“Okay!” Her mother stroked her back, then segued into scratching it like she always did. It made Mary feel like a treasured kitten, and she looked down at her gnocchi, speared a forkful, and ate, causing third-degree burns to the roof of her mouth. Her mother kept scratching her back. “Maria, you pray to Saint Anthony for the paper?”

“Paper?”

“Brandolini. You look for his paper.” Her mother made an arthritic circle in the air, and Mary understood. She hadn’t realized her mother had been listening to the conversation, but she should have known better. In addition to force fields, Italian mothers had sonar.

“You mean Amadeo’s file.”

“Sì. You pray to Saint Anthony to find?”

“Well, yes,” Mary admitted, breathing gnocchi fire. She’d learned the prayer in grade school: Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, please come around. For something is lost and cannot be found. To be on the safe side, she had prayed to Saint Jude, too, because she wasn’t sure who had jurisdiction.

“Then, they take,” her mother said, with typical finality.

“Who takes what?” Mary reached for her cup and tried to cool her mouth with scorching coffee.

“Somebody. They take his paper.” Her mother frowned deeply. “Brandolini’s paper. Somebody take it!”

“You think somebody took his file?”

“Sì. They want nobody to see. So somebody, they take.” Her mother snatched the steam that curled upward from the plate of gnocchi, and when she opened her palm, the steam had vanished. Mary was surprised by her mother’s cool hand tricks, but not her suspicion. Vita DiNunzio was always vigilant to the Devil At Work, especially in law firms.

“I doubt it, Ma.”

“This, I feel. This, I know!”

“Nobody took the file, Veet,” her father said wearily, his forehead creased all the way to his liver-spotted scalp. “Don’t jump to conclusions. The government loses more papers than it hides.”

But Judy had stopped eating, and her azure eyes glinted with doubt. “It’s a toss-up, Mr. D. I’d believe that somebody would deep-six the file of a suicide in federal custody. It’s a no-brainer. There was liability there. Maybe they were afraid of getting sued. After all, that’s exactly what’s happening, with Mary on the case.”

“Nah.” Matty DiNunzio shook his head. “I lived through that time, kiddo. Suing woulda been the last thing on anybody’s mind, then. People didn’t sue each other like they do now. And the government, who would sue them? Especially during the war.”

“It’s not completely impossible, Pop,” Mary said, thinking out loud. “Amadeo’s suicide had to be an embarrassment for the camp and for the government. Hell, for a long time they tried to keep the entire Italian internment a secret.”

Vita DiNunzio wagged a crooked finger. “Maria, this I feel, something evil! You pray and you no find? Then somebody take!”

And Mary, who had never before put that kind of faith in Saint Anthony, couldn’t say that her mother was mistaken.

Four

Mary eyed her latest blind date, one Jason Pagonis, as he read his menu. He was tall, cool, and reasonably handsome, with close-cropped black hair and brown eyes behind hip little glasses. His smile was pleasant and his manner friendly. He was her age, apparently healthy, with good teeth. He wore a black sport jacket over a black T-shirt, with jeans. In short, there was nothing wrong with him. Mary would have to work hard to find something.

“So what are you having?” Jason asked, looking up unexpectedly.

Mary reddened. “Don’t know. What’s good here?”

“Everything. I love this place. It’s owned by Masaharu Morimoto, one of the Iron Chefs. You’ve heard of them.”

“Sure.” Mary nodded. Her mother was an Iron Chef.

“I love the design elements here. The aesthetic. It’s interesting, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” Mary glanced around. She had never seen a restaurant like this except on The Jetsons. The tables and chairs were sculpted of transparent Lucite and lit from within with colored lights, so they actually glowed. Not only that, but the hue of the tables and chairs changed constantly, so at the moment, Mary’s chair was blue, turning her butt blue, too. Two minutes ago her butt was green, having segued from a bright yellow. Mary wasn’t sure it was a good look for her.

“The restaurant has an incredible website, too.”

“I bet.” Mary was suspicious of restaurants with websites. In fairness, she was suspicious in general, tonight. She’d worked the whole day, read approximately 129,373 documents, and still Saint Anthony hadn’t found Amadeo’s file. Could it really have been taken by the government? And was it behind this stupid decor, too?

“For an appetizer, I’d start with the shira ae.”

“I always do.”

Jason looked up. “You’ve eaten here?”

“No, I was joking around.”

“Oh.” Jason shot her a mercy smile, and Mary vowed instantly to stop joking around. Joking Around evinced a Bad Attitude, and she would fall prey to everyone’s claim that she Just Wasn’t Trying.

Jason was saying, “Shira ae is asparagus with sesame oil.”

“Mmm.” Barf. “What’s a good entrée?”

“The ishi yaki burl bop.”

Mary wondered what language Jason was speaking. She squinted at the menu but couldn’t read it in the orange haze emanating from the table. “What is whatever you said?”

“It’s yellowtail on rice, and it’s great. And for dessert, I’d have the togarashi.”

Mary blinked.

“Japanese sweet potato cake.”

“Great. I like cake. Cake, I understand. Cake is great.” Mary closed her menu, and Jason closed his.

“Great.”

Now that everything was great, Mary wanted to leave, but she knew she was expected to Make Conversation. “So you went to Stanford Law, with Anne.”

“Yes, how is she?”

“She’s on vacation, in St. Bart’s.” Having just opened the subject of her fellow associate, Mary realized that she had to close it right away. Anne Murphy was the hottest girl ever to earn a J.D. degree. No guy who was thinking of Anne would want to be in a multi-colored restaurant with anyone else. Mary tried to think of something else to say. “You were on Law Review, right?”

“Yeah, until I quit to spend more time with my band.”

Mary blinked. The only thing cooler than making Law Review was quitting Law Review. “You had a band? What kind of band?”

“Beginner Foo Fighters. I still play a little, with a pickup band. On a good day, we sound like Wilco.”

“Wilco?”

“Spoon?”

“Got one, thanks,” Mary said, but when she peered at the table setting through a now-yellow cloud, only chopsticks were there. “Oh, I guess I don’t have one.”

“No. Spoon is an indie rock group. Like Flaming Lips, ever heard of them?”

“No.” Mary didn’t know what he was talking about and found her thoughts straying back to Amadeo. Where was his file? Then she stopped her train of thought. It’s not a hot date if you find yourself fantasizing about work during it. She was pretty sure it was supposed to be the other way around.

“How about Vertical Horizon?”

“Huh? No.” Mary was worrying that she would never find anything of Amadeo’s, that there was nothing he had left behind. Why did it bother her so much? Then she knew. Because it made it seem like Amadeo didn’t matter, and he did. Everybody did. Mike mattered, even though he was gone. She loved him still. She had learned a long time ago that you don’t stop loving somebody just because they die.

“What kind of music do you like, Mary?”

Huh?

“Do you like music?”

“Sure.”

“What kind?”

Mary was too preoccupied to think of the right answer, so she told the truth. “Sinatra,” she said, and she could see Check, please flutter behind Jason’s eyes.

“Frank Sinatra?”