Mary frowned. 'So let's think about this. Trevor and Whittier met last week? That doesn't give us anything.'

'No, last week is the only time we know about, probably the most recent. But it isn't the first time Whittier's son makes a buy from Trevor, I guarantee it. Once a junkie makes a connection, they stay with it, especially these kids. They don't want to go a bad neighborhood to make a buy. They might get their hands dirty.'

Mary glanced at Paige, silent behind an empty plate. The teenager had been beside herself when she heard Trevor had been killed and looked like she hadn't slept at all. Still, Mary had to press her. 'Paige, do you know anything about this?'

'No,' Paige said. She brushed a strand of red hair from weary eyes, trying to rally. 'I didn't know Trevor was so into drugs and I didn't know anybody he sold it to. I just knew he had it all the time.'

'It's okay,' Mary said, patting her hand. The kid was going through hell, and judging from the empty plate, maybe having morning sickness. No matter what, Vita DiNunzio would force-feed her. Food equaled love in this household. Mary turned to Brinkley. 'So, go on, Reg.'

'We figure that Trevor and Whittier's kid were at least acquaintances, maybe even friends, Assume. Trevor sells to Whittier's kid from time to time. Whittier finds out. He knows that Trevor is the boyfriend of Paige Newlin, Honor and Jack's daughter, and he blackmails Trevor into killing Honor.'

'Where do you get the blackmail?' Mary asked, and Kovich raised his hand like a kid in school.

'That's from me. When me and Donovan interviewed Whittier, he told us that Trevor was blackmailing him over Newlin's drug use. It was the same thing he said at the scene, when Trevor got shot, the uniforms told me. Whittier had to have made that shit up on the spot, to explain what he was doin' at the office so late at night. And he ain't the sharpest tool in the shed, was my impression.'

Brinkley nodded, picking up the story like a relay team. 'People, when they lie, they make it up from something they knew. We see it every day. Like there's a grain of truth in it. Somebody was blackmailing somebody, it's just the other way around. If Whittier is behind this, like we think, that's how he gets Trevor to do the murder. He says, Kill her or I'll turn you in for the drugs you sell my kid. You can't pull strings forever, even in this town. Maybe Whittier pays Trevor, too, to sweeten the deal.'

That sounds like Trevor,' Paige added sadly. 'Sorry to say it, but he liked money.'

Mary thought about it. 'So now all we have to do is catch Whittier. That's up to me.' Her mother glared at her again as she ladled scrambled eggs onto a flowered plate, and Mary recognized it not as the watch-your-language glare, but the if-you-get-yourself-killed-I'll-kill-you glare. Only a few Italian mothers had perfected it, all members of well-known crime families. Her mother said nothing as she carried a plate of peppers and eggs over and set it in front of Mary with more clatter than necessary.

'Eat,' her mother commanded, but Mary knew she wanted to say. Choke.

'Mom, of course, I'll be very, very careful,' she said, and her father smiled. 'Now, as I was saying. I think it's up to me because I'm the lawyer in the group and I can go over to Tribe without suspicion.'

'It's a start.' Brinkley said. He finished the last of his eggs and turned to her mother at the stove. 'Vita, this was terrific. Best breakfast I ever had.'

'You deserve,' her mother said warmly.

Mary smiled, mystified. Brinkley was getting along with her mother better than she was. 'When did you two become such good friends, Mr I Have A Gun?'

'Since I fixed the pilot light,' Brinkley explained, and Mary laughed, as the doorbell rang and six heads looked at the front door in alarm.

Mary stood stricken at the silhouette of the police officers and Detective Donovan on her parents' marble stoop and felt instantly angry at herself for bringing this into her parents' home. 'What are you doing here?' she demanded, though she suspected the answer.

'We're here for Detective Brinkley,' Donovan answered, self-satisfied in his black wool topcoat. 'May we come in?'

'Not unless you have a warrant,' Mary told him, but his hard eyes widened when not only Brinkley but Kovich appeared behind Mary.

'Figured I'd find you here, Reg, but I didn't figure on you, too, partner.' Donovan sounded sterner than his years. 'I bought that dentist story.'

Right behind Kovich and Brinkley hobbled Vita DiNunzio, flushed with anger and brandishing a wooden spoon clotted with scrambled eggs. 'Whatta you doin' inna my house?' her mother demanded, but Mary held her back.

'Ma, relax, it's okay,' she soothed, feeling the balance of power shift to the flying DiNunzios. It meant trouble when

her mother had The Spoon. The cops had only guns. It was no contest.

Brinkley touched her mother's shoulder, dismay marking his thin features. 'It's okay, Vita's all right,' he said. 'Sorry this happened here, at your house. I'm going along with these gentlemen and I'll be fine.'

'Excuse me, Mrs DiNunzio, is it?' Donovan said, with smile that would get him nowhere. 'We'll be gone in a sec. If Detective Brinkley doesn't resist us, we can avoid cuffing him.'

'Cuffing?' Mary's mother repeated, making the g ring out like truth, waving the eggy spoon. 'I cuffa you one! You no touch Reggie Brinkley. No touch!'

'Don't worry, Vita,' Brinkley said again, as he grabbed his coat from the couch. On the way out, he gave Mary a hug close enough to slip something into her jacket pocket. She'd had a guess as to what it was, but would check later.

'I'll have a lawyer down there in an hour,' she told him. In front of her parent's house idled five police cruisers, exhaust pouring from their tailpipes and turning to steam in the cold air. Uniformed cops hustled Brinkley and Kovich into the backseat of the closest car.

Donovan flashed a smile at the DiNunzios. Thank you very much, and sorry about the intrusion.'

Mary's mother snorted in a way you didn't have to be Abruzzese to understand. 'You!' She waved the spoon. 'You wanna good smack?

Mary sat at the parents' ancient telephone table, holding the receiver of a black rotary phone that could qualify as a blunt instrument in most jurisdictions. She would be nagging her parents to replace it with a cordless if they weren't already so upset, huddling together on the sofa like a soft mountain of bathrobe, the wooden spoon back in its scabbard.

'Jude,' Mary said into the receiver, when her best friend picked up. 'Have I got a client for you.'

56

The morning stayed clear and brisk, and Mary flowed with the foot traffic in the business district. Men hurried by with their heads cocked to cell phones, and women hustled along in conversation. She remembered when she had been one of them; an inexperienced associate dressed in her most conservative clothes, hands gripped around a briefcase that contained a legal pad, a Bic, and photocopied antitrust cases. Okay, so it wasn't all that different now. She was still inexperienced, her clothes remained conservative, and she had the same briefcase, legal pad, and Bic, though the antitrust cases had been replaced by something distinctly illegal:

The Clock that Brinkley had slipped her when he and Kovich had been taken away.

She tightened her grip on her briefcase handle, its shape and heft second nature. The gun had felt far less so when she tried to aim it in her parents' kitchen, where she pointed prudently away from any religious paraphernalia. Of course she hadn't fired the gun; the shot would have brought the neighborhood, the police – or worse, her mother – running. As much as Mary hated guns, she had to admit it felt better to have it along, even if it smelled faintly of oregano.