Mary smiled, hopeful.

“She lived right next door.”

“Really? How long did it take to find her?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks, and she was right next door?” Mary asked, aghast, but Kiesling was unfazed.

“More often, in the sex cases, they aren’t found that quick. Take that case in Belgium, where the girl was held for ten years. She finally escaped.”

Steinberg looked up from the sports page. “Natascha Kampusch. In Belgium, I believe it was. A man held a group of schoolgirls for over ten years. Marc Dutroux. If memory serves, two of the girls starved to death in the basement when Dutroux went to jail for car theft. Nobody knew they were there.”

Mary felt heartsick. That could happen here, and that was if Trish were still alive. Guilt, exhaustion, and grief washed over her, threatening to take her under. She needed a bathroom break and stood up. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Anthony met her eye with a sympathetic smile, but Mary felt too crappy to respond in kind. She crossed the small room and left, closing the door behind her.

She couldn’t have timed it worse.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“W hat the hell?” somebody shouted, and Mary froze. It was Ritchie, standing with his father in the open doorway of the other interview room, his cheek bruised and black T-shirt torn from the melee. “What’re you doin’ in there?” he bellowed.

“That’s enough, Ritchie.” Brinkley strode from the interview room and put a strong hand on Ritchie’s arm. Stan Kovich shot out, too, and another suit, while detectives hustled from the squad room to them, anticipating trouble. Only Mr. Po blinked calmly.

“Not here, big guy.” A stocky lawyer in an Italian suit hurried to Ritchie’s side. “We’re outta here.”

“Not until she tells me what she’s doin’ here!” Ritchie stepped forward, but his lawyer and Brinkley restrained him.

Mary edged backward, trying to process what was happening. Ritchie wouldn’t have known she was here. She and Anthony had arrived after they’d been taken in for questioning. Agents Kiesling and Steinberg came out of the interview room with Anthony.

“Mary, let’s go,” he said, touching her arm.

“What’s going on?” Kiesling asked, alarmed, and Steinberg stood protectively at Mary’s side.

“You with them now, Mare?” Ritchie glowered. “You were my brother’s girlfriend. Now you’re with the feds?”

Oh no. Mary felt exposed. Brinkley’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing, and she could read his expression. Betrayal. She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t told him about her history, and he was blindsided. Kovich’s lips formed an uncharacteristically tight line, his disappointment plain.

“Stay cool, big guy,” Ritchie’s lawyer said. “We’re outta here.”

“Not yet.” Ritchie’s eyes bored into her. “Not until I understand what’s goin’ on.”

Brinkley gestured to Anthony. “Get her out of here.”

Anthony grabbed Mary’s arm. “Let’s go,” he said, and they hurried her from the squad room, to the sound of Ritchie shouting after her. She let herself be swept to the elevator, through the lobby, past the display cases and finally out the front door, where the press mobbed them with cameras, flashes, and questions.

“Ms. DiNunzio, what’s your role in this?” “Mary, do police say this is the start of a Mob war? Is the Merlino crime family involved?” Reporters surged forward out of the dark, shoving microphones in Mary’s face, but she and Anthony hurried ahead, their heads down. “Any comment on the disappearance of Patricia Gambone? Do the police have any leads?” “Mary, Mary, look over here!” Videocameras whirred, and flashes fired from still cameras, bright and fleeting as lightning. “Ms. DiNunzio, is there a suspect in the murder-”

Mary and Anthony broke into a light run to his car, and they jumped in. He started the ignition instantly, gunned the engine, and zoomed out of the parking lot. They made the sharp left onto the Expressway entrance, and Anthony looked over.

“Let me take you home,” he said. “We can get your car another time.”

“Okay, thanks.” Mary looked away, wondering what Anthony was thinking. She hadn’t told him she knew the body in the black bag. He accelerated onto the Expressway, and Mary gripped the hand strap. Something to hold on to, when everything was falling apart.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to get the look on Brinkley’s face out of her mind. He’d think she was a liar, playing games with him and the Homicide Division. Why hadn’t she told him? The first time she’d seen him, she’d been with Giulia and she hadn’t wanted Giulia to know. But why hadn’t she mentioned it later?

The car streaked uptown in light traffic, barreling through the black night. The body bag flashed through her mind. The marble-gray of the flesh on his cheek. The blue of his eyes, frozen as ice. Could Trish be alive? The kidnapping cases that Kiesling and Steinberg had told her about were a gruesome sideshow. Dutroux. Girls dying while he was in jail.

“You okay?” Anthony asked gently, but she couldn’t begin to answer. “You hungry or anything?”

“No, I’m okay,” she answered finally. She spent the rest of the car ride facing out the window, watching the passing cars, red taillights, and drivers on cell phones, hiding her face from Anthony, and from herself. They reached her street in no time, and it was quiet and still, with most of the neighbors gone to sleep, the houses dark. A parking space was open near her front door, and Anthony pulled into it and turned to her.

“Thanks so much,” Mary said, making her door-handle move.

“I’d like to come in, if you wouldn’t mind.” Anthony’s voice sounded soft. “I don’t think you should be alone just yet.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Mary retrieved her house keys and got out of the car, but so did Anthony, closing his door.

“At least let me walk you in.”

Mary went to the doorstop, dug her keys from the bottom of her purse, and looked up as Anthony appeared in front of her on the sidewalk. He had shoved his hands into the pockets of his sport jacket, and his dark eyes were concerned.

“Listen,” he said. “Why don’t you let me come in? I won’t attack you or come on to you. I know you’re not interested.”

Ouch. “It’s not that. It’s that…I don’t think I’d be great company tonight.”

“I don’t mind. Let me come in for a bit. You could use a friend. A nice, safe, gay friend.”

Mary couldn’t find a smile. She felt empty and numb. She couldn’t believe what she’d seen tonight, and what it meant for Trish.

“Come on,” Anthony said softly, slipping the keys from her hand. “Let’s go inside.”

Mary entered her apartment, and Anthony followed, throwing the deadbolt and putting her keys on the side table. She’d grabbed the mail downstairs and set it on the coffee table, then shed her purse and jacket on a chair in the dark living room. On autopilot, she headed for the kitchen across the hardwood floor. She switched on the light and found herself going straight for the fridge.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked, surveying its contents. Two old tomatoes, a slim container of skim milk, and a plastic tub of mozzarella balls, which she knew would stink. She hadn’t been food-shopping since her last confession.

“Come here.” Anthony took Mary’s arm and gentled her into a kitchen chair. “Please, sit. The doctor is in.”

“You’re doing the honors?”

“Yes. You stay there and check your BlackBerry three hundred more times.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Oh yes you are. You’re more addicted than I am. We should enter rehab.”

“Hey, I left it in my purse.”

“Uh-oh, it won’t like that.” Anthony slid out of his jacket, placed it around the chair opposite her, and rolled up the sleeves of a white shirt with a European fit, showing lean forearms. His waist was trim in a nice black belt, and his dark pants kept a perfect crease. He went to the fridge and opened the door. “Sure you’re not hungry?”