“That was very kind of you,” Mary said, meaning it, but Mr. Po only shrugged knobby shoulders.

“Blood is blood.”

“When did you see him last?” Mary asked, getting to the point.

“Six months ago, maybe more. He don’t come home much anymore. The things they’re sayin’ about him, it’s lies. He didn’t kidnap Trish, or whatever they’re sayin’.”

“So where do you think they are?”

“They’re young. They go where young people go.”

Right. “I know they had problems, and he was abusive to her.”

“That’s not true. That ain’t the boy I raised. I think he changed.”

“So do I.” Mary felt surprised at the words coming out of her mouth, and Mr. Po eyed her from the stove, seeing her as if for the first time.

“Funny how life is, eh?”

“Yes. When did he start to change, Mr. Po? What changed him, do you think?”

“The wrong crowd.”

The wrong crowd being the Mob? Mary wasn’t going there, at least not yet. She needed information. “Did he ever talk to you about Trish?”

“No.” Mr. Po turned off the pot, picked up the handle, and poured the hot water, crackling in protest, into the mug. “High school sweethearts. He started seein’ her after you, right?”

Ouch. “Right. When did you hear they were missing?”

“Yesterday on the TV.” Mr. Po reached in the silverware drawer, took out a spoon, and mixed up the coffee.

“Aren’t you worried about him? It’s going on two days.”

“My boy can handle himself.”

Mary hadn’t even considered that somebody could have abducted them both. She knew from Fung that they’d left the house alone, but that didn’t preclude anything. What if they had both been abducted? Maybe a Mob thing? Maybe this guy Cadillac? Mary filed it away.

“I taught him how to take care of himself. In the basement, I taught him how to throw a punch. I made sure he knew that. That’s a father’s job.”

“You don’t think he’d hurt her?”

“No. No way. He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t hurt nobody. He’s a lover, not a fighter. His brother, maybe, he’s a fighter. But him, no. He’d never raise his hand to a woman.” Mr. Po came over and plunked down the mug of coffee, which smelled like cardboard.

“It was hard for me to believe, too, knowing him the way I do.” Mary made it up as she went along, trying to get Mr. Po to open up. She waited while he sat in the wooden chair catty-corner to her, his eyes downcast behind his glasses, which were sliding down his veined nose.

“Gonna drink your coffee?” he asked after a minute, looking up.

“Sure, thanks.” Mary shook in some Coffee-mate and spooned in sugar, then took a sip of the horrible brew, biding her time. “I’m wondering where he could be.”

Mr. Po eyed the sfogliatelle, then pulled the pastries to him by hooking an index finger inside the cardboard box, his fingernail oddly long.

“They didn’t tell anybody they were going anywhere, and her girlfriends are all worried. Giulia Palazzolo, Missy, Yolanda. You remember that crowd?”

Mr. Po snorted softly. “Spaccone.”

Mary translated. Show-offs.

“Not good girls. Not like you.”

Mary felt a weight on her leg and looked down. Mr. Po’s gnarled right hand was resting on her skirt, while he was biting into a pastry as if nothing were happening. It was so unreal that it took her a second to process. She stood up abruptly.

“Who’re you, honey?” asked a loud voice behind them, and Mary turned. A brawny man in a T-shirt and blue polyester sweatpants stood in the doorway, his expression a scowl, his posture a challenge. He thrust his strong jaw forward, threw back his massive shoulders, and displayed unashamedly his substantial paunch. His head was shaved, exposing a script neck tattoo, and he had rough features, like Mussolini in sweats.

“Used to go out with your brother in high school,” Mr. Po answered, slowly eating his pastry.

“I was wondering where he was,” Mary answered, standing between the two of them, suddenly afraid. No one knew she was here. She hadn’t told anyone. She had lied to Judy. She went for the door, but the brother stood his ground, blocking her.

“Where you goin’?” His breath told her he was the cigar smoker. A diamond stud glinted from a fleshy earlobe.

“I was just leaving.”

“Then why were you comin’?” He grinned at the double entendre, then his grin vanished. “You one o’ these bitches callin’ baby bro a murderer? You one o’ them?”

“No, I was just looking for him.”

“It’s his business where he is, not yours.” The brother raised his voice. “He’s lyin’ on a beach somewhere with his girl. He don’t need anybody goin’ on the TV news, tellin’ this, that, and the other that he killed her.”

Mr. Po said, “Lay off her, Ritchie. She’s a lawyer. Trish went to see her, but she threw ’er out. She knows your brother wouldn’t hurt his girlfriend. They go back.”

Mary’s mouth went dry. She’d been foolish to think Mr. Po wouldn’t have heard something, accurate or not. But it could play to her advantage.

“Right, Mare?” Mr. Po asked, looking up. “My son’s your old flame.”

Gulp. “Right.”

“You’re still in love with ’im, aren’t you?” Mr. Po chuckled, dropping pastry flakes onto the table.

Mary didn’t know what to say. She had to get out of here.

“You were into baby bro?” Ritchie’s grin returned, menacing. He took a step closer, but Mary edged backward, like a nightmare cha-cha.

“Yes.”

“How come I never met you?”

“I don’t know. Did you go to Neumann?”

“Neumann?” Ritchie laughed. “No, honey, let’s just say, I was away.”

“Stop scarin’ her,” Mr. Po said from the table, his tone sterner, and Ritchie stepped aside with a ham-handed flourish.

“Excuse me. Please, go.”

“Thanks. ’Bye now.” Mary walked to the door as calmly as possible, but heavy footsteps pounded behind her. She startled as Ritchie appeared beside her and opened the door, flinging it wide.

“Boo,” he said, with a wink.

It wasn’t until Mary was safely in the backseat of a cab that she breathed easily enough to get out her BlackBerry and plug the word Brick into Google. The results came up after a nanosecond: Brick the movie, Acme Brick, Brickwork Design, the Brick Testament, whatever that was, Brick Industry, and finally, the Official Township of Brick site. She connected to the link, and a glorious green-and-blue website filled the little screen. Brick Township was in south Jersey and was known locally as Brick. The site boasted, Brick Township Celebrates “ Safest City in America ” Honors!

She scrolled down farther, and there was no other town on the first five pages. It had to be Brick, New Jersey, that Rosaria had moved to. Mary logged onto www.whitepages.com and plugged in Rosaria with her last name, praying that she’d kept her maiden name. In the next second, a single address and phone number popped onto the screen, in glowing blue letters. She called it.

“Hello?” a woman answered, and Mary recognized the distinctive alto.

“Sorry, wrong number,” she said, and hung up. She leaned forward and asked the cabbie to take a right, toward her garage.

She’d need her own wheels.