“Well,” he said. “Time for introductions, I guess. I’m Rufus Buchanan…” He narrowed his gaze and chuckled. “I was just waiting for you to say something. Rufus—terrible name for a boy, but just about fine for an old man.” He ran his hand over his scalp, flattening the sparse bits of hair that stood up.
She laughed. “Thanks, Rufus. I’m Jessie Novak.” She held out her hand. “I’m not usually so skittish.”
“But you work over there at Boston City, right?” He gripped her hand tighter than she thought possible, his own so bony and frail.
She nodded.
“Reason enough to be skittish, Jessie. Just be careful.” He helped her get her bags into the kitchen and reminded her that he was close by. “I’m right downstairs. If you ever need me, knock or just holler. For anything. Anything at all.”
“Thanks, Rufus. Same goes for you.” It wasn’t lost on her that she’d been here for almost two years, and had never spoken to him; she’d only waved in passing. Never asked how he was, never asked his name. That was the thing about the city, you could live right above someone and never know them. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and he smiled.
“Don’t forget to lock up behind me,” he said, turning for the door.
And she took his advice, turning the lock and slipping the chain into place. She brewed a cup of tea, put her groceries away, stuck a frozen meal into the microwave and settled onto the couch. She needed to get back to her routine. She clicked on the television and, same as every day this week, the shooting was the top story. This time, the news anchor reported that some kids from Hart’s youth group were asking to be pallbearers at the funeral. A Facebook photo appeared, showing Hart surrounded by a cluster of teenagers, all smiling. As the photo faded to a weather map, Jessie reached for her iPad.
“Facebook, of course. Everyone’s on Facebook.” She typed in Robert Hart and followed the links to the Facebook page she’d just seen. He didn’t seem to have a private page, just this work-based page that touted his work with minority youth and the city’s initiatives to ensure successful futures for these kids. It was hard to argue with that. It seemed as though he did great work. No personal posts or photos, though; not even his wife made it to his page.
She ate her dinner while searching Facebook for Ann Hart, and there she was—smiling, cheerful, and bearing that same striking resemblance to Jessie. Ann had four hundred-plus friends. She’d shared holiday photos of herself and Rob, photos of her students, her family, and her last post—a photo of teachers standing together outside of a school. It was dated just three days before she was shot. Ann was standing next to a young, fresh-faced man whose arm was draped around her shoulder. He was looking, not at the camera, but at Ann. It was all the sadder for its ordinariness. That may have been the last day her co-workers, her friends, saw her. Jessie sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t go to the funeral.
While she was pondering that idea, her phone buzzed and she hit accept. “Hey, Sam,” she said. “About tomorrow…”
“I’ll pick you up at ten. The service is at eleven at the Cathedral.”
“I don’t know if I should go. I mean…”
“They won’t even know you’re there, and the word is Hart might show up.”
“I don’t think so,” she answered. “He was trying to write a goodbye note to his wife today. He said the mayor’s going to read it tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Seems the mayor’s not as enamored with him as we thought.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll see you at ten.” And the phone clicked. No goodbye, nothing. But now, her misgivings forgotten, she knew she had to go.
She washed her cup and her fork and curled up on her couch where she fell asleep, waking to the sound of sirens screeching outside her window. She peeked through the blinds but there was nothing to see; the sirens faded, moving to someplace else. She checked her watch. It was six a.m.—she’d spent the whole night on the couch. She stretched to get the kinks out. She could get a run in, she thought, if she moved quickly. She pulled on her spandex leggings, top and a sweatshirt before slipping her feet into her running shoes. She hadn’t run in the last week, and she needed that release, those endorphins that kicked in when she hit her stride. It had been one week since the shooting, since the world and everything else had seemed to turn on its axis. She needed her routine back; she needed to get back to the ER, her runs and her regular life, and then, just maybe, she’d stop thinking about the Harts.
It was still dark, a cold November nip in the air, when she stepped to the street, but already the city was rousing itself from sleep. Morning commuters filled the roads, irate drivers sat on their horns at lights, and an occasional truck thundered by. The crowds ensured safety and she warmed up quickly, a jog in place, a stretch, and she was off. She turned onto L Street and crossed Day Boulevard to the beach, running her old familiar loop to Castle Island, the biting wind hitting her full in the face, her lungs burning with the effort, her ponytail swinging, sweat trickling down her neck, her heart pounding in her chest. By her first half mile, she’d settled in, her heart rate leveling off, matching the pace of her feet as they hit the pavement. She ran by Kelly’s, the famous burger and clams place, the center of Castle Island’s universe for the seven months or so that it was open. And as she ran by, the scent of yesterday’s clams and fries hung in the air and her mouth watered.
She finished the loop, a mile and a half, and checked her time. A disappointing twenty minutes. She’d slowed down considerably. She reset her watch and turned for home, the beach to her left as she took it all in—the salty air, the sound of her footfalls, the sun hovering just on the horizon, an occasional runner moving past. This was her idea of the perfect morning. By the time she turned back onto K Street and checked her time, she’d made the last mile and a half in fifteen minutes. Better, she thought, stopping to stretch. She took the stairs to her apartment two at a time, clicking on her television as she stepped into her shower.
She could just barely hear the voices filtering in from the television. “Robert Hart,” the announcer said, and Jessie turned off the water, leaning out to hear. “He may…” and then the voice faded. She grabbed a towel and headed for the living room. The anchor was just finishing up. “We’ll have a reporter at the funeral and we’ll keep you posted.” She grabbed her clicker and tried to get the story, but the national morning shows were doing their cheery daybreak dialogue. She gave up, brewed her coffee, and grabbed her iPad. She scrolled through the news stories until she came to Rob Hart. Sam was right: the headlines confirmed that Hart might attend the funeral. She sat back. Today was going to be interesting.
She pulled on a black dress, black nylons and shoes, knotted her hair into a slightly messy bun and applied the palest lipstick she had. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror and nodded at her reflection. She’d fit right in. No one would ever know that she didn’t belong there.
Sam arrived promptly at ten and texted her that he was outside. Jessie slipped into her coat, locked her door, wiggled it to be sure it was secure, and satisfied that it was, she pounded down the steps.
“You look nice,” Sam said as she slid into the front passenger seat.
“Thanks. I’m trying to look as though I belong. You look pretty good yourself.”
He adjusted his tie as he pulled into traffic. “Thank you. I look like this every day, though.”
“Then I guess I’m saying you look nice every day.” She smiled and smoothed her coat, picking at a piece of lint that had appeared. She did like this guy. She liked the soft fullness of his mouth, the hard angle of his jaw. She liked the way his suit jacket pulled snugly over his broad shoulders. She liked… and she turned away. God, what was wrong with her? She’d met him in the ER over shooting victims and decided that maybe, just maybe, she really liked him on the way to a funeral. She had to get a grip, and remember that she liked Nick a little more—he was exactly the kind of man she needed in her life,
and that was why she’d chosen him. Life was strange. At least hers was.
The Cathedral was a ten-minute drive away, but in the morning’s heavy traffic, it would probably take longer. “You really think Hart will be there?” she asked as Sam maneuvered through long-forgotten side streets, past a crumbling housing project, its residents spilling out to watch the event, a likely change of pace from the petty crime and misery of the neighborhood. He pulled up in front of the church, a majestic old Gothic Revival building, at ten-fifteen. The usually crowded side streets had already been emptied of cars and marked with orange traffic cones. Reporters and photographers were busy setting up cameras, a few mourners waited outside while others headed into the church, and passersby stopped to take it all in. It all had the feeling of a holiday instead of the solemn memorial it was intended to be.
Jessie twisted in her seat to watch the early arrivals. “I know him,” she said, at first in a whisper and then a shout. “I know him!”
Chapter Sixteen
“Who? Who are you looking at?” Sam unhooked his seatbelt and turned his head, his eyes following her gaze.
Jessie pointed him out, the fresh-faced young man from Ann Hart’s Facebook page. His face was streaked with tears as he walked slowly towards the church, two young women alongside.
“Who is he? And how do you know him?” Sam swiveled to face her, his gray eyes as flat and cold as the sidewalk.
“I don’t know him,” she said defensively. “He’s on her Facebook page, looking at her with… I don’t know… love, lust. Haven’t you seen it?”
“Her Facebook page? One of the guys checked it. Said there was nothing there.”
“You never thought to look yourself?”
He raised a brow. “Why did you?”
“The husband’s Facebook page was on the news last night. His page was work-based. Showcased his youth group, but nothing else. Not even a picture of her.”
“I saw his page.”
“So, has anyone spoken to those kids?”
He nodded. “Yeah, we have. Turns out, it’s more of a drop-in center, no regular activities. The center is open for pickup basketball games, or just to talk. Nothing formal, and apparently Hart wasn’t there much. Seems like he went for photo ops. They haven’t seen much of him lately.”
“Have you spoken to Hart again?”
“No. The good doctor says to give him some time.”
“Give me a break. He doesn’t need to be in the hospital, never mind the ICU. Hart told me he’s being discharged tomorrow. Don’t know if that’ll happen, but he thinks so.”
“Good. Maybe we’ll get another shot at him.”
Jessie raised a brow. “Thought you had your eyes on Jose Ramos. Is that still the case?”
“We look at everything and everyone. It might not always appear that way, but we do.”
“Have you searched Hart’s house?”
“For what? He and his wife are the victims. The shooting didn’t happen there. And we have to make a case to the DA to get inside someone’s house. This isn’t television.” There was a decided edge to his voice.
She scrunched her face into a frown and slumped in her seat.
“We’ve looked at Hart. Really. But he seems to be squeaky clean. Grew up in the Charlestown housing projects, single mother, and by all accounts, he was a good kid. Never got into trouble. Went to Harvard on a full scholarship and then was hired by the mayor after he volunteered on his first campaign. He’s worked his way up. Doesn’t have any close friends, but no enemies that we can find either. Any way you look at it, hard to figure he had any part in this.”
She rolled her eyes. “All very impressive, but even good guys go bad.”
“True,” he said looking at his phone. “The procession will be here in five minutes. Let’s go.”
Despite the full bank of clouds that had swelled with the promise of imminent rain, the crowd of onlookers had grown. Sam took Jessie’s hand and led her through the throng and up the stairs to stand at the church’s entrance. “We can watch everyone up close as they arrive. See if anyone looks out of place.”
The hum of sirens could be heard in the distance, and as it moved closer, Jessie stood on her toes and watched as a caravan of black sedans, looking like a queue of black beetles, inched closer. Police cruisers and motorcycles guided the procession, blocking streets and traffic as they went. Even from a distance, it was a solemn procession, and as the first cars arrived, the police broke off, the sirens dying to a drone, the silence spreading like a soft whisper. Even the birds seemed to pause as the cars ground to a stop, parking right there in the street.
As the car doors slid open and the family and close friends emerged, those who had already gathered stepped back almost in unison as the casket, draped in white, was pulled from the hearse and carried into the church. Reporters and their cameras moved closer, their flashes almost chasing away the shade of the clouds. Jessie peered through the crowd of reporters, pencils or cameras or both in hand, for any sign of Bert. When she realized he wasn’t there, she heaved a sigh of relief.
As if he had just read her mind, Sam leaned in. “Any sight of that crazy old coot, that reporter?”
Jessie shook her head. “He texted me yesterday—said he needed to speak to me, that it was important.”
“You didn’t call him, did you?”
“I hit delete and blocked him. I thought he might be here today, but so far, he’s not.”
She looked around again and caught sight of Ann Hart’s family, her mother and father and the others she’d met in the hallway of the ICU. Today, they were expressionless and stoic, backs straight, eyes dry and fixed straight ahead. The only clue to their pain—they clutched hands so tightly, Jessie could see the whites of their knuckles. She bit back her own tears, and stood tight against the entrance, willing herself to be invisible, but Ann Hart’s mother had noticed her and stopped. She nodded, a trace of a smile crossing her lips before it slipped away and she moved into the church. The mayor and his entourage, all dressed in somber black, were close behind the family and shuffled in soundlessly, until the first strains of “Amazing Grace” filled the air, the singer’s voice rich and strong enough to carry to the street.
Jessie and Sam stood quietly and watched as the mourners filed in, an endless line snaking into the church. The group she’d noticed earlier—the teachers from the Facebook post—moved slowly to put their arms around the young man whose head was bowed, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Jessie nudged Sam. “Look at him,” she whispered. “He’s heartbroken.”
The music continued, the mourners filled the church and Sam and Jessie moved inside, hugging the back wall, watching everything. Once the introductory rites and prayers were recited and psalms were read, the priest announced that a dear friend of Ann’s would be delivering the eulogy. The woman, dressed in black, a red scarf draping her neck, stood, the click of her heels echoing as she approached the altar. She placed a photo of Ann on the podium, smoothed a sheaf of papers, cleared her throat and began. Jessie stood on her toes to get a glimpse of the photo, but the image was too small, the distance too great. Still, she could imagine it—Ann smiling, her dark hair, her hazel eyes. Jessie shook her head to release the image. This was Ann Hart’s funeral, not hers, and Ann’s friend was speaking.
“For our beloved Ann, there are no words to describe our heartbreak, our extraordinary and so unexpected loss. Ann was the one we could always rely on—for a laugh, for advice, for a reminder that love was all that mattered…” She continued on, spinning a picture of a wonderful young woman. The sniffles and sobs from the mourners punctuated her words, and every few minutes, she paused to let the weight of the moment sink in, to let the church echo with the lonely sound of weeping. “We will never forget our beloved Ann,” she said. “Rest in peace, beloved friend. You will forever be our angel.”
The funeral Mass continued, the scent of incense, a woody, pine-needle fragrance, reaching even to the back of the church
where Jessie and Sam stood. Her eyes watered and she blinked away the remnants of the smoky fog. And soon it was over, the casket was led back down the center aisle, the family close behind. As Ann Hart’s mother neared, Jessie couldn’t help but notice the streaked eye makeup running down her face, the tears still coursing over her cheeks. She elbowed Sam and gave a sideways glance to the mother. “See that,” she whispered.
He nodded and they stood quietly as the remaining mourners filed past, more women with the running eye makeup that Jessie had noticed on Ann Hart the night of the shooting. And when the church had almost emptied, the man from Facebook, who had wept so openly, now looked simply shell-shocked, his eyes red with tears, his face a frozen mask of misery. He moved slowly, supported on each side by equally sad-faced women. It was a sharp contrast to the smiles and dry eyes of Rob Hart.
As the crowd broke up, and the funeral procession continued on to the private burial, Jessie and Sam lingered at the top of the stairs. “Did you see what you came for?” Jessie asked.
He shook his head. “No one even remotely out of place. No Jose Ramos either. What about you?”
“I saw plenty. First, that man who’s so broken. That’s the way a person reacts when they lose someone they love, but it was Ann’s mother and the other women that really struck me.”
“How?” Sam reached to his pocket, pulling out his iPhone and checking the messages.
“Put that down for a minute and listen to me. Really listen.”
“Sorry,” he said, tucking the phone back into his pocket. “Force of habit. Go on.”
“Did you notice their faces? The eye makeup running in black streaks through the tears?”
“I did. Seems pretty normal, right?”
“Right. After a woman’s been crying for a while. Most eye makeup doesn’t run with a few tears. And you saw her mother. She was dry-eyed when she arrived. But she’s been crying now for at least half an hour, the same for the others.”
Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1) Page 10