"A good read that teaches you a bit of history"
Reviewed by Rosie B
Posted July 29, 2005
Thriller Legal
In 1942, after having learned of his wife's death, Amadeo
Brandolini committed suicide at the internment camp he was
being held at along with other Italian-American prisoners.
Now, 62 years later, his son's estate is suing the US
government for reparations for his boats.
Mary Dinunzio, a young lawyer at the all female firm of
Rosato and Associates, is working the Brandolini case pro
bono. Painstakingly going through government documents,
trying to find anything that may be relevant to the case,
Mary finds herself questioning Amadeo's apparent suicide.
Fascinated by Amadeo's personal effects, which include old
photographs, a lock of hair and a few papers covered in
doodles, Mary works toward unraveling the mystery of what
happened to Amadeo while he was at the internment camp. When the Brandolini's estate lawyer is murdered, Mary knows
it has something to do with the case she's working. While
her family and friends set her up on blind dates to
distract her from the obsession this case is becoming for
her, Mary works towards finding a killer and unraveling his
motive. KILLER SMILE is my first Lisa Scottoline novel. I found
that it took a while before I really got into the book but
once it started rolling I was engrossed. There were some
references to things that had happened in other books that
I didn't understand but for the most part, this is a stand
alone book and you're not required to have read any of her
other stories. Some of the things in KILLER SMILE I had a
hard time with were Mary's disregard for the law, her job
and her other, living, paying clients. The secondary story
with her mother's illness seems to have been pointless. It
didn't really go anywhere and just distracted from the
story. I found the story itself though to be engaging
after I got past the first few chapters. You learn a bit
of history regarding the internment camps and about Italian-
American persecution during World War II.
SUMMARY
Everybody around lawyer Mary DiNunzio has decided she isn't
allowed to be a Young Widow anymore, even though she didn't
know there was an official cutoff. They're all trying to fix
her up -- her South Philly Italian parents, her best friend
Judy Carrier, even the office security guard. All Mary wants to do is immerse herself in a case everybody
else calls "The History Channel", a pro bono representation
of the Brandolini estate. The roots of the matter sink deep
into the past, when Amadeo Brandolini emigrated to
Philadelphia, started a family, and built up a small fishing
business. At the outbreak of World War II, Brandolini was
arrested by the FBI as part of a mass internment of
Italian-Americans and was sent to a camp in Montana, where
he eventually committed suicide. Now, more than sixty years
later, his son's estate hires Mary to sue for reparations. Mary vows to vindicate Amadeo even though it won't be easy.
With only a lock of hair, an old wallet, and a sheet of
paper filled with odd doodles to go on, the tenacious lawyer
begins to research the case but finds instead puzzling new
questions. Someone doesn't want Mary to find the truth, and
before long, her life is threatened. Suddenly, the quiet,
squeaky-clean good girl who never left Mercer Street is
risking life and limb to finger a killer and lay a beloved
ghost to rest.
ExcerptChapter One"Rosato and Associates," Mary DiNunzio said into the
receiver, then kicked herself for answering the phone. The
caller was Premenstrual Tom, a man who wanted to sue the
Philadelphia Police Department, the United States Congress,
and a local cantaloupe. He'd been calling the office at all
hours, and Mary felt sorry for him. He was obviously off his
meds and had reached one of the few lawyers in the city who
wouldn't sue fruit. "This is Mr. Thomas Cott!" he shouted. "Who's this?" "I'm Mary DiNunzio. We spoke yesterday - " "Get me Ms. Benedetta Rosato!" "Ms. Rosato is gone for the day, sir." Mary checked her
watch. 10:16 p.m. Everyone had gone home hours ago, and
until now, the offices had been blessedly quiet. "The office
is closed." "Then what are you doing there, Ms. Mary DiNunzio?" Good question, Mr. Thomas Cott. Mary was working late again,
reading until her brown eyes turned red and her contacts
dried to the crispness of breakfast cereal. Documents
blanketed the conference table like a legal snowstorm, and
her compact figure had been curled into the chair for so
long she felt like a meatball. "Mr. Cott, I'll take a
message and tell Bennie - " "I refuse to leave any more messages! Get Ms. Benedetta
Rosato on the line! I demand to know why she won't represent
me! She specializes in constitutional rights, it says so on
the computer!" "The computer?" "In the library! The website, your website! It says it right
there! That's false advertising! What about my
constitutional rights? They don't matter? I don't matter?" "Mr. Cott, no lawyer can take every case," Mary answered,
then hesitated. Bennie had told the associates not to engage
Premenstrual Tom, but if she could explain it to him, maybe
he'd stop calling. "I think Bennie told you she didn't think
your case could prevail in court. She's practiced
constitutional law for a long time and has excellent
judgment, so - " "All those judges are in on it! All of them are crooked,
every single one of them! City Hall is a pit of conspiracy
and corruption! They're all in the mayor's pocket!" "Mr. Cott, the judges in City Hall aren't crooked, and your
case would be in federal court anyway - " "You're not fooling me, either of you! Put Ms. Benedetta
Rosato on the telephone right now! I know she's there! She
must be, she's not at home!" Mary blinked. "How do you know she's - " "I went to her house! I knocked on her door, I waited for
her to answer! The windows were dark!" Mary stiffened. "How did you get her address?" "It's in the phone book, I looked it up! What do you think I
am, incapable? I may not have a fancy law degree, but I am
not incapable, MS. MARY DiNUNZIO!" Mary suddenly stopped feeling sorry for him. He was shouting
louder now, almost screaming. "I SAID, get MS. BENEDETTA ROSATO on this telephone RIGHT
NOW! I KNOW she's right there with you!" "Mr. Cott, if you'll just - " "DON'T LIE TO ME! Don't you DARE LIE TO ME!" "Mr. Cott, I'm not - " "I'll come down there, you LYING WHORE! I'll come down there
and SHOOT - " Mary hung up, shaken. The conference room fell abruptly
silent. The air felt charged. It took her a moment to
process what had just happened. Okay, Premenstrual Tom had
morphed into Psychotic Tom, and it wasn't funny anymore.
Bennie was at an ACLU dinner, but it would be ending soon.
She could be going home. Mary had to warn her. She reached
for the phone to call the boss's cell. Rring, rrriiinng! The phone rang underneath Mary's hand,
jarring her. Rrrriiinng! She gritted her teeth and let it
ring twice more so voicemail would pick up. She should never
have engaged Premenstrual Tom. When would she learn? Her
good-girl reflexes -- Help Out, Be Nice, Tell the Truth --
sucked, in the practice of law. Mary pushed the button for her direct phone line and called
Bennie, but there was no answer. She left a detailed
message, then hung up, uneasy. She'd call her back in five
minutes to make sure Bennie had gotten the message. Mary eased back in her swivel chair, wishing suddenly that
she weren't alone in the office. She eyed the doorway to the
conference room, surprised to find the threshold dark. Who
turned out the lights in the reception area? Maybe the
cleaning people, when they'd left. I'll come down there and shoot Mary eyed the phone, daring it to ring again. She didn't
leave it off the hook because the drill was to record
threatening messages for evidence, in case the office had to
go for a restraining order, like with Premenstrual Fred.
Mary wondered fleetingly if she could find a career that
didn't attract garden-variety homicidal rage or bad
television commercials. She told herself to get over it. Premenstrual Tom had been
blowing off steam, and there was a security desk in the
lobby of the building. The guard wouldn't let anybody
upstairs without calling her first, especially after
business hours, and nowadays you couldn't get past the desk
without a driver's license and a mortgage note. She got back to work, tucking a dark blonde tendril into its
loose French twist, and picking up the document she'd been
reading. It was a letter dated December 17, 1941, from the
Provost Marshal General's office, a federal agency that no
longer existed. Its type was grainy because it was a Xerox
copy of a photocopy of a carbon copy, and on another night,
Mary would have gotten a charge out of its vintage.
Everybody in the office called her case The History Channel,
but she loved The History Channel. She loved mostly
everything on cable except The Actor's Studio, which she
wouldn't watch at gunpoint. But she didn't want to think
about gunpoint right now. Mary scribbled USELESS on a Post-It, stuck it on the letter,
and set it in the USELESS stack in front of her. She ignored
how tall the USELESS stack was getting because it would be
USELESS. Documents surrounded her and sat packed in boxes
along the side wall of the conference room. Somewhere in
these papers was the file for a man named Amadeo Brandolini.
Amadeo had emigrated from Italy to Philadelphia, where he'd
married, had a son, and built up a small fishing business.
When World War II broke out, he was arrested by the FBI and
imprisoned along with 10,000 other Italian immigrants, under
an act better-known for authorizing the internment of the
Japanese. Amadeo lost everything and eventually committed
suicide in the camp. His son's estate had hired Mary to sue
for reparations, and she couldn't help but mourn him. Very
few shows on The History Channel had happy endings, which
was why everybody watched Fox. Rring! The phone rang, and Mary jumped. It had to be
Premenstrual Tom calling back. She had told Bennie to call
her on her cell, and she didn't have anybody else to call
her, which was why she was working late. Perhaps these
things were related, but Mary was in no mood for
introspection. She tensed all over again. Rrriiinng! Rrriiinng! Finally the ringing stopped. The conference room fell silent
again. Mary waited for the silence to seem more like
friendly-silence and less like scary-silence, but that
wasn't happening. The reception area was still dark. She
tried to relax, but couldn't. She glanced over her shoulder
even though she was thirty-two stories up. It was dark
outside, and in the onyx mirror of the windows, she saw the
sparkling new conference room, a messy table dotted with
Styrofoam coffee cups, and a Drama Queen with a law degree. I'll come down there and shoot Mary turned back, picked up the phone, and pressed in
Bennie's cell number. Again there was no answer, so she left
another warning, slightly more hysterical. She hung up and
checked her watch again. 10:36. It was late. She didn't want
to sit here while he called back again. She couldn't
concentrate anyway. Time to go. She got out of the chair,
stuffed her briefcase with documents, grabbed her purse, and
left the conference room. Leather chairs and a matching
couch loomed in the darkened reception area, and Mary
scooted past the terrifying furniture for the elevator,
which didn't come fast enough. Once inside, she breathed a
little easier, and when the elevator reached the lobby, she
stepped off and glanced around, her pulse slowing to normal.
The fake-marble lobby was bright and empty, except for a
fake-granite security desk manned by a guard too sleepy for
Mary's comfort level. Bobby Troncello, an amateur boxer she
knew from the neighborhood, undoubtedly dozing over the
sports page. "Wake up, Bobby," she said, making a beeline for the desk.
She set her briefcase on its glistening surface and peeked
over the edge. "We got trouble." "What do you mean?" Bobby looked up, edging the maroon cap
he hated over his thick black eyebrows. His brown eyes were
dark and glassy-wet, his nose wide and dotted with large
pores, and his mouth a slash that was usually swollen from
the gym. The Daily News lay open on his desk, tabloid-size,
its pages cut in a soft zigzag fringe, and a can of Coke
warmed beside an oily white wrapper from a cheesesteak
dinner. Only the end of the long hoagie roll remained, with
a brownish knob like an elbow. "I just got a phone call from a very angry man named Tom
Cott. I don't know what he looks like, but he threatened to
come here tonight and shoot me." "Uh oh." Bobby's forehead knit unhappily. "You're supposed to tell me not to worry." "Don't worry, Mare. Bennie already told us to watch out for
this Cott guy. Nobody gets upstairs, you know that. He comes
in my lobby, I'll take care of him myself. I wouldn't let
anybody hurt my homegirl." Mary smiled, almost reassured. "He went to Bennie's house
tonight. He said he looked her up in the phone book. I
called her and left a message warning her, but I'm worried." "About Rosato? I'd worry about him." Bobby laughed, rising
to stretch arms that strained against the seams of his
maroon blazer. His lapels parted as he reached up, releasing
a heady combination of Drakkar Noir and fried onions. "If
that knucklehead tussles with her, she'll kick his ass from
here to Broad Street." "But he said he'd shoot me, or us. I think." Mary couldn't
remember much that Premenstrual Tom had said after shoot,
and his calling her a whore pissed her off more than it
should have, especially when it was part of a death threat,
in general. "What if he has a gun? What if he goes to
Bennie's house with a gun?" "So what? Rosato carries concealed." Bobby snorted. "She'd
bust a cap before he could find his pants pocket." Strangely, I feel worse. "Is this your best stuff, Bobby?" "Don't worry, everything's fine. You been workin' too hard,
night after night. Lemme get you a cab." Bobby grabbed
Mary's briefcase, walked around the security desk, and
looped an aromatic arm around her shoulder. "By the way,
what did you decide about my friend Jimmy? You gonna let me
hook you up?" Mary hid her dismay. Bobby had been trying to fix her up
with his fellow boxers, a continuous loop of Joeys, Billys,
and a stray Cooch. Lately, everybody was playing matchmaker,
as if they'd all decided Mary wasn't allowed to be a Young
Widow anymore. She hadn't known there was an official cutoff. "I told you about Jimmy. We went to Newmann together, he's a
real nice guy. Works his dad's plumbing business, got a nice
car. Season tickets to the Iggles. Club level, Mare." "Thanks, but I don't think so." "You sure?" Bobby led her to the polished brass door, opened
it for her, and gentled her outside onto the sidewalk. The
night air felt crisp, and there was almost no traffic at
this hour. Rosato & Associates had moved to nicer offices
uptown since they started doing class action work, and the
ritzy new location made it easier to get cabs. Bobby hailed
one almost instantly. "Come on, Mare, whyn't you give Jimmy
a shot?" Mary smiled. "Give him a shot? You're a poet." "You gotta get back in the saddle, girl." Bobby opened the
cab door with a wink. Yowza. "Another time, thanks." Mary tucked herself inside
the back seat of the cab, waved good-bye to Bobby, and gave
her address to the cabbie, a bald, older man. He merely
nodded in response, strangely taciturn for a Philadelphia
cab driver, and for a minute she thought he didn't speak
English, but his ID card read John Tucker. They lurched off,
rattling through the dark, empty streets of the city, and
the cab took on an oddly hollow feel in the interior. Or
maybe it was just too clean inside. The black carpet reeked
of strawberry spray, the vinyl seat shone with Armor-All,
and the seat belt actually worked. It was all too
topsy-turvy for Philly, and Mary felt disoriented. "You keep your cab very clean," she said pleasantly, but he
didn't answer. Maybe he hadn't heard. "This cab is so neat!" she said, louder, but he still didn't
say anything, so she let it go and slipped lower in the
seat, glancing out the window as they barreled up Walnut
past a darkened Burberry's, Kiehl's, and Barnes & Noble. A
few businesspeople walked down the street, the men with ties
loosened, the women with purses swinging. A raggedy homeless
man shouted from the corner of Eighteenth and Walnut,
reminding Mary of Premenstrual Tom. She reached in her purse, retrieved her cell, and pressed
redial for Bennie. Again the boss didn't answer, and she
left another message. She flipped the phone closed and
watched the rear-view mirror for the cabbie's reaction. He
said nothing, but his gaze shifted hard-eyed to the right.
They traveled in silence to her neighborhood, and he swung
the cab more roughly than necessary onto her street. Mary
felt unaccountably as if she'd wronged him, so when they
pulled up in front of her house, she handed him a ten-dollar
bill on a six-dollar fare. "Keep the change," she said, but he only nodded again. She
opened the door, gathered her belongings, and had barely
climbed out of the cab before the cabbie hit the gas and
sped off, leaving her alone at the curb. I'll come down there and shoot The voice echoed in Mary's head, and then it struck her:
Premenstrual Tom could have looked up where she lived. He
knew her name; she was in the phone book, too. The
realization startled her, then she wondered why she hadn't
thought of it before. He could be here, on her street.
Watching her. Right now. With a gun. Her gaze swept the street, a skinny alley lined with small
brick trinities. Its one streetlight, at the far end of the
street, wasn't enough to reassure her. Some of her neighbors
had mounted lights beside their front doors, but they cast
little illumination except on their own front stoops. The
sidewalks were vacant. Everybody was inside. A few city
trees planted at curbside rustled in the breeze, and Mary
sized them up with suspicion. Their trunks looked too thin
for someone to hide behind, but Premenstrual Tom could be
skinny. If he wasn't retaining water. I'll come down there and shoot Mary felt a panicky urge to get in her house. Her front
light was off, and she hurried up the front stoop in the
dark, shoving a hand into her purse for her keys. She could
hear the sounds of an argument coming from two doors down;
the Mendozas, who never fought. Odd; everything seemed
strange tonight. Was it a full moon or what? She was
fumbling with her keyring when the phone began ringing
inside her house. She slid in her key, twisted the lock, and
hurried inside, running through her darkened living room for
the phone. "Hello," she answered, and it was Bennie, laughing. "You don't listen, DiNunzio. I told you guys not to talk to
him." "I thought I could help. I just got in. Where are you?" Mary
had never been so relieved to hear that her boss on the
phone. Actually she had never been relieved to hear that her
boss was on the phone, but that didn't mean she wanted her dead. "I'm at home, safe and sound." "Is Premenstrual Tom there?" "Of course not. Thanks for worrying about me, though. Remind
me at evaluation time." Bennie laughed again, and Mary
guessed she'd enjoyed the ACLU dinner, evidently celebrating
her First Amendment right to chocolate martinis. "Bennie, I think you should be taking this more seriously." "Relax, child. There's nothing to worry about with him. He's
all talk." "How do you know he's all talk? You don't know that." "I know that." "A hundred percent?" Mary didn't add that she was a little
worried for herself, too. Or that Premenstrual Tom had
called her a name that hurt her feelings when he threatened
to kill her. "He's such a creep!" "Absolutely, he is. It's a given that he's a creep, but that
doesn't end the inquiry." Almost convinced, Mary flopped down on her couch, flicked on
the glazed lamp on the end table, and kicked off her pumps.
They went skidding across the nubby Berber, and the left
shoe landed heel-up near the front door. She glanced idly in
its direction, then frowned. A skinny strip of light shone
from the threshold underneath her front door. Had she not
closed the front door behind her? "Trust me, child," Bennie said. "I defended murder cases
forever. There's the creeps you worry about and the creeps
you don't. I'll tell you which is which." Mary watched her door. Was it open? Where were her house
keys? Her hand was empty, she didn't have them. She must
have left them in the front door. "The creeps you worry about are the ones who don't threaten
you first. Believe me, they're the dangerous ones. They're
the ones who don't broadcast it, or give any warning at all." Mary's front door edged open, and she went rigid. Was it a
breeze? Or was someone out there? Opening her front door? "The dangerous ones, the truly murderous ones, lie in wait.
And then, when the moment's right, they strike." "Yikes!" Mary blurted out, dropping the phone and bolting
for the door. She darted across the room, wrenched her keys
from the lock, and slammed the door shut with both hands.
Good. Yes. Phew. She laughed with giddy relief. She twisted
the deadbolt knob to lock the door and inserted the brass
chain for the slide lock. Then she turned to go back to the
phone, which was when she saw it. A shadow of a man, flitting past the shutters that covered
her front window. Mary froze. Had she seen a man? Yes. Then he was gone. She
listened. She didn't hear the sound of footsteps, but then
again, the walls of her house were too thick. Maybe she
should open the door and see? OF COURSE NOT! ARE YOU NUTS?
She hurried back to the phone and couldn't hide her panic. "Bennie," she said, out of breath. "The weirdest thing just
happened! A man just ran past my front window!" "What did he look like?" "Like, a shadow!" "Stay calm. Was there anybody out there when you came in?" "No." "And you said you just got in." "Right." Bennie chuckled. "Then there's nobody out there now." "But I saw him!" "A shadow. A shadow's not a man, DiNunzio." "What if it was Premenstrual Tom? He looked up where you
live, he could have looked up where I live. He's not incapable." "Oh, he gave you the 'incapable' speech, too." Bennie
laughed. "You're getting carried away. It's nighttime, there
are shadows. You're a little spooked is all." A little? "Now, are you okay?" No. "Yes." "Good, go to bed. I'll deal with our new best friend in the
morning. Leave it to me, and thanks again for the call. Good
night, kiddo." "Goodnight," Mary said, but she hung up worried. Had she
seen a man at the window? Had he opened the door? Had she
been imagining it? Was it Premenstrual Tom? She rose
uncertainly and padded barefoot to the window. The shutters
were unhooked in the center, and she peeked out of the tiny
opening between them. She could see only a cross-section of
her street; a sliver of red brick from the house opposite
hers, a strip of flat asphalt roofline, and a slice of the
black sky. Clouds rendered even heaven opaque, hiding the
stars and keeping the moon a secret. Mary stayed at the window, wondering. It seemed unlikely
that Premenstrual Tom could be out there, but it wasn't
impossible. There were dangerous people in this city; she
knew because one of them had taken her husband's life. They
had been married only two years, and Mike had been killed
while he was riding his bicycle on the West River Drive,
intentionally struck by a car. That his murderer had
eventually been caught gave Mary no comfort. She was a
lawyer still trying to understand the meaning of justice.
She understood completely the meaning of loss. She hooked
the shutter closed, turned away from the front window, and
switched off the light. Plunging herself into a familiar blackness.
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