What You See

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “You said that,” Jake said. “I get it. You’re serious.”

  “C’mon, Jake,” she said. Might as well tell him the truth, since they were always off the record anyway. The moment he’d shown up at Siskel’s office, she knew the tip had been accurate. Plus Catherine had run off to throw up, a sure sign of crushing distress and grief. On the other hand, maybe it was a colleague’s husband who’d been stabbed, and Siskel was simply upset. Jane narrowed her eyes, considering.

  She poked him in the arm, then leaned on the edge of Siskel’s desk, crossing her arms in front of her. “Okay, fine. Two questions. Does anyone have surveillance video of what happened at Curley Park? And is Catherine Siskel’s husband the victim of that stabbing?”

  * * *

  Jake stared at her, trying furiously to decide how to answer. Where the hell had that question come from? If he paused too long, Jane would know he was calculating what to say. She could read him way too well. Times like this, that put her at an advantage. And half the time, she got him to say more than he planned. Still, his only real dilemma was how to tell Jane she’d gotten a bogus lead without seeming to feed her inside information. Clearly she’d heard something was up with Catherine Siskel’s husband. She simply had the facts wrong.

  The identity of the man in the morgue, John Doe No. 1, was still unknown.

  “That’s some chase you’re cutting to.” Jake tried to look concerned and unconcerned at the same time. He wasn’t worried about the video question. DeLuca was on that. They’d get whatever they could, though he knew the City Hall traffic cams were only live feeds, ever since the mayor had caved to political pressure, deciding so-called privacy was a bigger priority than law and order.

  “Catherine Siskel’s husband?” he repeated her question. “Who told you that?”

  “Oh, right,” Jane said.

  It killed him when she did that, stuck out her tongue at him. It sent his brain off in another direction entirely.

  “Like I’m going to tell you my source,” she was saying. “Besides, I know you, Detective. Answering a question with a question means you don’t want to answer me. Which means I’m right.”

  “But you’re not!” Damn it. She’d done it again. But she wasn’t right.

  “Jane,” he said, starting over. He eyed the still-closed office door. The digital clock showed 8:14. How long should he wait for Catherine to return? “Do you think you should check to see if Catherine Siskel is okay? Or I’ll do it if you want.”

  He saw the change in her expression.

  “Oh, yikes,” she said. “I’m a terrible person. Of course, I’ll go look.” She started away, then turned back. “Except, ah, I don’t really know her, you know? She was about to order me to leave. You think she’d want me to—”

  A knock at the door. “Catherine?”

  A woman’s voice.

  He and Jane exchanged glances. Viewed through a stranger’s eyes, they were two uninvited, unwelcome guests alone in the empty office of a top-level city official.

  “You’re the cop,” Jane whispered. “More acceptable for you to be here than for me. Although Catherine never actually told us to leave.”

  “Yeah, because she could barely talk,” Jake said.

  Another knock. Then the door opened.

  “Who’re you? And where is Ms. Siskel?” A black-cardiganed lioness with a mess of gray hair and red-framed eyeglasses took up all the room in the open door. Brandishing a lethal-looking metal clipboard, she looked them up and down as if she couldn’t decide whether to make them stand in the corner or throw them overboard. “Does Ms. Siskel know you’re here? How did you get in here? I’m one second away from calling the police.”

  “He is—” Jane began, then stopped as he caught her eye.

  Call the police, huh? Jake loved this part. “I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD.” Jake did the badge thing, which stopped the woman’s rat-a-tat questioning.

  She stared at the badge, coming closer to inspect it.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “With Ms. Siskel? Or what? I’m Siobhan Hult, her EA. What are you doing here? Do you have an appointment? I know you don’t have an appointment. Did someone call you?”

  She pointed to Jane. “And who is she? Why is she here? Are you a police officer, too? Let’s see your badge.”

  Okay, so it didn’t stop the questioning. An EA? Oh, executive assistant. Geez.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am?” Jake tried to interrupt her. And now Jane’s phone was ringing. He glared at her, couldn’t help it, and she clicked it off.

  The outer office door opened again. Jake relaxed. It had to be Catherine Siskel. She was the one who had called him to report her husband missing. He’d been here a total of fifteen minutes and made zero progress, except to almost get thrown up on, encounter his secret girlfriend, and be interrogated by a crazy person.

  But it wasn’t Catherine at the door. A sleek-haired blonde, tight black skirt and impossible heels, carrying a sheaf of legal-looking papers, swept toward them, almost elbowing the secretary—the EA—out of the way.

  “Siobhan?” The newcomer stopped at the threshold of Siskel’s office. “What’s going on? Where’s Catherine? We have an eight fifteen. And will someone please explain to me why there’s a reporter here?”

  35

  Darn it. Tenley hated when someone came into the office bathroom when she was there. And this early in the morning? She’d left Brileen’s as soon as she could, so she could get to work on time. Weird that she wanted to get to City Hall. Never thought that would happen. But getting whisked away from home and waking up in an unfamiliar place—even though she’d agreed to go and all—now seemed a little less like a cool adventure and a little more like a dumb idea. She could always go home again, though, no biggie.

  Since she’d brought her backpack to work, all her stuff, it was like she’d never been in that house. She’d seen the metal numbers on the wall beside the front door and the name on the street sign—798 Cadogan Street—before she headed to the bus stop, which she’d looked up, easy peasy, on her phone.

  Her phone. Her mom still hadn’t called. That was kind of good news, since now, with any luck, she’d never know Tenley’d sneaked out. Later, Tenley would explain to Brileen. It wasn’t like she would never see her again, she’d say, they were pals, after all, she’d say, but she didn’t think the time was exactly right to—

  Anyway now, though, someone else was in here, in an out-of-the-way bathroom nobody ever used this early. Hiding in the stall, Tenley pulled her feet up, crossed them yoga style, balancing herself on the toilet so her feet wouldn’t show under the door. Silly, and totally uncomfortable, but if she came out while someone was in the bathroom, she’d have to talk to them, and she didn’t feel like it. She didn’t even start work till nine, almost an hour from now, but she was allowed to use her City Hall ID to get in whatever the time. The guard guy downstairs at the lobby desk had been dozing at his post. She’d waved and walked right by him.

  She heard someone turn on the water, full blast, in one of the metal sinks that lined the back wall. She tried to peer under the stall’s door to see if she could recognize feet, but, tilting, almost fell over. It didn’t matter who it was, anyway. She’d wait her out. No one could be in the bathroom forever.

  That was weird, though, the person had now gone into the stall next to hers but left the water running, moron. The person coughed, like she was puking, which was incredibly gross, and if that person actually threw up, Tenley didn’t care what happened, she was so out of here.

  Her rear was killing her now. All she needed, to be trapped in the john with a hangover-throwing-up person. Could life get any weirder?

  The person didn’t throw up, thank God. Although sounded like she was trying hard enough. The toilet flushed, the stall door opened, the water turned off. Okay, final-fricking-ly. She was almost out of here.

  She adjusted herself, trying to keep her balance, trying to imagine what the person was doing. A wisp
of color went by the crack in the doorjamb of Tenley’s stall, but not enough to recognize anyone. Come on, Tenley thought. I want to leave.

  Silence. But not quite silence. Now the woman was making a phone call. What was this, her office? Tenley tried to lean against the tiled stall wall, felt the metal flusher thing instead, and succeeded only in making a wet spot on the back of her T-shirt.

  “Tenley?” the voice out in the bathroom said. She almost fell off her perch on the toilet. She knew that voice. Her mother. Her freaking mother. But how had Mom known she was in here? And her mother had been trying to throw up? Why?

  All this raced through Tenley’s mind the second she heard her own name. She almost opened her mouth to answer, even though she was one hundred percent baffled. Impossible for her mother to have seen her in here, right? But then Mom kept talking, and Tenley realized she wasn’t talking to her. Not in person. On the phone. She was leaving her a message, on her cell! Which right now was under her desk in the surveillance room.

  “Honey? I’m at the office,” her mother was saying, “and just checking on you, but you must be on your way in. I’ll find you as soon as I can.”

  Tenley rolled her eyes. Her mother was about to come looking for her. What if she’d discovered Tenley’d sneaked out? And now was totally pissed? But Mom didn’t sound mad.

  “And, um, Tenley? I’m sorry about last night.”

  Okay. She was apologizing. And not mad. Whew. Her mother paused. Tenley strained to hear what would come next.

  “I need to talk to you, honey,” her mother finally said. “It’s important.”

  Tenley waited, heard her mother click off the phone. And then—was her mother crying?

  She waited, not sure what to do. Part of her felt like hiding here, like, forever, pretending, trying to erase the whole thing from her memory. The other part of her felt like crying, too, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

  Silently placing one sneaker onto the aqua-tiled floor, then the other, Tenley stood. Smoothed down her skirt. Unrolled the waist to make the skirt a little longer.

  Paused, listening to the quiet sobs.

  * * *

  “We’re checking on a story,” Jane said, crossing the city attorney off her mental victims list. This Kelli Riordan, in her patent-heeled power outfit, did not look like a person whose husband had been killed. No grieving wife would still have on that much mascara if she’d gotten such devastating news. Jane’s money was still on Catherine Siskel. Plus, Jake hadn’t gone to Kelli Riordan’s office. He’d come here.

  “Nevertheless, my questions still stand,” Riordan said. “What are you doing here? What ‘story’? And where is Catherine Siskel? Detective? Ms. Ryland, isn’t it?”

  “She’s in the bathroom, I think,” Jane said. “She wasn’t feeling well. I was about to go check on her.”

  “Not feeling well? Why didn’t you tell me?” Siobhan Hult picked up a black desk phone, punched a few numbers with one demanding finger. “I’m calling her. Then I’ll go check on her.”

  “Check on who?”

  A man strode into Catherine’s office, looking at each of them in turn. Uh-oh. The checked shirt guy with the coffee. The one Jane bamboozled into letting her into the building.

  “I’m here for the eight fifteen.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Hey. Aren’t you—”

  “She’s a reporter,” Riordan said.

  Jane could have sworn the woman was trying to send telepathic signals of some kind to this newcomer. An odd emphasis on “reporter.” Widening eyes. A barely perceptible flash of distress. But she could be wrong. Everyone at City Hall hated reporters. Riordan was probably the president of the Hate Reporters Society.

  Jane smiled to prove she was a nice person, not there to cause trouble.

  “Call the cops,” the man said. “This woman sneaked by me into City Hall when I walked in—how was I supposed to know—”

  “He is the cops,” Kelli said, pointing.

  “I am the police,” Jake said at the same moment.

  Now there were five people in the same office. Pretty interesting. And possibly suspicious. Meantime, Catherine Siskel was probably still cleaning herself up in the bathroom and wondering why no one had gone in to make sure she hadn’t passed out on the floor.

  At least they seemed to have forgotten Jane’s “sneaking” episode.

  The EA hung up the desk phone. “No answer from Ms. Siskel,” she said. “I’ll try to see if she’s—”

  “No,” Kelli Riordan interrupted. “I’ll go. Listen, Ward. Is her daughter here?”

  “Not until nine,” Ward said. “Supposedly.”

  Daughter here? Jane looked at Jake, trying her own telepathy. Did you know about a daughter here? I didn’t.

  No. Jake used a fraction of an expression to convey his surprise. Me either.

  * * *

  Time to take back the morning, Jake thought.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he interrupted the three staffers. “We’re all busy, and I understand you’re concerned about your colleague. But I’m here to talk with Ms. Siskel privately. I’m sure any meeting she had arranged with you two can be postponed. Ms. Hult, will you go check on Ms. Siskel? Thank you.”

  The EA opened her mouth, closed it, and flounced from the room.

  Jake waited until the door closed behind her. “I need your names and contact information, please,” he went on. “And you mentioned a daughter. Does Ms. Siskel have a daughter who works at City Hall?”

  Jane’s phone rang again. She made a face, like, sorry. And went out into the hall.

  “I’m Kelli White Riordan, city attorney.” The woman flapped open a leather portfolio, presented him an embossed business card. “You’ll understand why I’m concerned with your tactics. Might I ask, once again, why you’re here? As the city attorney, I have every right—in fact, it’s my responsibility to know.”

  “It’s a private matter, between me and Ms. Siskel. I’m sure she’ll contact you if she deems it necessary.” Jake put the card in his pocket and turned to the man—Ward? He’d tossed his Starbucks paper cup into an empty wastebasket and now seemed at a loss for what to do with his hands. He’d already yanked his shirt collar, scratched his nose, smoothed his hair.

  “And you are…?” Jake asked.

  Checked shirt and Riordan exchanged glances. Times like these Jake wished for telepathy. Clearly these two had some agenda.

  “Ward—” He stopped, frowning. The office door had opened again.

  Jane.

  “Dahlstrom,” the man went on.

  “Title?” Jake prompted. It was nothing Jane couldn’t hear.

  Dahlstrom looked at Riordan as if needing some guidance from the lawyer. She waved a weary hand. Go ahead.

  “Director of external communications.”

  “I see.” Jake almost laughed. Politicians rivaled only cops for unmitigated jargon. “Communications?” Maybe public relations? Did it have to do with spinning the Curley Park murder? “And that means…?”

  “Detective?” Riordan answered instead. “He handles our surveillance cameras.”

  36

  Catherine yanked a length of towel from the automatic dispenser, doused it with cold water, and held the soggy paper to one cheek, then the other, cooling her flushed face while trying not to wet the escaping tendrils of her hair. Every muscle in her body ached. She realized she’d been clenching everything, trying to prevent fifty land mines from blowing up in everyone’s face.

  And who was taking care of her? No one ever took care of her. Maybe it was her own fault. Every time Lanna talked about leaving, she’d ignored it instead of talking about it. She was a terrible mother. And look what happened.

  Her husband started being distracted and distant and silent. Instead of trying to understand him, she’d ignored it, focused on work, figured he’d get over whatever it was. She was a terrible wife. And look what happened.

  Now she was a terrible chief of staff, too, crying in the bathroo
m while the mayor’s political career was about to fall apart. To keep that from happening, she had to lie. And cover up what she knew about her own husband. Her career—and Tenley—were all she had left. Yes. It was her own fault.

  She soaked the towel again, listening to the water gush from the faucet, wishing she could jump into the sink and swirl down the drain, lost and forgotten and swept away by the tides of Boston Harbor.

  But Tenley. She still had Tenley. She would do everything in her power, starting now, everything, not to blow that. She’d be a good mother. Make up for her failings. She’d go to Tenley’s office, right now. Leave her a note. Arrange lunch. She looked at her face in the mirror, all blotches and red-rimmed eyes. Oh. Greg. Another sob escaped her. Poor Tenley.

  “Mrs. Siskel?” Someone was pounding on the bathroom door. “Mrs. Siskel! Are you in there?”

  Siobhan. What was she doing here this early? How’d she find her in this bathroom?

  “I’m fine,” she called out, attempting to remove any trace of sorrow from her voice. She felt like grief was strangling her. But she could not let anyone know. She raised her voice over the sound of the running water. “Two minutes, okay?”

  The meeting. Shit. She moved closer to the door but didn’t open it.

  “Are Kelli and Ward waiting?”

  “In their offices,” Siobhan said. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

  “I’ll call them, thanks so much, all good.” Catherine tried to sound cheery and normal. Exactly what she wasn’t. “All good,” she whispered.

  Another lie.

  * * *

  Surveillance cameras? If Jane hadn’t been so distracted, she’d have pounced on that admission and moved into high reporter gear. Did they have the Curley Park murder on tape? Jane knew about the whole traffic cam controversy and the hullabaloo over the decision. Did City Hall have other cameras that recorded? There couldn’t be sound, because it was illegal in Massachusetts to record voices without permission. But you could record silent video. And if there was a person in charge of surveillance, there had to be surveillance.