntas in the Italian Market, and to Gene and Arlene Grossblatt, who taught me about gambling chip collecting. Many thanks to author, nurse, and friend Eileen Dreyer, as well as Pat Isenberg and Helene Tulsky, all for medical advice given at a most inconvenient time. Judge Hamilton’s favorite chess book, and mine, too, is Chess in Literature (Avon, 1974), edited by Marcello Truzzi.
All my love to my father and Fayne, and to my mother. To Rachel Kull, Franca Palumbo, and Sandy Steingard. To Kiki, a gem. And to Peter Tobey, who changed everything.
Finally, to the memory of Uncle Mikey, Uncle Domenic, and Uncle Rocky. All of them are very much with me, and each deserves a book to himself. Someday they’ll get it.
About the Author
Lisa Scottoline is a New York Times best-selling author and former trial lawyer. She has won the Edgar Award, the highest prize in suspense fiction, and the Distinguished Author Award, from the Weinberg Library of the University of Scranton. She has served as the Leo Goodwin Senior Professor of Law and Popular Culture at Nova Southeastern Law School, and her novels are used by bar associations for the ethical issues they present. Her books are published in over twenty languages. She lives with her family in the Philadelphia area and welcomes reader email at www.scottoline.com.
