What You See

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Got ’im?” DeLuca’s voice was a whisper.

  “Got him,” Jake said.

  “I’ll park at Area A,” D said.

  The neighborhood police station up the block would be the perfect hiding place for DeLuca’s cruiser, lined up with other marked cars.

  Squinting now as the noonday sun bounced off his side mirror and into his eyes, Jake realized that Hewlitt hadn’t gotten out of his van. He remained sitting in the front seat. On his phone? Jake couldn’t tell.

  “He’s still in the car,” Jake said to the radio. “What’s he waiting for? Or who?”

  “You’ll soon find out,” DeLuca said. “That’s why you’re Boston’s finest.”

  Jake didn’t feel so fine. His back already ached, his knees were bent in an impossible way, and the glare of the sun interfered with his line of sight. Ducking had initially seemed a good idea, a way to protect Jake’s identity in a crucial moment, but for the long haul, there’d have to be a plan B.

  An uncomfortable stakeout was an unavoidable part of the job. He’d sat in this unmarked cruiser in front of a suspect’s home for hours, eating red Swedish fish, wondering how much coffee his body could hold without a bathroom break. He’d huddled in dark corners of vacant buildings in the dead of Boston winters, and nursed phony cocktails in the impossible lighting of hotel bars. Watching for the library wallet bandit, he’d stationed himself by the copier at the Boston Public Library for so long an irate reader reported him for “hogging” it.

  Stakeouts were not supposed to be fun. If Jake got the bad guy, it all would be worth it.

  The dark shadow of City Hall edged across the front seat as time ticked by, a giant sundial reminding Jake of how long he’d been hiding. Hewlitt had returned to the scene of the crime. Or perhaps simply to his place of business. Getting the scoop on Hewlitt’s CV was on Angie Bartoneri’s list of assignments, Jake thought again. Was she actively trying to sabotage him? For dumping her? Incompetence or petulance. No place for either in Jake’s life.

  He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. Hewlitt’s silhouette was a statue. There were too many damn places Hewlitt could go, and he could choose faster than Jake could follow him. Jake could only watch, best he could, then notify D and leap out of the car to follow as soon as Hewlitt was under way. Fifty-fifty, he thought. Fifty-freaking-fifty.

  To stay awake, Jake ran down his to-do list. Check with Evidence and Kiyoko Naka in Missing Persons. He needed to nail down Catherine Siskel and those security cameras, and get hold of Ward Dahlstrom, the man supposedly in charge of surveillance. From what they’d explained, the city’s traffic cams could be looking at this same scene right now.

  Jake stared at the mirror, then reached for his radio. “D,” he said.

  “Copy.”

  “Can you take over for a couple minutes?” Jake slid across the front seat, never taking his eyes off the mirror, and reached for the handle of the passenger-side door. The one nearest the entrance to City Hall.

  “Got your six,” DeLuca said.

  “That mean yes?” Jake watched the mirror. Still nothing.

  “You’re breaking up,” D lied. “Gotcha. I’m under way. Corner of Sudbury and Congress. I see him. Front seat.”

  “Great.” Jake said. Still nothing. “Over to you. Radio me when he’s on the move.”

  “Why?” DeLuca said. “Too much coffee? You hitting the head?”

  “Nope,” Jake said. “I have an idea.”

  * * *

  A harsh jangle from the black desk phone cut across the Wilhoites’ study. Jane felt her heart beat faster. “Is that him?”

  Robyn let out a yelp.

  The phone rang again.

  “For God’s sake, answer it,” Melissa ordered.

  “He’s always called my cell before.” Robyn seemed verging on tears, all nerve endings, exposed and raw, holding her silent cell. “Lewis can be so—manipulative, you know?”

  “Answer it,” Jane said. “Manipulative”? Another word Robyn hadn’t used before, like “careless,” and “jealous,” and “nutcase.” “It might not be Lewis. It might be someone with information about Gracie.”

  When the phone rang a third time, Melissa took a step closer, reaching out as if to snatch the phone herself. Robyn stepped away from them, one pace, then another. Clutching her cell phone to her chest.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “Afraid?” Melissa’s voice went up, incredulous. “Afraid?”

  “Robyn.” Jane kept her voice calm. Being part of the story was unnervingly different. “We’re all afraid. But answer the phone.”

  The room went silent as Robyn picked up the landline handset.

  “Hello?” Her voice quavered, barely audible.

  Jane and Melissa leaned toward her, eyes narrowing. Jane tried to gauge Robyn’s reactions as interminable seconds ticked by. Then a full minute.

  “Jane.” Robyn, wide-eyed, handed her the phone. “It’s Lewis. He told me what he wants. Now he wants to talk to you. Tell you in person.”

  “Thank God,” Melissa said.

  Jane grabbed the handset from Robyn, put it to her ear. Said, “Lewis? It’s Jane” almost before she had it in place. Waited.

  Nothing.

  She tried again. Nothing. “Lewis? It’s Jane Ryland,” she said, louder. She pressed the receiver closer to her ear. Maybe there was a bad connection, or she’d been put on hold? She turned to Robyn. “Was the call breaking up? Could you hear him?” And then into the phone. “Lewis?”

  Nothing.

  “Robyn?”

  “Isn’t he talking?” Robyn asked. “He asked for you. See? I told you he was manipulative. Did he hang up? Or—did you disconnect somehow? Oh, no, Jane, did you cut him off?”

  “Of course she didn’t,” Melissa said. “Did you?”

  Of course she hadn’t. Jane put the handset back to her ear; she could hear that the line was open, so she was connected to someone, somewhere.

  “The line is still open,” she said, “but there’s no one there.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Robyn plopped down in the desk chair and dropped her head into her outstretched arms, a mass of blond hair and trembling chenille.

  “Can you hear anything?” Melissa took three quick steps to stand next to Jane, holding out her hand. “Give me that. Let me see.”

  Jane looked at the phone again, baffled. She held it up to her sister.

  In green letters, the display showed CALL ENDED.

  43

  She knew this guy somehow. Tenley raised her eyes over her computer monitor, surreptitiously examining him as he came into the surveillance room. Where had she seen him? He was pretty cute, in jeans and a battered leather jacket, kind of cool in an older-guy kind of way. Not someone who worked at City Hall, she was pretty sure.

  She checked him out again, couldn’t resist. He looked intense, eyes darting from desk to desk, scanning, like he was looking for something. Or someone. Ward Dahlstrom, maybe? Usually he’d be here to make sure no one sneaked out early for lunch, hovering and bossy like they were little kids. The less the scope of someone’s power, the more they’ll try to inflict it on you, her dad used to say.

  Dad. She let out a jaggedy sigh. She’d wanted to go home, Mom did, too, but her mother had hugged her, hard, asked her to be brave and not to say a word to anyone about her father. They had to wait, Mom said. So Tenley would wait, and try to be brave. And she wouldn’t say a word, not one. Like, who was even gonna ask? If her mother could do it, she could do it. They were the only two left.

  It was hard to concentrate, though. Sorrow and confusion had pretty much blotted out everything else. It was difficult to decide what was important.

  The leather-jacket guy had stopped by the desk closest to the door. Nancie Alvarez, the department’s assistant manager, sat there, skinny and skittish as a baby spider. He was talking to her, his voice too low to overhear. Tenley saw him point at the bank of real-time video monitors displayed ac
ross the wall.

  She pressed her lips together, holding back tears, trying to focus on her screen and not the guy. Mom had promised to come get her at lunchtime. They’d talk, she promised. Right now Tenley was drained. She’d cried and cried in the greenroom, so hard her whole face hurt. Now there were almost no tears left. Weirdly, she also felt—how would Dr. Maddux put it?—remorseful, maybe. Because she was so self-absorbed. She’d been so focused on herself, she hadn’t thought enough about how her mom must feel.

  She was totally relieved her mother didn’t know about last night, her sneaking out to Brileen’s, and she would never tell her. That secret it was okay for Tenley to keep.

  The atmosphere of the room changed. Tenley looked up.

  Nancie Alvarez was standing. She turned toward the back of the room and pointed. Not at the screens, but at Tenley. At her! Now the guy was coming her way. Holy frigging crap, was she in trouble now?

  “I’m Detective Jake Brogan,” the man said, stopping in front of her.

  OMG. OMG. A detective. A detective! Was he here about her father? Her mother told her not to say anything. Tenley’s throat closed, her voice disappeared. What if he asked about the video from yesterday? She flinched as the detective flapped open one of those police things at her, like a wallet, with a gold badge inside.

  “Miss Alvarez says your computer monitor is set to observe the Curley Park area,” he said. “Can you show me that, please? Show me what’s happening right now?”

  Could she? His voice was really calm, not like she’d done anything wrong, and he didn’t look mean, but she still felt her eyes widen and a clench of fear and uncertainty twist her stomach. Of all the stupid times for stupid Dahlstrom not to be here. Why did she have to decide this? She was only a kid.

  “I’m not sure I’m allowed,” she said. This guy was a cop, though, and for sure he hadn’t gotten up to the surveillance room without some kind of permission. She looked across the room, hoping for help, or guidance, or advice. Nothing. Everyone else was at their own computers, pretending not to look at her at all. They probably thought she was in trouble for not being here on time this morning. Even though she’d been with her mother. Should she call her mom now?

  “Boston Police, miss,” the detective said, like reminding her. Like she could forget.

  If she said no to the police, would she get in even more trouble? Or would she be a hero? Crap. When was the last time refusing to do what the police said made you a hero?

  She gave up. She simply, totally, gave up.

  “Here.” Tenley stood and gestured to her chair, letting him take her place at the monitor. Fine. Let them yell at her. Nancie had sent this police officer her way. She was in charge when Dahlstrom was gone, so Tenley was only following orders. Her life was already ruined, anyway. One more mistake wouldn’t make one bit of difference. Whatever. Nothing mattered. She leaned forward and clicked her mouse so he could see the Curley Park screen.

  “Is this what you wanted?” Tenley said.

  * * *

  Jake hadn’t wanted to push this girl. If she balked, or if the woman at the front decided to call security, this surveillance opportunity would vanish, obliterated by a shit pile of bureaucracy. It wasn’t exactly kosher. He guessed he should have gotten a warrant, but he wasn’t taping or looking at private documents or removing any paperwork.

  He was simply getting a better vantage point.

  It would be legal to look out a City Hall window, no question. This was exactly the same thing, except he was now sitting in front of an exceptionally well-placed window. Couldn’t argue with that. And there wasn’t much time.

  There was no time, in fact. It had been risky to leave his lookout and race up here. The plan was simple. D would raise his arm if there was action, or give a radio call. So far no updates, which meant Hewlitt wasn’t on the move. Strange. Lucky, but strange.

  Did Tenley—maybe eighteen? nineteen?—know her father was “missing”? She had the same haunted look around her eyes as her mother. The same sleek dark hair, the same angular jaw. A sad life, that family. Be interesting to find out what, if anything, Catherine had told her. He’d add that to the to-do list.

  There it was.

  Hewlitt’s black Isuzu. The roof, part of the hood, and the clearest possible shot of the passenger-side door. The driver’s side was partly obscured by trees, but once Hewlitt emerged, he’d be in clear view.

  Jake even saw the unmistakable shape of DeLuca, now leaning against the Union Oyster House building a scant half block from Hewlitt’s car. Jake clicked his radio twice, the “I’m in place” signal. D one-clicked as reply. Received.

  “Were you here yesterday, Miss, uh, Siskel?” He pretended to stumble on her name. No reason for her to know it meant anything to him, much less that he suspected her mother of lying to him. Whatever Catherine Siskel was hiding wasn’t about the Curley Park stabbing, which was his top priority. “During the incident?”

  He risked a quick glance away from the monitor. The girl was frowning, looked distressed, her face pale and dark eyes widening. She had a bunch of holes in her earlobes. Kids.

  Back to the screen. No movement at Hewlitt’s car yet, only the ebb and flow of lunchtime traffic, a scatter of jaywalkers, people strolling with shopping bags and dogs on leashes. Couldn’t see faces, not well, at least, but no matter. Jake only needed to see which direction Hewlitt walked.

  “Miss? Were you here?” Not a tough question. Either she was or she wasn’t.

  “Yeah,” she finally said, “I was here yesterday. But I didn’t see anything.”

  “Nothing?” he asked, his eyes still on the screen.

  “Um, ambulances, I guess,” she said. “I was on a different camera at first.”

  He couldn’t afford the time to look at her. But she was hiding something, too, her tone was an open book. The Siskel family had a lot of secrets.

  “The incident get taped?”

  “Not by me,” she said.

  Interesting answer. And then he saw DeLuca’s shadow change. Did his arm go up? So much for the signal idea.

  Jake leaned in closer to the screen, squinting, trying to bring the video into better focus. The quality was good, clear and in color, but just far enough away to be frustrating. “Can you make this zoom in?” he asked.

  “Yeah, you can.” The girl leaned toward the screen, her shoulder briefly touching his, clicked the white plastic mouse and dragged it. The scene expanded into a million blocks of unidentifiable pixels.

  Shit. “Put it back, please.” Jake tried to keep his voice calm.

  She clicked and dragged again. Back in focus. D still by the building. The car door still closed. There was movement, pedestrians on the sidewalks making jagged blurs of color. Then one figure stopped near the passenger side of Hewlitt’s car. The person stood in the lee of the maple tree, only half in sun, striped by shadow.

  Jake put a fist to his chin, watching. D hadn’t moved.

  The figure on the sidewalk—female? female—took two steps toward the car. Her head turned and she looked up. If she had known the camera was there, she couldn’t have looked more directly into the lens.

  Jake still couldn’t see her features, but could make out her bare arms, and bare legs under what must be a short skirt.

  “Oh!” The girl next to him made a sound, a strangling gasp.

  Jake turned, caught a glimpse of her face. Three words came to his mind.

  Seen a ghost?

  44

  Outside the Wilhoites’ house, it was a quiet June early afternoon in a comfortable suburban neighborhood. The breeze whispered through the blossoming crabapples, the sun shimmered rainbows in the water from the irrigation systems hidden under pristine green lawns. But inside the Wilhoites’ otherwise unremarkable Cape Cod, it was crazy town. Lewis and Robyn, and Gracie, and Melissa, even the absent Daniel were all embroiled in a family drama worthy of daytime TV.

  Now Jane was part of it.

  As she backed her Audi
away from the house and onto the narrow street, Jane could only hope she was about to play a role in the final scene. As soon as the curtains closed, with Gracie safe and the Wilhoites out of her life, she would make a grateful exit. Except for the wedding. Jane winced as the car bumped over the curb. She shifted into first, then turned toward Boston. This story better have a happy ending. She couldn’t call Jake for help, because Robyn had insisted—implored—no police.

  “The University Inn,” Robyn had told her. A boutiquey hotel near Faneuil Hall, “the U,” everyone called it. The place where Lewis and Gracie were now supposedly swimming in the rooftop pool. Gracie, who had no idea this ugly dispute was swirling around her, was simply a little girl on a summertime adventure with her stepfather.

  “He always forgets to charge his cell,” Robyn had explained. “That’s what must have happened. He didn’t hang up on you, his phone went dead. Lucky he’d told me all of it.”

  Robyn had also explained that Lewis wanted Jane to come to the hotel and wait in the lobby. At some point in the afternoon, he would bring Gracie to her, introduce them, and leave. Lewis would call Jane’s cell to tell her when.

  Surely this was the dumbest idea anyone had ever concocted. Even though Jane was kind of a public figure, and almost a family member, and, as a result, safe, it was still dumb. Jane had almost said that out loud. But then Robyn had dissolved in tears and run upstairs, leaving Jane and Melissa staring at each other. Jane had no choice but to go as instructed.

  She stopped for gas at the station just before the entrance to the Mass Turnpike, grabbed a cello-wrapped pre-fab turkey sandwich and a Diet Coke, then added some Twizzlers for Gracie, just in case. In midday traffic like this, Jane calculated it would take half an hour to get to the University Inn.

  Dumb, dumb, dumb, she thought, as she pulled onto the Pike. And good-bye to her TV career. Marsh Tyson at Channel 2 would be crossing her off the employment list, that was for sure. Maybe she should turn this whole thing into a Lifetime TV script, get a million dollars, and run off with Jake.