Damn! Another casualty of a parochial education. A girl who followed the rules. Mary used to be that. Before Montana.

“Don’t you have his address?”

“No, he never gave it to me. He didn’t want me to know he was married.”

Toni bit her lip. “I really want to give it to you, but I can’t.”

“You sure? We’re homegirls.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, I understand. You’ve been through hell this morning.” Mary picked up the empty box. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Not at all. I’ll find another way to get his address.” Mary reached across the counter and gave Toni a warm hug. “And throw that guy out. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Thanks.”

“Take care now.” Mary turned to go to the door, but Toni called out:

“Yo, wait a minute!”

Mary turned on her heel, with the box.

“Where you going after this?”

“To the office.”

“Where’s your office?”

“Center City.”

“Let me give you directions. I bet you don’t know the shortcut.” Toni beckoned her back to the desk with a polished fingernail, and Mary returned to the counter.

“Shortcut?”

“Yeah. I know a great shortcut back to the expressway.” Toni grabbed a pen and a piece of paper from her desk, then bent her spiky head over the paper and began drawing a wobbly line. “Go this way. It’ll save you half an hour, easy. And if you keep your eyes open on the way – God knows what you’ll find.”

Mary finally came up to speed, with a smile. She watched Toni finish the map, which was a long wiggly line, with no X to mark the spot. It was like a treasure hunt for Mensa members. How would she know which house was Saracone’s? “You think I can do this?”

“No worries. You’re from South Philly, so you’ll recognize it right away.” Toni slid the map across the counter, with a sly smile.

Not five minutes later, Mary was in her car, following a convoluted series of switchbacks that could qualify as a shortcut only if your destination were Mars. She drove through gorgeous countryside and passed her umpteenth rolling hill, still ponds with cattails not attached to cats, and immense new mansions, where the only neighbors were Canada geese. She eyed each house on the shortcut, but after six winding miles began to worry that she would never find Justin’s house, or that she had already driven past it by accident. Then she took a right turn as the road wound around a bend, glanced out the window at the house on the curve, and hit the brake.

Mary laughed out loud at the sight. Toni had been right. There would be no mistaking this house, not for a girl from Mercer Street. A huge wrought-iron gate spanned the driveway, and its black bars formed a mile-high, scrollwork S. The same as the screen doors on Mercer Street and every other street in South Philly, only about three billion dollars more expensive.

Mary pulled the car up a little out of the line of sight, found a sheltering oak tree, and cut the engine, eyeballing the house, which was situated near the street. Thank God that Saracone the Younger didn’t share his father’s obsession with privacy. He lived in a huge mansion, hewn of gray-and-black stone, with a sloping Tudor roof, genuine slate, with little iron stoppers so the cable guy didn’t slide off. A circular gravel driveway curved gracefully in front of a grand, gabled facade, and cars lined the driveway bumper to bumper, too many for one family. There must have been some kind of get-together going on, maybe associated with the father’s funeral.

Mary scanned the lineup of cars for an Escalade, but there wasn’t one. Whew. Then she reconsidered, wishing the Escalade were there. It would be better to know where Chico was at all times, rather than not. She suspected he had been sent out of the country, or at least the jurisdiction, after his attack on Keisha. And Mary hoped that he or Melania hadn’t talked to the maid about the funeral planner, because she didn’t want anyone in the Saracone camp to know what she was up to. It was only a matter of time before they did.

There was no traffic on the street, so she sat outside the house a minute, wondering what to do. Crash the party? Sneak around the back? And she wasn’t sure what she’d learn by going in. No, not yet. And she had better leads to follow anyway, when she launched the next stage of her investigation.

Starting as soon as she got back to the city.

Thirty-Eight

Only fifty-six more to go. The late-morning sun peeked through Mary’s office window as she typed at her laptop. She was researching the Saracones’ funeral guests and finding their home addresses. She hit the enter key and checked the monitor.

Richard Matern, Business address: 1837 Chestnut Street Phone: 215 546-2982

Home address: 314 Delancey Street, Philadelphia, PA 19103 215 454-9848

She copied the information to a new document and penciled a checkmark on the pink sheet, underneath Melania’s Memo. Then she plugged in the next guest’s name, hit enter again, and in a second, the next address and phone number popped onto the screen. Ten addresses and phone numbers, so far. The Internet made all sorts of information public, and home addresses were a warm-up to bra sizes and HDL levels.

“Missed you this morning,” Judy said, appearing in the doorway. She looked remarkably corporate in her blue sleeveless dress, but she still had bedhead, her blonde hair going everywhich way. Mary thought it might be intentional, because nobody but her actually parted their hair anymore, especially everybody in whatever generation she was supposed to be in.

“Sorry, I was out.” Mary kept typing.

“Where were you?”

Uh. “Out.”

“What’re you doin’?” Judy asked, her tone suspicious.

“Stuff.”

“Translation, you’re back on Brandolini. Me, I’ve been in a deposition all morning. Your deposition in Alcor.”

“Thanks. How’s it going?”

“It’s all finished, it went great, and you don’t have to feel guilty about it.”

“Then why’d you give me guilt?”

“For fun.”

Mary smiled.

“I also successfully served Premenstrual Tom, and the TRO hearing is next week. It’s yet another deposit in the karma bank for me. I’m beating you, even though you surged ahead with all this pro bono work.” Judy entered the office and came around the desk to snoop. “Guess you know that Keisha’s still unconscious.”

“I called, too.” Mary ignored the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The way she could help Keisha best was by doing exactly what she was doing. She cut-and-pasted another address into her document. Fifty-five more to go. “Bill’s with her, so at least she’s safe.”

“I know.”

“Tell me what the papers say. I didn’t take the time to grab one this morning, and they barely mentioned it on the radio.” Mary had listened on the way in, after the shortcut. The attempt on Keisha’s life rated three whole seconds of airtime, and only because the knifing took place in Rittenhouse Square. “They don’t get excited unless you die.”

“Or you’re white.” Judy shook her head. “The newspaper has the attack as only a small piece. That reporter evidently didn’t make the connection between Keisha and Saracone, so it’s just street crime.”

“For the moment.” Mary kept working. Fifty-four to go.

“Hear from Gomez?”

“No.” Mary had left two messages.

“Bet he didn’t go to Saracone’s yet.”

“No takers here.” Fifty-three. Only one phone unlisted, so far. Mary tried to ignore Judy, who was reading her computer screen, and she braced for the inevitable lecture. “Isn’t this where you tell me this case is too dangerous?”

“No. This is where I make you give me half that list, so that it gets done in this century.”

“Really?” Mary looked up, feeling a rush of gratitude.