Courting Trouble

Anne felt reassured, almost. “But a zillion things can go wrong. I wish we could have stayed. I’d feel better. That closure thing.”

Judy caught her eye on the rearview, then switched to the outside lane as they raced toward the city. “When they catch him, it’ll be all over the news. Bennie said she’d call us on the cell as soon as they had him in custody.”

Mary turned around. “You will be free, Anne. Really free of him.”

“Wahoo!” Judy yelled, and Anne smiled.

“I guess you’re right. It’s just so hard to believe.” She breathed in the fresh air off the Delaware, but Judy was rooting around on the floor of the car while she drove, causing the Beetle to veer out of its lane at the edge of the bridge. Alarmed, Anne grabbed the hand-strap to keep from falling. “Judy, what are you doing?”

“Watch this, ladies!” Judy sang out. She stopped rooting around, stuck her hand out the window, and hung her red platform shoes out by their ankle straps. They twisted in the wind as the car hurtled toward the city. “I’ll be free, too!”

“Judy, don’t do it!” Anne shouted.

“Stop! No!” Mary yelled, but it was already too late.

“Good-bye, cruel shoes!” Judy yelled, and flung the platforms out the window and into the air. The shoes split apart like booster rockets and seemed to soar into the sky for a moment, then, realizing they were mere footwear, plummeted in a final arc over the side of the Ben Franklin Bridge and fell a few hundred feet into the Delaware River.

“You killed them!” Anne said, but Judy was laughing her ass off.

Mary peered out the back window. “You didn’t have to do that, Judy. They were perfectly good shoes.”

“They sucked!” Judy yelled. “My only regret is that I didn’t get to see them drown. Like Anne, I have no resolution, no closure.”

Anne found herself laughing, her spirits light. “Bet it sounded a lot like a car wash,” she said, and burst into car-wash noises. “Ppppshhhhhh! Pssssshhhhh! Ssshhhhhhh!” Judy joined her and in two minutes there was spit all over the VW dashboard.

Mary couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll never teach you guys anything,” she said, but she was drowned out by a spray of hot wax as they slid down the bridge and into the twinkling city of Philadelphia.

“Anne!” Gil exclaimed as he entered the conference room at Rosato & Associates. He looked Anne up and down, studying each star on her breasts, then his gaze lingered on her hot-pants and platforms. “Goddamn! You are so hot! And the shoes are totally—”

“Please,” Anne said, her face as red as her pants. They’d been so late to the meeting, she hadn’t had time to change. Mental note: Don’t dress like a whore to meet clients who cheat.

Gil couldn’t stop grinning as he eased into a chair opposite her. “I can’t get over it. Look at you, woman! You are so damn beautiful! You always were.”

“Right. Thanks.” She sat down in front of her legal pad to restore some sense of legitimacy, and noticed that Gil, in sports jacket and tie, was carrying a manila envelope. “You have the evidence of the affair? Great. Can I see it?”

“It’s in my pants.” He laughed, but Anne didn’t. Was he coming on? Why was he talking like this? He never had before. She didn’t like the way he was smiling at her and she could smell faintly that he’d been drinking.

“You come from a barbecue or something, Gil?”

“Or something. A party.” Gil seemed to forget about the envelope on the table between them, its shape reflected on the polished surface. “I have to tell you, it’s been really terrific working with you, Anne. You’ve been terrific.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re a great lawyer. You’re so—” he seemed to stall, waiting for the right word, “gutsy. Tough. Ballsy. For such a beautiful woman.” His eyes flashed. “And so very beautiful. I’ve always thought it, ever since law school.”

“Great.” Anne let him babble while she reached for the envelope and slid it toward her. She didn’t have time to waste, and she felt antsy and nervous. They still hadn’t heard from the detectives about Kevin’s arrest. Bennie and the others were sitting by the phone. She held up the envelope. “May I open it?”

“Sure!” He waved it off. “You know, me and the guys, you remember the guys, from the poker group in the dorm?”

“Sure. Played poker.” Anne had no idea what he was rambling about. She unfastened the little brass brad and reached inside the envelope.

“We all were so hot for you. I had this picture of you, the one from the pig book. I always thought you were the most stunning woman I ever saw in my life.”

Anne fished around in the envelope but there was no paper inside, only something thin and sharp.

“I knew you didn’t go for my type. Computer geek. B.A. in engineering. I was smart, but you were way out of my league. Well, you’re not anymore. I’m fairly successful, no?” Gil waved a raised fist. “Geeks rule!”

But Anne was only half listening, because there was nothing in the envelope except a CD. She pulled it out and held it up. Its silvery surface caught the overhead light in wiggly rainbow stripes. She flipped it over, looking for a label. Was it music, or some type of stored data?

“I’d really like it if you’d come work for me, Anne. I’m offering you a big job, a big, big job as general counsel at Chipster. Pay is three hundred grand to start, plus stock options. When we go IPO, you’ll be worth millions.”

Anne held up the CD. “What is this?”

Gil grinned crookedly. “You answer me first. When do you want to start? Me and you can take Chipster onward and upward!”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Guilty as charged!” Gil held up a hand. “So you wanna be my GC? ’cause I wanna be your boyfriend.”

Anne’s stomach turned over. “Gil, focus a minute.” She sent the CD spinning across the table like a flying saucer. “I’m trying to win a case for you, despite your best efforts to screw it up. First, you lie to me about your affair with Beth Dietz, then you bring me a CD when I ask you for evidence. What gives?”

“You don’t need to win the case for me, Anne. I already won it for myself. The CD is the evidence, my love.”

Anne ignored the “my love” part. Gil was only embarrassing himself, and it was the Glenlivet talking. “How is a CD evidence of an affair?”

“It’s not, but it’s evidence, all right. It’s proof.”

“Of what?”

“Of wrongdoing. Of theft. Of corporate espionage.” Gil picked up the CD with difficulty and looked through the hole in the center, peeking out with one blue-green eye. “Boo!”

“Gil, what are you doing?”

“You underestimated me, Anne.” He set the CD down, suddenly serious. “You thought that I had screwed up—as you say, interesting choice of words—but I never really do that. I cover my tracks. Plan all my moves. You have to, to be successful in e-business, you know. The competition is killer. On the bleeding edge, you can’t be the one who bleeds.”

“So what’s on the CD?”

“Okay, well. Let me take you back a minute, to our corporate annals. I started Chipster with a few good men—sorry, good-lookin’—and one of them was Bill Dietz.”

Anne remembered, from rereading the dep the other day.

“Dietz came a little later, from another web company called Environstar. Dietz was smart and he worked hard, put in the hours, and he had good ideas, for an asshole. Above all, he wrote good code.”

“Okay.”

“Chipster took off, and we developed our product, our web application, partly on the code he wrote. But a year down the line, Dietz told me he’d stolen the base code from Environstar.” Gil held up the CD. “This is the code he stole.”

“Did Environstar prosecute?”

“No, they had stolen code to start their own company. Everybody steals in software, mainly because it’s never finished, it just goes through about three hundred versions, from 1.0 to 37.9, and people change jobs, over time. But that’s not the point. This is about me, not Dietz. Be a smart girl and tell me what I did next.”

Anne thought a minute. Last week she would have had a different answer, but she was looking at Gil with new eyes. And learning to plan—in advance. “You did nothing. You used the base code, developed it, and made a fortune. You shut up about its origin and you grew your company.”

“Yes! God, and so smart, too! A whip!” Gil hunched over the desk. “I like women with brains. I’m not like the others.”

No, you’re worse. “Why didn’t you give Dietz any stock options?”

“Because he came later, and he wasn’t a founder, technically. And I didn’t have to keep him.”

Anne was catching on. “No, because you’d found out about the stolen code. So you had something on him. If he left you, you’d expose him.”

“I love it when you talk dirty. Do you talk dirty, Anne? I have often wondered about that, late at night.” Gil leaned even farther over the table, but she stood up and walked around the back of her chair, really sorry that she was half-naked.

“Gil, what does the CD have to do with the Chipster case?”

“It will make it go away. I didn’t have it before, but I finally paid off the right programmer. Now I have the proof I need. Bye-bye Beth, hello IPO.” Gil licked his lips. “I called Dietz directly after we spoke today. I told him to tell his wife to call off the dogs or I’ll go public—with the CD.” He laughed, but Anne was struggling to get up to speed and avoid attempted rape.

“If you expose him, you’re liable too, maybe even criminally.”

“He won’t call my bluff, he’s too scared. I can afford the hottest lawyer in town. He can’t afford dick.”

Anne ignored it. “But how does that get rid of the lawsuit?”

“Beth doesn’t know he stole the code. They met after he came to Chipster.”

“How do you know she doesn’t know? Maybe he told her.”

“No, she never would have sued me if she’d known, it was too risky. And she would have mentioned it during our little affair, but she didn’t. Now he’ll tell her the whole truth and nothing but, and she’ll understand that suing me for revenge was not a good idea.”

Anne blinked. “Gil, you won’t win now. She’ll just drop the suit. Withdraw it.”

“No, no, no.” Gil wagged his finger, rising from his seat. “Not what I want. Not what I asked my old friend Dietz for. I want the suit to go forward and the plaintiff to have a sudden memory loss. Trial amnesia, when she takes the stand. Then I want you to kick her lousy ass, get me my jury verdict, and restore my good name, so I look good to my Board. Not just settle. Win.”

“You mean she’ll deep-six her own lawsuit? Like a fighter, who throws a fight?”

“Exactly. Well put. God, I’m so glad you’re not dead. Be my GC and wear that tiny little top. Also the shoes. The shoes are—”

“I won’t do it!”

“Okay, you win. No tiny top. Ha!”

“Stop, it, Gil. You’re not funny.” Anne shook her head. “No, I won’t try a sham case. I won’t play a role, or pretend. I won’t do it.”

“You have to. You can’t withdraw from the case this late.” Gil walked to one chair, then the next, closer to Anne. “We’re both riding this rocket, and it’s going up, up, up, baby.”

“How do you know Beth will do it?” Anne asked, suppressing a tingle of fear as Gil moved closer, around the table.

“I don’t for sure, but she will. The smart money’s on Bill. He’s the brains of that operation. She’s just the pussy.” Suddenly Gil lunged across the chairs, his hands reaching awkwardly for Anne’s stars.

“That’s it, get out!” she shouted, ducking away from his grasp, around the table and toward the door. “Get out!”

But Gil seemed not to have heard her. “And boy, did Dietz have some choice words to say about you! He said, ‘I’m thrilled that little whore is dead!’”

“I don’t want to hear it!” she shouted, but her thoughts were racing. It must have been what Dietz and Matt had fought about. Why Matt had gotten slugged. Her. Anne flung open the door to the conference room. “Get out now!”

Gil tripped on a chair leg and caught the back of the chair, trying to right himself. “Dietz told his lawyer. They even got into a fight over it. Dietz said he would have shot you himself, for what you were doing to wifey. This is the man whose side you’re taking against me.”

“Get out! All I have to do is yell, and my friends will come running.”

“Don’t shoot!” Gil threw up his hands, and just then the conference doors flew open. Standing in the door was a furious Bennie, and Anne was hoping she was furious at Gil, not her.

“Get out of my law firm, Mr. Martin,” she ordered, her mouth tight.

After the women got Gil into the elevator, down the alley, and outside into a cab, they recovered in the reception area while Anne told them the whole story of the CD and what Gil had done. They listened, draped over the soft navy chairs and loveseat. Judy had changed into her denim overalls and Mary was still in her hooker outfit, but barefoot. Her platform shoes formed a vaguely pornographic mound on the Oriental rug.

“This is an interesting situation, very interesting,” Bennie said, when the account was finished. She crossed one muscular leg over the other, in her shorts. “By the way, you’re fired.”

Anne hoped she was kidding again. “Have we heard anything about Kevin? Have they arrested him yet?”

“Rafferty said they’re still staked out at the Daytimer. There’s nothing to do but wait. They’ll pick him up as soon as he gets back. Rafferty will call right away.”

Anne wasn’t liking this at all. Gil gone crazy and still no Kevin. “What about Beth Dietz? Did the cops tell her?”

“Rafferty said he would and we’ll know for sure as soon as he calls back.”

Anne sighed, flopping into a chair across the glistening glass coffee table. “What do I do now? How do I defend Chipster? Do I defend Chipster at all? The man is a pig!”

“A slimebucket,” Judy said.

“A liar,” Mary added.

“A client,” Bennie said firmly, and Anne looked over.

“I’m having a déjà vu, Bennie. We had this conversation once already.”

“I guess we’ll keep having it until you understand it, Murphy. Your obligation as a lawyer is to represent your client fully and to the best of your ability. To say nothing false and to elicit nothing false. You have to be his advocate.”

“But he grabbed my stars!”

Bennie seemed unfazed. “I’ll try Chipster if you can’t fulfill your ethical obligation to your client. Gil Martin is still and ultimately a client of my law firm.”

“It was the earrings that drove him wild,” Judy added.

Bennie waved everybody into silence. “Murphy, you gonna defend him or do I take over?”

Anne hated the sound of it. It was no-win. “I’ll keep the bastard.”

“Then do it and do it well. Fact is, we really don’t know if Beth Dietz will go along with this scam or not. She may not.”

Anne nodded. “If they have a lousy marriage, she may not care if her husband gets ratted out. This lawsuit is her chance to get Gil back for breaking up with her, and she may not give it up.”

“Unless Dietz makes her,” Judy said somberly. “He may threaten her. We know he can be violent.”

Mary looked grave. “I wouldn’t like to be responsible for someone getting a beating. Especially her. She’s got enough problems now, with Kevin after her.”

Bennie frowned. “You wouldn’t be responsible. He would, and so would she. Beth Dietz gets no sympathy from me for staying with an abusive man. She’s suing my client, and however much of a jerk he may be, I’m on his side. I’m sworn to it, and he’s paying me for it.”

Anne snorted. “Didn’t you just throw him out of the office?”

“I draw the line. He hit on one of my associates. That is not happening on my watch. Keep your eye on the prize—the trial.”

Anne considered it. “So we really don’t know which way she’ll go.”

“Right,” Bennie answered. “You have to be ready for whatever they throw at you. Just like any good trial lawyer, you’ll have to think on your feet. You can do it. You have been for the past two days, and very well. With only one minor slip in judgment.”

Anne said it before Bennie did: “Matt.”

Everyone’s gaze went instantly to Anne, three pairs of intelligent eyes in various stages of makeup. Mary’s were full of understanding; Judy’s slightly amused. But Bennie’s had a clear-blue frankness that set Anne squirming. “You’re not seeing him tonight, I hope,” she said.

Oh, no. Anne had to fish or cut bait. Matt had left two messages on her cell phone, asking her to stay with him. She had returned one, telling him to tell Beth about Kevin. Truly she wanted to crawl into his bed, wrap his long arms around her, and feel safe and protected. Could she admit to any of these feelings in front of everyone? Was it even their business? All of a sudden she had both girlfriends and a boyfriend. Mental note: Once you actually get a personal life, it’s hard to live it.

“I’m not seeing him tonight,” Anne said. It was the right thing to do. Or not to do. “I’m educable. Young, but educable.”

Bennie glowed. “An excellent decision, narrowly avoiding disbarment. You’re learning, girl.”

Anne took a bow. “But where can I spend the night? I mean, I can’t stay with you, Bennie. I have to get Mel out of there before your nose explodes. I guess I could find a hotel.”

“That wouldn’t be safe.” Mary got up from her chair with a new enthusiasm. “I know a great place to hide you. Our safe house!”

Bennie brightened, too. “An excellent idea! Why didn’t I think of it?”

Judy clapped, jumping to her feet. “Perfect!”

Anne was bewildered. “Where are we going? What safe house?”

“You’ll see,” Mary said. “But we can’t go dressed like this. We’ll be killed.”

That’s safe? Anne thought, but Mary came over and took her by the hand.

24

It was dark by the time Anne and Mary reached the squat rowhouse somewhere in the redbrick warren that was South Philadelphia. They opened the screen door with its scrollwork D in weathered metal, and Vita and Mariano “Matty” DiNunzio flocked to them, hugging and kissing them, clucking and cooing like a pair of old city pigeons. Anne barely had time to set down the Xerox-paper box containing Mel in front of a worn couch. On the front windowsill sat a yellowed plastic figurine of the Virgin Mary, watching over the street from between two tiny, crossed flags, one American and one Italian.

“Come in, girls! Come in!” Mary’s father was saying. He grabbed Mary, hugged her like a Papa Bear, and rocked her back and forth, all at the same time. “Oh, I love my baby girl!” He was a short, bald, seventysomething-year-old in a white T-shirt, dark Bermuda shorts, and a black belt that was superfluous except that it matched his slip-on slippers. He smiled with joy as he held Mary, and his brown eyes melted like Hershey’s chocolate behind steel-rimmed bifocals. “Our baby’s home! Our girl! Look, Vita, our baby, she’s home!”

But Mary’s tiny mother had wrapped herself around Anne and was caressing her cheek with a papery hand that smelled vaguely of onions. “You are Anna? Che bellissima! Such a beautiful girl! More beautiful than your picture!” Mrs. DiNunzio was about her husband’s age, but an Italian accent flavored her English, so the word “picture” came out “pitch.” “Madonna mia, she has the face of an angel, Matty! Look at this one! The face of an angel!”

“Wow. Jeez. Thanks.” Anne’s spirits lifted instantly, her energy surged, and she couldn’t stop smiling. She even loved her new name. It was great to have people throw a party just because you walked in the door. Anne hadn’t felt this good in a long time, maybe twenty-eight years. Mental note: I want to be Italian.

“She’s such a beauty, it’s a sin! God bless!” Dense trifocals magnified Mrs. DiNunzio’s small, brown eyes, and her thinning, white hair had been teased into an elaborate coiffure and stuffed into a pink hairnet. Cotton strings from the hairnet straggled down her nape, and she wore a flowered housedress and a full-length flowered apron. But Anne wasn’t playing fashion police. She was too busy being hugged and breathing in a pleasant, if peculiar, combination of Spray-Net and sweet basil. Mrs. DiNunzio stopped stroking Anne’s cheek and stepped back from her, marveling. “You look like inna movies! Like actress inna movies or TV. Look, Matty, she—”

“She’s a beauty, all right!” Mr. DiNunzio agreed, hugging Mary. The DiNunzios talked over each other and nobody seemed to mind. “A princess, she looks like! We’ll take care of her. We’ll take care of them both!”

“Nobody’s gonna hurt you in my house!” Mrs. DiNunzio said, staring up at Anne with suddenly wet eyes. Mary had told her parents about Anne’s situation, and Mrs. DiNunzio was practically crying for her. For a split second, something else flickered in the older woman’s magnified eyes, then it disappeared. “God bless! You stay with us, everyting gonna be all right!” She squeezed Anne tight, trembling with a sympathy that seemed ironically to strengthen her frail frame.

“Thank you,” Anne said again, which was stupid, but Mrs. DiNunzio appeared not to hear. Her eyes had darkened abruptly, and fierce little wrinkles deepened her brow under the pink hairnet.

“You work also for Benedetta Rosato! That witch, she’s a no good!” Mrs. DiNunzio wagged a finger knotted at the knuckle. On the way over, Mary had told Anne that her mother had arthritis, from years of sewing lampshades in the basement of this very house, her childhood home. Mary’s father had been a tile setter. And they both hated Bennie. “So much trouble she makes! Guns! Crazy men! Benedetta Rosato, is her fault! She no take care of my Maria! Or you! She no—”

“Ma, please don’t start.” Mary emerged from the clinch with her father and looped an arm around her mother. “Let’s not get onto Bennie, right? Like I said on the phone, Anne can stay in my room, in Angie’s bed—”

“Okay, okay. Atsa no problem.” Mrs. DiNunzio patted Anne’s cheek, her anger vanishing as suddenly as a summer thunderstorm. “Is ready, the bed. Clean towels, clean sheets, all clean onna bed, everything ready for you. First we eat, then go to bed. Welcome, Anna!”

“Thank you.” Time number four? What else was there to say when people were so nice? “Did Mary tell you? I have a cat, too.”

“Okay, a cat! I like, a cat!” Mrs. DiNunzio peered behind Anne, and Mr. DiNunzio was already shuffling over to the box and opening the top flaps. Mel popped his head out with an unhappy meow, and everybody laughed. Mrs. DiNunzio clapped her hands, then clasped them together in delight. “Madonna mia! How pretty, the cat!”

“What a nice kittycat!” Mr. DiNunzio lifted Mel from the box, letting the cat’s back legs hang awkwardly until he finally gathered them up and cuddled Mel against his chest. “Vita, look, he’s a such nice cat.” Mel meowed, working the crowd with Love Cat, and Mr. DiNunzio beamed, his teeth denture-even. “See, Vita? He likes us.”

“He’s a nice cat, he likes it here!” Mrs. DiNunzio smiled, her head wobbling only slightly. “Welcome, Anna’s cat!”

Mr. DiNunzio kissed the top of Mel’s sleek head and looked over at Anne. “What’s his name?” Anne told him, but he frowned, wrinkling well past his forehead. For a minute, she thought he hadn’t heard her, but Mary had told her he was wearing his hearing aids nowadays. They sat snugly in his somewhat furry ears. “Mel?” he asked. “Is that a good name for a kittycat, Anna? I never heard of naming a kittycat a people name, like Joe. Or Dom.” His tone wasn’t critical, just honestly confused, and now, so was Anne.

“I didn’t name him. I got him with that name from the shelter.” Anne smiled. “It’s kind of a stupid name, now that I think about it.”

“How ’bout we call him ‘Anna’s cat,’ then?”

Anne laughed. She and Mel had evidently been rechristened. “You got it.”

“Come on, Vita. Let’s get Anna’s cat some milk,” Mr. DiNunzio shuffled out of the living room, holding Mel. “Come, girls. Anna. Come and get something to eat. Did you eat, Mare?”

“No, not yet. Feed us, Pop. We’ve been here five minutes already.” Mary hugged her mother out of the room. “Whatsa matter, Ma? You stop loving me?”

“Don’ be fresh!” her mother said, with a soft chuckle. She turned and grabbed Anne’s hand, and they passed through a darkened dining room and entered a small, bright kitchen, hot with brewing coffee and steaming tomato sauce. Mrs. DiNunzio made a beeline for the stove and began stirring the sauce with a split, wooden spoon, and Anne came up behind her.

“You need some help, Mrs. DiNunzio?” she asked, catching a whiff of the pot. The richness of cooked tomatoes and garlic made her realize how hungry she was. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten and she’d never had home-cooking like this. The tomato sauce was thickly red, with bumpy meatballs bobbing below the surface and hot sausage curling at the ends, churned up by the gentle stirring of the wooden spoon. Anne tried to guess the recipe but it had to be genetic.

“Sit, sit, Anna!” Mrs. DiNunzio waved her off with a spoon covered with steaming sauce, and Mary grabbed Anne by the arm.

“Don’t even think about helping, Anne. She’ll hit you with the nearest utensil. She’s very territorial, my mother. It’s her kitchen, right, Pop?”

“Right, baby doll. Soon as I do this, I sit down too.” Mr. DiNunzio had gone to a photo-covered refrigerator for a waxed carton of milk, which he poured into a saucer and set down on an ancient linoleum floor in front of Mel. The cat started lapping away. “Cats, my wife trusts me with. Everything else, she feeds. Go, sit, Anna.”

Anne was about to say thank you for the fifty-fifth time, but settled for “I give up,” as Mary sat both of them down at the table, of Formica with gold flecks. A heavy amber-glass fixture was suspended on a gold-electroplated chain over the table, white refaced cabinets ringed the small room, and faded photos of several popes, Frank Sinatra, and a colorized John F. Kennedy, hung on a wall. On a thumbtack was a church calendar with a huge picture of Jesus Christ, his hair brown ringlets against a cerulean-blue background, and his eyes heavenward. Mental note: Start worshiping something other than shoes.

“Anna, Maria. Is ready, the coffee.” Mrs. DiNunzio set the sauce-covered spoon on a saucer, then lowered the gas underneath the pot. She took a dented, stainless-steel coffeepot from the other burner and brought it to the table, where she poured it steaming into Anne’s cup, then Mary’s and her father’s, who was sitting catty-corner.

“Thanks, Mrs. DiNunzio. This looks awesome.” Anne sniffed the aroma curling from her chipped cup and tried to remember if she had ever seen coffee perked on a stove. It seemed like making fire with twigs. Everyone else took his coffee black, but Anne mixed in cream and sugar from the table, then sipped the mixture. It was hot as hell and even better than Starbucks. “Wow! This tastes great!” she said, in amazement.

“Grazie! Drink!” Mrs. DiNunzio went back to the stove, set the coffeepot, and returned to the table, easing into her seat. She didn’t touch her coffee, and her brown eyes had clouded with concern. “So, Anna, the police, they look for this man? He wants to hurt you?”

Mary shot Anne a let-me-handle-this glance. “Yes, Ma, but soon it will be all right. Don’t get all worried,” she said, but Mrs. DiNunzio ignored her, gazing at Anne with an intensity that couldn’t be chalked up to country of origin.

“I see trouble. You have trouble, Anna. Big trouble.” Mrs. DiNunzio leaned over in her chair and reached for Anne’s hand. “Your trouble, you tell me. I help you.”

“Tell you what?” Anne asked, uncertain but touched nevertheless. She’d never felt so cared for, so quickly. It was as if Mrs. DiNunzio had been waiting for her, to help her. But her trouble wasn’t anything that Mrs. DiNunzio could help with, unless she owned a bazooka. “My trouble is this man, Kevin Satorno. The police will get him. They’ll call as soon as they’ve arrested him tonight.”

“No, no, no.” Mrs. DiNunzio clucked, as if Anne had misunderstood. “Not him, he’s a no trouble.”

“Ma,” Mary broke in. “You don’t have to know everything. It’ll just upset you. We’re handling—”

“Shhh, Maria!” Mrs. DiNunzio hushed her daughter with a raised index finger, and even the last trace of a smile vanished. “Cara, you have trouble. Yes, Anna. It hurts your head. It hurts your heart. Yes. This I see. This I know.”

Anne didn’t know what to say, except that, truth to tell, she did have a bad headache. And lately she had begun to think her heart would never be right.

“Argh!” Mary’s forehead dropped theatrically into her hands. “Ma, don’t embarrass me in front of the other kids. I’m trying to make a nice impression here.”

“Mare, this is something you don’t interfere.” Mr. DiNunzio rose suddenly and picked up his coffee cup. “If your mother says Anna’s got ’em, then she’s got ’em. Now let’s get outta here. This is between Anna and your mother. Your mother, she knows. She’ll help Anna.”

I need help? Anne felt vaguely alarmed. The mood changed quickly in the kitchen. Mrs. DiNunzio turned suddenly grave. Mr. DiNunzio was escaping with his coffee, and Mary was on her feet, too. Even Mel stopped drinking milk and dropped to his Alarmo Cat crouch over the saucer.

Anne turned to Mary. “What’s happening, Mary?”

“My mother has superpowers. She’s her own action hero, with X-ray vision. She thinks you need her help and she can help you, so, just go along with it. Let her do what she wants to do.”

“What does she want to do?”

“You’ll see. This is an Italian thing, grasshopper. You must never reveal it to the outside world.” Mary patted her shoulder. “We all took a vow of silence, the entire race, except for Maria Bartiromo, who I still don’t believe is Italian. No Italian girl can understand the stock market. It’s against nature. We’re not built that way.”

What? Anne laughed, mystified. She looked over at Mrs. DiNunzio, who squeezed her hand like a doctor bracing her for bad news. “Mrs. DiNunzio, what—”

“Anna, you got the overlooks. Somebody hate you. He wish evil on you. You have malocchio!”

“Malwhateo?” Anne asked.

“Malocchio! Evil eye!”

Mary was following her father out of the kitchen. “Yes, she’s serious, Anne, and this is South Philly, the land of spells and curses. But don’t worry. My mother knows how to take off the evil eye. The prayer was passed to her on Christmas Eve by her mother, who was also a superhero. Just go with it, and please don’t tell her there’s no such thing as ghosts. She owns a wooden spoon and she will use it.”

“I have the evil eye?” Anne asked, incredulous. I don’t have the evil eye, I have a stalker. “Mrs. DiNunzio—”

“No worry, I take away,” Mrs. DiNunzio said, with another hand squeeze, which was surprisingly firmer, more oncologist than GP. “I make better for you, Anna. This I do for you. Now.”

Were these people nuts? “Mrs. DiNunzio, it’s very nice of you, but there is nothing you can do about this man.” Mental note: Maybe I’ll stay Irish.

But Mrs. DiNunzio had gotten up from the table and was already at the sink, running water from the tap into a clear Pyrex bowl. She turned off the faucet, took a gold tin of Bertoli olive oil from a shelf over the stove, and brought both back to the table, where she set the bowl and olive oil down between them. Then she took her seat, her eyes faraway behind her thick trifocals.

“Mrs. DiNunzio—”

“Shhh!” Mrs. DiNunzio held up a hand, then looked at Anne, her gaze softening. “You have malocchio. This, I know. Vide! Watch!” Mrs. DiNunzio picked up the tin of olive oil and poured three gimlet-hued drops in the bowl of water, one on top of the next. A large drop floated for a moment on the water’s surface, and Mrs. DiNunzio watched it intently. The warm kitchen fell quiet except for the occasional popping of the tomato sauce on the stove. “Wait, Anna.”

“For what? The oil?”

“Si, if you have malocchio, the oil, it goes apart.” Mrs. DiNunzio pointed at the bowl, and the oil split into two drops, edging away from each other. “See? Malocchio!”

What is this, Italian Chemistry? “Mrs. DiNunzio, water and oil will always separate—”

“Anna, you have malocchio very bad. You have trouble, inside, yes?” Her eyes were so kind, and her soft voice so concerned that Anne couldn’t help but feel the truth behind her words, despite the silly bowl of spreading Bertoli.

“Okay, I admit it, I have trouble,” she found herself answering, low so Mary couldn’t hear, if she was lingering in the dining room.

Mrs. DiNunzio was pointing at Anne’s lip, directly at her scar. “I see you have, come se dice?” Her forehead wrinkled with concentration.

“A cleft lip.”

“Madonna mia! A gift from God!”

“A gift?” Anne blurted out. “It’s a curse!”

“No, no.” Mrs. DiNunzio waved her finger between them, slowly. “God, a gift, he give you. You are so beautiful, Anna, that people, they will be jealous. They will hate you. God knows this. This is a gift from God, and you must thank him.”

I’ll get right on that, Anne thought. She couldn’t imagine a God who would give a cleft lip to any kid, much less one with bright-red hair. Why? To make sure nobody would miss it?

“Shhhh.” Mrs. DiNunzio squeezed her hand. “Close your eyes, Anna. I’m gonna help you. Let me help you. Nobody gonna hurt you no more.”

Anne couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. It was absurd, wasn’t it? There was no such things as ghosts, or the evil eye.

“Close your eyes, Anna!” Mrs. DiNunzio ordered, and Anne found herself doing as she was told. She closed her eyes and in a minute focused on the warmth of Mrs. DiNunzio’s hand on hers. Breathed in the wonderful smells of the garlic and onions. Eased into the softness of the plastic pad on her chair. Listened to the percolating of the tomato sauce. In the next minute, Mrs. DiNunzio was mumbling softly in Italian, in a cadence regular and calming. Anne couldn’t understand the words and she didn’t try. In the next minute she felt a warm fingerpad, slick with oil, on her forehead.

“What are you doing?” Anne whispered.

“Shhh! I make sign of cross. Three times. Shhhh!” Mrs. DiNunzio resumed her chanting, presumably lifting the spell of the evil eye, and Anne would have laughed at the absurdity of it, except that she couldn’t help but listen to the motherly tones of Mrs. DiNunzio’s voice and loved the warmth of the oil spreading across her aching forehead. She felt somehow blessed to be in this kitchen, which was a remarkable conclusion for someone who didn’t believe in God, the evil eye, or even mothers.

“Open your eyes, Anna,” Mrs. DiNunzio whispered, with a final squeeze of her hand.

Anne did as she was told and looked at Mrs. DiNunzio, whose dark eyes drew her in like a loving embrace. She held Anne’s gaze like that for a minute, and squeezed her hand across the table without speaking.

“All better now, Anna,” Mrs. DiNunzio announced, after a moment. But it didn’t sound like a question and didn’t seek confirmation. In the next instant, Mrs. DiNunzio was reaching around her own neck for a long gold chain Anne hadn’t seen before, tugging it from behind her apron and lifting it over her head and pink hairnet. It was a gold necklace, and Mrs. DiNunzio handed it across the table to Anne. “Anna, you take. For you. Take.”

“No, Mrs. DiNunzio!” Anne didn’t get it. The woman was giving her jewelry now? It was a longish gold chain with a fourteen-carat gold charm swinging at the end. “I can’t possibly take it. I can’t take your necklace from you.”

“Take! Take! See!” Mrs. DiNunzio caught the charm and showed it between gnarled fingers, fingerpads still glistening with olive oil. The charm gleamed in the light and was shaped like a wiggly pepper. “Is for you! A cornu, a horn. You take! For protect you, from the malocchio!” She handed it to Anne, who pressed it back.

“No, I couldn’t, really.”

“Take! Is gift, from me. From me to you, Anna!” Mrs. DiNunzio’s tone grew almost agitated. She dropped the necklace on the table in front of Anne, where it landed with the tiniest jingling sound. “You need, Anna! You must have!”

“Mrs. DiNunzio, I can’t—”

“TAKE IT!” Mary shouted from somewhere in the dining room, and Mrs. DiNunzio smiled.

“I can’t, Mary!” Anne called out.

“TAKE IT OR SHE WON’T LET US BACK IN!”

“Please, take!” Mrs. DiNunzio reached across the table, picked up the necklace, and slipped it over Anne’s head with finality. “Perfetto, Anna. Now you stay safe.”

“Thank you so much,” Anne said, overwhelmed. She looked down at the gold chain, glinting in the kitchen light, and held the oily horn in her palm. She didn’t really understand how a charm could keep away the evil eye, but she felt so touched that Mrs. DiNunzio had given it to her that she couldn’t keep the wetness from her eyes.

“MY COFFEE’S GETTING COLD!” Mary shouted, and they all laughed.

“Okay, Maria!” Mrs. DiNunzio called back, smiling with obvious relief. “All better now. No worry now.”

Mary came in, clapping. “So you kept it! Good for you. Now you have Italian insurance. The Prudential has nothing on us, do they?”

Anne blinked the tears away, and when she found her voice, could say only one thing: “You’re lucky, Mary. You know that?”

“I certainly do.” Mary came over and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, and behind her, her father shuffled into the kitchen, bearing his coffee cup.

“How’s your headache, Anna?” he asked, and Anne had to think a minute. Actually, she didn’t feel anything. Her head was amazingly clear.

“It’s gone!” she answered. It was the truth, and no one was surprised but her.

“Anne, wake up,” Mary was saying, her voice loud in Anne’s ear. “It’s morning. You have to wake up. Anne?”

Anne didn’t open her eyes. She was so sleepy. The pillow was so soft. Her tummy was awash with spaghetti, sweet sausage, and chianti. She wasn’t getting up.

“Anne, Anne!” Mary was shaking her gently, insistent. “Wake up, it’s important.”

Anne opened an eye and took in her surroundings. The bedroom was small, clean, and spare, the walls creamy white. High school Latin trophies and religious statues cluttered a white shelf. A square of sunlight struggled through a lace curtain. It must be morning. A night table sat six inches from her nose, and on it glowed the red numbers of a digital clock. 6:05. Anne moaned. “It’s so early.”

“Wake up! You have to see this!” Mary’s tone was urgent, and she held up a copy of the Daily News. “Look!”

“What?” Anne started to ask, but the question lodged in her throat when she saw the headline. Her eyes flew open. She took the newspaper and sat bolt upright. “This can’t be true!”

“It is. I called Bennie and it’s all over the web. She’ll be here in five minutes.”

“Maybe it’s just more lousy reporting? Gonzos at work?” Anne blinked at the front page in disbelief. Her headache roared back. Then, with a bolt of fear, she remembered. They’d fallen asleep around two o’clock, after calling Bennie for the tenth time, to see if Kevin had been taken into custody. “Didn’t Bennie call last night, about Kevin? Didn’t they arrest him?”

“No. The cops never got him. He never came back to the motel. He’s still out there. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, you’re in danger now, Anne. We have to get you out of here.”

Anne couldn’t take her eyes from the newspaper. She flashed back to the tabloid from the first morning, when this had all started. But today’s headline was even worse. She read it over and over:

MURPHY’S MOM: “NOT MY DAUGHTER!”

Underneath the headline was a photo of Anne’s mother. And she was standing in front of the city morgue.

25

The commissioner’s private conference room at the Roundhouse was large and rectangular, and contained a long walnut table with a single piece of polished glass protecting its costly surface. An American flag stood furled in one corner behind the head of the table, and in another corner Anne recognized the blue polyester flag of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania she’d seen in state courtrooms. Air-conditioning chilled the room, but it could easily have been her emotions.

Ten high-backed leather chairs sat around the table, reflected in fuzzy shadow on its shiny surface, and Anne, Bennie, Mary, and Judy took seats in the ones on the left, across from Deputy Commissioner Joseph Parker, Detective Sam Rafferty, his partner, and a young black man in a suit, who introduced himself as a lawyer from the city solicitor’s office. The city lawyer shook hands all around and began taking notes on a fresh legal pad as soon as he returned to his seat. Anne reminded herself it wasn’t a war, despite the battle lines on opposing sides of the table, the lawyer making notes in anticipation of litigation, and the woman entering the room and quietly taking a seat at the head of the table, the putative plaintiff, one Terry Murphy. Anne’s mother.

No doubt it was her, though Anne hadn’t seen her in so long. She seemed shorter than Anne remembered, perhaps five two, and years of pills and alcohol had destroyed a woman once lovely enough to attract dozens of men and entertain fantasies of movie stardom. Her cheeks looked sunken, her skin withered, and the blue of her eyes seemed watered down, especially in contrast with too-thick liquid eyeliner. Her mouth was enlarged by coral lipstick, and she wore a matching melon-colored T-shirt with a scoop neck and white cotton Capri pants, with white Tod knock-offs. Something about the shoes made Anne sad.

She watched her mother shake hands with the police brass, extending a small hand with frosted fingernails. Her mother nodded in a wobbly way, as if she’d gotten out of her umpteenth stint at rehab, and her shoulder-length hair had been newly colored jet-black to hide the graying of its dark red. She shook Bennie’s, Judy’s, and Mary’s hand, not looking at Anne until the last.

“Hello, Anne,” her mother said, her voice thin, but Anne didn’t reply, because she didn’t know where to begin, and once begun, would never end.

The deputy commissioner cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me first welcome our guests, and thank them for coming down here on the holiday to discuss this subject, which I know is important to all of us.” He was black and heavyset, balding, with dark, kind eyes and a soft smile. An unfortunate neck wattle hung over the tight collar of his stiff white shirt, which Anne gathered was worn by top cop brass, if his stripes, gold-eagle pin, and police-shield tie tack were any indication. The deputy commissioner continued, “The commissioner wishes he could be here, but, as you may know, he is out of the country.”

“In Ireland, I had heard that,” Bennie said, and Anne sat back against the cold leather. She was happy to let Bennie run the show, because it was clear from the jump that nothing meaningful was going to take place here, and for all of her newfound self-control, Anne was embarrassed at being in the same room as her mother.

“Most important,” he continued, “permit me to apologize to Mrs. Murphy, here and now, for the judgment exercised by Detectives Rafferty and Tomasso. After an investigation, which I assure you is ongoing, it has come to my attention that these detectives may have permitted certain false information about your daughter’s whereabouts to persist uncorrected. For that, and for any undue pain this may have called you, Mrs. Murphy, we, as a department, are heartily sorry.”

Terry Murphy nodded graciously, but that didn’t stop the apologies, which Anne knew were for the record and rendered solely on the advice of counsel, undoubtedly higher up than the one taking notes at the table. They knew that under the circumstances, Anne’s mother could sue the city and department for emotional distress and collect big-time. Only Anne knew that her death didn’t cause her mother any distress at all.

“I assure you, Mrs. Murphy, that these detectives have excellent records of service to the department, Homicide Squad, and city. Their actions were taken not only at your daughter’s request, but also in the sincere and reasonable belief that they were protecting her from further harm. You do understand that, I hope, Ms. Murphy.”

“Yes, of course,” her mother said, nodding again, and Anne detected a trace of a pseudo-English accent as bad as Madonna’s. Nice touch, Ma. Is that the acting part?

The deputy commissioner smiled his nice smile. “However, it remains true that the detectives’ actions were unorthodox, certainly, and also against police procedure, though they were undertaken in all good faith. We will be meeting with the press later today, to make clear our position in this matter. You should be aware, Mrs. Murphy, and we will tell the press, that we as a department are considering taking disciplinary action against the detectives for their actions.”

Detective Rafferty bowed his head slightly, a gesture that showed the sincerity that her mother lacked, and Anne was moved to speak.

“If I may, Deputy Commissioner Parker,” she said, raising an index finger. “As you correctly point out, Detective Rafferty and his partner took the actions—” she shook off the police speak and started over—“they kept quiet about the fact that I was alive because I begged them to, and to help me protect myself. I think it showed excellent judgment on their part, in addition to a really good heart.”

“Thank you,” the deputy commissioner said, and the city lawyer scribbled furiously. Rafferty looked up, a slight smile creasing his face, and Anne smiled back.

“I would hope that the police department would take no disciplinary action against either of these detectives. If the department would like me to submit a statement to that effect, for your purposes or for submission to the press, I would be happy to do so.”

“Excellent, that would be most appreciated,” the deputy commissioner said, and the city lawyer thought it was Christmas. Anne knew he’d send a follow-up letter as soon as he got back to his office, bearing the computer-generated signature of the City Solicitor and confirming her offer. The city and the department had just gotten a free release, but that was fine with Anne. She’d be damned if her mother would make a penny off of her alleged death, when she hadn’t bothered to show up for her alleged life.

Bennie was nodding in agreement. “Anne’s analysis is exactly correct, and my firm would be happy to state as much in a separate letter, if you wish.”

“A letter from Bennie Rosato, supporting the police?” The deputy commissioner chuckled softly, his heavy chest moving up and down.

“Credit where credit is due, sir.” Bennie smiled and leaned over the glossy table. “Now that we’re done with that, tell me what the department is going to do to catch Kevin Satorno.”

“We have assigned every available man to the search, and coordinated with the FBI and authorities in New Jersey. We remain staked out at the Daytimer. How did you find Satorno, by the way?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Bennie said dismissively. The deputy commissioner didn’t press her, evidently in return for the nice letter she’d offered to write, like a referee’s compensatory call. “But can you offer Ms. Murphy any protection at all? We’re sure that Satorno will be stalking her, to finish what he started, both on the West Coast and here.”

“At this point, there’s not much we can do. As a policy matter, we don’t usually assign personnel to an individual victim of crime, and we’re severely short-handed today, because of the Fourth.” The deputy commissioner paused. “But when we free up somebody after the holiday, maybe we can put a car at her house or office.”

“That may be too late. She needs protection now. Don’t you have anybody, in a department this size? I can’t believe there’s nobody. What if a VIP came into town?”

“Unfortunately, there are already plenty of VIPs in town. We do have a Dignitary Protection Squad, but they’re already deployed. The Secretary-General of the U.N. is getting an award today, and half of Hollywood is arriving for the fireworks ceremony at the Art Museum tonight. There’s not a soul to spare.” He turned to Anne. “Ms. Murphy, if you want my advice, the best thing for you to do is to take a vacation out of town, until we apprehend Mr. Satorno.”

Anne had expected as much. “Thanks, but no. I have to work, I have to live. I’m trying a case tomorrow. I can’t go hide out, and I wouldn’t anyway.”

The deputy commissioner looked sympathetic. “Then use your common sense, which I think you have in abundant supply. Leave the police work to us, Ms. Murphy.”

“I understand, sir.” Anne rose slowly, her hands leaving fingerprints on the table, and Bennie and the others took their cue from her, rising from their seats. “Then, if there’s nothing more, we should probably get to work.”

The other side of the table rose, too, led by the deputy commissioner, who eased his girth from his chair. “We won’t keep you. Thank you for coming and we’ll call you the moment we have Mr. Satorno in custody. If you want an escort through the media outside in the parking lot, I can have my driver accompany you.”

Anne looked at Bennie, who answered, “That’s okay, thanks. What time is your press conference?” She headed for the door with the other lawyers, and Anne trailed behind.

The deputy commissioner hustled to open the heavy, paneled door. “In two hours, and we’re taking the same tack. I’m telling them what I just told you. With your permission, I will restate your position.” He waited for Bennie’s nod, then glanced at Terry Murphy, who remained seated at the table. “Mrs. Murphy isn’t yet sure of her position, but she has kindly agreed to attend the press conference with us.”

Cameras, lights, attention? “Why am I not surprised?” Anne muttered, but her mother heard it and turned in her seat, her face an almost-professional mask of pain.

“Honey?” she called out. “Can we talk, for a minute?”

But Anne was already gone, walking out the door without looking back. Just as her mother had, a decade earlier. Returning the favor felt good, and bad, but Anne had something better to do. Like save herself.

The women trooped down an empty hall to the elevator, piled into the cab and rode down without a word, at first. Anne felt everybody’s eyes on her, and appreciated it. They cared about her. They worried about her safety; they worried about her emotional state. Bennie, Mary, and even Judy were her true friends now, and she was theirs. But that meant they wouldn’t be able to go with her any longer. She couldn’t endanger them.

The elevator doors opened onto the ground floor, and they got out. Anne could see the media mob thronging in the parking lot, through the glass double-doors of the entrance. They extended all the way to the sidewalk, but she wasn’t unhappy to see them anymore. They were going to help now. But not with flyers, with something better.

“Get in wedge formation, girls,” Bennie said, taking the lead and gathering the associates behind her like baby chicks. Then she looked back and frowned. “Murphy, where’s your hat and sunglasses?”

“In my pocket.” Anne patted the hat and sunglasses, rolled up together. “I’ve worn my last disguise. I’m going as myself from now on.”

“No, you’re not. Put them on. Now.”

Mary touched Anne’s arm. “Anne, you should get in disguise. Otherwise you’ll be all over the TV and the news. The way you look now, your new haircut and color.”

But Anne had already broken formation. She hurried to the double door before anybody could stop her, and on the other side, the reporters were already clamoring for her. Shouting questions. Shooting pictures.

“Murphy, no!” Bennie shouted, but she was too late.

Anne was heading out into the sunlight.

Alone, except for a really good idea.

26

I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU DID THAT!” Bennie was yelling at Anne from the passenger seat of Judy’s Beetle, and her voice reverberated in the well-advertised dome of its interior. Judy was driving and they zoomed up the Parkway, heading uptown to the office, on Bennie’s orders. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Murphy?” she kept yelling. “Now Satorno will know what you look like!”

“I’m sorry, I guess I wasn’t thinking,” Anne said and hoped Bennie believed it. She’d have to sell it better. She shot for a bad impression of herself. “I’m so tired of letting Kevin run my life. I wanted to be myself for once.”

“THAT WASN’T VERY SMART, WAS IT?” Bennie was hollering so loudly that Mary and Judy cringed in stereo, but that didn’t stop her. “You wanted to be YOURSELF? News flash—YOURSELF is the girl he wants to kill, and he knows he’s gotta find you before the holiday’s over and the cops get more than three people on it! YOURSELF is gonna get dead, if you keep this up! Are you nuts, Murphy?”

“Can we stop somewhere?” Anne wiped her bangs back with a fraudulent weakness. “I feel kind of carsick.”

Mary offered her a half-bottle of water. “You want something to drink?”

“No, thanks, but I’m really queasy. My head feels so light.” Anne listed to the left, channeling Lucy’s fake illness in “Lucy Gets a Paris Gown.” Episode No. 147, March 19, 1956. “Can we just stop a minute?”

Bennie twisted around, her hair blowing in her face. “You have to stop, Murphy? We’ll find you a place to stop, so I can get out and yell at you better!” A minivan full of kids waving tiny American flags went by, and their mother was screaming at them from the passenger’s seat, too. “I have had it with you! Pull over, Carrier! Now!”

“Bennie, take it easy,” Judy said. “She’s sick.”

“Now!” Bennie ordered. The Beetle lurched to the next light, then swerved to the curb, where Judy pulled up, braked with a jolt, and cut the ignition. She opened her door and got out, and Bennie flung open her door and climbed out. “Everybody outta the pool! Now!”

“Thanks, guys,” Anne said faintly. She climbed out of the car slowly, giving herself time to scope out the scene. They had parked near a small triangle of sparse city grass, next to the street. A grimy wooden bench sat in the middle of the patch of land, which was littered with cigarette butts, broken bottles, and torn bits of red-white-and-blue-striped streamer. Bennie was standing by the door, fuming.

Excellent. Anne would have to act quickly. It was a corny plan, but it worked for Lucy in more episodes that she could count. Anne screwed up all the red-headed courage she could muster, walked over to Judy, and stopped dead in her tracks, pointing in mock horror over her friend’s shoulder. “Oh, my God! Judy, that’s Kevin!” Anne yelled out. “Right there!”

“Kevin? Where?” Judy wheeled around instantly, and Mary and Bennie did, too.

In the next second, Anne grabbed the car keys from Judy’s hand, scrambled back into the Beetle, slammed the key in the ignition and twisted it on, then hit the gas and took off. The Beetle fishtailed wildly, the driver’s door banging against the hinges, but Anne managed not to fall out as she took off and zoomed away, toward the Expressway to the Parkway. She checked the rearview mirror. Bennie was already a receding figure on the green patch in the distance, and Mary and Judy stood with her. It worked! Mental note: Lucy Ricardo would have been a great lawyer.

Anne hit the gas, hoping they’d understand. She cared too much about them to bring them any further. She had already gotten Willa killed. She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to one of them. She steered the Beetle uptown.

An older man in a station wagon glanced over at her, obviously annoyed that she was speeding, but she gave him a carefree wave. She intended to draw as much attention as she could today, to be as public as possible. To be noticed, seen. The newspapers had her picture and they’d run it soon, footage from outside the Roundhouse. People would start recognizing her. They would report more sightings than Elvis, ask her questions, create a buzz. Her whereabouts throughout the day would become known, which was all according to plan.

Anne intended to celebrate the Fourth of July in the City of Brotherly Love in the most public and obvious fashion ever, because she had no doubt that, at some point during the day, Kevin would find her. She was tired of running away from him and refused to do it even for one more day. She would let Kevin catch her. Then she’d catch him back.

She switched lanes, breathing easier. She was doing the right thing. It was the only way to bring this nightmare to an end. She would use herself as bait. If she didn’t, she’d be running for the rest of her life. Scared, and in danger. She wouldn’t move again. She would stand her ground, flush Kevin out, and nail him herself. Bennie and the girls would never have let her do it, that’s why she had to do it alone. Well, not completely alone.

She took a turn toward Arch Street, heading up to her house, slowing in the increased traffic. It grew more congested the closer to City Hall she got, clustering around the Tourist Center and the Party on the Parkway. She made her way west, took a right onto Twenty-second Street, then a left, joining the line of traffic to her neighborhood and eventually turning onto Waltin Street.

Police sawhorses sat at the curb of the street, bearing a white sign that read BLOCK PARTY TODAY 3–5 P.M. Anne vaguely remembered a form she’d gotten for the block party, but she hadn’t bothered to send in the money. The party must be today. Odd that they’d be holding it despite her murder. Mental note: If people celebrate when you get killed, it’s time to make a few changes.

She fell into line behind slow-moving cars and SUVs, taking the time to look out the window and let people see her. She reached the top of her block and proceeded onto it, remembering when she’d walked it in the Uncle Sam stovepipe. Was that only two days ago? It hardly seemed possible. When she was five houses from her own, then four, she could see the yellow crime-scene tape still flapping in the breeze. People passed by on the sidewalk, stopping curiously, then moving on, not letting the ugly notion ruin their holiday.

She double-parked in front of her door, blocking traffic. How better to get some attention? She hoped all her neighbors would look out their windows and see her. Kevin could be in the area, betting she’d come back to the house. She had to get inside. She flung open her door and jumped out of the truck, causing a man in a white TransAm behind her to lean on his horn.

Anne gave him a happy wave. “Be just a minute!” she called out, and she fumbled in her purse for her keys and bounded to her stoop. It still had a few bouquets, withering in their cellophane. She didn’t linger to look at any of them. She tore off the crime-scene tape, slid her key in the lock, then steeled herself to go inside.

The front door swung open, permitting the acrid stench of dried blood to greet her, but Anne ignored it and closed and latched the door behind her. He is going to pay, Willa. She hurried through the entrance hall without looking around, then darted upstairs and ran to her bedroom. She rushed to her closet, listening to the blare of angry honking outside her bedroom windows, from the backed-up traffic.

Anne opened the louvered door, reached for the top shelf, shoved aside a stack of winter sweaters, and fumbled around for the Prada shoebox. She found it with her fingertips, scraped to get it down but ended up batting it to the ground, the lid coming off. She knelt down and moved the white tissue-paper aside, and there it was, nestled safe and sound.

Her little black semi-auto, the Beretta Tomcat. It was a sleek little gun of Italian design, the Armani of handguns. She lifted it from the box, feeling its heavy, deadly heft in her palm. She pushed the grooved button in the handle and slid out the magazine. It smelled of gun cleaner and was fully loaded. She pressed the mag back, clicked the safety into place, and slipped the tiny gun into her purse. She was about to run downstairs when she thought of something. She couldn’t run in Blahniks and she’d need to run. Why not think ahead, for once? She rooted in the bottom of her closet, found a pair of red canvas espadrilles, and slid into them. Then her eye fell on her summer dresses, hanging in the closet.

Why not? She’d be more recognizable in her own clothes, and for the first time in her life, she knew just what to wear. She tore through her clothes, sliding each work dress and suit along the hanger with a screech. There it was, way in the back. The dress she’d worn on her first and only date with Kevin. She hadn’t worn it since, but something had prevented her from throwing it out. It was a part of her history. Now it would be a part of her future. She stripped, slipped the white picot dress from the hanger, and shimmied into it. The sleeveless skimmer felt cool, and she suppressed the bad memory it carried. She dropped the Beretta into its front pocket, because she’d be freer to move without her messenger bag. She went to her dresser, grabbed some cash in case she needed it, and headed out.

Honk! Honk! It was a hornfest out there, and Anne hurried downstairs. She hated going through the entrance hall again, and flung open the front door so fast that she startled an old man on the sidewalk. He looked vaguely familiar in his gray shorts, white T-shirt, and black socks-and-sandals combo, and he was walking a fawn pug, tugging mightily for such a tiny dog.

The old man’s eyes widened, his cataracts ringing them with a cloudy circle. “Miss Murphy! You’re alive?”

Anne came down the steps and steadied him by his arm, its bicep slack with advanced age. “I am, sir. Did you see the newspaper? It was an awful mistake. I was just out of town.”

“Well, how remarkable! You know, I live next door to you, in 2259. My name is Mort Berman.” Mr. Berman’s head shook slightly. “I was so sorry to hear that you had been killed! You were such a nice, quiet neighbor. We felt funny holding the block party, but we thought we’d do a sort of memorial to you. And now you’re alive! Will you come?”

“Thank you, Mr. Berman, I will.” Horns blared from the line of traffic, and the man in the white TransAm was flipping Anne a very aggressive bird, moving his middle finger up and down. She hoped Mr. Berman couldn’t see. “I’m sorry, I really have to go now. Happy Fourth!”

“See ya at the block party!” he called back, as Anne jumped inside the VW and shifted it into gear.

Her thoughts moved a lot faster than the traffic. She checked the Beetle’s purple-and-red clock. 9:48. It was early. Good. She was one step ahead of Bennie, and Kevin, too. The newspapers wouldn’t have published her photo so soon after she’d left the Roundhouse, but there was still a lot she could do in the meantime. She sensed Kevin wouldn’t make his move until dark, because it would be safer for him, but she could let him get a bead on her before then. Anything could happen once she put herself in harm’s way. At least now she had the Beretta for protection. And the gold charm necklace Mrs. DiNunzio had given her. She’d be ready for him and any other hobgoblin.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Anne hit the gas and took a left, heading west. She knew where to look for Kevin, so that he could find her. Twenty blocks later she was there. Powelton Village was a city neighborhood that lay between Drexel University and the University of Pennsylvania. The architecture was decidedly different from Center City; instead of the brick rowhouses that marked Philly’s downtown, there were large, detached Victorian houses made of stone, with slate-shingled turrets, funky gothic parapets, and arched porches. Their gingerbread trim had been painted in whimsical Cape May colors. Some of the large houses bore signs with Greek letters, and Anne assumed they were frat houses from nearby Drexel University and Penn. She took a left past the row of frats and then a right onto the street.

3845 Moore. She had remembered the address from the answers to interrogatories. It was where Beth and Bill Dietz lived. Anne had never visited the home of a plaintiff before, but Kevin had never started stalking anyone else. There was a chance that he’d be here, watching Beth’s house, and if he was, Anne wanted him to see her. Maybe she could do some good, too. She had thought about calling ahead, to see if it was okay for her to come, but there’d be too much ‘splainin’ to do, and she didn’t want to ask for permission she wouldn’t get.

The Beetle cruised up the street, and she inched up in the driver’s seat with anticipation. Tall, narrow houses lined the street like books on a shelf. American flags hung from the arch on the porches, and the smell of barbecued hamburgers blew from the backyards, but the streets were less busy than downtown. If Kevin was stalking Beth Dietz, he’d have a harder time finding places to hide. And so would Anne.

She found a space near the Dietzes’ and parked legally, taking it as a good omen. Maybe she’d have some luck and draw fire. She got out of the car, walked down the street slowly in case Kevin was watching, and found the right house. It was made of large, dark stone and stood three-stories high, apparently only one-room wide, and had a green-painted porch with no flag. The porch’s gray floorboards had warped, and its plank edges were crooked as bad teeth. She walked to the front door and knocked under its four-paned window.

It was opened after the second knock by Beth Dietz. She wore jean shorts, an embroidered peasant blouse, and a shocked expression on her pretty face. “I read you were alive, but seeing you—” she stopped in midsentence, her blue eyes astonished. “Well, I mean, what are you doing here? You represent Gil Martin. You have no business being here, and my husband will be home any minute.” She glanced worriedly up the street, tossing back long blond hair, and Anne formed the instant impression that she was nervous.

“I know this seems inappropriate, but I came to talk to you about Kevin Satorno, not the case.”

“Please. You have to go. My husband is on his way.” Beth started to close the door, but Anne stopped her.

“Did the police tell you that Kevin Satorno is stalking you? Did Matt?”

“No one’s stalking me. I would know if someone was stalking me.”

It struck a chord. Anne had felt that way, too. “No, he is, and you have to take him seriously. He believes you’re in love with him, and the cops don’t understand how to deal with him. I’m worried—”

“Oh, please.” Beth scoffed. “You’re worried about me? You’ve spent the last year making my life miserable.” She tried to close the door again, but Anne shoved her espadrille in it.

“Have you had a lot of hang-ups on your phone? Don’t change the number, it takes away his outlet. Get a second phone line and leave an answering machine on the first. And save the tape, for evidence.” Anne could see Beth hesitate for just a second, and was surprised to find herself softening inside. She and Beth were both women in the same predicament, even though they were at odds in the lawsuit. And she didn’t judge Beth for having an affair; Bill Dietz would have driven any wife away. “I know it seems weird, but we have a lot in common. It’s very possible that Kevin’s watching us both, right now.”

“Look, you know that my husband doesn’t like you, especially after our depositions. You should really go. Our lawyer will be with him, you can talk to him.” Beth glanced worriedly down the street, and Anne realized she was more worried about her husband than Kevin.

“Matt is with your husband? So, he told you about Kevin Satorno.”

“They went out for a minute, for more charcoal. Please, go.”

“Let me in, just for a minute. We’re both in danger.”

“Please, please go!” Beth’s gaze remained fixed at the end of the street, then her eyes flickered with fear. Anne looked over her shoulder. A black Saab was cruising toward the house, and Beth let out a low groan. “Now he’ll see you leave.”

“If that’s your husband, I’ll talk to him, too. I can explain—”

“No!” Beth pressed hard on the door and almost slammed it on Anne’s fingers. “Don’t you see? You’re just making it harder for me!”

Anne felt torn. She had no right to be here, but she didn’t like a woman being bullied when her life was at stake. “Kevin is out there, Beth! He’ll be looking for me today. And for you.”

Suddenly Anne heard the loud slamming of a car door on the street and she turned in time to see Bill Dietz double-park the Saab and rush out of it, his long ponytail flying. He was alone; Matt wasn’t in the car. He took big strides on long, thin legs and reached the front porch in no time.

“Oh, no,” Beth moaned, and Anne edged backward. She put up her hands almost reflexively as Dietz charged toward her and bounded to the front door.

“Mr. Dietz, Bill, I can explain—”

“Anne Murphy!?” Dietz shouted. “Who the fuck do you think you are, coming to our house?” His chest heaved under a thin yellow surfer shirt, and his deep voice thundered. “You’re dead, you’re not dead? You like to play games, fuck with people? What is your problem?”

Anne’s mouth went dry. “I’m here to talk with your wife and you about the stalker, Kevin—”

“What, you haven’t hurt her enough? Hurt both of us? What is this? Are you crazy, or just a bitch?” Dietz raged in Anne’s face, his skin tinged redder than it had been at the deposition.

“I’m trying to help Beth—”

“Oh, it’s ‘Beth’ now? You didn’t call her ‘Beth’ at her deposition! You called her a whore!”

“Bill, no, please!” Beth pleaded from the door. On the sidewalk, a mother with two young children hurried them past the house, avoiding the scene.

Anne stood her ground, wondering how much of his rage was because of the CD. Dietz was trapped and he knew it. The trap had been set by Gil, not her, but she couldn’t say that. Anne was getting angry. “I never called her anything and I’m not here about the lawsuit! I’m here because—”

“I don’t give a shit why you’re here! You’re a manipulative bitch! You’re fucking Matt! Screwing my lawyer, that’s rich! Using him to get to us! You can fool him but you can’t fool me, you little whore!”

“What?” Beth asked in a whisper, and Anne’s face went hot.

Matt had told Dietz. She felt ashamed, betrayed, driven to respond. “I’m not using Matt, and he never let—”

“You’re the whore, not my wife! You think I’m gonna take that shit from him—or you? I fired his ass, and I’m reporting you to the state bar! I’ll have you both up on charges! Now get the fuck off my property!”

Oh no. Anne’s mind was reeling. She didn’t see Dietz’s hand coming. He cuffed her across the face. Her cheek exploded in pain. She stumbled backward and grabbed the porch railing to keep from falling down the stairs.

“Bill, no!” screamed Beth, clutching her husband at the front door. “Stop! Come inside!”

“Get out of my sight!” Dietz bellowed, shaking Beth off.

Anne scrambled to her feet. She thought of the Beretta but would never go there. She bolted from the porch and ran.

27

Anne dashed down the sidewalk to Judy’s car. Her breath came raggedly and her knees had gone weak. She looked behind her. Dietz wasn’t chasing after her. The porch was empty and the front door was shut. Beth must have coaxed her husband inside. Still Anne jumped into the car and fumbled for the keys, slamming them into the ignition despite the wrench in her shoulder.

She turned on the ignition, hit the gas, and tore out of the parking space, with one eye plastered to the rearview mirror. A block away, she reached for her cell phone, flipped it open, and pressed in Matt’s cell number.

Come on, Matt. Pick up! But the ringing stopped and a mechanical voice came on. “The Verizon customer you are calling cannot be reached . . .” Anne sped away from Moore Street as the beep sounded.

“Matt, call me on the cell!” she shouted into the phone. “I just had a fight with Dietz. Why did you tell him about us? I heard he fired you. Call me as soon as you can.” She hit the End button and tossed the phone onto the seat. She didn’t breathe easier until she was two blocks away and the rearview mirror was filled by cars driven by normal people.

Anne’s heartbeat slowed, but her shoulder hurt and her cheek stung. She checked the mirror. Her cheekbone was swollen and puffy, but the skin wasn’t broken. She felt angry, frightened, and bewildered. At a stoplight, she tried to reconstruct what had happened. Matt had told Dietz about their night together, in a moment of what? Honesty? Conscience? Closeness? She shook her head as the light turned green. Lots of plaintiff’s lawyers got friendly with their clients, but this was ridiculous. Mental note: Men may be better at intimacy than Dr. Phil thinks.

Anne pulled up beside a minivan flying the American flag from its antennae and played out the scenario. Dietz was trying to deep-six the lawsuit because of the CD, but Matt didn’t know that. So Dietz must have taken the opportunity, when Matt told him about their affair, to fire him. Now Dietz would come home, tell Beth the news about Anne and Matt, and blame it all on them. How could she have let herself get in this position?

Anne cruised behind the minivan and switched the air-conditioning up to MAX, letting it blast away at her stinging cheek. She remembered Kevin. He could be watching, waiting, listening. Fear shot through her but she willed it away. She had to draw Kevin out or she’d never catch him. She searched the street but she didn’t see him; then again, she wouldn’t. Then it struck her: If Kevin had overheard that scene on the porch, he learned that Anne had been sleeping with Matt. The news would enrage him and place Matt squarely in jeopardy. Anne’s thoughts raced. Matt was stranded in West Philly without a car. Where had he and Dietz gone? What had they bought?

She gunned the engine to the end of the block, then crossed onto the next. It was a residential neighborhood, with not a store in sight. A young mother with two kids stood waiting to cross the street, and Anne called out, “Do you know if there’s a convenience store around here? One that sells charcoal?”

“The minimart at the gas station. Up five blocks, then take a right. They’ll have charcoal, if they’re not out of it already.”

“Thanks!” Anne waved them across and followed the directions to the minimart. A bright-white building with gas pumps and a bustling parking lot in front. Matt wasn’t outside, but Anne pulled in, switched off the ignition, and jumped out of the Beetle. She hurried into the store, past a pyramid of Kingsford charcoal. She looked around quickly, but no Matt. If he had been here, he’d gone. She was about to head for the exit when she spotted a ratty black-and-white TV set on a counter behind the register, and the image on the TV screen stopped her.

It was her mother, standing with the deputy commissioner. It must be the press conference. Anne screened out the noise in the store and leaned over the counter toward the TV.

“In answer to your question,” her mother was saying, “I am overjoyed that my daughter is alive, and I won’t be filing a lawsuit now or at any other time against the police department, the city, or the medical examiner’s office.”

Anne blinked in surprise. Her feet itched to go, but she stood on the spot as if rooted. Her mother, turning down money?

Off-screen, one of the reporters was asking, “Mrs. Murphy, why weren’t you called to identify your daughter’s body?”

Anne held her breath for the answer.

Her mother bent her head and, when she looked up, her eyes were teary. “I wasn’t called to identify Anne because she had no idea of my whereabouts. I have made some terrible mistakes in the past, but the biggest one was abandoning my daughter, long ago.”

Anne was amazed at what she was hearing. She wanted to go, she wanted to stay.

“As terrible as it sounds, it took the report of my daughter’s death to make me realize what I had lost, in her. I have an opportunity that many parents don’t get—a second chance. I only hope she’ll let me set things right. Anne, if you’re out there, please know how sorry I am for what I’ve done.” Her mother looked into the camera with a new earnestness.

Anne felt her chest tighten. “Bullshit,” she heard herself saying reflexively, and the cashier looked at her sideways.

Anne hustled for the exit, running away from the TV, trying to forget the image. It was too little, too late. For as long as she could remember, her mother had blamed her addictions on casting directors and small-time agents who didn’t recognize her talent. Anne had grown up shuffled from baby-sitter to neighbor to stranger, moving though a series of apartments, and usually finding herself alone, doing her homework in front of a television. It wasn’t so bad. In her mind, she lived at 623 East 68th Street, in a modestly furnished New York apartment, with one wall of exposed brick, painted white, and a fireplace mantel that held two Chinese figurines, a clock, and an occasional pack of Phillip Morris cigarettes. Her mother was Lucy Ricardo, her father a handsome Cuban bandleader, and they were all very happy until little Ricky came along. Nobody needs a little brother.

Anne jumped into the Beetle and twisted on the ignition, but couldn’t shake the memories. Her mother hadn’t even cared enough to get her the operations she needed to fix her cleft. It had been a stranger who had done that; a neighbor who’d been a nurse had taken it upon herself to apply for the free surgeries, at a teaching hospital. In truth, Anne’s mother had never been there for her. Anne had cobbled together school and federal loans to fund college and law school, and she’d be repaying them the rest of her life. Her heart hardened to bone. She pulled out of the space and took after Matt.

Anne sized up the situation. She was considering driving to Matt’s house, but it would take too long to get there, given that it was the heart of the historic district, and then she might lose Kevin. She checked her watch. 1:15. The sun was high and hot, people were everywhere, and the city was alive with Fourth of July festivities. She decided to get back on track and keep leaving a public trail, so Kevin could find her.

An hour later, Anne had parked the car illegally, but not in a tow zone, and was threading her way through the crowds on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, brushing her tiny bangs off her forehead, showing her scar, enjoying the freedom of going without disguise or lipstick.

“Hey, aren’t you that girl they thought was dead, that lawyer?” asked a man in a red Budweiser hat. He was holding a little girl’s hand, heading with the crowd to the Party on the Parkway.

“Uh, yes.” Anne introduced herself and shook his hand, pleased that her picture was getting out, and he smiled like he’d met a celebrity. She hoped he’d spread the word and she was caught up in the flow of people. Workmen hoisted a plastic banner that read DOLLAR-A-HOAGIE on a huge white tent on Eakins Oval, and she paused to call Matt on his cell, house, and office phones. Still no answer. She didn’t see Kevin but she didn’t lose hope. The smell of grilling hamburgers and chicken kebabs wafted through the air, and she dug out some money. Anne felt like everybody else on the Fourth of July, killing time until it was dark and the fireworks could begin. She checked her watch. 3:15. Time for the party.

Anne slowed her step as she reached her block, which had been closed to traffic with blue-and-white police sawhorses. Waltin Street was packed with people, at least sixty adults, children, and pets, mingling in the dappled sunshine under the leafy maple trees. She eyed the crowd for Kevin. He could have seen those BLOCK PARTY 3–5 P.M. signs. He could be watching her, waiting for his chance. She didn’t worry about drawing him here; he wasn’t a danger to anyone but her. She wedged her way around a sawhorse at the top of the block, where an elderly man wearing a spotless polo shirt and pressed slacks was apparently checking IDs.

“Ms. Murphy, no need to prove you live on our street,” he said, his face lighting up when he saw her. “I recognize you! I saw you on TV!”

“Thank you, Mr.—”

“I’m your neighbor Bill Kopowski. I live in 2254, with the red shutters. There.” He pointed. “Nobody knew whether to hold our party, but we went ahead. My wife Shirley and I were concerned, you should meet her!” Mr. Kopowski reached with a shaking hand for an older, plump woman standing next to him, and she turned around, her aged eyes lighting up when she saw Anne.

“Oh, my goodness, it is you!” Mrs. Kopowski exclaimed. She wore a beige linen dress with a necklace of amber beads.

“Yes, hello,” Anne said. She extended her hand, but Mrs. Kopowski reached out and swept her into her arms, pulling her close into her soft bosom. She smelled like Shalimar and lavender soap.

Heads in the crowd started to turn to Anne, as neighbors surged toward her, chattering and chuckling. “Ms. Murphy!” shouted a middle-aged man in a madras shirt and Bermuda shorts. “We haven’t met, but I live across from you, in 2258.”

“Hi—” Anne started to say but was interrupted by a woman in a blue foam crown.

“Anne Murphy! Anne Murphy! You’re not dead! I saw your mother in the newspaper. It was moving, very moving!”

“I see that, too!” another neighbor called out in accented English. He was an Asian in a red-white-and-blue T-shirt. “On TV! She look just like you! You call her, she love you!”

Everyone started calling to Anne, asking so many questions she couldn’t begin to respond, and she felt someone clapping her on the back. She turned, startled, but it was another smiling neighbor, thrilled that she was alive, worried that such an awful thing had happened on their street, wanting to know the details. In no time the crowd had completely absorbed her, taking her in like the neighbor she’d never been, welcoming her with open arms and warm beer. She understood for the first time how many people are affected by even a single murder, and how profoundly it had shaken everyone on the block. The whole time she scanned the crowd for Kevin and if he were among them, she hadn’t found him yet. She was worried about Matt, and curious where Bennie and the girls were. Sooner or later they’d find her, and she hoped it wasn’t before she flushed Kevin out.

“Ms. Murphy, Ms. Murphy! A few questions please!” A man called from behind Anne, and she felt her back shoved rudely. She turned and banged into the lens of a videocamera. A reporter popped up beside the camera, a beefy man in a white T-shirt and jeans, his potbelly hanging over a gold belt buckle. “Ms. Murphy,” he asked, rapid-fire, “what’s the real story on Kevin Satorno? Any comment? Ms. Murphy?”

“I’m not going to answer any questions,” Anne said, trying to get her bearings. The press was here. It made sense that they’d come to her street. This crew had lucked out in finding her. Had she lucked out, too?

“Come on, come clean. Is it true you were engaged to Satorno?” The camera lens trained on Anne, and her neighbors looked on in annoyance. An older man she recognized as a retired chemist was wedging his way toward the reporter, wagging a bony finger at the camera.

“You’re not invited here, sir,” he called out, his voice quavering with age. “It’s residents only. We have a permit. How did you get past Mr. Kopowski? He fought at The Bulge.”

Mr. Berman appeared beside him. “Are you reporters? You don’t live here! Better get out, before we call the cops. One of you knocked the flowerpot off my front step yesterday!”

But Anne was thinking of her plan. “Hey, buddy,” she called to the reporter, “why don’t you ask me what I’m going to do next, now that I’m not dead? Like they do after the Superbowl?”

“She’s going to Disneyworld!” Mr. Simmons, another neighbor, chimed in, and neighbors behind him closed in, encircling the reporter and cameraman.

“Yes, ask her what she’s going to do next!” Mr. Monterosso called out.

Another yelled, “Yes! Print some good news for a change!”

A third neighbor cried, “You won’t show that on TV, will you? You never run anything nice, even on the holiday.”

The reporter turned to Anne, chuckling. “Okay, Ms. Murphy! What are you going to do next? Are you going to Disneyworld?”

“And leave Philly on the Fourth of July? No way!” Anne answered into the camera, knowing it would be aired for Kevin to hear. She thanked God that Bennie hated TV. “Tonight, I’m going to celebrate the country’s birthday, Philly-style! Eat a hoagie at the Dollar-A-Hoagie tent, then watch the fireworks at the Art Museum! Happy Fourth, everybody!”

The neighbors cheered loudly, laughing and hooting, and Mr. Berman wielded his cane like a drum major. “Now, Mr. Reporter, you have your story! Go print it! Vamoose!”

“Yeah! Get outta here! You don’t live here! Waltin Street residents only!” Mrs. Berman shouted, and a teenager, the tattooed daughter of a psychology professor, started chanting.

“Waltin Street rocks! Waltin Street rocks!”

“Waltin Street rocks! Waltin Street rocks!” the neighbors all began to chant, blasting the reporters and cameraman away with the power of their voices, singing out as one.

“Waltin Street rocks, Waltin Street rocks!” Anne chanted loudest of all, yelling at the top of her lungs, no longer so Kevin Satorno would hear it but because it made her feel good and happy and a part of a very special group, one that inhabited a block that formed one of the many blocks in the historic grid that built the United States of America. Ben Franklin himself designed the grid, she remembered with a new pride. Mental note: Patriotism is really about belonging, and Anne belonged right here.

But now it was time to get busy.

28

The sun was still high but glowing a late-day orange, scorching a slow descent through the sky. The air had grown oppressively humid, making Anne’s dress stick to her skin. She picked trash up off her street and from between parked cars, and stuffed it into a large Hefty bag, eyeing each person who walked by. She didn’t see Kevin and couldn’t help but feel increasingly tense.

She kept an eye out for him as she helped her neighbors gather bottles for recycling, fold up aluminum picnic tables, and Saran-Wrap an awesome leftover pasta-and-pepper salad. They all dragged the police sawhorses away from the top of the block, only reluctantly opening to the rest of the city the enclave that had been Waltin Street. Foot traffic increased, spilling into the street as everybody streamed to the Parkway to get the best spaces to watch the fireworks. They carried beach chairs, rolled tatami mats, and spare bedspreads. One kid trailed his father carrying a set of lighted brown punks, tapers that scented the air with their distinctive acrid smell.

She checked her watch. 7:15. Time was hurrying along and taking her with it. She had seen a schedule of July Fourth events on the Parkway, starting with a “celebrity reading of the Declaration of Independence,” then the Dollar-A-Hoagie sale, which ended at nine o’clock with the fireworks. She figured she would linger on Waltin a while longer, then head over to the Dollar-A-Hoagie tent, where Kevin would know to find her. It was almost time.

She bent down and picked up a smashed cellophane wrapper of Cherry Nibs, then put it in the trash bag, and, as she leaned over, felt the weight of her Beretta in her pocket. She had almost forgotten about the gun in the rush of good feeling generated by the block party. She began having second thoughts. Was there any other way? No. If this doesn’t end tonight, it will never end. Not until I’m really dead. She stowed the trash in the bag and was moving on to a discarded paper cup when her cell phone rang.

She stuffed the bag under her armpit, dug in her other pocket for the phone, and flipped it open to see who was calling. Matt’s cell phone number glowed on the screen in bright blue digits. She hadn’t answered Bennie’s many calls, but this call she’d take. She pressed Send. “Matt?” she asked, lowering her voice. “Where are you? I’ve been trying—”

“I got your messages.” His voice sounded anxious. “How are you? Are you okay?”

“Fine, fine, really.” Anne cupped a hand over her free ear to hear better, and left the noisy street. She told him briefly about her debacle at the Dietz house, omitting the assault-and-battery part. No need to heighten his already heightened protectiveness. “Why did you tell Dietz about us? That was our business!”

“I had to. I called Beth and told her that Satorno was stalking her, but she didn’t take it seriously, so I went over. I think it was because Bill wasn’t buying it. He has a lot of influence with her.”

“Duh.”

“I had to tell Bill what happened to you, to make him believe it. He asked me how I knew so much, and I told him. I had to, or she’d be in danger.”

“I’m so sorry,” Anne said, chastened by the explanation. Between his client’s safety or his own representation, Matt had made a choice she admired. How could she have been angry at him? “I feel awful that you got fired. What are you going to do?”

“Clean up the file and hand it over. I think they’ll use Epstein now. Watch out, Anne. The good lawyers are coming.”

“Bullshit.” Anne bit her lip. “Can I help, or have I screwed things up enough already?”

“No, you didn’t do this. I did. I admit, I needed to lick my wounds after he fired me, and I wished I’d talked to Beth alone, but it’s okay now. He was my client, too, and he always speaks for Beth. You’re the one I’m worried about. Bennie called my house, saying you had given them the slip. She’s looking for you. She went up to your street to find you and there’s a block party, but some old guy wouldn’t let her in. Even Mary couldn’t sweet-talk him, or Judy.”

Anne smiled. Mr. Kopowski took no prisoners.

“She even called the cops, told them to look out for you. Where are you, Anne? You shouldn’t be alone, not with Satorno still loose. I want to see you, to be with you.”

Anne couldn’t let that happen. She’d involved enough people in this nightmare. “I’m fine, Matt. I don’t need my hand held.” People flowed past her on the sidewalk, her neighbors waving good-bye as they left for the fireworks.

“This guy is a killer,” Matt was saying. “He could be stalking you right now. Where are you? I hear people in the background.”

“I’m in a cab, I’m on my way over to your house, right now. Just stay there and wait for me.” It was a good idea, and would keep him in place until she caught Kevin. “I gotta go. Hear that beep? I’m low on batteries.”

“I don’t hear a beep. I’m worried that you’re going to do something crazy. Bennie said you own a gun. Is she right?”

“No, guns are scary. They go off by themselves, did you know that? There’s the beep again. I’ll be over as soon as I can. The traffic is a mess. Wait there for me!” Anne pressed the End button, and suddenly another message popped onto the phone screen. one call unanswered, read the blue letters. Probably Bennie again, but it could give a clue as to where she was. Her last two calls had been from her cell, and a mobile Bennie threatened Anne’s plan. She dialed for her voice mail, then listened.

It was Gil, not Bennie. “Anne, I’m really sorry for what I did last night.” His words sounded slurred and sloppy. “I never shoulda tried to, you know. Jamie’s thrown me out, and I was wondering if I could see you tonight, you know, just to talk it over . . . oh, shit! Willya look at that! I’m in the bar on the corner of Sixteenth and the Parkway, you know the one, and I’m watching you on the TV right now! Damn, you look awesome! I love your—”

Disgusted, Anne deleted the message, then hit End, troubled. Gil was only five blocks away and he’d seen the footage about the Dollar-A-Hoagie tent. She could only hope he wouldn’t interfere. She hit the Power button to shut the phone off, then slipped it back into her pocket. She glanced up at the sky, which had grown darker. The sun had dipped below the maple trees, flat rooftops, and loopy antennae. Its dying rays flooded the sky with a fierce orange. It was time to get started.

Anne removed the trash bag from under her arm, closed the drawstring, and set the bag down with the others, near the front of the alley. She couldn’t help noticing it was the same alley that she’d scooted down in her Uncle Sam stovepipe, now so long ago. She took off for the Parkway, pausing as she passed her house, with flowers still on the stoop. She knew what lay beyond her front door and flashed on the blood spattered on the entrance hall. The obscenity of the murder. The stench of death. Willa had died there, and now her killer would be brought to justice. Anne bowed her head, then slipped off into the twilight.

She joined the crowd flowing to the Parkway, scanning the people as she walked, remembering the details of Kevin’s newly dark hair and the shape of his head, watching for even the least sign of him. God knew what he’d be wearing. Something that blended in. She looked around. There were three hundred flag T-shirts in the moving crowd. Anne scooted along to catch up and check out as many as she could. None of them was Kevin.

She kept walking, slipping her hand inside her pocket for the Beretta, to reassure herself. She headed with the crowd onto the Ben Franklin Parkway, where the rowhouses disappeared. Eight lanes of the boulevard opened onto a sky washed with hazy pinks, aquamarine blues, and the most transparent of amethysts. Dusk settled, hard to discern, visible only in contrast to bright spots of unexpected light; the red glowing tip of a lighted cigarette, the hot pink of a child’s neon bracelet, a white pool of flashlight borne by a sensible older couple.

The geometric skyline of the city had been colored red, white, and blue for the holiday. The lighted sign at the top of the Peco Building read happy fourth in a continuous loop of dotted lights. The night air was filled with talk, laughter, and babies crying, and the breeze scented with insect repellent and domestic beer. To Anne’s right was the Art Museum, the immense Grecian building usually bathed in tasteful amber spotlights, now colored a gaudy red-white-and-blue, with lasers that roamed the night sky. The huge limestone staircase that Rocky Balboa scaled in the movie was hidden by a massive temporary scaffolding, a stage of stainless steel, and panels of stage lighting. A warm-up band played on the stage, their electric guitars twanging through the speaker system mounted on the trees.

Anne checked her watch. 8:00. It was almost dark. She was running late. She picked up the pace as she crossed the Parkway’s baseball diamond, set up for kids’ T-ball but now covered with blankets, collapsible chaise lounges, and the citizenry of Philadelphia, eagerly awaiting fireworks. She picked her way through the vendors dispensing sodas, hot dogs, cotton candy, funnel cakes, and Mr. Softee. Anybody who wanted a hoagie for dinner would already be thronging across the street at the tent, and Anne made a beeline for it, as a drum solo thundered through the loudspeakers and reverberated in the night air.

She crossed the street with difficulty, as the crowd began cheering the band off, wanting the celebrities who were going to read the Declaration of Independence. A million people were expected at the fireworks and it was almost impossible to make it through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. Anne kept her hand on the Beretta in her pocket and pressed past people’s sweaty backs and chests, making her way across the Parkway to Eakins Oval, a circle of grass, gardens, and fountains that fronted the Art Museum.

The reading of the Declaration of Independence was starting, and, even in the street accent of a rap star, its words remained beautiful: “When in the course of human Events, it becomes necessary for one People to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of the Earth . . .”

Anne craned her neck above the crowds to see where she was going, getting a bead on the dark statue of George Washington on horseback. He rode at the center of the largest circular fountain on Eakins Oval, flanked by two smaller circular fountains squirting red, white, and blue lighted water. The white plastic canopy of the huge Dollar-A-Hoagie tent was right behind it, and mobbed. Damn. How would Kevin find her in that mob? And could she really draw a gun in a crowd? Maybe this hadn’t been the best plan, but there was no changing it now. She could handle the gun and keep the safety on. Kevin wouldn’t know better, and it would make sure no one got hurt.

A young movie actress was saying, with microphone feedback, “We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness—”

Anne took heart. More beautiful words had never been written. She had the right to happiness, to liberty, to life. She had a great job, a nice neighborhood, girlfriends, and a new romance. She was entitled to all of these things, and Kevin was taking them away. She navigated around a family on their blanket, steadying their little boy with a palm on his warm head, then kept going, stumbling on kicked-off sneakers and shoes in the darkness, parting the crowd, at a celebrity-struck standstill.

A Broadway actor was launching into, “But when a long Train of Abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a Design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security.”

Damn right! Anne was protecting her future security. The hoagie tent lay less that fifty feet ahead, and she checked the crowd for Kevin as she barreled through it. It wasn’t easy to see, now that night had fallen. The only lights came from the old-fashioned gaslights near the fountains on the Oval and the intermittent lasers sweeping the sky.

A blond starlet was mustering colonial outrage: “The History of the present King of Great-Britain is a History of repeated Injuries and Usurpations, all having in direct Object the Establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid World. He has refused his Assent to laws . . .”

Anne plowed her way to the tent. Toward Kevin. He had refused to assent to laws, too. She just couldn’t live this way any longer. She felt unhinged and jittery. Exhausted and adrenalized from the last few days. She had a funny taste in her mouth, and wetness appeared under her arms and on her forehead. Her knees felt loose but she powered forward.

A distinguished Academy Award winner was saying, “He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary Powers . . . .”

The litany of injustices resonated, and the fact that they had been perpetrated by the King of England was only a technicality. Anne was going to rectify injustice. Catch the bad guy and put him away forever. Get justice for herself and for Willa. And now, for Beth.

“Excuse me, sir,” Anne said to a man in her way, picking up speed, fueled by increasing anger through the packed crowd. She looked for Kevin but didn’t see him. He was out there, she knew it. She could sense him, a dark vibration. She held her head high so he could see her.

Thirty yards, then twenty. The hoagie tent lay right ahead. Anne started to hustle, undaunted by the crowd, jostling people in her path. She could hear the chatter at the hoagie tent. Smell the tang of spices and fresh processed meats through the cigarette smoke and beer.

She reached the line at the end of the hoagie tent, took her place, and tried to arrange her face into a happy mask, so she could look like she was having fun. She kept her hand cradled around the Beretta and squinted through the laser beams at the crowd. She had a better vantage point in the line at the tent. Everybody was facing the stage and the celebrities, gawking, pointing, and taking pictures. She eyed as many faces as possible, studying their features under Phillies caps, foam crowns, deelyboppers, and American-flag hats. Nobody was moving except for the people hurrying to the hoagie tent.

The Declaration continued: “We, therefore, the Representatives of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the World for the Rectitude of our Intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly Publish and Declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States . . .”

The line shifted forward, but Anne couldn’t see under the dark tent. When was the end of the Declaration of Independence? She should have known but she didn’t. The fireworks would start right after. When would Kevin make his move? Her heart began to pound. She felt exposed, vulnerable, even in full view of everyone. Where were the cops?

The line went forward, moving fast, and Anne could finally see under the tent. An army of people, maybe fifty, were dressed in white uniforms and paper bifold hats with Stars and Stripes, and they were handing out hoagies as fast as they could, collecting the dollars in exchange and stuffing them into a barrel to be donated to Children’s Hospital. Two cops stood behind the barrel, their arms folded in their short-sleeved summer uniforms. Great!

The Declaration sounded as if it were concluding. “And for the support of this declaration, with a firm Reliance on the Protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.”

The crowd clapped and cheered wildly. The cops turned around and clapped, and the hoagie line burst into applause, becoming agitated now, anticipating the fireworks, wanting to get their sandwich and hurry back to their blankets. The noise was deafening, but the fact that everyone was clapping at once helped Anne. Because over there, across the sea of heads, stood a lone man who wasn’t clapping. Her gaze shot immediately to him.

He was tall and wore a dark T-shirt. She recognized the shape of his head, even though he had shaved off all of his hair. His shorn head shone skull-white in the gaslight. His expression was determined, his shoulders muscular and pumped. He turned suddenly toward the tent, and a stray ray of blood-red light sliced his face, illuminating it.

The man was Kevin Satorno. And it was time for Anne’s own personal Declaration of Independence.

29

Boom! A white chrysanthemum burst into bloom and faded to a sparking skeleton as the first fireworks went off in the night sky over the Art Museum, and the crowd oohed, aahed, and clapped. The explosion reverberated in Anne’s heart but she kept her eye on Kevin, so she wouldn’t lose him. His shaved head turned toward the hoagie tent. He was looking for her.

Anne suppressed a shudder and slid her hand into her pocket. Her fingers found the Beretta’s grip, now warm with the heat of her body. She willed herself not to be afraid and edged out of the line, going to her right, so that the line lay between her and Kevin. Everyone was looking up at the fireworks, except for him. She could see him as he faced the line. She would have to come up from behind him.

Fireworks shot hissing into the air, their launching convulsive, soaring to the heavens, where they exploded into glittery red, white, and blue sprays. They left searing white lights suspended in the air like incendiary fairies and detonated with a thunder that sent little kids covering their ears.

Anne was on the move. She walked behind the line slowly, so she didn’t lose Kevin or draw his attention in her white dress. It stood out at night. Thank God she had found him first. Ca-shoosh! Ca-shoosh! Fireworks went off with cacophonous screeching. Howling curlicues of red, green, and blue spiraled into the firmament. The colors tinged the faces around her, then they’d fall again into darkness.

Anne reached the tent and continued around the back. People stood still, transfixed by the show in the sky. Kevin was turning his head, scanning the line for her. His eyes narrowed to slits. His mouth flattened to a grim line of purpose. She felt her heart pounding.

She checked the cops’ position. They stood stationed at the cash barrel to her left. She thought about running to them right now and pointing Kevin out, but she wasn’t sure she could convince them fast enough, before he ran off, or maybe hurt somebody. She had a better idea. She’d come up from behind, stick the gun in Kevin’s back, then move him toward the police and away from the crowd, so nobody would get hurt. As soon as she had flanked him successfully, she’d yell for help. General George Washington, riding his bronze horse not fifty feet away, would have been proud.

Ca-shoosh! The air smelled of smoke. Cinders fell like blackened snowflakes. Anne snuck around the tent and got a bead on the back of Kevin’s head. She had him now. She was directly behind him, with only the rapt crowd in between. She picked up speed and moved through the crowd. Closing in at thirty feet. Then twenty. Ten.

Anne’s blood drummed in her ears. She gripped the Beretta’s handle so tightly its hatchmarks imprinted on her palm. Her hand was shaking but she ignored it. Boom! Firework palm trees in green glitter waved in the air, and the crowd laughed. She was so close to Kevin she could count the bumps on his scalp. A group of rowdy teenagers partied between them, wearing blue football jerseys and waving Heinekens and show-off cigars.

Bang! Bang! Fireworks like red pompoms flamed overhead and their red glitter dissolved to hearts glowing in the sky. The teenagers cheered, raising green bottles of beer, and Anne threaded her way through them. Their cigar smoke blew toward Kevin, wreathing his head.

Her stomach steeled. Her heart seemed to stop. She felt oddly like someone else, someone braver than herself. She inched the Beretta from her pocket.

Pow! Pow! A wolf pack of white lights detonated in a frenzy that got the teenagers hooting in her ears. Anne had almost passed them when Kevin moved away and started walking toward the tent. Even better. She’d have him where she wanted him, closer to the cops. The two uniforms remained at the cash barrel, their blue caps silhouetted in the light from the tent. It was time. Go. She drew her Beretta and held it at her hip.

“Hey, gorgeous, where you going so fast?” asked one of the football players. He sidestepped into her path, blocking her view of Kevin.

“Move, please!” Anne started to go around him, but he grabbed her arm and spun her around so quickly she almost dropped the gun.

“What’s your hurry, honey? Dontcha wanna watch the fireworks with me?”

“Leave me alone!” Anne wrenched her arm free and rushed frantic around him.

But Kevin wasn’t standing where he’d been a moment ago. She looked around wildly. He had disappeared. Only the crowd was facing her; men, women, and children looking up at the fireworks. Had she lost him? No!

Anne plunged into the crowd around the tent. She couldn’t lose Kevin, not now. She searched the mob but he wasn’t there. Had he gone on the other side of the line, like she had? She let the Beretta slip back into her pocket.

Ka-BOOM! Ka-BOOM! Silvery streams sprayed all over the sky, as if heaven itself had sprung a huge leak, as the fireworks segued into the finale. Ka-BOOM! Ka-BOOM! The sky erupted into rapid-fire explosions, like a war zone. Ka-BOOM! Ka-BOOM!

Anne hurried to the tent, looking everywhere for Kevin. His shaven head, his black T-shirt. People stood riveted, cheering. No Kevin. She wanted to scream with frustration. She thought fast. Time for Plan B. She had lost sight of Kevin, but she would not lose him. She turned and looked for the cops, to tell them. They’d call for backup; he couldn’t be far.

Suddenly Anne was grabbed from behind and her right arm wrenched up behind her. Something sharp cut deep into her back. She was about to scream when she heard a hot voice at her ear, against her cheek.

“Don’t scream or I’ll drive a hunting knife through your heart.” It was Kevin.

Anne froze with fear. Her shoulder seared with pain. The knife dug into her back. She wanted to scream but he’d stab her on the spot. She couldn’t reach her gun with her left hand. Even if she could, she couldn’t shoot in this crowd. She didn’t know what to do. Her heels left the ground as Kevin lifted her up by her arm and propelled her forward, away from the tent and the police. The knife sliced between her ribs. Anne struggled to think through her terror.

Kevin cranked her arm up farther. “You’re coming with me. You won’t get away from me this time. You’re mine, now. Finally.”

Tears of fright sprang to her eyes. He was breaking her arm at the shoulder. The fireworks erupted into their high-decibel finale. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The sky was a canopy of white lights, smoke, and thunder. Anne prayed to God it wasn’t the last sight she’d see.

Kevin put his cheek close to hers, driving her forward with the knife. “You bitch, I dreamed of you every night. I looked at your picture every minute. I wrote to you, called you, bought you gifts. Flowers, jewelry, poems, candy. I gave you everything I had. I was devoted to you, dedicated to you. “

Anne tried to make sense of what was happening. She had to survive. The knifepoint drilled into her back, now hot and warm with blood. Her blood.

She tried not to panic as Kevin hurried her through the crowd to the street, shoving her toward the apartment buildings and the grove of trees and bushes at the dark edge of the park. Nobody was around. Trees blocked them from view. Maybe she could reach her gun. Get off a shot without hurting anybody else.

Kevin’s breath grew heated. “I loved your face. I loved your body. I loved every inch of you. I would have done anything for you. Anything, Anne.”

Ka-BOOM! Ka-BOOM! Kevin was taking her past the bushes. Heading around the back of an apartment building toward the Expressway. Anne could feel the weight of the Beretta in her pocket. It banged into her thigh. Could she wrap her hand across her body?

“You played me, you fucking bitch!” Kevin’s voice shook with pent-up rage, unleashed. “You threw me away! You sent me to prison! You know what that’s like? You know what I went through in there? Because of you, you fucking bitch! I hate you! I hate your fucking guts!”

Anne blocked out his words; they paralyzed her. She had saved herself from him once before. She could do it again. She forced herself to wait for the right moment. It would come. She would get the gun.

Ka-BOOM! Ka-BOOM! Red, white, and blue lashed through the leaves of the trees.

“I’ll love killing you, Anne. Love every single fucking minute of it. I’ll make it last forever. It’ll be the best sex of your life.”

Anne felt a bolt of sheer terror. Kevin was forcing her toward a deserted stretch by the Expressway, strewn with trash and litter. They were almost at the back of the building. Nobody to see them here. Her eyes filled with tears. Her gut told her this would be her last moment on the planet. She had nothing to lose. No one here to get hurt but her. She reached for her pocket but Kevin pressed the knife into her flesh, stabbing her with the tip. She let out a desperate cry no one could hear. “Help!”

Ka-BOOM! Ka-BOOM! Ka-BOOM!

“Anne? Anne! Is that you?” shouted someone, not far behind them.

“Help!” Anne screamed again, just as she felt Kevin’s body torque toward the sound. She seized the opportunity and twisted enough to reach her left pocket. She grabbed the Beretta. Kevin was too distracted to notice.

Anne struggled in his grasp, holding the Beretta against her leg, waiting. She was a good shot, but not good enough to shoot over her shoulder. She disengaged the safety with her thumb, pressing it down. She couldn’t hear the solid tik she knew it made. The Beretta was loaded and ready to fire.

The man’s voice called again, right behind them. “Anne! Anne, are you okay?!” It was Gil! He must have come from the bar, looking for her.

Ka-BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Fireworks detonated like bombs.

“Gil!” she screamed, but Kevin was already turning toward him, relaxing his grip. Anne felt the knifepoint ease from her back, wet with blood. She seized the chance to leap from Kevin’s hold, spin around on her heel, and aim the gun at him. “Hold it right there!” she screamed. “I’ll use it, I swear.”

But Kevin was already lunging at Gil with the jagged hunting knife. Gil caught Kevin by the wrist, pressing him backward. The two men struggled back and forth. Anne aimed for Kevin, but he was moving too much for her to fire. She couldn’t take the chance and shoot Gil. Fighting men were different from a paper target.

“Anne, shoot him!” Gil shouted, but the men kept struggling, turning this way and that. She stepped closer to the fight to get a better shot, but suddenly Gil reached out with a desperate hand and grabbed the gun from her. Kevin came at him, brandishing the knife, and reached Gil just as the gun went off, a flame of red-orange firing from the snub barrel, the report lost in the fireworks. Then another, and another, from the semi-automatic.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Anne screamed. Kevin’s neck exploded in blood. He dropped backward onto the ground, crumpling like a straw man. She hurried to Kevin. He lay sprawled on the ground, his legs bent crazily, his body motionless. His mouth hung agape, his eyes stared open but unseeing. Blood squirted red from where his Adam’s apple used to be, spurting into the air with his pulse, falling back on his face like a grisly fountain. His throat emitted a hideous, gurgling sound.

“No!” Anne heard herself scream without knowing why. Hot blood spattered her dress and drenched her hands and arms. It was no use calling 911. One look at Kevin told her he was dead.

“It’s all right now,” Gil was saying, over and over, his hand on her shoulder.

But Anne heard him only as if he were far away, and tears she couldn’t begin to explain poured down her cheeks.

30

At the interview room of the Roundhouse, fluorescent lights on the ceiling cast harsh shadows that hollowed out the faces of those assembled. Having given her statement, Anne sat numbly in a bare side chair, her white dress puckering with drying blood in gruesome polka dots. Her back stung where she had taken five stitches over the knife wound, but she’d been so disoriented at the hospital that she hadn’t even washed her hands. They lay apart in her lap, bloodstained and recoiling from each other.

She was relieved that her nightmare with Kevin was finally over, but she couldn’t help wishing it hadn’t ended with such an awful death. Her shoulder slumped with exhaustion; she felt drained and spent. Her head hurt so much she couldn’t begin to parse her complex knot of emotions. She knew she’d be doing that for the next few days, if not years.

Judy and Mary stood behind Anne’s chair like a hastily dressed girl army, their faces drawn and saddened even by a war won. A bruised Matt hovered near Anne, with an arm on her shoulder, as they all listened to Gil finish giving his statement to a grave Detective Rafferty. The heavyset Detective Hunt-and-Peck did the typing, and everyone pretended that Deputy Commissioner Parker, who leaned against the wall in a crisp uniform with his dark arms folded, always attended such occasions.

“I saw that he had Anne,” Gil was saying, seated in the steel chair bolted to the floor. “He had his hand in her back. I thought he might have a gun, or a knife.” Bennie stood behind him, her head cocked as she listened. She was representing Gil in the investigation, since Anne wasn’t permitted to, as a witness to the shooting.

SAW THAT HE, typed the detective, and Detective Rafferty leaned forward, his elbows resting on his legs. He was still dressed in a suit, but his tie was loose and the knot hung off-center. “And you knew it was Satorno, how?”

“We went over this,” Gil said, tired. His seersucker sports jacket had been torn, the lapels stained by Kevin’s blood. Anne was fairly sure that the police wouldn’t charge Gil with anything, even involuntary manslaughter, not with Bennie on defense. But it wasn’t a certainty. Anne didn’t want to see Gil indicted for saving his own life, and hers.

Bennie tapped her client’s shoulder. “You should probably repeat your answer.”

“Okay, I’ll say it again. I knew it was Satorno because I’d seen his photo on the TV and in the newspapers.”

“You remembered the way he looked from the mug shot?”

“Of course. I took an interest. He tried to kill my lawyer, my friend. When they ran his photo, I checked his features. I did the same thing with the Unabomber, didn’t you?”

“I see.” Rafferty rubbed his chin, grizzled now. “And how is it that you happened to be there at the time, Mr. Martin?”

“Be where?”

“At the hoagie tent.”

“Well, I was at a bar farther down the Parkway. East, I should say. Chase’s Taverna, okay? Celebrating the holiday.”

“You were alone?”

“Yes,” Gil replied. “My family was at home.”

Anne noted that he wasn’t volunteering any background about Jamie throwing him out, but that wasn’t police business anyway.

“Talk to anybody at the bar who’d remember you, Mr. Martin?”

“Not really. A blonde drinking Cosmopolitans, but I don’t know her name.”

“Try to pick her up?”

“Does it matter?” Gil shot back, drawing a disapproving look from Bennie.

“Maybe,” Rafferty answered.

“Okay, yes. I tried to pick her up.” Gil offered his wrists. “Cuff me.”

Off to the side, Anne was starting to wonder about Gil. Picking up a blonde right after Jamie threw him out? Trying to hit on Anne? The affair with Beth? At some point, she’d advise Gil to get some counseling, but that would be after Chipster.

“How about the bartender?” Rafferty was asking.

“I didn’t try to pick her up.”

Rafferty didn’t laugh. “I didn’t know she was a woman. I meant, would the bartender remember you?”

“Yes. Her name’s Jill. Jill and Gil, that’s how I remember. Yeah, we talked. She would remember. We laughed about the name thing.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then I saw Anne on the TV over the bar, and she said where she’d be, at the hoagie tent around nine o’clock. So I went there. When I got there it was so crowded, I knew it was too crazy to even bother, so I left. When I was heading back to Center City, I just happened to see her. Her dress was white and it caught my eye. Then I saw what was going on.”

JILL AND GILL, typed the heavyset detective, and Rafferty gave a sigh that had a final ring to it, then glanced at Bennie. “Ms. Rosato, of course I’ll have to discuss it with my superiors, but I doubt that we’ll be charging Mr. Martin with any crime.”

“That’s the right result, Detective,” Bennie said. If she’d been worried, it didn’t show. She put a hand on Gil’s chair. “Mr. Martin understands the dangers of ordinary citizens trying to save lives, however well-intentioned their efforts may be. He won’t be doing it again.” Bennie acknowledged Deputy Commissioner Parker. “Sir, again, you’ve handled this matter with professionalism and sensitivity, and we’ll be happy to appear at the press conference tomorrow.”

“Thanks. You’ll be escorted past the feeding frenzy outside. My driver and the commissioner’s driver will take you all home. The conference is at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, here. The inspector will be back by then.”

“I’ll be there.” Bennie glanced toward Anne. “Ms. Murphy can’t be, she has a court date.”

“I know, I read the newspapers,” the deputy commissioner said, with a sympathetic grin at Anne. “Ms. Murphy, if you need a doctor’s note for that judge, you got one from me.”

“Thanks.” Anne managed a smile and rose from her chair on surprisingly wobbly knees, and Detective Rafferty met her eye.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Ms. Murphy?” he asked, and after a second, Anne realized what he meant. He was holding his hand out, palm up. “It’s not as if you have a carry permit.”

“Oops.” Anne reached into her pocket, pulled out the Beretta, and surrendered it to the detective. She guessed she wouldn’t be needing it anymore, but she felt funny without it.

Rafferty raised an eyebrow. “When did girls start carrying Berettas in their dresses?”

“When they leave their purses at home,” Anne said, which coaxed the first smile she’d seen from the detective. “Does this mean no weapons charges? You’re cutting me a break?”

“Only ’cause you’re Irish,” Rafferty answered, smiling.

Matt took her arm gently. “Let’s get outta here,” he said, and Anne let him guide her to the door with the others, breathing a sigh of relief.

It was finally over. All of it. She’d never have to worry again, never have to look over her shoulder. She didn’t need her gun. Kevin was gone, really gone. She felt shaken, but finally safe.

Downstairs in the lobby of the Roundhouse, surrounded by wood-paneled walls and glass cases displaying old squad cars, they all milled around before sorting themselves for departure. Anne went first to Gil, giving him a hug. “I don’t know how to thank you for saving my life,” she said, surprised to find Gil get a little misty, too.

“Don’t think anything of it.” His cockiness had vanished, replaced with a genuinely happy smile. “I’m just lucky I was there.”

“No, I am.” Anne reached next to him for Bennie, hugging her like the mother she never had. “Thank you so much for everything,” she said, and Bennie hugged her back.

“I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Sorry I ran away from you.”

“Don’t remind me.” Bennie cocked an eyebrow in mock-offense. “And don’t tell anybody I fell for that look-over-there crap.”

Anne laughed, and Judy and Mary filled in, with Mary throwing open her arms to hug Anne. “The love continues,” Mary said, giving Anne a big squeeze. “I’m so happy for you, and so happy you’re okay.”

“Give your parents my regards,” Anne said. “And I’m there for dinner next Sunday, to return my evil-eye necklace in person.”

“Done!” Mary said, hugging her again. “Hold it hostage until they return the cat.”

Anne laughed, about to wipe wetness from her eyes when Judy swept her up in a death-defying hug, then backed off.

“Still got your earrings, I see.” Judy grinned, pleased.

“Of course I do. I love them.” Anne felt overwhelmed that she’d found such good friends in Mary, Bennie, and even Judy, but she was feeling much too emotional to say so. That would be something else she’d have to attend to, in the very near future.

Matt looped a proprietary arm around Anne, with a smile. “Thanks, Bennie. All of you. For taking such good care of her.”

But Gil, at the edge of the hugging, was looking from Anne to Matt and back again. Anne caught his hard eye, with a start. She had forgotten. Gil didn’t know about her and Matt. Oh no. She felt terrible, especially now, after what he’d done. She faced her client. “I’m sorry, Gil. You didn’t know this, but I’ve begun seeing Matt.”

“No, I didn’t know.” Gil’s mouth was tight.

“I swear to you, I haven’t let it interfere with the case.” Anne felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. She could feel Bennie’s eyes upon her, with little sympathy. She had to make a choice on the spot. She thought of Matt’s choice, made the same day. “I am sorry. If you want to hire another lawyer, you can. We can get a continuance, and given the events of tonight, it wouldn’t look strange to your Board.”

Matt cleared his throat. “Gil, for the record, Anne didn’t compromise her representation of your company in any way.”

Gil ignored him, but found a smile for Anne. “Anne, I wouldn’t fire you now, not after what you’ve been through for this case, and I know you won’t let your personal relationship affect you. This is business, and you’re still my lawyer.”

“Thanks, I won’t let you down,” Anne said, taking a deep breath. She wondered if Gil’s decision was based on what he’d told her about the CD, and she couldn’t begin to focus on what would happen at the trial tomorrow, not with blood drying on her hands. It was time to start over. She found herself feeling an urge she hadn’t felt in a long time. “I want to go home,” she heard herself say.

“But it’s a crime scene,” Mary said. “Come with me. My parents would love to have you again, and Anna’s cat is there. You can even stay there until you find a new place.”

Bennie blinked. “Or come over my house. Keep the cat at Mary’s. I’ll make you cereal.”

Judy laughed. “Mine’s the only place you haven’t stayed. Don’t you want a change of pace?”

Matt squeezed her close. “Anne, come back with me, to my house. You don’t want to be at your place, not after what happened there.”

Anne looked at Matt and the others, ringed around her, their expressions reflecting concern and love. Her future was beginning, and they would all be a part of it. But as grateful as she was, she knew where she really belonged.

“Thanks but I want to go home. To my house, on Waltin Street.”

And her words matched her thoughts exactly, for once.

31

It wasn’t an hour later, delivered by a speeding squad car, that Anne was home, dressed in jeans, a pink tank top, and yellow Playtex gloves, yanking the stained wall-to-wall carpet from her front-entrance hall. She should have been sleeping or preparing her opening argument, but she couldn’t do either. The rug reeked of blood and pain, and she wanted it out. She had already gotten up three sides, with only the last remaining, the front right corner. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and tugged harder, and the rug surrendered suddenly, sending her backward onto her butt.

“Argh!” she grunted from the floor. Her shoulder, back stitches, and butt hurt, but she got to her feet, dragged the rug into the living room, and flattened it. She tried not to look at the bloodstains, so she wouldn’t start crying again. She had cried in the shower when she first came home, then she had steeled herself and gotten to work.

She dropped to her knees and rolled up the rug, then snapped open a Hefty bag from the orange box on the coffee table and stuffed the rug inside. She picked it up and was about to take it outside to leave it at the curb for pickup, but she stopped herself. It wouldn’t be respectful. It wasn’t trash. It had Willa’s blood on it. It felt substantial in Anne’s arms, like a human body. Without knowing exactly why, she set the bagged rug down on the floor.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, stood with her hands on her hips, and surveyed the entrance hall, now illuminated by the fixture above. Bloody streaks had dried a cakey brown on the wall and the entrance-hall door. The baseboards were stained, and thin wood slats bordered the floor where the rug had been stapled down, but there were no stains on the hard wood. Plan B was to wash and paint the walls in the hall. She couldn’t leave them this way, not even one night. Cleaning the entrance room would be gruesome and awful, but it had to be done. For Willa. And it was cathartic, already making her feel better, bringing to an end this awful part of her life. Anne got her second wind and suspected it was heaven-sent.

She went to the kitchen and took off a Playtex glove long enough to grab a handful of Captain Crunch, while she filled up the blue Rubbermaid bucket in the sink with a brew of Lysol, Pine-Sol, Comet, and hot water. Fizzy suds formed quickly as the water rose, floating the thick pink sponge, and she turned off the tap, grabbed the bucket, and returned to the living room, flicking on the stereo on the way, a classical station. It would suit her mood and her task.

A lone Spanish guitar came on, playing acoustic. Anne’s thoughts went to her father, the guitar player she’d never met, then to her mother. She wondered idly when she’d see her again, if she’d see her again, but suppressed the tiny tug in her chest. The TV appeal had given her pause, but her past was over. She had to go forward with the rest of her life. It was time to start over starting over. She sloshed to the entrance hall with the heavy bucket.

She put the bucket down and let the guitar music soothe her as she got down on her knees and reached for the steaming sponge. When she bent over, the little Italian charm popped out from her tank top, swinging on Mrs. DiNunzio’s gold chain, and she tucked the necklace away with a smile and started cleaning the wall. The dried blood turned briefly red again when it made contact with the hot sponge, bringing up that carnal smell. Her stomach turned over, but she kept at it, washing streak after streak, thinking of Willa, and blinking away the tears that inevitably came. Anne had gone through three full buckets of sudsy water, a bottle of Lysol, and several Kleenexes when the doorbell rang.

Anne stopped, startled still. Her heart fluttered in her chest. The last time that bell had rung, a killer had been at the door. The ringing echoed through the apartment, quiet except for the guitar playing. She told herself she was being silly. There was nothing to be afraid of, anymore. Kevin was dead; she had seen him killed with her own eyes, and the sight, though it had brought her no satisfaction, at least brought her safety. Right?

The doorbell rang again, and Anne dropped the sponge into the water and stood up to look in the peephole. It was Matt! Everything was all right. She really was safe.

She undid the chain lock in a hurry and opened the door onto the warm summer night. Matt was standing on the stoop wearing a black Dave Matthews T-shirt, jeans, and a smile, and holding his briefcase flat, like a tray. On it, he balanced a bottle of merlot and two wineglasses. Anne couldn’t help but feel happy to see him. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I couldn’t sleep and I knew you wouldn’t be. You said you were starting over, so I brought you a housewarming present.” Matt plucked the wine bottle off the briefcase tray and gave Anne a quick peck on the lips, then followed it up with a warm, deeper kiss she didn’t resist, even though her gloves were dripping suds.

“Wow. Come on in,” she said and closed the door behind him as he crossed the threshold and tiptoed over the wet floorboards in wonderment.

“Are you cleaning?” He winced only slightly when he smiled, since the residual swelling from his goose egg had subsided.

“Yep. I just finished washing.” Anne appraised her handiwork, but couldn’t deny the darkness that still stained the white wall in many places. “With two coats of white paint, it’ll be back to normal.”

“Sure it will.” Matt set the wineglasses on the floor just outside the entrance hall, then slid a corkscrew from his back pocket and sat down on the floor. “I can’t believe you’re doing this yourself. You could have hired a service or something. I thought you’d be getting ready for trial, planning how you’re going to kick ass.”

“Nah, this is more important.” Anne stripped off her wet gloves and draped them over the side of the bucket.

“What? What happened to the girl who would do anything to win, including hire a stripper?” Matt laughed as he unwrapped the metal seal from the top of the merlot, then inserted the corkscrew and extracted the cork with a festive pock. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed.”

Anne thought a minute. “Hell, no!”

“Praise be.” Matt grinned and handed her an empty wine- glass. He poured them both some merlot, then set down the bottle and raised his glass in a toast. “To you, and to your not changing. Ever.”

Anne raised her glass. “And to you—”

Brrng. Brrng. It was the unmistakable ringing of a cell phone, and they both reflexively went to their holsters, but Anne had left her cell in her purse in the living room. Matt unholstered his phone. “Rats,” he said. “Just when you were going to tell me how great I am.”

“You’d do it better,” she said, as he flipped open the cell phone and answered it. She watched his blue eyes light up.

“Oh, really? Okay. Relax. I understand, we’ll discuss it. I’ll be right over,” he said, then snapped the phone closed excitedly. “That was Bill Dietz.”

“Anger Management Boy.” Anne sipped her wine. The thought of Dietz killed her mood and she took a bigger sip. “What did he want?”

“To see me. He said it was important. I think I may be getting my old job back.” Matt took a swig of his wine and was already getting up, and Anne felt happy for him. Sort of.

“Dietz assaulted us both. Why do you like him so much?”

Matt looked conflicted. “He just told me, he’s sorry he pushed you. He lost his temper.”

“Oh, that makes it okay.” Anne took a gulp of merlot. It tasted terrific. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten and was starting not to care.

“I’m sorry to run out on you. I have to go over to the house.”

“See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya.” Anne took a final gulp, draining the glass. “If you become opposing counsel again, then we’re over until the trial ends. I’m a brunette now and we’re not as loose as redheads.”

“Oh, all right. Be that way.” Matt leaned down and gave her a quick good-bye kiss. “Will you be okay? You seem okay.”

“I’m more than okay.” Anne poured herself another glass of merlot and hoisted the bottle, channeling a tipsy Lucy Ricardo. “’The answer to all your problems is in this lil ole bottle.’”

“Vitametavegamin!” Matt said with a smile, and Anne couldn’t believe her ears.

“You know Vitametavegamin?” she asked, astounded. “From ‘Lucy Does a Television Commercial’? Episode No. 30, May 5, 1952?”

Matt laughed. “I don’t know the dates, but I know the episodes. The chocolate factory, stomping the grapes, crushing the eggs, baby chicks, Teensy and Weensy, you name it. My mother was a Lucy freak, too.”

“I think I’m in love,” Anne said, meaning it, and Matt blew her another kiss before he opened the door and hustled out, leaving her with a bottle of merlot, a bucket of suds, and a tingle of hope.

She got up, relatched the chain, and began to collect the gloves, sponge, and bucket to get ready for painting. She was working only five minutes when the doorbell rang again. Ha! Matt must have forgotten something. Maybe the rest of her toast? Maybe another kiss. A random firecracker exploded somewhere with a distant crak! It had been that way since she’d gotten home.

“Coming, Matt!” she called out, getting up to answer the door. She undid the chain lock without checking the peephole because she knew it was Matt.

But when she opened the door, it wasn’t Matt.

32

On the front step stood Beth Dietz and she looked like she’d been crying. “Can . . . I come in?” Sobs choked her voice, and she was trembling in shorts and her peasant blouse. “Bill and I, we just had a big fight about that stalker, Kevin. I heard on the news, he’s dead.”

“Sure, come in. We should talk about it.” Anne instantly felt terrible and ushered Beth inside, closing the door behind her and latching the chain-lock reflexively. But when she turned around, Beth had stopped crying and was pointing a black handgun at her.

My God. It took Anne a second to process. Then she opened her mouth to scream.

“Shut the fuck up!” Beth was already pressing the gun into Anne’s chest, shoving her back against the door. The gun was cold and hard. The barrel drilled into her sternum, leaving her gasping.

“What are you doing, Beth?” Anne asked, hoarse, She tried not to panic. She went weak in the knees. She could barely look over the deadly gun into Beth’s eyes, red with spent tears.

“When did you start sleeping with Gil, Anne? I want to know!”

“Beth, please, put down the gun.” Anne’s tongue still tasted of wine, but its effects had vanished. “If you want to talk about something, we can talk about it. But not with a gun—”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do!” Beth bellowed, her fair skin mottled. Her blond braid was in disarray, her lips trembling with anger. “Tell me when you started fucking Gil! It was you he wanted all along!”

“No, never.” Anne shook her head in disbelief. She flashed on the scene in the conference room, when Gil was drunk. Then the call on the cell phone tonight. “I never felt anything for Gil. I never did anything—”

“Liar!” Beth screamed. “He used to talk about you all the time, and when we broke up and I filed suit, he went and hired you!” The gun bored into Anne, making her breathless with fear.

“No, please—” Tears sprang to Anne’s eyes. She imagined the bullet tearing into her, ripping flesh and heart. She flashed on her entrance hall, drenched in blood. She knew just what it would look like. She’d be shot to death in her entrance hall. The horror had come full circle.

“I loved him and you took him from me!” Beth shouted, her features contorted with fury, spitting into Anne’s face. “He didn’t mean anything to you! I was going to leave Bill for him, but it was you he wanted! And you’re already on to Matt! Bill was right about that, you are a whore!”

Anne struggled to regain control. She had to do something. She tried to think.

“I was here Friday night!” Beth ranted. “I wanted to kill you for what you did to me, and I did, I killed you! But it turned out it wasn’t you at the door! And now Gil saved your life, I saw it on TV! Now he’s more in love with you than ever!”

Anne’s brain jolted with the revelation. Kevin wasn’t the murderer. It was Beth who had killed Willa. Her thoughts raced. Kevin must have been watching Anne’s house that night. He had seen Beth shoot Willa and he thought she’d shot Anne. He must have come over, picked up the murder weapon in shock, then dropped it. My God. It was Beth, all along!

“This time you’re going to stay dead,” Beth said evenly. “Bye-bye.” She raised her gun and aimed it point-blank between Anne’s eyes.

“No!” Anne screamed and whipped her arms upward into the gun. Crak! The gun exploded in a deafening report.

“You bitch!” Beth roared, enraged.

“Help!” Anne screamed and shoved Beth to the floor, bolting past her for the staircase. She took the stairs two-by-two as a second gunshot rang out. Crak!

“Help! Somebody! Please!” Anne screamed as she tore up the stairs. Where was she going? What would she do? She had no gun, she’d turned it in. Was there time to dial 911? She had a phone in her bedroom. She hit the second-floor landing with Beth running up the stairs behind her. She swung around the landing for the lighted bedroom before Beth could get off another shot.

“Help!” Anne screamed but nobody came. Where were her neighbors? Mr. Berman? Mr. Monterosso? All of them?

She tore down the hall and into her bedroom. She darted to the desk for the phone but it was too late. Beth was coming down the hall, running toward the bedroom. Anne grabbed her thick laptop from her desk, spun on her heels, and flung it at Beth’s face. It landed with a resounding thwack, then fell to the rug.

“Aargh!” Beth’s hand flew to her nose. Crak! The gun went off with an ear-splitting sound. Flame flared from the muzzle. Anne felt the heat of a bullet whizz past her cheek. The thought terrified her. Beth bent over, cupping her nose. Blood poured through her fingers.

Anne ran for her life. She bolted from the bedroom screaming, streaking for the stairwell and downstairs for the front door. In the next second Beth was after her, her footsteps hard on the stair.

Anne raced to the front door. She couldn’t make it in time. She’d be shot undoing the chain-lock. She’d have to fight. She looked around wildly. The rolled-up rug in the Hefty bag. Perfect!

She snatched the rug off the living room floor and swung it like a bat at Beth’s waist just as she hit the living room, raising her gun. The rug smacked Beth full-force. She doubled over, jarring the gun free. It fell to the living room rug, and Anne dove for it. She had it aimed on target by the time Beth straightened up, bleeding profusely from her nostrils and still howling with fury.

“You won’t shoot me!” Beth shouted, spitting blood.

Anne found herself shaking with rage. She hadn’t shot Kevin, but she couldn’t get off a clear shot then. She could now. She looked down the barrel of the gun, an old Colt revolver. No safety. Ready to fire.

Anne felt a surge of adrenaline. She could kill Beth. She should kill her. She should blow her face clean off. It seemed suddenly like a very good idea. The best Plan B Anne had had to date. No Lucy episode to cover this one. It was real life. She moved the site down, training the revolver between Beth’s blue eyes.

Anne flashed on everything Beth had put her through. She had just tried to kill her, she would have killed her. She had killed Willa. It must have been why Kevin was stalking her, not because he was in love with her, but because he knew she’d killed Anne. And she thought of Willa, her murder still unavenged, her lifeblood staining the walls.

Anne looked numbly at the gun in her hand. Then her gaze fell on something else. The Italian charm, twinkling around her neck, outside the tank top. It reminded her of Mrs. DiNunzio. The fragrant little kitchen. The percolating coffee. It reminded her of friendship, of family, and of love.

Anne’s fingers tightened on the smoking gun.

And she made her choice.

33

The fifth of July, a Tuesday morning, dawned clear and cool, the temperature hovered at a civilized seventy degrees and with no humidity. The sky over Philadelphia had a crystal-blue clarity, bringing the glitzy, metallic skyline into crisp focus. The sun was still low, lingering behind the skyscrapers, sleeping in after a busy holiday weekend of Uncle Sam stovepipes and red platform shoes.

The city was going back to work, collectively recharged. Boxy, white SEPTA buses barreled down streets that had been closed to traffic yesterday. Green-shirted employees of the business district speared cups and paper bags from the gutter. Storefronts rolled up their security cages on chattery, greased chains. People strolled to work a little late, wearing clean shirts with fresh tans, holding briefcases they hadn’t opened over the weekend. Many of them, like Anne, carried a folded newspaper under an arm.

FOURTH OF JULY FIREWORKS! read her Daily News headline, a special edition. Anne would have preferred CASE CLOSED, because the Chipster trial wouldn’t be going forward. Matt was at the courthouse, filing a notice of withdrawal. It would have been difficult to maintain a lawsuit with the plaintiff in custody for murder one.

Anne walked with her head held high, on taupe Blahniks. She wore a linen suit the color of buttercream with a white stretch T-shirt. She was feeling almost normal again, except that normal now meant no sunglasses, no lipstick, and a scar. And she was going in late to work because she’d dyed her hair back to its original color. Mental note: Life is too short to be anything but a redhead.

Her step was strong and lively as she strode the last block to work, down Locust. Part of her happiness was her clothes, but most of it was her new idea. The very thought buoyed her even as she floated toward the sea of cameras, reporters, and newsvans outside her office building. Uniformed police, eight of them, managed to keep the press from blocking traffic, and Anne smiled at the irony of the sight. It was more cops than she’d seen all weekend.

A reporter on the fringe of the crowd recognized her first and started running toward her. “Ms. Murphy, how did you catch the killer?” “What was Beth Dietz’s motive?” “We want the exclusive!” Other reporters started turning around, and camera lenses swung toward Anne. “Ms. Murphy! Anne! Over here!” they all started calling, and flooded toward her, breaking away as a mob.

Anne brandished her folded Daily News and met the throng. “No comment!” she said, waving them off as she plunged into the crowd. “I have no comment!”

She pushed through the crowd to the clicking of motor drives and the whirring of videocameras, but her way was blocked by a TV reporter until a beefy hand came around the reporter’s body and offered Anne an assist. She looked up gratefully, and at the other end of the arm was Hot-and-Heavy Herb, in full dress uniform.

“Outta the way, everybody! Outta the way!” he shouted, and he ran interference, leading Anne to the entrance of the building, where he ushered her in ahead of him and followed through the revolving door. He escorted her into the lobby, laughing and wiping his brow with a folded handkerchief. “Whew! Those guys are nuts!”

“Thanks for rescuing me,” Anne said, meaning it. She was in such a good mood, she was happy even to see Hot and Heavy, who was grinning down at her with more amusement than lechery for a change.

“So, Carrot Top, it was you, that new girl?”

“Yes, it was me, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you.”

“Are you kidding?” Herb waved a hand, chuckling as he walked her to the elevator, which was open on the ground floor. “I’m just glad you’re alive. I like you, kid.” His voice sounded genuine, almost fatherly.

Anne entered the elevator cab and pressed the button. “Thank you, I’m flattered,” she said, and the elevator doors slid closed, carrying her upstairs.

The elevator doors had barely opened again when the receptionist leaped from the front desk and started hugging Anne, and the other secretaries and paralegals flocked to her. “You’re alive! You’re really alive!” they chorused, and Anne, who was growing happily accustomed to having girlfriends, knew exactly what to do: hug back, get misty, then go shopping.

But when the receptionist released her, her teary eyes looked worried. “Anne, Bennie wants to see you. She has a new case. She’s in C.”

“A new case? No, you’re kidding!” Anne looked with dismay at the closed door to the conference room, off the reception area. “I don’t want to work! I want to hug and hug.”

The receptionist frowned. “You’d better go in. Judy and Mary are in there, too, waiting for you. The new client’s in conference room D. Something’s up.”

“A lawyer’s work is never done,” she said, with a sigh. She bid all her new gal pals good-bye, headed to the conference room, and opened the door.

Bennie, Mary, and Judy were seated around the polished conference table, in front of clean legal pads and Styrofoam cups of fresh coffee. Anne had seen them only a few hours before, back at the Roundhouse when Beth was arrested, but they looked as jazzed up as she felt, alert and businesslike. Bennie wore her khaki suit, Judy a T-shirt and blue denim smock, and Mary a silk blouse with a Talbot’s navy suit, her hair in a French twist.

“You really want me to work?” Anne asked, and Bennie smiled easily as she came toward her.

“Good morning,” she said, hugging Anne briefly. “You get any rest?”

“For two hours, yeah. Mel says hi.”

“I miss him.” Bennie smiled, and Mary and Judy came over, exchanging hugs, but the air felt tense despite the warmth and familiarity of the group. Bennie obviously had an agenda, but Anne had one of her own.

“Before we start, I have an idea,” she said. “Can I go first? It can’t wait.”

Bennie hesitated. “Okay, what is it?”

“Sit down, everybody. Especially you, Bennie. You’ll need to be sitting, for this. Here’s the deal,” Anne began, as all three women took their seats. “Well, I remember from the radio the other day, when you all thought I was dead, that you were offering a reward to whoever found my killer.”

“Yes.”

“The firm was offering $50,000.”

“Yes, sure.”

“Well, as you know, I found my killer, Beth Dietz, and last night I turned her in to the authorities and she was arrested.”

“So you’re saying what?” Bennie asked, and Mary and Judy looked equally uncertain.

“I want the reward. I want to donate it to a crime victims’ group, in Willa’s name. I think the money would make a nice memorial to her, and do a lot of good. Maybe even help prevent the Kevins of the world.”

Bennie nodded. “Fair enough. Done. That’s a very good idea.”

“Aren’t you going to fight me?”

“No.”

“It’s a lot of money.”

“It sure is.”

“It comes out of your pocket.”

“Understood.” Bennie eyes darkened. “You may not have thought about this, but you may also want to use part of the money for burial expenses and the like, for Willa.”

“No, thanks.” Anne’s throat caught suddenly. “I’ve already decided. I’ll be doing that myself, and setting up a memorial service for her. It would be nice if you all could come.”

“We will,” Bennie said quickly.

Judy nodded. “Of course, we will.”

“We’ll help with the service,” Mary said.

“Thanks.” Anne patted the table, to dispel her sadness and get herself back to business. “Now, what’s going on? I hear we have a client waiting.”

“Yes, I know you’d love to relax, but it can’t wait.” Bennie rose at the head of the table and cleared her throat. “We have a new client, in trouble. Big trouble.”

“Murder?” Anne asked, but Bennie held up a hand like a traffic cop.

“Not that bad, but close.”

“Civil or criminal?”

“Civil.” Bennie nodded. “And I have to tell you, this client is liable. Absolutely liable. In other words, guilty. Very.”

Anne sighed. “Why don’t we ever get the easy cases?”

“We’re too smart for the easy cases.”

“Also we look hot in platforms,” Mary added.

“You maybe.” Judy scowled.

Bennie waved them into silence. “Now, getting back to the case, our client is guilty, but the transgression occurred a long time ago. There may be a defense in there somewhere.”

“The statute’s run?” Anne asked, meaning the statute of limitations, and wondering in which jurisdiction the client lived and what he did wrong.

“Not on this, but there are very interesting facts, ones you should know about and should be brought to light.”

Anne didn’t get it. “What did he do?”

“You have to get the facts. Investigate and understand everything about the situation. You know how to prepare a case. The client’s waiting for you, in D.”

“It’s my client?”

“Most definitely. You couldn’t have handled this case before, but you can now. I think after all you’ve been through, you’ve got the experience, the maturity, and now the perspective. Things come to us when we’re ready, sometimes. Take the next few days off and spend some time with it.”

“Really?” Anne rose, grabbing a clean legal pad from the center of the table. “Like a working vacation?”

“Absolutely.” Bennie smiled. “In fact, you know that place you rented down the shore, to get ready for Chipster? I rented it for you. It’s yours this whole week, and we’re bringing Matt down for the weekend. It’s all set up. A romantic weekend, just the five of us.”

“Really?” Anne squealed, and Bennie laughed.

“Really. By the way, have you ever dealt with anybody who was guilty before?”

“Gil, sort of. I hated that.”

“Well, here’s the key. Clients come to us the way they are, and we don’t have the luxury of choosing them. They’re like family that way. So when you meet a new one, don’t judge, just listen. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“You can ask questions, and you can certainly doubt, but you may not judge. Lawyers don’t get to judge, only judges get to judge. Get it? It rhymes. Now get thee to a conference room!”

“Thank you so much, Bennie.” Anne went around the table to give her another hug, then went back toward the door and opened it. “I’ll stop by your office after I’m finished.”

“You do that,” Bennie was saying, as the door closed. Anne hurried though the reception area to conference room D and opened the door. There, looking very small, at the end of the table, sat her mother.

Her fake black hair had been pulled back and she wore a simple blue dress with only a discreet brush of neutral lipstick. She squirmed slightly in her chair, resting a manicured hand on the table’s surface, and her eyelids fluttered as if she were ashamed.

You should be ashamed, Anne thought. She was too surprised to say anything.

“I came here this morning, to see you,” her mother said. Her voice was halting, and her British accent had disappeared. “But your boss, Bennie, she asked me to wait in here. She said if she spoke to you first, maybe you would see me. She’s very kind.”

“You don’t know her.” Anne wanted to wring Bennie’s neck, until she remembered her words. Don’t judge, just listen.

“I was hoping maybe I could speak with you, before I went back to L.A. I don’t expect anything of you. I was just hoping we could speak to each other, one last time. And you should know, I’ve been clean and sober for five months and ten days now. I even have a job at the center. A real job, that pays.”

Clients come to us, and we don’t have the luxury of choosing them. They’re like family that way.

“If you want me to, I will leave now,” she continued. “I have a ticket on the next flight. It’s at three this afternoon.”

You couldn’t have handled this case before, but you can now.

“I just didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye. And, hello.”

Anne felt something come free deep within her chest. Something she had been withholding, but wasn’t ready to acknowledge. She remembered Mrs. Brown, alone with her crosswords, and Mrs. DiNunzio, surrounded by her family and food. Anne knew there was a connection, but was too shaken to puzzle it out right now. She found herself sinking into a chair and automatically setting the legal pad down on the conference table in front of her, as she would in a meeting with any new client.

“So we can talk awhile?” her mother asked.

“Yes,” Anne answered. She eased back in the chair, ready to listen. After all, she was trying to start over starting over. Maybe this was a good place to start. Over. “Please, begin at the beginning,” she said.

And so, they began.

A

CKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are no rules about writing acknowledgments, and my personal survey says that every author does them differently. Because I think of acknowledgments as a special thank-you, in the past I have thanked my readers here. But I’ve come to think that it’s my readers who should get the ultimate thank-you—the dedication. And now they have. Courting Trouble is dedicated to my readers, for giving me their support and loyalty, for coming to book signings when there are so many other demands on their time, and for sending me notes and e-mail offering thoughts, encouragement, and even, occasionally, criticism. Books connect us, and my reader is always in my mind when I write each sentence, each word. My readers know that, and return it a thousandfold. So my deepest thanks go to you, dear reader. For your dedication, I offer mine. On page one, and every page thereafter.

Thanks to the wonderful gang at HarperCollins—to the great Jane Friedman, expert in both style and substance, and to Michael Morrison, Cathy Hemming, and now, Susan Weinberg. A huge and very emotional hug to my beloved editor Carolyn Marino, and another hug to galpals Tara Brown and Virginia Stanley. Thanks, too, to Jennifer Civiletto, for all her help.

Heartfelt thanks go, as always, to the lovely Molly Friedrich and amazing Paul Cirone of the Aaron Priest Agency, for their enormous help and guidance in improving this and every manuscript. And love to Laura Leonard, who keeps me laughing every day and works so hard on my behalf.

Thanks to the many experts who helped with Courting Trouble; their advice was critical, and anything I did with it was my mistake. Thank you to my dear friend Jerome Hoffman, Esq., of Dechert, for his legal expertise and creative imagination, and to Allen J. Gross, Esq., for all of the above. Thanks to Art Mee, my genius detective-by-the-sea, and to Glenn Gilman, Esq., of the Public Defenders Office of Philadelphia.

Thank you to the kind people who have generously contributed to some very important charities, in return for having their names used as characters in this novel. I could never have made them villains, for they are too kind: Lore Yao (The Free Library of Philadelphia), Marge Derrick (Thorncroft Therapeutic Riding), Cheryl Snyder (Pony Club), Crawford, Wilson, & Ryan (Chester County Bar Association), Rodger Talbott & Sharon Arkin (scholarship program at California State University, Fullerton), and Bob Dodds, for the Miami Valley, Ohio, Literacy Council, via book maven Sharon Kelley Roth of Books & Co.

For research concerning erotomania and forms of obsessive love, I am indebted to therapist Fayne Landes, and these fine books: I Know You Really Love Me: A Psychiatrist’s Account of Stalking and Obsessive Love, by Doreen R. Orion (1998) and The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals That Protect Us from Violence, by Gavin DeBecker.

Thanks and love to my husband and family, and to Franca Palumbo, Rachel Kull, Sandy Steingard, Judith Hill, Carolyn Romano, Paula Menghetti, and Nan Demchur, et al. You prove how important girlfriends are. And thanks to my brother, who lent his good humor and his gayness to a scene herein, and to my mother, who can get rid of the evil eye over the telephone. You think I make this stuff up?

A final thank-you to Lucille Ball, to Lucy fans everywhere, and to my own personal Lucy fan, who reminds me that role models come in many shapes, sizes, and haircolors. Even, and perhaps especially, red.

A L

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ORE

A

BOUT

L

ISA

Lisa Scottoline

Lisa has written nine legal thrillers, including Courting Trouble. Lisa has been recognized by universities and organizations alike and is the recipient of both the “paving the way” award from Women in Business, and the “Distinguished Author Award” from the University of Scranton. All of Lisa’s books draw on her experience as a trial lawyer as well as her judicial clerkships in the state and federal justice systems.

School

Lisa graduated magna cum laude (in three years, no less) from the University of Pennsylvania. Her B.A. degree was in English, with a concentration in the contemporary American novel, and she was taught writing by professors such as National Book Award Winner Philip Roth. Lisa attended the University of Pennsylvania Law School, graduating cum laude in 1981, and clerked for a state appellate judge in Pennsylvania.

The Law

After the clerkship, she was a litigator at the prestigious law firm of Dechert, Price & Rhoads in (where else?) Philadelphia. With the birth of a baby coinciding with the end of her marriage (the proverbial good news and bad news), Lisa decided to give up the law to raise her new daughter.

Thereafter

Broke anyway and with a living financed by five VISA cards, Lisa decided it was do-or-die-trying-time to become a novelist. She wrote while her infant slept, basing her first novel on her experiences as a lawyer in a large Philly law firm. It took three years to write that book (the baby didn’t sleep much) and by the time it was finished, the baby was in school and her debt-ridden mother had taken a part-time job clerking for a federal appellate judge.

A week later, that novel, Everywhere That Mary Went, was bought by editor Carolyn Marino at HarperCollins, and Lisa had a new career on her hands. Everywhere That Mary Went was nominated for the Edgar Award, the premier award in suspense fiction by the Mystery Writers of America, and—lest you think this is a Cinderella story—lost the award. Lisa’s second novel, Final Appeal, was nominated for an Edgar the very next year and won. So there are happy endings even in nonfiction. Wahoo!

Lisa’s subsequent novels, Running From the Law, Legal Tender, and Rough Justice received starred reviews in Kirkus and Publishers Weekly. Rough Justice was People magazine’s “Page-Turner of the Week” and Legal Tender was chosen as Cosmopolitan magazine’s premier book club selection.

In addition to receiving starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Kirkus, Mistaken Identity was Lisa’s first New York Times bestseller. In its paperback edition the book went all the way to #5 on The List. Another starred review from Publishers Weekly created early buzz for Moment of Truth and it became an instant national bestseller. As it turned out, both Mistaken and Moment were on the paperback and hardcover New York Times bestseller lists simultaneously.

Named one of “The Ten Best Mysteries of the Year” by the Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel, The Vendetta Defense appeared on all the major national and local bestseller lists. At the same time, the paperback edition of Moment of Truth became an instant New York Times bestseller.

Courting Trouble went on sale May 21, 2002.

A native Philadelphian, Lisa is happily remarried and lives with her family in the Philadelphia area. Her books have been translated into over twenty languages.

O

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IGHT ON

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OUR

There are a lot of weird things that happen on a book tour, and squeezing into pantyhose is only one of them. The oddest — and scariest thing — that happened to me by far (excluding that room service enchilada in Dayton) was this:

I arrived at a small but charming Inn in Lexington, Kentucky at 10:00 p.m., trudging into the lobby. The place seemed deserted and unhappily quiet. No clerk was in sight. In fact, nobody was around at all. I waited at the empty desk like the good girl that I am until a nice young woman appeared from nowhere and took a place behind the counter. We introduced ourselves and determined that I wanted to check in. And I’d had only that US Airways trail mix for dinner, so I asked if there was any room service available:

“No,” she said. “No room service after dark.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“We can’t get any help to stay when it’s dark. Not for turn-downs, nor room service neither.”

“And that would be because . . .”

“The hotel is haunted. Didn’t you know?”

I swear my mouth dropped open. I could feel it. I looked like Big Mouth Billy Bass. “Say what?” I said, as in Say what?

“I’m not kidding,” she told me, and she wasn’t. “In fact, I saw the ghost myself, and I gave notice on the spot. This is my last week. Now, will that be American Express or VISA?”

This is all true. The desk clerk showed me a book to prove it, which listed the Inn as one of the nation’s foremost haunted houses. The Inn’s ghostly guests include a little girl dressed in Victorian clothing who plays jacks on the second floor near the elevator. When spoken to, she laughs and runs away, vanishing. She is seen frequently and is known as “Anna.” Guests mention her often and she plays hide and seek with the hotel’s employees. John, another ghost, isn’t so playful. He sneaks (can a ghost prowl otherwise?) into guest rooms and turns on televisions and radios full blast in the middle of the night.

Guests on the third floor of the hotel periodically complain about loud parties in the rooms above them. A call to the front desk isn’t effective, though. Hotel staff explain that there are only three stories to the building. And perhaps most unsettling is the tale of a man who appears in the laundry.

Why all this ghostly excitement at the Inn? For many years the building that now houses the Inn served as a hospital and during that time the laundry room was a morgue.

By the way, despite this golden opportunity to have an authentically suspenseful night, I was outta there, after promising the clerk a free book for saving my life. I went across town to the Sheraton, where I hoped no ghosts would follow. I watched The Matrix on Spectravision, which didn’t help. I ordered Domino’s in, which did. The suspense writer part is just fiction, friends. I’m the biggest chicken you know.

— Lisa Scottoline

T

HE

N

OVELS

Lisa doesn’t really feel like she owns her novels. She says they are more like children than possessions, with lives and achievements of their own. Writing a book and sending it into the world is almost like sending a child off to college (without the tuition bill, of course). You do the best job you can and then you have to let the book (child) stand on its own.

After writing nine novels, Lisa has come to the conclusion that a book isn’t really fully written until someone reads it. Without a reader, a book is simply words on a page. So grab hold of your imagination, read the first chapter of one of Lisa’s books and help bring it to life.

So Far . . .

Lisa has written nine novels:

Everywhere That Mary Went (1993)

Final Appeal (1994)

Running From the Law (1996)

Legal Tender (1996)

Rough Justice (1997)

Mistaken Identity (1999)

Moment of Truth (2000)

The Vendetta Defense (2001)

Courting Trouble (2002)

Everywhere That Mary Went

Whom can you trust when everyone you know is a lawyer?

Mary DiNunzio has been slaving away for the past eight years trying to make partner in her cutthroat Philadelphia law firm. She’s too busy to worry about the crank phone calls that she’s been getting—until they fall into a sinister pattern.

The phone rings as soon as she gets to work, then as soon as she gets home. Mary can’t shake the sensation that someone is watching her, following her every move.

The shadowboxing turns deadly when her worst fears are realized, and she has to fight for something a lot more important than her partnership: her life.

Nora Roberts: “A page turner that whips through legal labyrinths and emotional mazes.”

Philadelphia Daily News: “A gripping novel embracing a wide range of characters and human emotions. Humor is one of the novel’s strongest elements . . .. A pleasant surprise as the heroine is confronted with a situation of primal terror.”

Chapter One

“All rise! All persons having business before this Honorable Judge of the United States District Court are admonished to draw near and be heard!” trumpets the courtroom deputy.

Instantly, sports pages vanish into briefcases and legal briefs are tossed atop the stock quotes. Three rows of pricey lawyers leap to their wingtips and come to attention before a vacant mahogany dais. Never before has a piece of furniture commanded such respect.

“The District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania is now in session! God save the United States and this honorable court!” The deputy casts an eye in the direction of the dais and pauses significantly. “The Honorable William A. Bitterman, presiding.”

Judge Bitterman sweeps onto the dais on cue and stands behind his desk like a stout regent surveying his serfdom. His eyes, mere slits sunk deep into too-solid flesh, scan the courtroom from on high. I can read his mind: Everything is in order. The counsel tables gleam. The marble floor sparkles. The air-conditioning freezes the blood of lesser life forms. And speaking of same, the lawyers wait and wait.

“You won’t mind the delay, counsel,” the judge says indifferently, sinking into a soft leather throne. “After all, waiting is billable too.”

An uncertain chuckle circulates among the crowd in the back of the courtroom. None of us defense lawyers likes to admit it, but we will bill the time—we have to bill it to someone and it might as well be you. The plaintiff’s bar doesn’t sweat it. A contingency fee has more cushion than an air bag.

“Well, well, well,” the judge mutters, without explanation, as he skims the motion papers on his desk. Judge Bitterman might have been handsome in a former life, but his enormous weight has pushed his features to the upper third of his face, leaving beneath a chin as bulbous as a bullfrog’s. Rumor has it he gained the weight when his wife left him years ago, but there’s no excuse for his temperament, which is congenitally lousy. Because of it my best friend, Judy Carrier, calls him Bitter Man.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” I say, taking my seat at counsel table. I try to sound perky and bright, and not at all how I feel, which is nervous and fearful. I’m wearing my navy-blue Man Suit; it’s perfect for that special occasion when a girl wants to look like a man, like in court or at the auto mechanic’s. The reason I’m nervous is that this oral argument is only my second—the partners in my law firm hog the arguments for themselves. They expect associates to learn how to argue by watching them do it. Which is like saying you can learn to ride a bike by watching other people ride them.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” says opposing counsel, Bernie Starankovic. Starankovic blinks a lot and wears a bad suit. I feel a twinge of guilt for what I’m about to say about him in open court—that he’s too incompetent to represent our client’s employees in a class action for age discrimination. If I win this motion, the action will evaporate, our client’s liability will plunge from megabucks to chump change, and its aged ex-employees will end up living on Social Security and 9-Lives. Defense lawyers consider this a victory.

“Good morning, class,” replies Judge Bitterman.

I force a fraudulent chuckle. The boys in the back do likewise.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Starankovic laughs loudly. “Ha-ha-ha!” The bogus sound caroms harshly off the walls of the cavernous courtroom, ricocheting like a subatomic particle long after everyone has fallen silent.

“Duly noted, Mr. Starankovic,” says Bitter Man dryly, and Starankovic wilts into his chair. The judge’s eyes shift in my direction. “Miz DiNunzio!”

“Yes, Your Honor!” I pop up and grin, like an overeducated jack-in-the-box. Popping up and grinning isn’t something they taught me in law school, but they should have, since it’s a damn sight more useful than Property. I learned it on the job, and it’s become a conditioned response to more stimuli than you can count. I’m up for partnership in two months.

“You’ve done your homework for this morning, haven’t you Miz DiNunzio? I expect no less from a former student of mine.”

Bitter Man’s chubby lips part in a smile, but it’s not a friendly one. I recognize the smile from when I did time as his research assistant, during my second year at Penn. I spent three afternoons a week finding cases for his soporific article on federal court jurisdiction. No matter how good the cases, they were never good enough for him. He always smiled that smile right before he tore into me, in the true Socratic tradition, asking me question after question until he had proven, as a matter of logic, that I was taking up too much space in the universe.

“Miz DiNunzio? Are you with us?” the judge asks.

I nod, in a caffeinated way. My nervousness intensifies. Red angry blotches burst into bloom, one by one, beneath my starchy blouse. In two minutes, my chest will look like a thatch of crimson roses on a snow-covered field. Very attractive.

Bitter Man turns to Starankovic. “Mr. Starankovic, we’ve never met, but I trust you’ve done your homework too. After all, you’re fighting for your life today, aren’t you? Or at least the next best thing—a very large contingency fee.”

Starankovic springs to his feet, blinking rhythmically. “The fee is of no moment to me, Your Honor, I can assure you. My only concern is for my clients, a veritable generation of golden-agers who have been ruthlessly victimized by defendant corporation, at a time in their lives when they should be able to relax, relying on the fact that their hard-earned pensions-”

“Very good, Mr. Starankovic. You get an A for enthusiasm,” Bitter Man snaps, which shuts Starankovic down in mid-homily. Then the judge studies the motion papers before him, ignoring us both.

I’m not sure whether to remain standing, so I steal a glance at Starankovic. He’s swaying stiffly, like a sunflower before a thunderstorm. I take a chance and sit down.

“Miz DiNunzio!” says Bitter Man.

“Yes, Your Honor!” I pop up and grin.

“Approach the podium!”

I hear Starankovic snicker, which proves he doesn’t deserve my sympathy. I walk to the lectern with apparent confidence and adjust the microphone to girl height. “May it please the Court, my name is Mary DiNunzio-”

“Miz DiNunzio,” Bitter Man says. “I have your name, remember?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Sorry, Your Honor.” I clear my throat to the sound of muffled laughter. “As you may know, Your Honor, I’m presenting this Motion to Strike Class Action Allegations on behalf of Harbison’s The Hardware People. Harbison’s is a national chain of hardware stores. It employs over-”

“I don’t need the prospectus, Miz DiNunzio. I’ve heard of the company.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to have heard of the company, after that inane jingle of the theirs. You know their jingle?”

“Their jingle?”

“Yes, their jingle. Their anthem. Their team song. I hear it everywhere—on my television, on my car radio—every fifteen minutes. You said you represent them, Miz DiNunzio, so I’m sure you know it. Do you?”

I nod uncertainly.

“Then sing it.”

“Sing it, Your Honor?”

“You heard me,” he says evenly.

A hush settles over the back of the courtroom. Each one of them is thanking God he’s not in my pumps. I look down at the podium. My heart is pounding, my ears tingling. I curse Bitter Man, for humiliating me, and Richard Nixon, for appointing him to the federal bench.

“Pretty please? With a cherry on top?” The judge’s voice is thick with sarcasm.

Not a soul in the gallery laughs. The courtroom deputy avoids my eye, busily examining the buttons of the tape recorder. Christ. It’ll be on tape. “Your Honor—”

“Miz DiNunzio!” Bitter Man is suddenly furious; he looks like a volcano about to blow. “Sing!”

The courtroom is as quiet and stone-cold as death.

I close my eyes. I want to be somewhere else, anywhere else but here. I’m back in my girlhood, back in midnight mass on Christmas Eve, lost in the airy heights of “Ave Maria.” I open my mouth and the notes fly out, unexpectedly clear and strong. They soar high over the congregation like the hymn, lovely and resonant in the wintry air. “Harbison’s The Hardware People. We take the haaaaaard out of hardware!”

When I open my eyes, Bitter Man’s anger has evaporated. “That was quite . . . beautiful,” he says.

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, and I don’t care. “May I begin my argument, Your Honor?”

“You may.”

So I do, and the argument sounds punchy and right, fueled by my fury at the judge. I rattle off the local court rules that Starankovic has broken, then segue into my cases, transforming each into the parable of the Careless Lawyer Who Undermined Our System of Justice. Bitterman begins to bare his canines in an encouraging way, which means he’s either happy or hungry. I finish my argument and return to counsel table.

“Your Honor, if I may respond,” Starankovic says. He pushes down the shiny pants that are static-clinging to his socks and walks to the podium like a Christian into the Roman Colosseum. “May it please the Court, I’m Bernard-”

“Save it, Mr. Starankovic. We both know that defense counsel is right on the law. Your conduct as class counsel has been a disgrace—even my law clerks could do better. How could you miss the deadline on your motion for class certification? It’s the one thing you have to do and you couldn’t even do that right.”

“But Your Honor . . .”

Bitter Man holds up a hand that looks like a mound of Play-Doh. “Stifle, Mr. Starankovic, as Archie Bunker used to say.” He glances around the room to see if anyone appreciates his joke. The gallery is too terrified to laugh, but the courtroom deputy smiles broadly. Your tax dollars at work.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Starankovic bows slightly.

“Now, Mr. Starankovic, even though Miz DiNunzio thinks she has you, you and I know that I have total discretion in deciding whether to grant her motion. I may grant it or I may deny it purely as a matter of my own inherent powers. Am I right?”

Starankovic nods.

“Of course I am. So your work is cut out for you. Your job is to give me your best argument. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t grant Miz DiNunzio’s motion.”

Starankovic blinks rapidly. “Your Honor, if I may, the class is composed—”

Bitter Man holds up a finger. “I said, one good reason.”

“I was about to, Your Honor. The class is composed of some five hundred employees, and counting-”

“No. No. You’re not listening, Mr. Starankovic. Repeat after me. ‘The one good reason . . .’”

Starankovic licks his dry lips. “The one good reason . . .”

“’You shouldn’t grant the motion . . .’”

“You shouldn’t grant the motion . . .”

“’Is . . .?’” Bitter Man finishes with a flourish, waving his hand in the air like a conductor.

“Is . . .”

“No, you idiot! I’m not going to finish the sentence for you. You finish the sentence.”

“I knew that, Your Honor. I’m sorry.” The man is sweating bullets. “It’s hard to explain. I—”

“One good reason!” the judge bellows.

Starankovic jumps.

The courtroom deputy looks down. The gallery holds its breath. I wonder why judges like Bitter Man get appointments for life. The answer is: because of presidents like Nixon. Someday the electorate will make this connection, I know it.

“I made some mistakes, Your Honor, I admit it,” Starankovic blurts out. “I was having a rough time, my mother had just passed, and I missed a lot of deadlines. Not just on this case—on others too. But it won’t happen again, Your Honor, you have my word on that.”

Bitter Man’s face is a mask of exaggerated disbelief. He grabs the sides of the dais and leans way over. “This is your best argument? This is the one good reason?”

Starankovic swallows hard.

I feel awful. I almost wish I’d never brought the motion in the first place.

“This is the best you can come up with? The one good reason I shouldn’t grant the motion is that you were making a lot of mistakes at the time—and this was just one of them?”

“Your Honor, it’s not like—”

“Mr. Starankovic, you said your only concern was for your clients. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Do you care enough to give them the best lawyer possible?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Would the best lawyer possible fail to file his motion for class certification on time?”

“No . . .Your Honor.”

“But you failed to do so, didn’t you?”

Starankovic blinks madly.

“Didn’t you?”

Starankovic opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Didn’t you fail to do so, Mr. Starankovic? Yes or no will do.”

“Yes,” he says quietly.

“Then you are not the best lawyer possible, are you?”

There is a silence as Starankovic looks down. He can’t bring himself to say it. He shakes his head once, then again.

Socrates would have stopped there, but Bitter Man is just warming up. He drags Starankovic through every deadline he blew and every phone call he failed to return. I can barely witness the spectacle; the back rows are shocked into silence. Poor Starankovic torques this way and that, eyelids aflutter, but Bitterman’s canines are sunk deep in his neck, pinning him to the floor. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There’s only pain and suffering.

When it’s over, Bitter Man issues his decision from the bench. With a puffy smile, he says, “Motion granted.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I say, dry-mouthed.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” says Starankovic, hemorrhaging freely. He shoots me a look that could kill.

“Next!” says Bitter Man.

I stuff my papers in my briefcase and turn to go, as another corporate shill takes my place at counsel table. The pews are jam-packed with us, padded shoulder to padded shoulder, because the argument schedule is so late. I hurry by the freshly shaved suits in rep ties and collar pins. I feel like I’m fleeing the scene of a murder. I avoid the eyes of the men in the gallery, some amused, others curious. I don’t want to think about who sat among them at this time last year.

I promised myself.

I’m almost past the back row when someone grabs my elbow. It’s the only other woman in this horde of pinstriped testosterone, and her red-lacquered nails dig into my arm.

“This has gone far enough!” the woman says.

“What do you mean?” My chest still feels tight, blotchy. I have a promise to keep and I’m failing fast. I try to avoid looking at the pew where she sits, but I can’t help it. It’s where my husband sat with his first-grade class and watched me argue my first motion. The rich mahogany of the pew has been burnished to a high luster, like a casket.

“He hates us! He hates women lawyers!” she says. She punches the bridge of her glasses with a finger. “I think it’s high time we did something about it.”

I only half hear her. All I can think about is Mike. He sat right in this row and had to quiet the class as they fidgeted, whispered, and giggled through the entire argument. He sat at the end of the pew, his arm rested right here. I touch the knobby arm rest with my fingertips. It feels just like his shoulder used to feel: strong, solid. As if it would never give way. I don’t want to move my hand.

“We have to file a complaint of judicial misconduct. It’s the only thing that will stop him. I know the procedure. You file the complaint with the Clerk of the Third Circuit, then it goes to the Chief Judge and . . .”

Her words grow faint. My fingertips on the shoulder of wood put me in touch with Mike, and in touch with that day. It was a morning like this one. My first argument in court. I remember my own nervous excitement, presenting the motion almost automatically, in a blur. Bitter Man ruled for me in the end, which caused the first-graders to burst into giddy applause. Mike’s face was lit up by a proud smile that didn’t fade even when Bitter Man went ballistic, pounding his gavel . . .

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Reality.

I pull my hand from the cold, glossy wood of the pew. Mike isn’t here, Mike is gone. I feel my chest flush violently. “I have to go.”

“Wait? How will I find you? I need you to sign the complaint,” the woman says, grasping at my arm. “I have at least two other incidents. If we don’t do something about this, no one else will!”

“Let me go, I have to go.” I yank my arm from her grasp and bang through the courtroom doors.

My promise is broken; my head is flooded with a memory. Mike and I celebrated the night I won the motion. We made love, so sweetly, and then ate pizza, a reverse of our usual order. Afterward he told me he felt sorry for the employees whose discrimination case I had gotten dismissed.

“You’re a softie,” I said.

“But you love me for it,” he said.

Which was true. Two months later, Mike was dead.

And I began to notice a softer-hearted voice than usual creeping into my own consciousness. I don’t know for sure whose voice it is, but I think the voice is Mike, talking to me still. It says the things he would say, it’s picked up where he left off. Lately it’s been whispering to me that my on-the-job sins are piling up. That each hash mark for the corporate defense is a black mark for my soul.

Judgment day will come, it says. It’s just a matter of time.

Copyright © 1993 by Lisa Scottoline. All rights reserved.

Final Appeal

Do our judges do us justice?

To Philadelphia lawyer Grace Rossi, who’s starting over after a divorce, a part-time job with a federal appeals court sounds perfect. But Grace doesn’t count on being assigned to an explosive death penalty appeal.

Nor does she expect ardor in the court, in the form of an affair with her boss, Chief Judge Armen Gregorian.

Then the truly unimaginable happens and Grace finds herself investigating a murder. Unearthing a six-figure bank account kept by a judge with an alias; breaking into another judge’s chambers, and a secret apartment. Following a trail of bribery and judicial corruption that’s stumped even the FBI. In no time at all, Grace under fire takes on a whole new meaning.

Entertainment Weekly: “Good, speedy fun.”

Chapter One

At times like this I realize I’m too old to be starting over, working with law clerks. I own pantyhose with more mileage than these kids, and better judgment. For example, two of the clerks, Ben Safer and Artie Weiss, are bickering as we speak; never mind that they’re making a scene in an otherwise quiet appellate courtroom, in front of the most expensive members of the Philadelphia bar.

“No arguing in the courtroom,” I tell them, in the same tone I use on my six-year-old. Not that it works with her either.

“He started it, Grace,” Ben says in a firm stage whisper, standing before the bank of leather chairs against the wall. “He told me he’d save me a seat and he didn’t. Now there’s no seats left.”

“Will you move, geek? You’re blocking my sun,” Artie says, not bothering to look up from the sports page. He rarely overexerts himself; he’s sauntered through life to date, relying on his golden-boy good looks, native intelligence, and uncanny jump shot. He throws one strong leg over the other and turns the page, confident he’ll win this argument even if it runs into overtime. Artie, in short, is a winner.

But so is Ben in his own way; he was number two at Chicago Law School, meat grinder of the Midwest. “You told me you’d save me a seat, Weiss,” he says, “so you owe me one. Yours. Get up.”

“Eat me,” Artie says, loud enough to distract the lawyers conferring at the counsel table like a bouquet of bald spots. They’d give him a dirty look if he were anyone else, but because he works for the chief judge they flash capped smiles; you never know which clerk’s got your case on his desk.

“Get up. Now, Weiss.”

“Separate, you two,” I say. “Ben, go sit in the back. Argument’s going to start any minute.”

“Out of the question. I won’t sit in public seating. He said he’d save me a seat, he owes me a seat.”