What You See

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  He and DeLuca had never looked in the Dumpster.

  11

  Cursing her too-tight skirt and too-high job interview heels, Jane finally caught up to Bobby. Running down a cobblestone and brick backstreet was the last thing she’d expected to do today.

  “The ambulance is still in there, Ms. Ryland.” Bobby had stopped at the entrance of Franklin Alley, pointing. “Hear the beeps? It’s really narrow in there, so the driver’s gotta turn round in the dead end. That’ll give us time. You ready?”

  “All set.” She checked the viewfinder of the Quik-Shot, confirmed the stand-by light. She’d roll on everything, couldn’t hurt. Bobby, now on the run, had his camera, too. Between them, they’d get whatever there was to get. Go.

  Around the next curve, she saw Bobby’s T-shirt disappear again. They had to be close to the end. She held a palm to her chest—the gym starting tomorrow, she promised—drew in a deep breath, and went for it. Then she heard the rev of an engine, and more back-up beeps. This ambulance was on the way out.

  “Missed it,” she whispered. “Damn.” Now she’d never get to see who was inside. But at least she’d get—

  A blast from a horn and a wail of the siren flattened her against the alleyway’s brick wall. She watched the red from the whirling lights hit the side of the buildings. As the engine noise grew louder, she felt the red glare wash over her. There was barely room for her to stand if the ambulance was to pass. Bobby was nowhere to be seen. He’d clearly managed to reach the end.

  The front of the white-and-orange van appeared. She held her ground, pointed her camera. Rolling.

  “Move it, lady!” A voice from the open passenger-side window, elbow over the edge, one hand waving Jane away. A face peered at her, frowning, the sun glinting directly overhead on the medic’s dark-tinted shades.

  “Sorry, can you get by?” Jane grimaced, embarrassed. Kind of tacky trying to shoot video when you were part of the problem.

  The medic in the front seat muttered something Jane couldn’t hear, probably a good thing, buzzed up the window. Jane got as close as she could to the wall, plastering her black suit against the bricks as the ambulance edged by. She watched it gather speed, made sure her camera stayed steady, and the van disappeared from the viewfinder. Got it.

  But what—or who—was still down there? Jane hurried toward the end of the alley, wincing less with each step now. She’d gone from one hundred percent skeptical of Bobby Land to joining his team in four minutes flat. Sure hoped her instincts were right. The black metal housing of an air-conditioning unit appeared, then, just around the next curve, and the dark green hulk of a Dumpster.

  Almost there.

  * * *

  Death was all around her. It haunted her. Tenley sat on the curb in front of the bank, facing the park, seeing a forest of feet and legs, and looking up through the trees at City Hall, toward the blind-slatted window of her mother’s office.

  First her own sister dies. Now this. A man stabbed right here in Curley Park. She heard it from the sushi guy, then two others told the cop the exact same story. One man just standing by the statue, another man walking up to him, and next thing they knew there was yelling and one of the men lay on the ground with a knife in his back. And the other was gone. Could they recognize the assailant? the police had asked. No, they’d all said—white, male, that’s about all. Had anyone taken photos? No, each had said. It all happened too fast. So now a murderer was out there. Maybe even standing near her. Pretending. Waiting for another chance to hurt an innocent person.

  She hugged her knees, making herself small.

  Was there any way to avoid it? Would death always follow her? Haunt her? It would have shown up on her traffic surveillance video if she’d been on that screen. She would have seen it.

  Tenley wished she could run up to her mother’s office, climb on that long pillowed couch like she used to when she was little, babysitter Lanna suggesting fort or voyage to Mars or princesses trapped by the scary evil monster.

  But that was all play, and all gone, and her life would never be happy again. Yet the evil monsters existed, that was the scary part. No. The scary part was you didn’t know who the monsters were. Or where.

  She could just imagine the drama if she showed up in her mother’s office now. Her mother probably couldn’t stand the sight of her, probably still blamed her, deep down—or not so deep—for what happened to Lanna. Would Tenley ever stop thinking about that? She wouldn’t. She couldn’t even envision a time when she wouldn’t think about Lanna every day.

  What kind of life would that be? All those years, stretching out in front of her, all those years of just … loss?

  The sun baked her back, and she knew her skirt would be dusty from sitting on the curb. She stuck her legs out into the street, one bare knee bruised from where she’d banged it on the side of her desk. She checked the lighted number of the big clock outside the bank—fifteen more minutes of her “lunch” hour. She should get something to eat, even though she was not hungry anymore.

  “Hey!” A guy running by almost tripped over her, and she pulled her legs back, looked up in time to see him head away from the Curley statue. Right after him, a woman in a black suit, trying—ridiculously—to run in high heels.

  Was the woman chasing the kid? Why? The woman carried a tote bag over her shoulder, so it wasn’t like he’d stolen her purse or anything.

  She hopped to her feet, patted the dust off her rear and adjusted her skirt, then watched the two figures disappear around the corner. Maybe she should go see?

  * * *

  Angie Bartoneri was the least of Jake’s worries. The second she’d slammed herself into the back of the departing ambulance, he’d closed the door on thinking about her. Angie could hoard all the bitterness—or regret? or desire?—she wanted. Teasing? Jake had moved on.

  Topping Jake’s current worry list was the Dumpster, still unopened, and the still-handcuffed Calvin Hewlitt. The security guard, if that’s what he really was, and self-professed hero, if that’s what he really was, slouched with one shoulder leaning against the brick wall and was now trading muttered insults with DeLuca. The two of them, baiting each other with double entendres and smack talk, sounded like they belonged on some middle school playground. Now Jake had to decide whether he and D should bring this guy to headquarters. Or let him go.

  Not an easy call. What if they were handcuffing a good guy? Hauling an innocent man to headquarters? On the other hand, what if they let a killer escape?

  When in doubt, go by the book, Jake’s grandfather always told him. They’d watch cop shows together on Gramma’s flowered couch, back in the day. “The Commissioner,” as Gramma had called her husband even after he retired from the force, constantly ridiculed the decision-making transgressions of whatever make-believe cop headlined the flickering black-and-white screen. “Not what a real cop would do,” Grandpa would declare with scorn, clinking the ice cubes in the one-whiskey-per-day Gramma allowed. Then he’d proceed to tell a hero-worshipping ten-year-old Jake what a real cop would do. It was a master class in law enforcement, grown-up Jake realized all these years later. Going by the book was unfailingly the Commissioner’s guiding principle. Now it was Jake’s, too.

  “Mr. Hewlitt?” Jake turned toward the handcuffed man, signaling DeLuca he’d take over. D retreated, but only a wary half step. “Thanks for your patience, but—”

  “Thanks for my patience? My patience?” Hewlitt’s dust-streaked oxford shirt was untucked on both sides. “How about ‘thanks for catching the bad guy, sir,’ and ‘thank you for not suing the frigging hell out of the police department for unlawful imprisonment and illegal seizure’? And whatever the hell else breach of Fourth Amendment rights I can sue for. How about that, Officer?”

  “Detective,” DeLuca muttered.

  Jake could see the smirk on D’s face, Hewlitt couldn’t.

  Jake shot him a look. Can you not resist?

  DeLuca shrugged.

  “You wer
e saying, Mr. Hewlitt,” Jake went on. “You’re an employee of a security firm at Faneuil Hall? Mind showing me your ID?”

  “My ID?” Hewlitt furrowed his forehead, as if he were thinking intently. “The delight with which I’d show you my ID is immeasurable, except for one small item. Your colleague now has it, as you are no doubt aware, since he frisked me as if I were some potential terrorist at freaking Logan Airport, and took my wallet as well as my car keys and my phone. All of which I demand be returned. You’ll note, however, he did not find a weapon or any other indication that—”

  Shit, Jake thought as the man continued to complain. Hewlitt didn’t talk like a security guard, though what did a security guard sound like? Or maybe some criminal defense attorney had coached Hewlitt about what to say if he was arrested.

  “D?” Jake began.

  DeLuca handed him the flap of cordovan leather.

  “Sir?” Jake asked the guy. “Okay if I look inside?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Hewlitt said.

  “I’ll knock—” DeLuca began.

  Jake ignored him, flipped open the wallet. Amex gold card, on the top. Calvin Hewlitt, member since 2000. Driver’s license, Massachusetts, current, in the window. Jake quickly checked—the photo matched the face. Address in the South End, Jake memorized it. Bill slot thick with twenties. Lots of cash for a security guard. Or not. Jake pulled out a stack of credit cards and shuffled through them. Health insurance, AAA, Starbucks. Looking for a guard credential.

  Nothing.

  Ha. Got you, brother. And you’re coming in. Jake heard the wail of the ambulance siren fading into the distance. Their suspect was on the way to Mass General, finally. The dead guy probably on the way to the morgue. Cadets had certainly gotten eyewitness accounts by now, and inevitably photos of some kind. And he hadn’t even had to deal with any reporters, though Jane would demand the lowdown when they saw each other later. All in all, this episode was wrapping up pretty darn well.

  “I’m not finding your security guard credentials,” Jake said. Calm. Pleasant. Oddly, it would be a lot easier if Hewlitt was a reasonable suspect. They could take him downtown, do a full workup, and it wouldn’t be Jake’s final call whether to let him go. If his status was iffy, Jake could reasonably err on the side of caution.

  “I’m not a security guard,” Hewlitt said.

  “You’re—?” The last thing Jake expected him to say.

  “What’s more, I never said I was a security guard.”

  “Hell, you didn’t—” DeLuca began.

  “Sir?” Jake began to feel the confidence, the calming of the nerve endings that came with making the correct decision. He’d gone by the book, he’d looked for ID, he’d discovered a discrepancy in what the suspect had told him. Bang. That put the big guy in the back of the cruiser.

  “I said—” Hewlitt’s shoulders rose, then fell. Jake didn’t like the look on his face. “I said I worked at a security company. As a matter of fact, I own the security company. Hewlitt Security. I’m out of business cards, but if you’d like to press speed dial one-one on my cell phone, feel free. That’ll call my office. In fact, please do it. They’re probably beginning to wonder where I am.”

  DeLuca pulled a black cell phone from his inside jacket pocket, offered it to Jake. Jake waved it away.

  “However, Detective,” Hewlitt went on. “If you’d like to call speed dial eight-eight?—which is what I’d prefer—you’ll be calling my lawyer. Might as well. You’ll be talking to her soon enough.”

  “Hey! Jake, shadow at your six o’clock!” DeLuca’s stance changed, his eyes narrowed, his hand hovered over his weapon again.

  Jake pivoted, followed his partner’s instruction. Saw the shadow. Saw someone coming toward them. Holding something.

  “Freeze!” DeLuca yelled. “Police!”

  “What’s going on?” Hewlitt backed against the wall, lowered himself to a crouch.

  “Police!” Jake drew his Glock. Pointed it at the shadow. “Drop it!”

  12

  Jane steadied herself, trailing her fingers against the brick wall as she rounded what she figured must be the last curve in the alley. Whose idea was this? Hers, she had to admit. Bobby was already out of sight. If anyone were back in the dead end, waiting, she’d see them in about two seconds.

  Voices. Yelling. Police? Someone yelled “Police!” Jake? Sounded—did it?—like Jake. Or was someone calling for the police? Calling for help?

  She skidded to a stop, tucked her body behind a chugging black air-conditioning unit. One heel twisted in the rock shards between the bumpy cobbles, and she fell hard, yanked off balance, landing on her bare knee. Camera still rolling.

  “Jane!” Bobby’s voice. Calling for her.

  Or warning her? She felt her stomach clench, felt the tension of the decision she needed to make, and make right now. Should she turn, run, get help? Or at least get away? Bobby had told her two plainclothes cops were down here, so it must be safe. Right? Unless he’d been wrong and they weren’t two plainclothes cops, they were simply two guys. And with who knew what agenda.

  She stared across the empty alley, trying to assess. A man had been stabbed to death not a block from here. The cops were clearly looking for the bad guy. But what if the cops had followed the bad guy down this alley, and now they were also dead, and Bobby had run right into their—

  Go. She turned away, ready to head for the safety of the park and the multitude of police. But wait—leave Bobby? Who the hell was he, anyway? A street kid she’d instantly believed?

  The yelling had stopped, but still there were voices, only lower. The air-conditioning unit kicked on, vibrating against her shoulder, making it impossible to make out words. Her scraped knee was bleeding, lovely, and she couldn’t quiet her pounding heart.

  “Jane! It’s okay!” Bobby’s voice again.

  Footsteps. Coming toward her. They crunched in the gravel of the cobblestones, walking deliberately. Not running.

  She closed her eyes. Just two choices now. She could run. Or she could wait. But she could no longer hide. She opened her eyes.

  “Jane!”

  Jake.

  * * *

  Jane?

  Jane. In high heels and a black suit, hiding behind a rusting air conditioner in a filthy back alley a block away from a murder.

  Jake attempted to keep the top of his head from blowing off. He’d left a still-complaining Hewlitt in the care of DeLuca. They ordered the paparazzi kid with the camera—what if they’d shot him?—to stay put. The kid had insisted that Jane Ryland, the reporter for Channel 2, was following him down the alley. But Jake knew Jane wasn’t a reporter anymore, for Channel 2 or anyone else. So this kid was full of crap.

  “Holy shit, Jane, what the hell’re you doing?”

  “Getting up,” she said. “What’re you doing?”

  She hauled herself to her feet, one hand clutching a metal handle on the side of the air conditioner, the other holding some device. Her suit jacket flapped open, T-shirt grubby with dust and smeared with black stuff, her hair half out of its ponytail, her tote bag strapped across her body. One knee was bleeding, Jake saw, making a narrow red trickle down her bare leg.

  “You okay?” He gestured toward her knee.

  She looked down, licked a finger, and wiped away the blood. “Just a flesh wound,” she said. “Cobblestone attack.”

  “Jane?”

  “Yeah?” She was smiling as if this wasn’t absurd.

  “You realize this is ridiculous? Having this conversation? There’s a paparazzi kid, showed up with a camera, insisted he’s with you. I almost shot him, for God’s sake. What the holy hell are you doing back here?”

  Uh-oh. He knew that expression. Jane had something to tell him, and he wasn’t going to like it.

  “Jane? I’m serious. There’s been a crime committed. We’re looking for a suspect. I don’t have time for—”

  “I know, Jake. It’s complicated.” She paused, seemed to be conside
ring again, then held up the device in her hand. “Detective Brogan? You’re looking for a suspect? Can you tell us what happened in Curley Park?”

  “Is that a camera, too? Are you fre—” Jake paused, trying to sort this out. She had a camera and was asking questions. Why? Whatever the reason, anything he said was about to be recorded, and that meant he needed to evaluate everything that came out of his mouth. He’d started to say, “Are you freaking kidding me?” then stopped. He narrowed his eyes, shading them from the sun with one hand. Jane still pointed that thing at him. “Ms. Ryland? Are you here in a capacity as a reporter?”

  She lowered the camera. “Yeah, actually. I am. Listen, Jake? I have some pretty interesting news, but I promise I won’t shoot what you say, okay? See? Camera’s down? The paparazzi kid told me he’d seen two cops, I guess one of them was you, running after someone. So I figured I’d—I mean, were you running after someone? Was that the person in the ambulance? What happened?”

  “Are you asking as you? Or as a reporter?”

  Her face changed again. “I work for Channel 2. For now, at least.”

  “Jake!” his radio crackled in his back pocket. “Get back here!”

  “Crap,” Jake said. He turned toward the dead end, where he’d left DeLuca, Hewlitt, and the kid. If the kid was somehow in cahoots with Hewlitt—could that be?—there’d be a damn three-ring circus about to go down.

  Jake pointed at Jane. “Stay right here.”

  But no. She could not be here, this was potentially a disaster. He had no idea what DeLuca needed or why, but it was no place for Jane. He couldn’t even process what she’d just told him—she worked at Channel 2? Since when? Right now, it made not one shred of difference.

  He pointed the other way, toward the alley entrance. “No. Get out of here. Now. Go!”

  “Jake!” DeLuca’s voice again. “Hewlitt!”

  He turned, drew his Glock again, and powered back into the dead end.