What You See

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  She shifted into third, passed a rickety landscaping truck, then a yellow bus full of kids, goofily smiling faces plastered to the square windows. A mop-topped little girl waved at her as she passed. Jane waved back, then the bus was behind her.

  She couldn’t understand it, using a child in a battle for parental power. Seemed like that’s what Lewis was doing. And who knew about Robyn, who seemed to be letting him off the hook while helping perpetuate all this. Why didn’t Lewis simply bring Gracie home?

  The crime scene tape was down from Curley Park, Jane noticed. She pulled to a stop, ready to hand her car over to the maroon-jacketed valet guy at the U. She got out of her car, brushing the turkey sandwich crumbs off her black jeans and onto the potholed pavement of North Street.

  “Nice to see you again, Ms. Ryland,” the valet said.

  Again? Oh. The same guy who’d parked her car when she worked the Curley Park story. Just yesterday! The name above his shirt pocket read Tim.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Seems to have calmed down, huh? They arrest anyone?”

  “I was about to ask you,” Tim said.

  “No idea,” she said, thereby admitting to both of them how out of it she was.

  She gave him her keys, then hitched her tote bag up over her shoulder, remembering yesterday. Remembering the distasteful reality that disaster made good television, and that she’d understood good television might mean a job for her. How could all that yesterday seem so far away?

  Now she was about to camp out in a hotel lobby with a pack of Twizzlers, waiting for the delivery of a—what would TV news call it? The hostage in a custody drama? Or simply a little girl caught between two selfishly unreliable parents?

  Tim held out a rubber-banded stack of pale blue numbered tickets, poised a ballpoint pen over one. “How long will you be this time?” he asked.

  “Good question,” she said.

  * * *

  Not sixty seconds ago, Catherine Siskel’s in-house intercom had buzzed. She’d raced down the stairs as soon as Nancie Alvarez alerted her. That cop? Now with Tenley? Damn cops. Their lies and their pretense. He’d pretended he had someplace to be. And where the hell was it? Downstairs, interrogating her daughter? Why?

  Now every head turned toward her as she entered the surveillance room. Workers popped up like frightened prairie dogs, then plunked down in their seats at her glowering reaction. Tenley and that detective turned to acknowledge her arrival. Nancie approached her, but Catherine held up a palm. I’ll handle this.

  “Detective Brogan? Tenley?” She waved the others back to work. “Might I ask what’s going on here?”

  Her head throbbed. If the public learned that contrary to what their mayor had specifically promised, every bit of surveillance video for City Hall was being taped and stored, that’d be the end of his tenure as mayor, the end of his career, and the end of the careers of every single person who knew about it. For a moment, though, she had the advantage. The cop looked like he’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Which he most assuredly had.

  Catherine pressed her lips together, struggling to calm her raging blood pressure. Politics and power run best on a need-to-know basis, she’d learned at the Kennedy School. Sometimes, even usually, that kind of compartmentalization worked. But the unavoidable reality was right here, right now. And there were no more degrees of separation.

  She’d told this cop a lie—that her husband Greg was missing, whereabouts unknown.

  She’d told her daughter the truth—that Greg was dead.

  And now they were here, together, side by side, looking at the surveillance screen of the very place where Tenley knew the “missing” Greg had been killed. If they had shared information about that, Catherine was doomed.

  “If you’re looking at the city’s proprietary surveillance system, you certainly have a search warrant,” Catherine said. “May I see that please? Now?”

  “Ms. Siskel,” the detective began, “don’t misunderstand. The reason I’m here is that—”

  Tenley was looking at her, Catherine realized with a pang, exactly the same way she had twelve or so years ago, standing with her little toes curled over the edge, right before the first time she dived into the deep end of the neighborhood pool. Catherine had yelled at her, Do it! And she had.

  Now Tenley was in another precarious position. This time, Catherine had already instructed her about what to do, and Tenley seemed to understand. But who knew how the girl would react, faced with a cop asking questions? Again? Poor Tenley. A dead sister, and a murdered father, and a miserable failure of a mother.

  “Just a moment, Detective.” Catherine signaled across the desks. Nancie Alvarez came to her side. “Give us the room, please, Nancie.”

  In fifteen seconds, the three of them were alone. To face whatever the hell this cop was trying to pull.

  “Now, Detective.” Catherine knew the best way to control the conversation was to be the only one talking. She smiled, barely, to indicate she had the power but she would be reasonably pleasant about it as long as he didn’t try to argue. “I can assure you that you need a warrant for this, whatever you’re doing. Come with me to my office now. I’m sure we can work it out.”

  “Not gonna happen,” the detective said. “And feel free to call headquarters. But right now,” he turned, gesturing at the screen, “I’m essentially doing nothing more than looking out a City Hall window. There’s certainly nothing prohibited or illegal about that. In fact—”

  He stopped. Placed both palms on her daughter’s desk and, elbows splayed, leaned toward the computer screen. He muttered something, clearly irritated. Unclicked a radio from his belt, pressed a button. “D? Anything?” he said.

  Catherine heard the tension in his voice.

  “Door’s still closed. No ignition.” A voice came from the other end.

  Catherine took a step toward the computer, trying to see what the cop had reacted to with such seeming dismay. What were they talking about? All she could see were trees, pedestrians, and the rooftops of the buildings across Congress Street. Cars. More pedestrians. Storefronts. She looked at Tenley, raised her eyebrows, questioning. What?

  Her daughter shrugged, pleading, eyes wide.

  She’s on the deep end of something, Catherine thought again. But what?

  The detective had turned to Tenley, pointed his cigarette-pack-size black radio at her.

  “You know who was standing by that vehicle, Miss Siskel,” he said, saying her name correctly. “And you need to tell me. Now.”

  “What vehicle?” Catherine stepped between Tenley and the cop, barricading her daughter behind her. Reaching out a hand, she touched Tenley’s thigh. Be quiet. “What are you talking about?”

  45

  Jane had commandeered the only accessible wall plug in the inn’s lobby and hooked up her cell phone to keep it charged. Checked that the volume was on, the ringer up. Sat on the cordovan leather couch, the cord draped over the padded armrest. A navy-jacketed concierge had inquired whether she needed help. Even though the answer was yes, she shook her head. There was nothing the concierge could do.

  “I’m waiting for friends. They’ll be down any minute,” she’d said. She hoped that was true.

  There was one bank of elevators. From her carefully selected couch position she could monitor whoever got on and off. Only one car served the pool/skyview level. Already, she’d seen a few kids wrapped in hotel towels flip-flopping out that elevator door, crossing the lobby to the snack shop, then returning to the rooftop sunshine. Maybe Gracie and Lewis were there right now. Jane pictured Gracie, splashing and happy, oblivious to the drama her stepfather was creating. Still, he’d promised to send the little girl home today. End of story.

  Jane had never met Lewis or Gracie. But she’d seen enough photos to recognize them, apart or together. Besides, unlike the setup of a usual stakeout, they’d be looking for her. Lewis would, at least.

  Jane fidgeted. Couldn’t get comfortable. Tourists milled a
t a display rack of multicolored pamphlets, a bored-looking clerk at the registration desk talked on her cell phone, and canned music competed with the splashing water from a stone fountain in the center of the area.

  Waiting was frustrating, no matter what. Stakeouts were relentlessly and irretrievably terrible. No food, no bathroom, shivering or broiling, hours of waiting for something that might never happen, and when it did, managing the blast of surprise, panic, and chaos. Truth be told, watching for a kid in a cushy hotel lobby wasn’t as bad as foot-freezing snowstorm duty, or that time she’d been assigned to Humarock Beach in a hurricane, pelted by sand and drenched to her core, simply to tell viewers it was windy and raining.

  Even though she wouldn’t get wet or ice-coated on this stakeout, the apprehension and nerves were exactly the same. She picked up her phone from the chrome-and-glass side table, turned it over and over, twisting the power cord.

  When the phone vibrated, it startled her so completely she dropped it onto the soft leather. Snatched it up, hit the green button. She’d been here only fifteen minutes. Mentally she’d prepared herself to wait much longer.

  Good.

  “Jane Ryland,” she said. She scanned the elevator doors. All closed. Was this about to be over?

  “Marsh Tyson, Channel 2,” the voice said. “Checking in. You anywhere near City Hall? You were going to call me when you were available. All hell’s breaking loose over there.”

  “Hell? Breaking loose? At City Hall?” Jane was echoing, stalling, trying to think and keep her eyes on the elevator doors at the same time. She had call-waiting, so that’d beep if Lewis called, but unlikely he’d do so now, right? Robyn had told her “later in the afternoon.” She could stay in place, give Marsh Tyson a few minutes, and try to regain her claim on the reporting job. Four hours ago she’d been tracking down a potential scoop in Catherine Siskel’s office. With Jake. Had the Curley Park murder been solved? Had she missed the whole story?

  “Well, manner of speaking,” Tyson said. “We’re still trying to track whether the Curley Park murder victim was connected to a City Hall big shot. So we’ve got the live truck parked there now, finally, Congress Street side. But there’s no reporter to staff it. Our next big newscast isn’t until five, and we could always go voice-over from the studio. But checking on your availability.”

  Jane stood, then got yanked down onto the couch as the length of the cord ran out. “Ah, yeah,” she said, regaining her balance. Okay, she hadn’t missed anything. “I’m near City Hall. But I’m right in the midst of—”

  The elevator doors opened, the sun glaring on the silhouettes emerging. A kid. A kid who was exactly the right size. And a man.

  “Marsh?” Jane pulled the plug from the wall, took a few steps closer to the elevators, out of the glare. Every hair on her head had turned gray, she was sure. “Hang on. I’ve got to…”

  A little boy in a too-big Power Rangers T-shirt and huge running shoes scampered toward the center of the lobby, his father trotting after him. The father swooped up the kid and briefly held him high, their peals of laugher echoing across the marble-and-glass lobby as they twirled through the revolving front door and out into the sunshine.

  Jane sat, her knees unsteady. The elevator doors had closed again. “Listen, Marsh?” She tried to infuse her voice with some semblance of confidence and composure. “I’m very interested in working with you, and eager to get back on the air. But I’m so sorry, probably not today. Again, and it’s incredibly unusual, but this family thing has got to come first.”

  And with that, it did. She knew it did. And she wondered where Jake was and why the whole thing was so complicated. And why everything exploded at the same time. And why every time she tried to gain control of her own life, something happened to prevent it.

  “Let me know,” Marsh said. A pause. “If you’re interested.”

  “I will.” And she would, certainly, because the whole Gracie thing was about to be over. “And I am.”

  “That’s good news,” Tyson said. “And that’s—”

  The elevator doors opened again. And there was Gracie. Unmistakably. Unquestionably. A tumble of sandy curls, wire-rimmed glasses. Yellow sundress with fluttery ruffles on the shoulders.

  Alone.

  “Talk soon,” Jane said. And hung up.

  * * *

  So. Mama bear was protecting her cub. Jake had seen this before, so many times, the parents trying to keep the cops away from their precious ones, not even knowing or caring what their kids were up to. But this girl, this Tenley, still barricaded behind her mother, had recognized someone on the surveillance shot. Her spontaneous “Oh!” proved it. That car could pull out at any second. If it did, he and DeLuca were screwed. Why would Hewlitt drive to that spot, then drive away?

  “We saw a person who seemed to walk up to the black Isuzu.” Jake kept his voice calm. “The car belongs to a person of interest.” Jake chose a phrase the police never used, but television—and Jane—did. “I’m pretty sure your daughter could tell us who she was. And that would be important.”

  “My daughter?” Catherine Siskel’s previously confident demeanor seemed to deflate a bit. Obviously she was choosing her words carefully, clearing her throat before she spoke. “My daughter is mourning the death of her sister,” she said. “I can tell you, Detective, even so, she sometimes ‘sees’ her sister in crowds. I’m sure she only—”

  The woman turned, linked her arm through her daughter’s, pulled her close. “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered. “Did you think you saw Lanna again?”

  Jake’s phone vibrated in his pocket, a text. He checked its screen. From MP, it said. Missing Persons. “GOT ID 4 BOBBY LAND. ACTUAL L-N RIAZ. COLLEGE STUDENT. CALL HQ.”

  Before he could respond, he saw Tenley twist away from her mother.

  “Not Lanna, Mom. Give me a break. It was just—someone I thought I knew,” the girl said. “No biggie.”

  Jake could tell she, too, was choosing her words carefully. Whatever agenda these two had, they were not doing a very good job of hiding their distress. Were they in it together, whatever it was?

  “Miss Siskel? Someone you ‘thought you knew’? Thought you knew? Whoever got into that car might be headed for trouble,” Jake said. He wasn’t sure if that were true. They didn’t even know if the young woman had gotten in the car, but why was the daughter being so hesitant? What was so difficult about saying, Yeah, it’s my pal Sally Shmoe, she knows I’m in here, and always looks up? Instead, this girl was covering up.

  Her mother was, too.

  Jake’s radio crackled. “Door still closed,” DeLuca reported. “Ignition on. Stand by.” On the surveillance monitor, the taillights of the Isuzu flickered red, then white. A group of pedestrians sauntered by, briefly blocking Jake’s view. The car didn’t move. Was the girl inside? D hadn’t said.

  “Miss Siskel?” Jake said again. “Who did you see?”

  * * *

  Tenley’s mind raced ahead. If she told this detective who had walked up to the car, she’d also have to say how she knew her. What if her mother started digging? Like she always did? What if she found out Tenley’d bolted last night?

  On the other hand, what if Brileen was in trouble? Even in danger? If Tenley just let her be driven off by who knows who, then she’d be doing exactly the same thing she’d done with Lanna. She’d kept a secret, and as a result, her sister got killed. That’s how she saw it, at least.

  How many times had she beaten herself up over that, given herself do-overs in her head, making a different decision? How often had she imagined the outcome totally different, with Lanna still alive and gorgeous and happy and their family all together?

  Now the universe offered her exactly the same decision. Whether to keep another secret, or tell the truth to the police about what she saw and what she knew. How could she possibly consider making the same mistake again?

  “Her name is Brileen Finnerty,” Tenley said. “I met her yesterday afternoon, lunchtime. D
own in Curley Park. After all that was—going on, you know? I don’t really know her, but she goes to my same school. I mean, she’s older, in grad school. I think.”

  She heard a little noise from beside her. Her mother had moved closer to the computer monitor. Peered at the square box of video on the screen.

  “Brileen—how do you spell that?” The detective pulled out a little notebook.

  “I—” Tenley frowned. “I don’t exactly know,” she said. “We just met yester—”

  “Finnerty?” the detective said. “Have you ever seen that black Isuzu before?”

  “Finnerty.” Her mother said the name, then spelled it. She reached out, touched the image of the black car with one finger. Took her hand away.

  How would Mom know how to spell it? Maybe she was guessing. But her mother had a weird look on her face.

  “Brileen. Finnerty.” Her mother dropped each word like it was heavy. Like she was tired of holding it.

  “Yeah,” Tenley said. That was strange. “How do—”

  “Do you have her contact information? Address? Cell phone?” The detective kept talking, seemed really concerned about this. Maybe Bri was in danger? So good thing she told. He watched the screen the whole time.

  “You met yesterday, down there in Curley Park? Like I said, have you seen that car before?”

  “How did you two meet?” Her mother asked. “You and Brileen?”

  “Ms. Siskel? Mind if I ask the questions here? Tenley? The car?”

  “I’m not good at cars,” Tenley said.

  She heard a noise, a knocking, and they all looked toward the front of the office. Nancie Alvarez opened the door, leaning in, only her head and shoulders crossing the threshold. The hall was empty. Everyone must have scattered. The luckies.

  “Is it okay if we—” Nancie began.

  “Not yet!” her mother called out. The door closed again with a metallic click. “When did you really meet, Tenner? How long have you really known this girl?”

  Tenley felt her stomach curl and her brain start to fry. She remembered how she felt when the police had questioned her about Lanna. Her skin had gone all cold, and her insides no longer fit into her body. It was that way now.