“Where did you go?” Brinkley asked, his tone characteristically quiet.

“To a house.”

“Where was the house?”

“I don’t know.”

Mary interjected, “Near Bonnyhart, in the Poconos.”

Brinkley made a note.

Mary looked at Trish, who pointedly didn’t catch her eye. The rest of the interview continued in that vein, with Brinkley pulling teeth to get each answer, like the most patient of dentists. Trish never relaxed, nor did she refuse to answer, cooperating just enough to get the story out. It took longer that way, probably by half an hour, but Brinkley was handling Trish with kid gloves. If he suspected her of Bobby’s murder, he was too professional to show his hand. The interview seemed to be winding down when he reached into an accordion file, extracted a transparent evidence bag, and held it up. Inside was an opal ring with a gold band.

Brinkley asked, “Can you identify this?”

Trish peered at the bag, but didn’t touch it. “Sure.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a ring.”

“Is it yours?”

“Yes.”

Huh? Mary held out a hand. “May I see that?”

“Yes.” Brinkley handed her the evidence bag, and Mary double-checked it.

“Where’d you get this, Reg?” Mary asked.

“Uh…in the alley, by Mancuso’s body.”

Whoa. Mary handed the bag back, realizing she might have inadvertently messed up his interview. If he suspected Trish at all, he would’ve asked her any questions before he told her where it was found. Mary had done some fancy defense lawyering, if only by accident.

Brinkley asked Trish, “Were you wearing the ring the night Bobby was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how it got in the alley?”

Mary made her face a mask. The ring could’ve gotten in the alley if Trish had dropped it there, when she went to kill Bobby.

“He took it from me,” Trish answered.

“When?”

“That night, at the house in the woods. Right before he showed me the engagement ring, he took my ring off my finger and put it in his pocket.”

“Got it.” Brinkley made a note, as did Kovich.

But Mary couldn’t visualize that scene. It didn’t sound like Bobby at all, elegantly slipping a ring from Trish’s finger. It sounded like some fairy-tale engagement story. He would’ve been drunk by that point, too. But if that didn’t happen, how did the ring get in the alley? Mary avoided looking at Trish as Brinkley pulled out from the accordion a second evidence bag, which held a silvery LG cell phone decorated with pink rhinestones, thick as sugar frosting.

“This yours, too, Trish?” Brinkley asked.

“Yeah.”

“We found this on the body, too.” Brinkley rattled off a phone number. “That’s the number of the last call. Do you know that number?”

“Yeah.”

“Whose is it?”

“My mother.”

“That would be the call you told us about?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re in the homestretch, ladies.” Brinkley flipped to a clean page of his notebook. “Now, Trish, you lived with Mancuso for how long?”

“Seven years.”

“And during that time, he sold drugs for the Mob, didn’t he?”

Mary interjected, “We’re not going there, Reg.”

“You opened the door. You told me he was in the Mob the first time we spoke.”

“That was when she was missing, and I had to go begging to get somebody to look for her.”

“You gave us her diary, too.” Brinkley went into an accordion file he got from the floor, and Trish’s head snapped around, glaring at her.

“You gave them my diary, Mare?”

“Please,” Mary said, and at this point, she didn’t know who was making her madder, Brinkley or her own client.

“Here, Mary, she discusses Cadillac at length.” Brinkley pointed to a photocopy of the diary, underlining an entry with an index finger. “We believe that it’s a nickname for Al Barbi, who was just killed, and she may have information about him that may help our investigation of his murder.”

Mary shook her head. “That’s the end of the Mob questions. She told you everything she knows about that night, and I can’t let you pump her to get information.”

“Mare, I’ll level with you.” Brinkley leaned forward, his elbows resting on his legs, lean in pressed slacks. “We have information that both Mancuso and Barbi were members of the Guarino crime family. They’re the up-and-comers, the young Turks waiting to take over now that Stanfa’s defunct and Merlino’s in jail. Both were low-level soldiers.”

“Why do I care?” Mary heard herself say. Trish remained mute, watching the action.

“If she knows anything about the Guarino organization, it’s going to prevent a lot of murders in this town. We have information that Barbi’s murder is just the beginning.”

“I understand that, but she doesn’t know anything, and it can’t circulate that she does or she ends up dead.”

Brinkley frowned. “I don’t leak. You know that. None of my investigations leak. That’s why you didn’t read about the gun.”

“I’m not saying you’d leak it, Reg. For all we know, the Mob could be watching the Roundhouse right now. I’m Trish’s lawyer and all I care about is her interest. Not yours and not the city’s.”

“If she talks to me, she doesn’t have to talk to the feds. You know, they can subpoena her.”

“And she can shut up.” Mary felt anger rising in her chest. She figured that this had been why Brinkley had been so nice to Trish and why he’d wanted to see her so early. “This doesn’t seem fair to me, Reg. She was ignored by the police, and I’m not gonna let her be used by them.”

“She wasn’t ignored, and it was only a day. We don’t move that fast, especially with an Amber Alert.”

“It was still a day she couldn’t afford. She wouldn’t be alive today if she hadn’t run away from him. She had to protect herself.”

“Trish,” Brinkley turned and appealed to her. “We’ve been in touch with the feds and we can get you into the witness-protection program, if you help us. You don’t have to worry. We can find Barbi’s killer and prevent an all-out war. You’ll be saving lives.”

“No comment,” Trish said, as if Brinkley were a pesky reporter.

“I’m sorry.” Mary rose, hoisting Trish to her feet. “I assume we’re free to go.”

“Of course you are.”

“Thanks.” Mary had her answer. They weren’t charging Trish with anything, and she wasn’t even a suspect in Bobby’s murder. Mary felt somewhat reassured that Trish hadn’t done it, because she respected Brinkley and Kovich’s judgment, and they were privy to facts she’d never know. Their bets were clearly on the Mob for Bobby’s killer. Mary opened the door. “See you guys later. Hope there’s no hard feelings.”

“I wish you’d reconsider,” Brinkley said softly.

“Sorry, Reg. Stan.” Mary took Trish by the arm and got her out of there, without a look back.

If only she could leave her own doubts behind as easily.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

M ary pulled out of the parking lot, heading south, and rain sprayed into the car as Trish held her cigarette outside the passenger-side window. The Expressway was congested, heading into the morning rush hour, and Trish seemed to relax only after the Roundhouse had receded into the distance.

“Think the FBI will call me?” she asked, taking a deep drag.

“Yes.” Mary didn’t see the point in lying to her. “They know you have information and they want to pick your brain.”

“So what do I do?”

“Good question.” Mary hit the gas, frustrated. Bennie would know what to do, but God knew where that stood. “Truth is, I never handled the FBI before. I’m not really sure of the procedure. I should probably get you a lawyer with experience in this kind of thing.”

“Not you?”

“Not me, but I can help you find somebody.”

“No.” Trish blew out a cone of smoke that blew back inside the car. “You did good in there. You stood up for me. So all you gotta do is stand up for me when the FBI calls. How hard can it be?”