Thirty

LAWYER IN MURDER MYSTERY, screamed the headline on the thick Sunday morning newspaper, and Mary went white when she saw her own photo plastered underneath, the one she had posed for in her office. The byline of the article belonged to Jim MacIntire, and she skimmed the first two paragraphs:

Lawyer Mary DiNunzio is a fighter. She fought her way to the top of her hotshot Philly law firm, Rosato amp; Associates, and she is fighting to discover what happened to a man who has been dead for over sixty years. She traced that trail all the way to Montana and back, and though she was once cooperating fully with this reporter, she now has no comment about the story – and denies tracing the death to one Giovanni Saracone, now deceased.

However, a well-placed source assures this reporter that DiNunzio believes that Saracone himself may have been responsible for Brandolini’s death, only apparently by suicide. And the same source reveals that Saracone is responsible for the mysterious injury that DiNunzio has been sporting about town. Only with Mr. Saracone’s death yesterday, of cancer, can the full story be told.

“He’s got it all,” Judy said, flopping into the chair opposite Mary’s desk. They’d both come into the office on yet another rainy day to get some work done, but this threw a major wrench into their plans. Judy had brought the paper in, having just picked it up on a Starbucks run.

“My God.” Mary skimmed the rest of the story, which detailed her initial interview with MacIntire and all the stuff he’d learned by calling everyone from Missoula, piggybacking on her work. The article went on to raise the same questions she’d had about Frank’s murder, though Mary hadn’t breathed a word to him. She felt sympathy for Frank’s family and betrayed for herself. And she couldn’t help but wonder about the identity of the well-placed source. “Think his source is someone at Saracone’s or a leak at the Roundhouse?”

“Would Detective Gomez have talked to a reporter?”

“I doubt it, not him. He seemed like a decent guy.” Mary flashed on her conversation with the detective, the end of which had taken place at the open door to the interview room. She remembered the eavesdropping detectives and the woman in the skirt. “But people in the squad room definitely heard us. One of them may have leaked it.”

“Lucky for you that Bennie went back to New York. She probably picked up the newspaper, but even she can’t turn a Metroliner around.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Mary shoved the paper out of her sight. She was thinking about Keisha. She’d already told Judy about the nurse’s call to her cell phone. “I called Keisha again this morning, but she didn’t call back. This could explain why.”

“How so?” Judy pried the white lid off her coffee, releasing hazelnut steam, and took a sip.

“Our cover is blown. This whole thing is no longer our little secret.” Mary was thinking aloud, trying to wrap her mind around it. “If Keisha wanted to talk to me before, she’d be wary of me now. She may not trust me anymore at all.”

“Right, or she might not want the media attention.” Judy looked fresh in a plain white T-shirt, denim shorts, and bright red flip-flops. She’d pulled her hair back in a stubby ponytail, stiff as a blonde paintbrush. The indirect light from the window brought out the alert blue of her eyes.

“What are you going to do?”

“Have a cigarette.”

Judy laughed. “Have some breakfast, do your work, and get yourself ready for this dep.”

“But this screws me up! People will read it, or hear about it. Saracone’s son will see it, and his wife, and Chico The Escalade.” Mary considered the timing of the article, then realized something. “That must be why Mac ran the story right now. He lucked out when Saracone died, because he and the paper can’t be sued for defamation now. You can’t libel a dead man, isn’t that the law in Pennsylvania?”

“Yep. Good for you.” Judy sipped her coffee. “When the other papers pick up on the story, I’m sure the calls will start. It’s just you and me in the office, and we probably shouldn’t answer the phones. We can avoid Premenstrual Tom and Premenstrual Bennie.”

“He still calling?” Mary had almost forgotten.

“Don’t worry about it. I have them all recorded, and the TRO hearing will be scheduled as soon as I can serve his ass. So don’t get the phone.”

“But what if Keisha calls here, instead of on the cell?”

“Why would she, and anyway, you don’t sound like you’re putting Brandolini behind you.” Judy’s eyes darkened. “Your cheek is barely healed, Mare. You want a repeat of the other day?”

“I’ll give it up after I talk to Keisha.” Mary reached for the phone. “I better call my parents about that article. I’ll call Eisen, too, so he doesn’t freak when he sees the papers. Then I’ll get us both ready for his dep, so by the time Bennie hears about the newspaper story, she’ll love me again.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Judy said, peering across the desk. “You gonna eat that croissant?”

“No, you are.”

By midafternoon, Mary had finished preparing for the Eisen deposition and had made all her calls. Keisha still hadn’t called. Mary hadn’t answered the phone but just kept checking the messages: a slew of reporters, her father, assorted clients who had forgiven their celebrity lawyer, and a prisoner who wanted a date with her legs. When she couldn’t take waiting for Keisha anymore, she got proactive. She picked up the receiver, dialed information, and waited until it found the number and connected her.

“HomeCare, WeCare,” answered a pleasant voice, a woman’s. “Leslie Eadeh speaking.”

“Yes, Leslie, maybe you could help me.” Mary put on a cigarette voice, inspired by last night. “I have a problem. I’m looking for one of your nurses, Keisha Grace.”

“It’s Sunday, dear. The business office is closed.”

“I know, but this nurse, Keisha, is due at my house today, and she can’t get here. She called and said her car broke down.”

“What’s your name?”

Mary’s gaze shifted to the papers scattered across her desk, order forms from E amp; S Furnishings. The top name belonged to Rikki Summers, offending Broughley sales rep, the body that launched a thousand recliners. “Broughley. Rikki Broughley.”

“Like the recliners?”

Uh. “Exactly. But we’re no relation.”

“Too bad. I love the suede.”

“Everybody does.”

“Please wait a minute, Ms. Broughley,” the woman said, and Mary could hear the click, click, click of computer keys over the line. “We don’t have a record of Keisha coming to see you today, Ms. Broughley. We show she hasn’t worked since Friday.”

Since Saracone’s death. “There must be some mistake with your records.”

“I doubt that highly, Ms. Broughley.”

“Everybody makes mistakes. Keisha was here at my house just yesterday, Saturday.”

“Keisha was?” Leslie asked, in a way that sounded like she knew her. “You sure you got the right girl? Sometimes our patients get confused.”

“Certain of it. She’s African-American, pretty, young, about five three, same as me, with very large eyes and a pretty smile. Her name tag reads Keisha, I remember seeing it.”

“That’s her. Hmmm.” Leslie sounded stumped.

“She left me her phone number.” Mary gave her the number. “I called but there’s no answer. See, she called and said her car broke down and could my son pick her up.”

“Her car broke down? I thought it was new.”

Oops. “I know, it’s an outrage. Anyway, my son left an hour ago but he lost the address and I don’t remember it. So now I need her address.”

“Ms. Broughley, we don’t give out that information. I can call her for you.”

“You won’t get her. I just called her at home and got no answer. There’s no answer on her cell, either.”

“Keisha gave you her cell?”

“Sure enough.” Mary read her the number. “We got along very well. I thought the world of her, that’s why I sent my son out to fetch her. I hate to think of Keisha standing in the rain. She wouldn’t do that to one of us patients, not for a minute.”