Free A Picture of Guilt by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page A

was Rhonda Disapio, Mary Jo Bosanick’s best friend.
    “You?” I cried.
    Her face said she was at least as scared as me.
    I leaned over and extended my hand. She hesitated, then took it. As she stood up, the musky scent of Tabu drifted over me. I hadn’t smelled it since high school when girls sashayed down the halls, a heavy cloud of it trailing after them.
    “You want to tail someone,” I groused, “you ought to brush up on your technique. It sucks.”
    I looked around. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and the floor was institutional tile, not marble. Opposite us was a supply closet. A sign at the far end pointed to an employee washroom.
    “You want to tell me why you’ve been following me?”
    She blew air into her cheeks, as if she was wrestling with how to begin. “I—I’m really scared.” Her voice was squeakier, more timid than I remembered. “I don’t even think I should be here. But I don’t know what else to do. I need your help.”
    “How did you find me?”
    “I followed you. You’re listed in the phone book.”
    I rubbed my chin. At the trial Rhonda had seemed smooth and self-assured. I recalled thinking her friend’s murder was the most exciting event in her life and that she was reveling in her fifteen minutes. Now, as I took in her sloppy clothes, smeared lipstick, and earrings that didn’t match her outfit, I could see she was stressed. Maybe I should feel some compassion. No, I reminded myself. She did sneak up on me, and I don’t do surprise well.
    “So talk.”
    She hoisted the strap of her purse up on her shoulder. A blue and white polka-dot scarf was knotted around the base of the bag. “When I testified at the trial, there are—well, things happened that didn’t come out. I should have left town afterwards. But I couldn’t.” She shrugged helplessly. “I have a kid.”
    “What kind of things?”
    She picked at the knot on her scarf.
    “Rhonda, you found out where I lived. You followed me all the way up here. You stalked me through the mall. If you have something to say, now’s the time.”
    “Yeah, okay. But please don’t call the cops. At least, hear me out first.”
    “Call the cops?” I shifted uneasily. “Why would I do that?”
    “Because of what I’m gonna say.” She pressed her lips together. “The night Mary Jo got killed…I was with her.”
    “You were at Calumet Park?”
    She nodded. “Mary Jo picked me up after she and Johnnie had that fight. She was driving his car.”
    “She took his car?” The fact that his car had been at Calumet Park was a key piece of evidence against Santoro.
    “She had a set of keys. They were practically living together, you know.”
    “No, I didn’t.” No one did.
    “She’d tell her parents she was staying with me,” she said. “Anyway, after he’d belted her, she got really pissed, jumped into the car, and took off for my place. We picked up a bottle and went to the park.”
    I frowned. “I thought you said you had a kid.”
    She waved a hand. “It was after midnight. You know how kids sleep. My sister lives downstairs, anyway.”
    I bit back a reply.
    “We drove over to the boat launch, see? We done it before. It’s nice there late at night. Peaceful and all. You can really feel the lake.”
    “So it was you and Mary Jo those witnesses saw driving into the park.”
    She nodded. “So we’re sitting on the rocks, getting kind of loaded, and Mary Jo’s telling me she really did want to break it off with Johnnie. He was a fuck up; he wasn’t gonna amount to nothin’. So we’re talking and drinking and laughing, and then we see this boat come in—”
    “A boat? At midnight?”
    “It was summer. People fish all night long. Anyway, it’s dark, and we can’t see much, but it looks like there’s two guys in the boat, and they’re heading over to the launch. So, we start kiddin’ around, like maybe we should hook up with those dudes—we might have more luck. Mary Jo even stands up, like she’s