What You See

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Who he was now? Bobby Riaz. What a sucky name. His mom’s name was Jones, even suckier. Maybe he’d be Rob Something, maybe. Rob Avedon? Which was totally made up and didn’t have anything to do with who he really was, but Avedon was a famous photographer, he’d learned that in class, and maybe people would think he was related. Who’d know? The guy was dead. Maybe he could be Bobby Arbus, after Diane. She was totally cool, and dead, too.

  Kodak, that was too weird. Bobby Polaroid? He burst out laughing, then choked it back when some lady beside him took her eyes off the dead guy long enough to frown at him. Right, laughing at a murder, not cool. He coughed to cover it up. Pretended to talk into his Bluetooth earpiece. “Oh, so funny,” he said to no one. “But can’t talk now.”

  Oh. He had it! Bobby Land. Like Polaroid-Land, which he’d learned in class, too, a guy no one even knew about anymore. No one could argue about Bobby Land. He’d just let people think he was from a famous—and rich—family. Couldn’t hurt, and might even help.

  Bobby Land the famous photographer. What was the Boston thing? One if by Land? He laughed again and got another glare from the stupid woman. He clicked off a shot of her when she wasn’t looking. Take that, sweetheart. There’s one by Land.

  * * *

  I’ll help you, Tenley’s mother had told her. Get your foot in the door, her father had told her. “You already love computers, honey,” her mom had persisted, trying to brush her only daughter’s bangs out of her eyes. “You’ll love this, too.”

  But here she was. Far from loving it. Dying. Tenley Siskel’s eyes were glazing over. Completely dying.

  There was no way she could do this for much longer, none, let alone for the whole summer. She’d been literally imprisoned here in the City Hall traffic surveillance room a full solid three weeks now. She almost hadn’t managed to drag herself in here this Monday morning. All she could think about was lunch, and then how forever it was until four thirty.

  The clock was literally not even moving.

  Tenley eyed the others in the monitoring center. Losers. Eyes on their screens. So intent on making sure not one little thing in their assigned sectors of Boston escaped their scrutiny. If she had a choice, she’d never set one foot in this place again.

  Maybe, after she quit, she’d stand down there on the sidewalk and wave up at the surveillance cameras. She pictured it, could almost see it, her giving the finger to loser city. On video. That’d be hilarious. They didn’t even save the digital fields, so they couldn’t prove she’d ever done it. Hilarious.

  She understood Mom thought she was doing a good thing by finagling this three-month job for her. You needed about zero brain level to do it, and she was only a fill-in while the zeros who worked here took turns having their pitiful summer vacations. And not too deep down, Tenley felt bad about complaining. Mom—and Dad, too—had enough to think about.

  The green digital numbers on her monitor proved it had been one minute since she’d last looked. Her ears felt weirdly light, because her mother warned her City Hall “frowned on piercings.” She adjusted her cardigan, buttoned carefully over her white T-shirt. As long as no one could see what was printed on it, they couldn’t “frown” on that. She’d roll up the waistband of her skirt the second she got out of here. But this was, like, her disguise. She wore it during the part of her life she simply had to endure.

  Tenley started her video scan again, beginning in the upper left, like her supervisor had shown her the first day. Ward Dahlstrom had explained, in his “boss” voice, that she had sector one, the perimeter of City Hall. Like that was some huge whoop. If her mother was such a big shot around here, why couldn’t she get Tenley a more interesting job? But at least here she didn’t have to talk to anyone. Sometimes she hated to actually speak to people. You had to face them, watch them looking at you. You’d know what they were thinking, all critical and worried and smothery. And curious. Just dying to ask you a question.

  Camera one, pointed northwest, the pedestrians on Cambridge Street, going to lunch, which of course she couldn’t do for another twenty-seven minutes, since Dahlstrom had given her the last lunch on the schedule, jerk that he was. She stared at the screen, at the boxy green “camera one” symbol blinking in the upper right corner, at the video pixels degrading around the edges, fluttering with its attempt to keep up with reality. But—nothing. The camera’s eye saw nothing she was supposed to watch for, no traffic jams, no disabled cars, not even a jaywalker. A world where nothing happened. Like a metaphor for her life. These days, at least.

  Surveillance fatigue, she’d read about it, and she could totally see how it happened. She was already sick of watching these screens, cars and traffic lights, buses and motorcycles. People on camera were mostly blurs. If the light was exactly right, a face might come into focus, but only for a fraction of a second, just long enough to be annoying.

  Her stomach grumbled, the last of the morning’s double-toasted-cut-in-half-and-then-half-again-the-other-way-with-extra-cream-cheese sesame bagel having long worn off. She could not believe she couldn’t bring coffee to her computer console. How was she supposed to live without coffee? Dahlstrom had said all liquids were verboten, a fireable offense. She’d looked up “verboten.” Fired over forbidden coffee. Might be worth it.

  Camera two. She had to focus. Southwest, the brick expanse of City Hall Plaza, little makeshift stands selling cupcakes and bunches of flowers and home-grown vegetables. Blah blah blah. What if, like in one of her games, a huge flame-spewing dragon stomped its way across the—

  She blew out a breath, willed herself not to look at the clock. Camera three. Nothing happening. Changed the screen.

  Camera four, the monolith of the JFK Federal Building. Fuzzy pedestrians, nothing ever happened here. Why’d they have a camera? Worried some terrorists would rob the ancient basement coffee shop? Make off with a stash of expired candy bars? Ticktock, change the screen.

  Camera five, northeast, she could actually see the Dunkin’ Donuts, thanks, universe for once again pointing out what she couldn’t have. A limousine sailed by, and Tenley imagined who might be inside, all leather and champagne.

  Sometimes, just for grins, she looked for celebrities. Last Wednesday, she saw a guy who, for a second, she really thought was her fave singer Lachlan Zane, very underground and totally alt, and she’d considered maybe rocking a screen save, and maybe even selling it to one of the places that put cool or embarrassing stuff on TV, like that guy in the elevator, or that star who always destroyed hotel rooms.

  It seemed like kind of a terrific idea until she’d realized how easy it would be to trace, and she’d be in deep trouble. Who knew what would have happened then, not to mention the level of grief she’d have to take from her parents.

  Camera six. All fuzz. Pigeons nested in the little place above the screen and fritzed the heck out of it, pecking at the lens and perching on the connection. She’d report it. Soon.

  Camera seven. Aimed at North Street and Faneuil Hall—Fan-You-Will, she called it, instead of Fan-yool, just to drive her mother crazy. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. Weird. The shot was from high up, through the leafy trees, so it was like she was looking down from three stories onto the street. A row of touristy bars. The University Inn. The little alley by the wine store. The cameras were supposed to watch traffic and pedestrians on the streets, but—weird.

  Funny that there were so many people in this shot and so few in cameras four and five.

  Tenley clicked the silver mouse to bring in a closer shot. She’d been in Curley Park a million times, it was right across from her bus stop. She couldn’t see much except trees, and tops of heads, and shadows. But there was sure an ambulance there.

  Lacing her fingers under her chin, Tenley stared at the computer screen.

  Would she get yelled at for missing whatever happened down here? She was following protocol, and she couldn’t oversee every little place every little minute. She wasn’t even supposed to. This was stre
aming video, live, and only archived if a viewer pushed the Record button to put twenty seconds into what they called the “video cache.” But she hadn’t pushed Record, because she hadn’t seen anything. Not her fault.

  The ambulance doors were open, and it was parked. She could see the dark outfits of the EMTs scurrying around. It had definitely been longer than twenty seconds since whatever happened began.

  Her therapist promised that telling the truth could never hurt you. Was that really right? She’d only been following the rules, changing screens, it took a certain amount of time to look at seven cameras, the powers that be had to understand that. If she failed, at whatever, it was because the rules had made her fail. It seemed like she couldn’t stop making the wrong decisions.

  She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. The shape of the crowd was changing. What was going on down there?

  3

  “Down that way—in the alley!” The cadet grabbed Jake’s arm, and Jake followed the kid’s pointing finger toward the narrow curved passage between the bank and the liquor store. “Some guy’s apparently hiding in a Dumpster. Down there. Or put something in the Dumpster. Something like that.” The cadet gulped for air, trying to get the words out. “A girl—I mean, a woman—told me. Anyway, what if it’s the—”

  “Who told you? Where’d she come from?” Jake needed specifics. “Where is she now? This girl-woman? What’d she say?”

  “Ah, I don’t know, she just said—what I said. The Dumpster. We were all taking names and addresses, see, they’re still doing that, like you wanted, and she came up to me and—” The cadet’s black plastic name tag said BRAD LONNERGAN. Lonnergan pointed again, jabbing the air. “Down there. What if it’s the guy who—”

  “You kidding me? Do you see her? Find her.” This Lonnergan kid was not clear on the law enforcement concept. “Hold her. Do not let her leave. Understand? D!”

  Jake signaled DeLuca with one finger. Me. You. That way. Let’s go.

  They couldn’t afford to spook the crowd. All he needed, a mob following them into Franklin Alley, hooting like medieval peasants while they dragged some poor jerk from a Dumpster. Jake, checking to make sure D was behind him, snaked behind the spectators, dodging and weaving. Only one or two seemed to notice they were on the move. He and D didn’t look like cops, after all. Just two guys wearing jeans and leather jackets. Walking fast.

  Jake glanced over his shoulder again. Most eyes focused on Kat McMahon, the ME now kneeling over the victim. For once, better to keep it that way. Cadets—the ones with brains—were taking names and addresses. Asking if anyone saw anything. Asking spectators with cameras and cell phones to stand by. The whole thing was already verging on out of control. And now this.

  But maybe this would solve the whole damn case and they all could go home.

  Ahead of them, the alley. Cracked pavement, cobblestones scattered with gravel. Framed on the right by the bank’s brand-new red brick, on the left by the pockmarked brownstone of Jodi’s Liquors and the University Inn. With its twists and turns, only the first ten feet or so of Franklin were visible from the street. Jake knew it was a dead end. If someone was in there, like Lonnergan’s “girl-woman” said, there’d be no way out except toward him and DeLuca. A bad guy who planned where he was going, or was at least familiar with this part of the city, would never have chosen this as an escape route. Unless he was panicking. Or hurt. Or trying to hide, waiting it out.

  Or luring them in? Trapping them?

  At the curb, Jake stopped, put up a hand, assessing. DeLuca skidded to a halt, almost slamming into Jake’s back. Broad daylight, not like anyone could surprise them. The quiet hubbub of Curley Park softened into background.

  One second, two.

  Jake felt for his Glock, drew it, felt the sun on his face. A seagull squawked, swooping, headed for the harbor. Lured into a dead-end alley? Windows above. Rooftops. Where was the woman who’d sent them down here? Who was she? Whose side was she on? What if—well, there were too many what-ifs to consider right now.

  “You ready?” he said.

  “Ready,” DeLuca said.

  “On my three.” Jake began, “One.”

  “Help!” A voice, from down the alley. “Help me!”

  “Three,” Jake said.

  * * *

  A dead body, a stabbing in Curley Park. And Jane was on the way.

  It wasn’t funny, not one bit of apparent murder was funny—Jane zoomed her Audi around the curve and onto Atlantic Ave.—but the fact that she, Jane Elizabeth Ryland, who two hours ago had been out of work was now on the way to cover a homicide, clearly proved the universe had a droll sense of humor.

  She was simply to “gather facts,” Marsh Tyson had instructed, and phone them in to the assignment desk. If it turned out to be big breaking news, she certainly could go on camera, since she’d dolled up in a black suit, black patent heels, and Gram’s pearls for the non-job non-interview. She hadn’t done a live shot for almost a year, but she had to admit the idea of live TV felt like home.

  She shifted into third, open road ahead, past the Coast Guard building. Life was strange. She’d given the Register blockbuster stories—political corruption, an adoption scandal, mortgage fraud. And what did she get? Unemployment. But now, Jane Ryland was back. Freelance, sure, but with a lovely per diem. Take that, mortgage payment.

  Only one snag. When Lissa arrived in Boston this afternoon, Jane might have to work. Lissa—who, Jane always forgot, demanded to be called “Melissa” after all these years—and her fiancé were coming to pick up their flower girl, Gracie Fasullo, Daniel’s nine-year-old daughter who lived in Boston with his ex-wife and her new husband. Thanks to Daniel’s previous marriage, Melissa was becoming Gracie’s instant stepmother. The whole complicated thing sounded like the guilty-pleasure soap operas she and best friend Amy used to watch in college. In real life, what soap opera role was Jane playing? Older sister, living alone with a cat?

  No, Jane decided. I’ll be the successful reporter, determined and unstoppable, who breaks big stories and needs help from no one. I’ll even call her Melissa.

  “La-di-da,” she said out loud. “Bring it on.” Jane Ryland, reporting for Channel 2, she thought, trying it out. Can do.

  She snapped the radio to all-news, listened through the crowd predictions for the Fourth of July concert on the Esplanade, the Chamber of Commerce estimate of tourist dollars for the summer, stories about the drunken antics of a state senator caught on a hotel surveillance camera, another runaway college girl, some kind of lobster shortage. Nothing about a stabbing.

  Shortcut through the Greenway, into the glare of the noontime sun. Right turn on North Street. Definitely something going on. The red light from an ambulance flared over the cluster of onlookers, a zigzag backlit silhouette of heads and shoulders. Usually Jane would be able to see the tree-lined edge of Curley Park from this vantage point, but now the circle of grass and sculpture was blocked by the array of T-shirts and backpacks and shopping bags. A scowling cadet, too-big hat and orange webbed bandolier, was pointing oncoming traffic to turn left, away from the crime scene. So what? Jane was different. Jane was TV news. Jane was turning right.

  She downshifted, touched her brakes, buzzed down her window, and leaned out, smiling. The sun hit her square in the face and glinted from the car’s side mirror as the driver behind her honked, twice, then swerved to the left.

  “Jane Ryland,” she told the newbie cop. She’d done this a million times. She tried to stop herself from tossing her hair, because know what? This felt good.

  “Channel 2 News,” she added. Big smile.

  The cop lifted his wire-rimmed Ray-Bans, narrowed his eyes at her.

  Probably recognizing me, Jane decided. Next thing, he’ll be waving me past the police lines and into the center of the action. She was back.

  “Let’s see some ID,” the cop said.

  4

  “Now we’re talking,” Bobby Land whispered to himself, nodding, as he watched
the woman in the black Audi argue with the cop. He recognized her, all right. That was Jane Ryland, the reporter, the one who had been fired or whatever, but she was still a hotshot, and hot, too, for someone her age. Was she his ticket to a new life?

  He couldn’t hear her, or the cop, but their bodies showed they were all about arguing. It was like watching one of those old silent movies, where you knew what was going on just from how they were acting. Jane had pulled up to the crime scene tape in front of the University Inn and was leaning out the driver’s-side window, pointing toward the park. The cop was taking off his sunglasses, giving her grief, waving her off. She showed him something from her wallet, sticking it out the window. The guy shook his head again, pushed it away with both hands, turned to the other cars.

  What was the big problem? Jane was a reporter, the real thing, every-fricking-body knew that. Obviously needed to get to the “scene of the crime.” She called out to the cop, yelling at his back. Now she’d opened the door and got out, engine running, and walked up to the cop, still talking. Chick had balls.

  “Let her through, moron.” Bobby spoke out loud, since the cop couldn’t possibly hear him. This could be Bobby’s big break. He could see it now—Jane would go over to check out the dead guy. Bobby’d go up to her, tell her the deal. Say what he saw. See if she’d be interested in seeing his photos. Correction—in buying his photos. If they were any good.

  His whole entire future might be contained in his little camera.

  He must have gotten something. He didn’t actually think about what was on the other side of the lens, not while he was shooting, he just click-click-clicked and checked later for the results. In this kind of on-the-spot breaking news, the action was so fast you couldn’t take the time to think. Just point, shoot, and hope.

  He watched Jane continue to negotiate with the cop. He felt like he could call her Jane, he used to see her on TV when he was still in high school, and they’d watched her online story about bad adoptions in his journalism class and—hey. From the corner of his eye. Now what?