“Wrong.” Missy frowned. “Show me.”

“Where?” Yolanda asked, and the women clustered around the newspaper while Mary finished writing her questions. When she tore off the sheet, they were looking at her in confusion.

“I don’t get it.” Giulia held up the obit. “It says here Miss Tuesday Thursday was in the hospital for two months. But T blew her out last Thursday. She told me. T got a two-hundred-buck tip from her, last time. She even showed it to me when she got back to the salon.”

“I saw the money, too. I was there.” Missy chimed in. “But how could Miss Tuesday Thursday get blown out if she was in a coma?”

“T lied to us,” Yolanda said flatly, and Giulia shoved her angrily.

“Don’t be runnin’ T down, Yo. You don’t know she lied. I’m sure she had a good reason.”

“She lied, G!” Yolanda snapped. “Don’t go takin’ up for her. She’s been lyin’ about it for the past two months, she had to be. So where’s she been at lunch, every Tuesday and Thursday?”

Missy lifted an eyebrow. “And where’d she get that tip money from?”

Giulia thrust the article at Mary, upset. “Read this for me. We must be readin’ it wrong.”

“Okay, trade me.” Mary gave her the questions for the newspaper and skimmed the obit. Mrs. Felton lived in the Dorchester, on Rittenhouse Square, and was heiress to the Welder fortune. Hospitalized for two months. Fell into a coma last week. Mary looked up, intrigued. “Sorry, but Trish couldn’t have done this woman’s hair last week, or anytime in the past two months.”

“So where did T go on Tuesday and Thursday?” Giulia frowned, mystified. “Where’s she been goin’? Why didn’t she tell me? I’m her BFF.”

“No, I am.” Missy looked over with a scowl.

“No, I am.” Yolanda folded her arms. “Or I was, but I’m not anymore. I knew it all along.”

“Knew what?” they all asked, including Mary.

“I knew she was cheatin’ on Bobby.”

“Yo!” Giulia yelled, and every head in the lobby turned toward them.

“Shhh!” Mary said, but her thoughts raced ahead. Every Tuesday and Thursday, Trish was going out at noon? Returning with cash in hand? And Bobby a nightmare at home? Yolanda was right. Trish had to be seeing somebody.

“G, get real.” Yolanda sniffed. “T got hit on all the time by those rich guys at the salon. Remember Mikey the divorce dude? He had a mad crush on her. And the stockbroker, Damon? Sooner or later, she musta hooked up.” Yolanda wagged a finger. “Maybe that’s why Bobby freaked on her, on her birthday. He musta found out.”

“For real?” Missy asked, and Giulia stalled, momentarily.

Mary had to admit, it made sense. She remembered reading about his accusations of infidelity in the diary. They had seemed unfounded, but if Trish really were cheating, she wouldn’t take the risk of recording it, even in a hidden diary. Had Bobby killed Trish for cheating on him? Had that been his dark surprise for her birthday? In the next moment, the crowd behind them seemed to part, and a group of men hustled toward the exit. Mary looked up to see Brinkley heading out, flanked by two other men in suits.

Giulia pointed. “Look, Mare, that’s Reg Mack, with the dude from Missing Persons!”

But Mary was already in motion. “Reg, hi!” she called out, and Brinkley caught her eye, though his face fell the moment he spotted the Mean Girls. She sped up and fell into step beside him. “Reg, I need to talk with you and couldn’t reach you on the phone.”

“Make it quick, Mary.” Brinkley took her arm.

“Missing Persons Dude!” Giulia called out, as the Mean Girls surrounded the other men. “You got any word on T? We’re worried sick since Bobby got shot. We gotta find her.”

“Settle down.” Brinkley raised his large hands. “Settle down right now.” He turned to Giulia with a scowl. “You. Don’t call me or Missing Persons anymore. We’re all working very hard to find Trish Gambone, but the more you keep bothering us, the less we can do our job.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” Giulia shot back. “It’s a free country, and my best friend’s still missin’.”

“Shhh!” Mary nudged Giulia. Every head in the lobby had turned to watch. She recognized two lawyers she knew from when she was gainfully employed, earlier this morning.

“What did you find out, Mary?” Brinkley asked, his voice low.

“Bobby was close with a guy in the Mob whose name was Eyes. He might know where Trish is, or maybe where that house is.”

“Thanks, but I thought you were getting back to work. No more playing cops.”

“I’m not. That’s why I’m telling you about Eyes.”

“Good girl. Keep it that way.” Brinkley made a beeline for the exit. “Take care. We gotta go.”

“You get back here!” Giulia shouted, but Mary blocked her with raised arms, like an overeducated school safety. After Brinkley and the suits had gone, Mary lowered her arms and turned to Giulia.

“Girl, you need to calm down.”

“It’s not my fault my nerves are shot.” Giulia rubbed her forehead, raking it with her acrylic tips. “I’m so afraid she’s dead.”

“Aw, don’t think that way.” Mary threw an arm around her and hoped she sounded convincing. “Come on, we got work to do. Trish is counting on us.”

“You really think she was cheatin’?”

“It doesn’t matter now. We gotta find Eyes.”

“Okay.” Giulia smiled shakily. “You’re so smart. You always know what to do.”

“Thanks.” Mary gave her a squeeze, feeling like a fraud.

In truth, she had only one move left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T he gray sky spit drizzle, and Mary put the Mean Girls in a cab and followed them in her car part of the way, then turned off. She didn’t want to do this, but she couldn’t leave it to anyone else and Eyes was her only lead. She thought it would be safe enough, especially in daylight. She drove down a few blocks, past neat rowhouses, then found a parking space. She glanced through the rain-spotted windshield at the lighted sign down Denver Street. Biannetti’s read black letters on a white plastic sign, next to a martini glass set sideways, a Rat Pack rewind. A modest corner tavern, a converted rowhouse, squatted at the end of the street, an alleged Mob hangout not twenty blocks from City Hall. She cut the ignition, braced herself, grabbed the newspaper and her bag, and left the car.

The air smelled damp and humid, and she walked to the restaurant with her head down against the wet mist, telling herself that Biannetti’s was a public place like any other and people from the neighborhood ate there all the time. She walked along and checked out the cars on the street, wondering if any FBI agents were surveilling the place, after the murder last night. There were no telltale white utility vans in sight, only an array of older American cars. The street seemed unusually parked up, with a full line of double-parking, which Mary couldn’t explain until she reached Biannetti’s door, pulled on it, and went inside. The place was dim, but the noise level came up before the light, the loudness of a packed restaurant abuzz with animated chatter and laughter.

At first Mary startled, thinking she’d walked into a party, but then her eyes adjusted to the scene. It wasn’t even noon, but all the tables were full, stocked with men and women yapping away, gulping coffee, and smoking despite the city-wide ban. Almost every table had today’s newspapers spread out on top of red-and-white-plastic tablecloths, and people mingled, reading the articles over each other’s shoulders. It was tailgating, at a mob murder.

She slipped on her sunglasses, just in case someone had seen her picture in the paper. On the right was a short bar, where a crowd stood riveted by a TV that blared the local news. On the screen, a bright red banner read MOB WAR, complete with gang-related crawl. The crowd talked through the broadcast, waving Pilsner glasses, mugs of coffee, and unfiltered cigarettes to make their points. At the bar, older men hunched over their shots, their backbones curved like bows under pressure. Mary couldn’t see their faces, but their bifocals disqualified them as Eyes. They weren’t mobsters; they were retirees, with a calcium deficiency.