* * *
“Jake? Jake?” Jane, one arm in her black T-shirt and the other one out, glared at the phone, annoyed. Stupid speakerphone was incredibly unreliable. She pushed the other arm through the short sleeve. Taking two quick steps, she punched the phone to regular talk. So much for multi-tasking. And she needed coffee. “Jake?” she said into the phone. “You there?”
Nothing. Jane grimaced, yanked down her T, wondered if she should hang up and try again. She hadn’t accomplished a thing with this phone call. Robyn was counting on her. Or at least Melissa was. Where the hell was Gracie? This was a job for the police, no question. She’d hang up, call Jake again, get her cop on the case. She clicked the reset, ready to start over.
“Hello?” The connection sounded funny. Maybe she was still on hold. “Jake?”
“Jane?” Not Jake.
She tucked the phone between her check and shoulder, zipped up her black jeans. She could throw on a scarf and blazer if she needed to look presentable, or stick with the simple jeans and T if she was only going to be at Robyn’s. Impossible to predict what the day would bring.
“This is Marsh Tyson,” the voice said. “At Channel 2?”
“Hi, Marsh.” Jane frowned, getting her bearings. It was six thirty in the morning. This was not a social call. “What’s—”
“Glad you’re up,” he said. “Listen. Our sources at the cop shop say there was some kind of assault near the police station late yesterday. Headquarters, by the Ruggles T stop, you know where that is?”
Of course she did. “Yes, I—”
“Apparently, this is somehow connected to the Curley Park stabbing. So says our source.”
“Your source?” This was a new one. When her boss told her something was based on a source, was she supposed to ask who it was? Or take him at his word and go from there? That was the thing about journalism, especially these days. Always a new ethical dilemma, without any new rules to resolve it.
“Trust me on this, Jane. The identity of the source—it’s a nurse, okay? But you’ll find the info for yourself, right? You’ll dig, fill in the blanks, get confirmation. So, Jane? How about another freelance gig? You covered Curley Park, you know the players. You shot the video. I assume your—sister was she, or niece?—is not really missing, or we’d have heard about it by now. So, what say you? Your personal life calmed down enough to sign on?”
Jane paused, staring at the toes of her black flats, trying to assess who she was and what was important. Telling the truth was always the best option. Right now, however, she didn’t know what the truth was. Had her life calmed down?
“It has and it hasn’t, Mr. Tyson,” she said. “Calmed down.”
“Marsh.”
“Marsh. My sister’s fiancé’s daughter—” She stopped midsentence. Too much information. But Melissa and Robyn—and the police—could handle the possibly missing Gracie. They didn’t need Jane in person, right now, at least. If they did, she’d be available. Plus, she needed the money. Quitting her newspaper job had been a glorious and unregretted moment of honor and principle. But that did not pay the rent. Or make car payments. And she didn’t even want to think about health insurance. She was unemployed, for the second time in two years, depressingly, and with her savings evaporating, that was not good. Melissa had Jake’s number. Jane could stay fully involved with them and handle the freelance gig. Let the juggling continue.
“Anyway. Sure,” she said, not feeling sure at all. “What’s the plan? Want me to come into the station, or meet a photog somewhere? And do you have any info on the victim? Name, next of kin? Why do they think he’s connected to Curley Park? Is he—it’s a he, right?—in the hospital?”
“That’s the thing, Jane. No, he’s not in the hospital. Not as of half an hour ago. He’s probably on the way to the morgue. And no next of kin, that’s why we called you. Call the cops. See what happened. Find the victim’s family.”
Shoot. Exactly why she didn’t miss television. She’d done vulture patrol duty way too many times. She did not want to be in a position—not ever again, thank you—to tell a grieving family they’d lost someone. But she could at least look into this, see what developed. The police would have to inform the family of their loss, anyway. Police. Jake. Where had he gone?
“Okay,” she said. “Can do.” She’d tell Melissa where she was, keep them all looped in. It’d work. “Can you tell me the victim’s name? Age? Anything?”
Jane listened to the sound of rustling paper on Marsh’s end of the line. Weird to be in television again. Wondered if she’d remember how to do it. She smiled. Not weird. It was her job. Getting the answers, making them public. Kind of like Jake, but without the badge and gun. It’s your calling, honey, her mother had told her.
Channel 2 better have kept all her video from Curley Park. Soon as she could, she’d look at every frame. Be interesting if the victim was in it. More than interesting.
“Jane?”
“I’m here.” She went to her closet, selected a muted gray-and-black scarf from the too-full hooks, used one hand to twirl it around her neck. Add a blazer, she’d be good for TV, if need be.
“According to the source, the dead guy’s name is Land,” Marsh said. “Bobby Land.”
31
Tenley tried to bury her face in her fluffy pillow, the same one she’d used forever. Somehow it didn’t feel the same, didn’t smell like that flowery stuff her mother used on the laundry. She sniffed, turned over, tried to get comfortable. Felt, somehow, a shadow over her.
“It’s too early, Mom,” she muttered. “Five more minutes.”
Then she remembered. Not her pillow. Not home. Not Mom. She sat bolt upright.
Brileen stood over her, hands on hips. Smiling. “Wake up, kiddo.”
Tenley put both hands over her eyes, rubbed, trying to get her bearings. Brileen and her girlfriend, Valerie, cute like Brileen was, older, colleg-y, had come to pick her up in a car. Tenley tried to remember the car, but she was not good at cars. They’d driven, like, toward Fenway Park—she was not good at directions—and then to this house in … somewhere. Why was she so tired?
They’d all had wine, she remembered. And chatted for, like, hours. Valerie was cool. And now she had a headache.
“Now you’re remembering,” Brileen said. “Never have four glasses of wine, sister.” She wore a little flowered skirt and a striped tank top, Levi’s jacket, strappy flat sandals. Laptop bag over one shoulder. “I’ve got to go. Val’s already at work. Go back to sleep.”
Tenley’s neck hurt, not bad, though, like a crick. She looked around the little room, trying to assess. She spread her arms, noticing she was still in the T and jeans she’d worn the night before. Twin bed, the only one in the room. Windows on one wall, filmy curtains, revealing an about-to-be sunny day outside. Open door to a cheerily wallpapered corridor. Her backpack lay in the corner, zipped closed. Nothing threatening, nothing unpleasant. There was something, though, about last night—right.
“How did you know where I lived?”
“Huh?” Brileen was digging into her bag.
“When you and your … friend picked me up.”
“Valerie.”
“Right. You never answered me about that last night. Did you?” It was all a little fuzzy. “How’d you know my address?”
Brileen had her cell phone out now and looked at Tenley, made a goofy face. “You told me, Miss Wine-for-brains. At the Purple.”
Had she told her? Her exact address? She didn’t remember doing that, but she guessed she might have. Must have.
“Really?”
“You’re losing it,” Brileen said. “You were freaking over the—thing. In Curley Park.”
“Oh, crap. What time is it?” Reality came washing over her. She had to go to work. Of course she’d go to work, it wasn’t like she was giving up everything in her life, she just wasn’t going to live at home anymore, like every other college kid decides at some point. Her point was now. She still needed an
income. Even more.
“It’s only, like, seven.” Brileen punched some buttons on her cell. “I’ve gotta go. Val and I will see you later?”
Tenley thought about her own cell phone zipped into her backpack. Should she call her mother, let her know where she was, at least? Wherever that was. She’d find the address, easy enough, and then make it to City Hall by eight thirty. It’d be like a regular workday. Mom would never know.
She thought about her phone again, her silent phone. Her mom obviously hadn’t come home last night, didn’t even know Tenley had gone. Because Mom would have called, right, if she had missed her?
Or not. And see, that proved it. Proved no one cared about her. They’d rather she be gone. It was her fault about Lanna, and every time they saw her, they remembered what she’d known but hadn’t told, and blamed her again. Now she’d left home, and no one even noticed. Problem solved. She’d done them a favor by leaving.
“Tenley?” Brileen said. “Tonight?”
“Yup.” Tenley’d decided. “See you tonight.”
* * *
Jake recognized the name, impossible not to. Catherine Siskel. The mayor’s chief of staff. A tough, smart, political lifer. At City Hall through two administrations. Now part of a third, always moving higher up the political ladder.
Jake glanced at the man in the hospital bed. Maybe-tattoo guy was still motionless, monitors beeping, oxygen hissing. He moved toward the door, opened it, and stood in the hall, keeping the door open and his voice low.
“Of course I know you, Ms. Siskel.” Also because of the daughter. The one who had died, out in Steading Woods. A year ago? Less. Angie Bartoneri had worked on it, he remembered. Made sense that’s why the woman had called Angie. The old ME’s office had ruled that death an accident. “You said—someone missing.”
“Yes,” she said. “My husband.”
Her husband? Her husband? A VIP with a dead daughter, and now a missing husband? Missing Persons had made the right decision giving him this call. Even though it would have been more by the book for Angie to fill him in on the background, not make him rely on his memory.
“Detective—?”
“Brogan.” Jake took out a spiral notebook. He’d transfer the notes to his new phone when he could, if need be. “I often handle—special cases. Let’s take it one step at a time. Your husband. His name is? When did you last see him? Forgive me, but why do you think he’s missing?”
“Greg Siskel,” the woman said. “Gregory Atkins Siskel. I last saw him, um…”
Silence. Clearly she was calculating the last time she saw her husband, which did not seem like it should be that tough a question. The last time he saw Jane? Eight thirty-five last night. Boom, easy.
“Yesterday morning,” Catherine Siskel finally said. “He was on his way to work at the—he was a—is a—” Her voice caught, Jake could hear it over the phone. “He didn’t come home last night.”
“Ma’am?” This was all wrong. Tired or not, he knew it. It was more difficult to make up a story than people expected. Cops knew how to listen. And they knew the sound of a lie. “Do you have a recent photo of him? Maybe a video?”
* * *
Catherine steadied herself, one palm on her desk. Why would he ask for a video? What did he know? Or maybe, no—home movies. People had family videos.
Why wasn’t this easier? Lying was simplest if you pretended it was true. It was a trick she’d learned at news conferences. Now she felt as if big heat lamps were focused on her, like in the old gangster movies when they sweated a confession out of the bad guy. But she wasn’t the bad guy; she was the victim.
Problem was, there was no way to reveal how she knew it.
“Ma’am?”
She needed to sound worried but not hysterical. Because in her created story, all she knew was that Greg was missing. Not dead. She cleared her throat, pretending. “Sorry, I’m upset. I’m sure it’s all fine. I hope it’s all fine. Certainly I have a photo. May I e-mail that to you? Is that the most efficient way? I already described him to Detective Bartoneri.”
“Yes,” the detective said. “Sooner the better.”
Catherine wrote down the e-mail address he dictated. “Doing it now. Hang on.”
She clicked on the camera icon, found a photo of Greg—oh, God, Greg—in her pictures. Recent enough. The four of them—the four of them—up in the White Mountains on their last ski vacation, red faced and bundled in parkas. Arms draped over each other’s shoulders, Lanna’s long auburn hair curling out from under her knit cap, Tenley looking at her with that mixture of jealousy and affection only a little sister can have. Greg and Catherine were bookending their girls, squinting in the glare of the sun, looking straight at the ski patrol camera. She hadn’t taken a photo of the family, or Greg, since Lanna died, she realized.
Now, two people in the photo were dead. And the other two were fighting. Soon as she was finished with this charade, she had to call Tenley. There was no way out of it. Tenley would have to be told, and then it would be awful. Catherine had no poker face for that, and no idea how to handle it. The extent of her mothering skills had already been reached, already been sucked dry. The future—no Lanna, no Greg—was uncharted territory. Treacherous and fearsome. And lonely.
But for now, step one. She’d send the photo. This cop would realize, pretty damn quickly, she hoped, that he’d discovered the identity of the victim in the city morgue. She’d probably have to go identify Greg—oh, my God—her knees went to jelly, and she balanced herself on the desk again, woozy. She’d get through it.
And then, since they had the assailant in the hospital, done and done. Case closed. No video necessary. She’d tell Kelli and Ward that the cops identified the dead man and didn’t need the video. She’d save the mayor’s ass. Again.
Who would save hers? And who killed her husband? Why? There was so much she didn’t know about Greg. Maybe it was simple, though. His wife worked at City Hall. His daughter, too. He might have been mugged, left with no ID when the thief took his wallet. That was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Horrible, but reasonable.
It would be a firestorm. But at least she could try to keep it personal and not have it detonate a career-destroying political scandal.
“Sent,” Catherine said. The sound of the mouse click echoed through her office, seemed to ricochet off the windows and the framed diplomas on her walls, ricochet off the political photos lining her bookshelf, ricochet off the wall she’d built around her feelings. “I’ll wait to make sure you get it. Are you a missing persons detective, is that why I was transferred to you?”
“Great,” the detective said. “While we’re waiting, though, fill me in a bit more. First the basics. When was the last time you talked to your husband? Did he say anything that might lead you to believe something was wrong? Sorry for being personal, but were the two of you having any problems? Had he threatened to leave? Had you? Why did you decide to report this? Why did you decide not to wait any longer? Do you have any indication that he may have met with, ah, an accident?”
Oh, my God, just look at the photo, Catherine thought. Show it to one of your colleagues working the Curley Park case. Show it to the medical examiner. She sat at her desk, stretched out her fingers, willing herself to stay calm. Breathe. There was nothing untoward about his questions. They were exactly what anyone would ask. These were Missing Persons 101 questions, no subtext, no hidden motive. She was hearing double entendres and accusations that weren’t there.
She didn’t have to try to sound weary and sad. She could feel her nerve endings, every one of them, edging closer to the surface. She’d been spinning stories so fast, she’d forgotten this was about her husband. Her husband. Who had annoyed her and baffled her, who’d been distant and dismissive and aloof since Lanna died. No, since before Lanna died.
How could she possibly battle through that barrage of questions? Maybe she should tell the police the truth. It wasn’t her fault, after all, that the mayor had set up thi
s web of lies. Not her responsibility, really, to protect it. It would be such a relief to let go. To go home. To be with her poor daughter.
“Ma’am?” the detective was saying. “I know that’s quite a list of questions for you, but I know you can appreciate we’ll need the answers. I’ll need to come talk with you in person. Are you at City Hall?”
32
Jane handed the business card across Marsh Tyson’s desk. “Oh, my gosh, Marsh. Bobby Land? Look, he gave me his card. At Curley Park. He was—I don’t know. A crime scene groupie. A wannabe. He latched on to me, and then—”
Marsh’s desk phone rang. He took the card, centered it on the blotter in front of him, took the call, raising a finger. “One minute, Jane,” he said.
She stepped away, giving him a little privacy. Needing some for herself, too. The last time she’d seen Bobby Land was with Jake. Jake had taken him away, had him in custody. Jake had put the kid in his cruiser at the Curley Park crime scene, the alley next to the crime scene, at least. And now Bobby Land was dead. How? Why?
She’d called Jake three times, no response—where the heck had he gone?—then left an urgent message for him. And one for Melissa. Neither had answered their phones, or their texts. If they needed her, or if they figured out the Gracie situation, they’d call.
Bobby Land was dead. Had anyone, maybe Bobby Land’s mother, reported him missing? She could call the cop shop, that’d be public information.
She dug in her tote bag for a spiral notebook, flipped it over so the recognizable Register logo printed on its cover didn’t show, clicked open her pen. First thing, call the number on Bobby Land’s card. Well, no. She shook her head, pen poised over the notepad. No use in calling a dead person.
Jane grimaced, embarrassed at how she’d forgotten what this was actually about. Compassion fatigue, they called it. She was so fearful of it, the emotional carapace that hardened journalists, caused them to compartmentalize disaster, make grim jokes about reality. A college student, a boy, really, she’d met yesterday was now dead, under suspicious circumstances. Should she have paid more attention to him? Was there anything she could have done?
What You See Page 17