What You See

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

There was no backup car for DeLuca. The motor pool was also gutted by budget cuts. Now Jake had to put aside the City Hall investigation to focus on whether Calvin Hewlitt was up to no good. Which left John Doe No. 2—maybe-tattooed guy—guarded only by a cadet outside his hospital door. If they’d had a budget for it, and a warrant, D could have tapped Hewlitt’s car with a tracking gizmo, see if he left town, see who he visited. But they barely had enough resources to follow the guy, let alone convince a judge to bug him. It was the old-fashioned way or nothing. But he’d be easy to trail on the eight lanes of straight-arrow Massachusetts Turnpike.

  “Copy,” Jake said. “I’ll go with lights till I get in earshot.”

  What if Calvin Hewlitt was the Curley Park killer, not the guy claiming to have captured him? Who did that make tattoo guy? What role, if any, had he played in Bobby Land’s death? A video would be one easy way to answer two of those questions. If there was video of the incident, Catherine Siskel had to know.

  “I’ve got to leave,” Jake told her. He pulled a card from his wallet, placed it on her desk. The thick paper made a little tap on her leather-cornered blotter. “Two things, quickly. One, call me if you want to tell me more about your, ah, missing husband. And in approximately thirty minutes, call the Boston Police Department’s Missing Persons division, ask for Sergeant Naka. Kiyoko Naka.” He spelled it. “She’s the one who had you call me. You tell her I sent you. Tell her it’s been twenty-four hours. Got that?”

  Catherine Siskel took the card, smoothed it between two fingers. She pressed her lips together, seemed to be considering. She nodded, looking at the card, without a word.

  Was she crying? What was she not telling him?

  “Two.” Jake checked his notebook. “Ward Dahlstrom, the surveillance supervisor. Does he have video of what happened in Curley Park? If he does, that’s our top priority. We need that. Right now.”

  “Video?”

  Jake strode toward the door, radio crackling, on his way to help track Hewlitt. Great. A potential fugitive on one end, a potential liar on the other.

  Enough with her bullshit. “You already have a subpoena demanding it.” And even though this was his bullshit, he couldn’t resist. “And ma’am? Don’t leave town.”

  40

  And there it was.

  “You know Wharton, don’t you Jane?” Robyn had said it last night, at dinner, as a waiter hovered.

  Now Jane had found Lewis Wilhoite. On the Wharton School alumni roster. Lewis Delano Wilhoite, class of ’91. A photo, too.

  Jane rolled the padded chair closer to the desk in the Wilhoites’ study and clicked the white mouse on their computer. Twenty-some years ago, Lewis wasn’t the pudgy accountant milquetoast Jane had imagined but a normal-looking sandy-haired guy in a preppy shirt. One of a row of mostly white-male thumbnail photos taken by a commercial photographer.

  Rats. She’d half expected not to see his name. She would have easily believed it if Lewis had been some kind of impostor. But there it was, as described. Lewis Delano Wilhoite, summa cum laude. The online yearbook listed all kinds of community good works. Big Brother. Boy Scout.

  When she was a little girl, Jane’s father had told her to ask the universe if she really wanted something. Eight-year-old Jane had decided that was simply another way for him to say no. Now she was asking. Let Gracie be safe.

  She put her chin in her hands, elbows on the desk, thinking, looking around the little study. Maybe a third bedroom, with a desk, printer, pencil holder. One wall bookshelves. On another, an array of black-framed photographs. Lots of Robyn. A baby—Gracie?—cradled in masculine arms. Toddler Gracie clutching a stuffed rabbit, hand in hand with an unidentifiable man. Lewis? Robyn and someone in wedding attire. Lewis? Older Gracie with the same man, glasses and sandy hair. Lewis.

  So far, Jane had not heard the phone ring. The computer clock slid to 10:30 A.M. She eyed her cell phone. Time to call Jake.

  The Wharton website faded, and a screen saver—the family’s white cat—appeared. Jane closed her eyes, clamped down the cover. Splayed her fingers on the smooth silver of the laptop, then, with one quick motion, flapped it open again. Went to the Wharton page, clicked on the photo of Lewis Wilhoite. Blinked at it, trying to memorize it.

  Then she looked up at the wedding photos on the wall. Compared. Looked at the computer again.

  Fifteen years, maybe more, separated college Lewis from wedding Lewis. Of course, Jane herself looked significantly different from her college photos. Thank God. But.

  She tapped one finger to her lips, considering, then shrugged. Picking up the laptop, she lifted the computer next to the wedding photo, bringing the two pictures of Lewis as close together as she could.

  “What are you doing?” Robyn asked. She stood in the open doorway.

  Jane jumped.

  “Jane?” Melissa stood behind Robyn.

  “Did he call?” Jane asked.

  “Not yet,” Robyn said.

  “Did you call him?” Jane asked.

  “No answer,” Melissa said. “But yeah, what’re you doing?”

  “Here’s the thing.” Jane turned the laptop screen so the women in the doorway could see it. “This is Lewis Wilhoite’s Wharton photo. But look. I think—I think it’s not the same Lewis who’s on the wall.”

  * * *

  Ignoring the elevator, Jake had raced down the back stairs at City Hall and slammed himself into his cruiser. The yellow crime scene tape was still up at Curley Park, but otherwise it was midmorning Boston as usual, buses and straggling commuters, tourists with backpacks and foot-dragging kids. Frustratingly, cadets were coming up with zero in their search of all those bystanders’ cell phone photos—so far they’d viewed a repeatedly useless collection of blurry bodies, backlit silhouettes, out-of-focus trees, and an occasional shoe. Surveillance tapes from local businesses were nonexistent, deleted, erased, or fuzzy as hell. So much for the new technology. A couple of Facebook and Twitter posts, all capital letters and italics, but nothing helpful. No leads. And still no next of kin on Bobby Land. He’d call Kiyoko Naka in Missing, see if anyone had reported a young family member who’d disappeared. Someone must be wondering where this kid was.

  So far, they were nowhere on Curley Park. Not a good thing.

  Boston had more than three hundred cold cases, a pitiful record for unsolved murders. Jake vowed that the number wouldn’t rise on his watch. Before he could crank the ignition, DeLuca radioed in.

  “The good guys win, Harvard. Sit tight. Hewlitt’s eastbound on the Pike, headed right for downtown, looks like.”

  “Or the airport,” Jake said.

  “Shit,” DeLuca said.

  “In which case, the good guys lose,” Jake said. “Since we have no way to stop him if he’s bolting.”

  “Shit.” DeLuca’s radio clicked off.

  Did Hewlitt know Bobby Land was dead? Had he participated, somehow, in that murder? Without any hard evidence, much less a warrant, they had to find out what Hewlitt was up to. He’d done a fast Google, found “Hewlitt Security” at Faneuil Hall. Had to be him, but hadn’t Angie—at the doctor’s, for crap sake—even done a web search? He’d do his own, soon as he got half a second. Hunches, intuition, and logic did not make a case.

  “He’s semi-speeding.” DeLuca’s voice again. “Past Prudential. So there’s only two more exits. The Ted, and then the split. Want me to pull him over?”

  “Why? Just to show him we’re on his tail? He’d recognize you.”

  “Shit.” The radio static seemed to underscore D’s annoyance. “You got any better ideas?”

  What DeLuca called “the split” would take Hewlitt either down Exit 24A to the twisty narrow one-way streets of the financial district where he’d be a huge pain in the ass to follow, or Exit 24C, to the south shore. Also a pain, since he’d be out of jurisdiction. But if he chose Exit 24B, he’d be headed right into Jake’s waiting arms. At HQ, Hewlitt had told DeLuca he “worked security” at Faneuil Hall. Had Angie Bartoneri
confirmed even that? Could be Hewlitt was simply going to work. They’d see.

  “Jake. There is a God,” D’s voice came over the radio. “He’s passed the Ted. Not using the airport tunnel, not going to the airport. One down. You set?”

  “Standing by,” Jake said. “He goes to the south shore, we’re screwed.”

  “Well aware,” DeLuca said.

  Had to be the first time Jake participated in an undercover in a car chase without moving. He didn’t close his eyes—times like this that was too risky—but he pictured DeLuca on the road, hanging back a few car lengths, different lane, monitoring his quarry’s every move. D loved a good chase, but this one would employ no flashing lights or screaming sirens. The whole point was to remain unobtrusive. The only possible snag? Hewlitt had seen DeLuca in Franklin Alley. Hell, more than seen, DeLuca’d held a gun on him. If they made eye contact, Hewlitt might recognize him. Even so, it’d be no biggie for Hewlitt to see a cop car on the Pike. If anything, it’d just make him stay under the speed limit, probably the only driver who did.

  “Bingo.” DeLuca’s voice crackled the radio into life.

  Jake bolted upright. He must have fallen asleep, just for a fraction of a second. Not good. He should have brought some of Catherine Siskel’s dark roast with him.

  “Bingo what?” Jake said, making sure his voice sounded normal.

  “Hewlitt and his jockmobile are headed right to ya. Getting off at Government Center.” DeLuca’s voice was triumphant. “Black Isuzu Trooper, ski rack on top. And listen to this. His plate is GUILTY1.”

  “No way.” Jake cranked the ignition, shifted into reverse, backed out of the spot and onto Congress Street. “You’re bullshitting me.”

  “Yeah, I am,” D said.

  “You’re an asshole,” Jake said.

  “So I hear,” D said.

  41

  “Not the same Lewis Wilhoite?”

  Jane watched her sister’s face change as she realized what Jane had discovered, saw Melissa’s expression morph from questioning to suspicious to accusatory to frightened. Jane was holding up the laptop like a tiny electronic billboard. Melissa and Robyn examined the thumbnail-size snapshot, then the photos on the wall, comparing.

  The three of them stayed silent for a beat, each processing what Jane revealed. If the Lewis Wilhoite in the photo was not the Lewis Wilhoite who married Robyn, then who was the man who had Gracie? Who had Robyn actually married?

  “That’s terrifying,” Melissa said.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Robyn waved at the computer screen dismissively, turned her back for an instant, then whirled to face them. “My husband might be a bit”—she looked at the ceiling, as if searching for exactly the right word—“quirky. But he is who he is. I mean, I married him four years ago. I know him. He’s got a passport, a birth certificate, I’ve seen them. I’m not a compete fool.”

  She stopped, put her hands over her face, then wiped underneath each eye with one finger. She straightened her shoulders, almost challenging them. “You think I’m a complete fool?”

  Melissa and Jane exchanged worried glances. Jane felt silly, standing there holding the computer, and placed it on the desk, still open to the archived photo.

  “You want to call the police now?” Melissa said.

  Jane winced at the venom in her sister’s voice, though she understood it. If Robyn had been duped by this guy from the start, the situation was far more dire than it had seemed at first. Her mind raced, playing out the scenarios. A grieving father making a misguided play to keep his stepdaughter was one thing. A masquerading con artist with a phony background who’d stolen someone else’s resume and lured Robyn into marrying him was a whole other story.

  “Did you never look at the Wharton photos, Robyn?” Jane asked. “Was there anything about his past that seemed off or out of whack? Did his history ever seem to change?”

  “I don’t know.” Robyn paused, tilted her head as if reflecting. “I mean, I accepted what he told me, there was no reason to check on anything, you know? We never looked up my college photos, either, come to think of it.” She peered at the computer screen and reached forward to click the mouse, zooming in on the photo. Clicked it even closer.

  “Huh,” she said. “And now I’m going over everything he ever said, everything he ever told me.” She stared at the screen again, the photo now blown up to an extreme tight shot. “And now, looking closer? At everything? In a different way? I have to wonder. I do. What if none of it is true?”

  “The only explanation is that Lewis Wilhoite lied about his own background,” Melissa interrupted, shaking her head. “And that means—and I’m sorry to say this, Robyn, but there’s a little girl involved—it means we have no idea who we’re dealing with.”

  “My little girl,” Robyn’s voice twisted into a wail.

  “And Daniel’s,” Melissa said. “And mine.” She pointed to the computer. “Jane, did you look him up anywhere else?”

  “Not yet. But that’s a job for the police now, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” Melissa said.

  Jane eyed the landline on the desk. “I’ll call—”

  “No. No police.” Robyn crossed her arms over her chest, her Rapunzel hair curling over them. Jane saw Melissa meet her gaze, then take a step toward her.

  “Robyn—” she said.

  “No!” Robyn faced Melissa as if there were no one else in the room. “Lewis specifically said no police!”

  She grabbed the phone from the desk, waved the handset at them in one all-encompassing accusatory arc.

  “And who knows what he’ll do now. Right? Right? Or even where they are! Oh, my God. It was all made up. All that flat tire and garage and Twizzlers and I just believed it, it was so Lewis, but I never thought—but I see it now. I do! He’ll hide her forever. He’d never hurt her, ever, but he’ll, he’ll, change her hair, and change her name, just like he must have changed his name!”

  “Robyn,” Jane began, wondering how to stop her from spiraling into hysteria. “I think we’ll be better off if we contact the police.”

  But Robyn was crying now, ignoring Jane, full-on sobs racking her body, her shoulders shaking with the effort. Her breath came in gulps. “Because I am a fool, I’m so incredibly gullible, and I was so unhappy after Danny and I split up.” She looked at Melissa, then touched the phone pad, tracing the numbers with one finger, caressing, as if remembering something, a long-ago call, or a lost connection. “I never should have married him.”

  Jane heard the anguish in the woman’s voice, felt her escalating grief, and knew she was powerless to help her. Crusading Jane, big-shot reporter, investigator extraordinaire. Well, she’d investigated, all right. And discovered the lie that made this family fall apart. It was better to know, she supposed. But the question was: What did they do now?

  “It’s ten forty-five.” Robyn’s quavering voice was now barely a whisper. “Gracie’s gone.”

  * * *

  The greenroom was supposed to be private. And it was. Mostly. If you sat on the couch or in the big chair, like most people did, you only heard murmurs from the adjacent Chief of Staff’s office. But Tenley stood, her ear pressed to the door. If you got into the spot she and Lanna discovered through a series of increasingly successful experiments, you could hear just about every word that was said. Usually, it was pretty boring stuff, political arguments or street cleaning. She’d heard her mother swear, which she used to think was pretty funny. And she learned her mom was always in charge, even telling the mayor what to do. No wonder she and Dad had fought sometimes, now she thought about it. Dad was the dad, but Mom had the power. Or thought she did.

  Tenley’s eyes welled. Guess Mom didn’t have enough power to stop what happened to Dad. Or to Lanna.

  Maybe that’s why she seemed mad all the time.

  Tenley tuned out, thinking about Dad, and Mom, and Lanna, and herself, and her life, and how a lot of things sucked. A man’s voice, kind of yelling, brought he
r back. Her mother’s voice was still unintelligible.

  Who was her mom talking to, anyway? She listened as hard as she could.

  “You have a subpoena for the video,” the man’s voice said, kind of angry. Video? “Don’t leave town,” she heard him say.

  Tenley leaned against the dark green wall and stared up at the checkerboard of white acoustical tiles on the ceiling. That’s what the cops on TV told people when they were in trouble. Like if they were a suspect.

  Like in a crime.

  So that was weird.

  42

  “Don’t move.” DeLuca’s commanding voice cut through the radio static, louder than the city bus wheezing by on Congress Street, louder than the kid on the sidewalk wailing his little-kid complaint as a frowning parent yanked at his hand. Surprised, Jake shifted his cruiser into Park, clicked the handset to reply.

  “DeLuca? You talking to me?”

  “I’m right behind this guy now,” DeLuca said. “He’s stopped at the light, headed for North Street. Stand by, Harvard—Hewlitt’s coming right to you. Five mins, maybe four. Copy?”

  “Copy.”

  Jake buzzed his window up. He’d stuck his head out into the briny summer breeze freshening off the harbor, trying to stay awake. Hewlitt would be here in less than five minutes. No time to hit the Dunkin’ on the corner. Jake was running on fumes, relying on adrenaline instead of caffeine. This whole thing had started almost exactly twenty-four hours ago.

  The Isuzu. Jake saw it turning right onto Union Street.

  “Duck!” DeLuca ordered. “He’s coming right at you. If he sees you, we’re screwed.”

  Jake snaked himself down behind the steering wheel, unclicking his seat belt, his T-shirt catching on the nubby upholstery. Raking his chest against the plastic wheel, he scooted down until his chin hit the rounded bottom. This was gonna hurt, but he wouldn’t be like this for long. Reaching up with his right hand, he tried to angle the rearview mirror so it faced in the general direction of the—got it.

  The black car pulled forward at one of the meters, stopped, and in one motion eased into the white-lined spot. Jake watched the mirror image, grateful his cruiser was unmarked. If his back held out, this’d work.