CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

D awn brightened the Philadelphia cityscape, turning it shades of gray, and a steady rain fell as Mary steered through the one-way streets, far easier to navigate than the wooded curves of the mountains. She was exhausted but had stayed awake for the drive by stopping for horrible coffee and more gas-station hot dogs, ensuring that she’d be completely nauseated by the time she pulled up in front of the Roundhouse.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Mary had been trying to wake Trish up since they reached the city limits, but she’d only slumbered away in the passenger seat, curled up like a black cat. Black ringlets strayed across her lovely features, but more important, her makeup looked perfect. Mary gave her a hard nudge.

“Wha?” Trish’s eyes fluttered open, and she frowned irritably, stretching her arms.

“Time to wake up.” Mary pulled up the emergency brake and eyed the parking lot, which was mercifully clear of the media at this early hour, maybe because they knew the press conference was later this morning. “We’re here to see Brinkley.”

“We’re not going home first?” Trish shifted up in the seat, squinting against the harsh gray light. Heavy rain pounded on the roof, matching Mary’s mood.

“No. He wanted to get your statement before the press comes calling.” Mary felt her fatigue lift, replaced by pre-game jitters. Her phone conversation with Brinkley had been brief, and she’d been surprised he’d wanted to see them so early, especially given how busy he sounded. “I think he might pump you for information, so I want you to follow my lead.”

Trish’s eyes flashed with alarm. “I’m no snitch, and I don’t want to get dead.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not making any deals. No immunity, nothin’.”

“I told him that. You won’t meet with the FBI at all. This is Homicide only.” Mary checked her watch. “Best-case scenario, we’re out of there by nine.”

“So this is it, huh?” Trish flipped the mirror visor down and fluffed her hair with her fingernails.

“Yes. All you have to do is tell him what you told me, about what happened at the house. Don’t answer when I tell you not to.”

Trish rubbed her teeth with an index finger.

“Don’t volunteer anything.”

Trish dug in her purse, found a bottle of foundation, unscrewed the shiny black top, and smeared a thin layer expertly over her skin.

“Trish. You hear me?”

“I know all that. I watch CSI, too.”

Mary let it go. Suffice it to say, she wouldn’t miss the girl when this was over. “Anything you say could make this interview last longer than it needs to. For your own safety, I want us out of there before the day gets started. If we do this right, nobody will even know you came in.”

Trish traded the foundation for a rosy red lipstick, which she twirled open and slid over her lips.

“Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

“Fine.” Trish shoved the lipstick back into the bag, and from the mess of Kleenex, cigarettes, and rewetting solution extracted her black Beretta, which she dangled at the end of her finger like a Christmas ornament. “What do I do with this?”

“Jeez!” Mary pressed it out of plain view, even though no one was around.

“Chill, Mare,” Trish said, but Mary couldn’t. She didn’t know if she could ever chill again and she didn’t know what to do with the gun. If Trish killed Bobby, it was a murder weapon. But then again, maybe she didn’t do it, or if she did, she wouldn’t have used that gun, like she said.

“Leave the gun,” Mary answered finally, which sounded oddly familiar. Then she remembered, from her dinner with Anthony. My favorite is, “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.” She hadn’t thought of him at all, with so much going on. She was supposed to call him back three years ago, but she had bigger worries, like the fact that she was having reasonable doubts about her own client.

“Okay, ready to go?” Trish opened up the glove box, popped in the gun, then shut it and looked over expectantly.

“Let’s rock,” Mary said, putting on her game face.

They settled into the interview room, with Brinkley looking weary from the night tour, his skin unusually shiny and a stubble shading his cheeks and chin. Still, he wore his dark suit with his tie knotted tight, rallying as he sat down across from Trish and pulled a thin pad from his back pocket. Kovich sat quietly in a chair slightly behind him, a reverse of their usual positions.

Brinkley flipped his pad open and slid a pen from the silky inside of his jacket. “Okay, so Mare, we wanted to talk to Trish to hear what happened to her, especially in view of the fact that Mancuso’s body was found Tuesday night.”

“Seems like dog years,” Mary said, and Brinkley half-smiled.

“I hear that.”

“Before we start, do you have any leads on Mancuso?”

“No.”

“What about the autopsy or ballistics tests? What type of gun killed him, anyway? I haven’t read a paper in days.”

“You won’t see it in the papers, not on my case.”

“So what was the gun?”

“We probably shouldn’t discuss those details,” Brinkley answered, an official response that took Mary by surprise.

“We have an obvious interest in the case, and I’ll keep it confidential, if that’s your worry.”

“I know you well enough to know you will. We need to keep our friendship out of it, like I told you before. Let’s move on, and we’ll get you two ladies out of here.”

“Fair enough.” Mary let it go. “Just tell me, has the coroner released the body yet? I’m curious about when the funeral will be.”

“It’s released, and I think they’re burying him tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Mary said, looking over at Trish, who remained stony in her wooden seat, her legs pressed tightly together and her hands linked in her lap. She showed no reaction to the news of the funeral. Earlier, she had refused Brinkley’s offer of fresh coffee and declined to participate in the small talk about the storm. Mary didn’t know if Trish was afraid or contemptuous of the detectives, or a little of both.

“So, Trish,” Brinkley said with only the briefest of smiles, “I’m happy to see that you’re well, after your ordeal.”

Trish nodded, her glossy lips pursed.

“You’ve been missing since Tuesday night, around six, is that right?”

Trish nodded.

“Why don’t you begin by telling us what happened that night?”

Mary cleared her throat. “Reg, I wanted to reiterate that Trish is here at your request, that she’s been through a terrible and exhausting time, and that we’d like to conclude this interview as soon as possible. Also, we won’t be going into areas related to Mancuso’s murder or his involvement in the Mob, which Trish knows nothing about. She was his victim for many years, subject to domestic violence at his hands, and was very poorly served by the Philadelphia Police Department and Missing Persons.”

“Duly noted,” Brinkley said, and turned his attention to Trish. “My apologies for the way your case was treated. Missing Persons was dealing with the Donchess kidnapping, as you know, and still is.”

Trish nodded again, her mouth still tight, and Mary saw her in a new light. Out of her element, with her sensational looks doing nothing for her, Trish was a Queen Bee dethroned.

“Now, please tell me about Tuesday night, in your own words.”

“What do you want to know?” Trish shot back, but Brinkley looked undaunted.

“I understand from Mary that it was your birthday, and you were going out to dinner with Mancuso, with whom you lived, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me what happened the night of your birthday.”

“We went out.”

Mary kept her own counsel. If Trish wanted to be tight-lipped in the beginning, she’d let it go for a short time, but she’d stop her if it kept up. It could make her look guilty, at least it did to Mary.