Betrayed (Rosato & DiNunzio, #2)(79)

She frowned at her eye color, which she had always thought were a china blue like her father’s, but now she realized she had no idea what her father looked like. Everyone always said that her mouth was clearly from her mother, but Judy would have to start clarifying the term mother, because she was still thinking of her mother as her mother, when her aunt was really her mother.

She scrutinized her face, pondering her features as if each one were a cardboard piece from a jigsaw puzzle, trying to match her turned-up nose to her Aunt Barb’s nose and wondering where her cheekbones fit, because they could have come from a total stranger, who also happened to be dead. Judy felt tears well up again, but she pressed them away. She couldn’t sit out here forever and she couldn’t overthink it.

She grabbed her purse, got out of the car, and chirped it locked while she walked up to the front door, with its three steps of worn grayish marble. Like the other rowhouses on the street, they were of red brick, with one front window on the first floor, and two above that, then a flat tar roof with a satellite dish aimed for maximum sports reception. South Philly was Mary DiNunzio territory, and Judy didn’t fit in here, but she wasn’t sure she fit in anywhere, after her conversation with her mother. Then she reminded herself that her mother wasn’t her mother anymore, and her real mother had breast cancer, which made her sick at heart. She’d already lost one mother and she didn’t know if she could lose another.

Judy set aside her emotions and knocked on the front door, remembering the first time she had been here, when she represented Frank’s grandfather Pigeon Tony, on a case. She’d been delighted to meet her new client’s hunky grandson, who had swept her off her feet, and while she waited for Frank to answer the door, she wondered if those old feelings were still there, or if they weren’t, if she could get them back.

“Babe!” Frank said, opening the door. “Come in!”

“Hi, sure.” Judy tried to get her bearings, knowing that it was still dark enough on the stoop for him not to be able to see her clearly. She could hear the noise of the football game and the boys talking inside. “Do you think we can get a minute alone? I just want to talk to you.”

“Totally, sure!” Frank was already reaching for her, giving her a hug, and sweeping her inside the little entrance hall, which was divided from the living room by a panel of ridged glass. But when he let her go, he did a double-take, his eyes widening in surprise, then anger. “What happened? Who hit you?”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” Cartman called out. “WHO HIT WHO?”

“Cartman, shut up!” Frank shouted over his shoulder, then put a strong arm around Judy.

“Frank,” Judy whispered, “nobody hit me, but can we go somewhere and talk?”

“Come with me, out back.”

“Good.” Judy kept her head turned, letting Frank run interference for her with the boys and lead her through the tiny dining room and kitchen, then he flicked on the outside light and opened the back door.

“Thanks.” Judy stepped into the backyard, a small, rectangular plot of grass, surrounded by whitewashed cinderblock, with two plastic lattice beach chairs in front of a loft that Frank’s grandfather had made for his homing pigeons. The loft was about thirty feet long, with a white framed-wire cage on all four sides, containing forty-odd snow-white doves, and reddish-brown Meulemanns and Janssens.

“What happened, baby?” Frank asked, aghast. He touched her arm, tilting her toward him as he looked at her face. “What the hell? Were you mugged? I’ll kill him!”

“I didn’t get mugged,” Judy began, but she wasn’t sure what to say next. She slipped from his grasp, drawn to the loft. Inside the pigeons fluttered this way and that, disturbed by the sudden light and the presence of people, so late. They cooed and called to each other, their wings beating against the wire walls, shedding fuzzy underfeathers that flew around in the quiet night air, sailing on invisible currents. “God, I love these birds.”

“What happened, hon?” Frank followed her to the loft, linking his fingers through the cage wire.

“I’m fine, but it’s a long story. It’s been a long day and night, starting with Aunt Barb’s operation.” Judy watched as the birds began to find their mates, because homing pigeons were bonded pairs, mated for life. They settled down together, two by two, tucking their white wings neatly at their sides, puffing out their chests, their eyes red and perfectly round, complementing their dark pink, scaly legs. Judy used to let them perch on her fingers, surprised at the warmth of their feet.

“Judy, who hit you? Was it the guys who attacked you at your aunt’s? Are they stalking you? Because if the police won’t do anything about it, I will.”

“The police are all over it, but thanks.”

“You don’t want to tell me about it?”

“Honestly, I don’t want to talk about it.” Judy felt that what had happened at the barracks was old news compared with the conversation with her mother, which she needed to hash out with somebody. She watched the birds without seeing them anymore, losing focus. “I had a weird discussion with my mother, though.”

“Tell me what happened to your lip, then tell me about your mom.”

“My lip doesn’t matter, my mom does.”

“Your lip matters to me.” Frank frowned. “I can’t let people take shots at you and get away with it.”