Jane leaned against the wall, letting it support her. Waiting. Lewis. Gracie. And nothing she could do.
“Stay down until we give a final all clear, please, people,” DeLuca called out. He held up his radio like a baton, his DeLuca-esque sport coat—tweedy, sprung, and seasonless no matter how Kat McMahon tried to make him over—lifting to reveal the weapon still holstered in black leather on his belt. “We will inform you when—”
“All units, all units.” The voice came over both radios now, interrupting.
DeLuca and Jake both peered at the black plastic rectangles in their hands, as if they could see who was talking. “We have one victim, stabilizing, floor three, transport is en route. Appears to be a domestic. All units stand by, please.”
“Victim? Domestic?” Jane felt the frown returning, stepped away from the wall. Lewis. Gracie. “Jake, what do they mean by—” She stopped. There was no other meaning for victim. Or domestic.
Jake put up a hand, stopping her, shaking his head, radio static from the open channel buzzing a fuzzy undercurrent. “You know as much as I do, obviously.”
She understood the bitterness in his voice. It wasn’t only exhaustion. He still hadn’t changed clothes, or shaved, or even combed his hair, she realized, since she saw him at City Hall this morning—how long ago? Almost six hours? No, he hadn’t changed since last night at the restaurant. So he was running on empty. Still, she knew he’d want to be up on the third floor in the thick of whatever incident the officers had just conquered, rather than standing in the lobby. She was happy, though she’d never tell him so, that he was down here. Safe, and with her.
“All units? We have a BOLO for a missing girl,” the radio announced.
“Shit,” Jake hissed. Then into the radio, “This is Brogan. What girl?”
“Jake?” She felt her eyes widen, a shiver of apprehension crawling up her bare arms. She could always imagine the worst possible outcome. Ironically, a personality flaw that made her successful at her job. She knew the worst didn’t always happen. She also she knew sometimes it did.
“Jake?” The cop’s radio voice had lost its professional timbre.
“Copy,” Jake said. He rolled his eyes at her, impatient. “Be on the lookout for what girl?”
Jane leaned toward him, aching to hear the answer, wishing away the wrong one.
“Age nine, Caucasian, light hair, curly, yellow dress,” the voice said. That alarm still blared in the background. “We’re pretty sure she can’t have left the hotel. Gracie Wilhoite. That’s spelled—”
But Jane didn’t hear the rest of it. “Gracie,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
* * *
“What’s your location?” Jake spoke into the radio. He was trying to keep his eyes on Jane and DeLuca and the people behind the counter and orchestrate a search for a missing little girl all at the same time.
“Floor three,” the radio answered.
Gracie Wilhoite. Missing? Or hiding? Kidnapped? The word crossed his mind: abducted? Exactly what Jane had been afraid of.
Lewis Wilhoite’s preposterous scheme to hand Gracie to Jane. No wonder she looked upset. This is where she must have been told to pick the girl up. What the hell happened before he got to the hotel?
Jane had tried to tell him, he remembered. But there had been the more imminently critical matter of the guy with the gun. Was it Lewis? “Who says the girl is missing?” Jake continued on the radio. “You got ID on the shooter? The victim?”
“Confirming ID. Stand by, please.” The radio went silent.
“Jake.”
Jane had come closer, hovering behind him. She was out of danger, he guessed, and now he could listen to her. And get her to turn off that damn camera.
“They said domestic,” Jane said. “That means it has to be either…”
“Hang on, Jane,” he said. “I hear you.”
“Just to make sure, I’m gonna call—” she began. Then stopped.
He saw her grab her tote bag from the floor, paw through it. Looking for her phone? Nothing he could do would prevent her from calling her family. By the time Melissa and what’s her name—Robyn—arrived, he bet they’d have found Gracie. How far could a nine-year-old go? Unless someone had taken her. Lewis?
Shit. Maybe Jane was calling the TV station? Even if it was her job, he didn’t see why she always had to do it.
“D!” he called out across the lobby. Jake hated this. At least the bad guy was in custody, that was a done deal. Upstairs had indicated the person was not dead. Had the victim reported the missing girl? Was it even connected? He could already hear the wail of the ambulance, on the way to take the victim to MGH.
MGH, where maybe-tattooed guy might have awakened, where his Curley Park case might hang in the balance. Add Kiyoko Naka, still waiting for him to return her call about the ID of Bobby Land.
Gracie Wilhoite was the priority now. He gestured at D with his radio. “Get up there. Get the scoop. Get a team to fan out, look for the girl. She might be with her father, Lewis Wilhoite. He’s a white male—”
Jake looked at Jane, questioning.
“Ah, yeah, white male, forty-something.” She closed her eyes, as if reciting from a photo. “Brown hair, curly, wire-rimmed glasses, clean-shaven, five ten.”
“On it. Back to you ASAP.” DeLuca sprinted across the lobby, yanked open the fire doors to head upstairs. The alarms clanged again.
The ambulance sirens grew louder. Maybe the victim would be able to tell them exactly what had happened. Case closed.
Domestic. Shooter. Victim.
“Jane?” A picture of the drama unfolded in Jake’s imagination. What might have happened. What must have happened. “Are you calling—”
“Jake?” Jane interrupted, her face full of fear and confusion. She clutched her cell phone. “I told Melissa the situation. And she says Robyn isn’t home. She’s gone. Do you think—”
“Did Robyn know you’re supposed to meet Lewis here?”
“Of course! She’s the one who told me to come! She’s the one who talked to Lewis. Maybe she couldn’t stand it. Maybe she couldn’t stay away. Maybe they’re both here. And if they are—where are they?”
He and Jane stood, shoulders touching, both of them silent for a fraction of a second, alone with their thoughts and the anticipation of what had to come next. Jake could never hear the word “domestic” without fearing the worst. But “the worst” was so often true. The chaos and selfishness that embattled every family on some level, the manipulation and misunderstanding that in too many cases expanded and invaded and destroyed. Parents blinded by their own power struggles. Children trapped in the middle, conflicted and confused, motivated only by love. Or fear.
“This is Brogan,” Jake said into the radio. “DeLuca’s headed to you. Is the shooter named Wilhoite? Is the victim?”
“Stand by,” the voice said.
50
Tenley could not believe what her mother was saying. It was … insane. That’s what it was, insane. She felt like her brain had been put in a waffle iron, smashed into little squares, toasted and burned, never to be the same.
“Dad? And Brileen?” Tenley could barely look at her mother as the words contaminated her mouth. She turned away, stared through City Hall’s thick glass doors onto Congress Street, where Brileen Finnerty had been standing by that black car.
“Did you ever meet her?” Tenley asked.
“Certainly not,” Mom answered. “Why would I meet her?”
Brileen? Who’d run into Tenley on the street, like, by chance? And talked to her over coffee at the Purple and invited her to her apartment, and—no. No way.
Plus, how could she talk to her own mother about a thing like that? It verged on gross. But Mom looked so unhappy, hair all scraggly, trying to whisper so the guard guy wouldn’t hear.
Tenley put her hands over her face, listening through her fingers as her mother related the story of Dad and Brileen. The voice mail message her mom overheard.
The e-mail she happened to see. The evasions and denials from her dad and from Lanna.
“Lanna knew Brileen?”
“Oh, yes, Brileen befriended Lanna,” her mother said. “To get to your father, I expect. She didn’t tell you that, I gather. I’m not surprised. And now she’s latched on to you. I wonder how she’ll feel when she discovers your father is—”
Mom put both hands to her chest, as if the memory had punched her. Dropped her head. Tenley saw her shoulders rise, then fall. This was scary.
“Mom?” What if her mom died, too, had a heart attack or something from stress and all that? She felt like a little kid again, all fear, not knowing what to do with her feet. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, honey.” Her mother lifted her head, was trying to smile. Mom kept calling her honey, like when she was little. Somehow that made Tenley even sadder. Tenley closed her eyes, covered them with her hands, wishing she could disappear behind that darkness and never face anything again.
Brileen was, like, Lanna’s age, right? Okay, a little older. No way would her father ever be involved in that. And Brileen never indicated, not in any way, that she’d known Lanna. Or Dad. So what was that whole conversation at the Purple? Tenley tried to replay it in her mind, through the filter of what she now knew was true. Or what her mother thought was true. Tenley opened her eyes, remembering. What had Brileen said to her? About what happened to Lanna?
Tenley opened her mouth, then stopped as the glass door opened. A couple of middle-aged women, old-lady pants, hideous shoes, and carrying extra-large Dunkin’ iced coffees, hurried into the lobby.
“They can’t yell at us about being late if the cops wouldn’t let us leave,” one complained. She slurped on her straw, then rattled the ice in her plastic glass. Displayed her City Hall ID to the security guy.
“Exactly.” The other showed her laminated card, then they both fussed with their wallets, putting them away. “We’re supposed to help it if there’s some maniac on the loose?”
Her mom stood, brushed her skirt. “Excuse me, I’m Catherine Siskel? Mayor’s office?”
The two women looked at her, up and down. Like she was going to get them in trouble.
“You said ‘on the loose’?” Mom asked. “Police told us—”
One of the women gestured with her sweating plastic cup, dismissive. “Not a maniac, really, I guess. Or on the loose, I guess. It’s all over now, anyway. The cops let us all leave Dunkin’. Now we’re late for work.”
“I’m sure your boss will understand.” Mom was using her business voice. “Glad you’re okay.”
“Mom?” Now her mom was madly checking her cell phone. Tenley stood, peering out the glass door again. The black car—was it there? She tried to picture where it had parked, but with the trees and cars, the whole perspective was different from down here. She pushed open the door, leaning out. The sun’s sudden glare blinded her for a second. She shielded her eyes with one hand, propping the door open with her hip. Nope. Couldn’t see.
Tenley had about two seconds to decide what to do. Was Brileen still out there? Tenley stepped back inside and took out her own cell phone, searching for the number she’d entered. Was it only yesterday? And there it was.
“Mom?” Tenley knew this was it. She felt like she was risking, maybe, her relationship with her mom. She was about to admit where she’d been last night and what she knew. Thing was, if she told, she’d be in trouble. If Tenley kept her secret, her mom wouldn’t be mad at her. If she kept quiet, would it all go away?
She pressed her lips together, deciding. Yeah. Maybe it would all go away.
The phone on the guard’s desk rang, a clanging buzz. The glass door opened again, so fast Tenley had to jump back to avoid getting slammed by it. People were returning to City Hall again, all briefcases and chatter.
Tenley backed into the corner, feeling the cool marble walls bracketing her shoulders. Was there any way to avoid all this, all the pressure and the fear and the secrets?
Her mom was off the phone. Now or never.
“Tenner?” Her mom took a step closer, reaching out a hand. “What are you doing, honey?”
Her mother was so sad, her face all drawn and tired. She believed so deeply that Dad had betrayed her with Brileen. But gosh, didn’t Tenley know enough, from how Brileen treated the guys at the Purple Martin, and how she treated her “roommate” Valerie, didn’t Tenley know enough to be sure all that business about her father was—unlikely?
Maybe, finally, finally, finally, she could do something to ease her mother’s mind.
“Mom?” she said, “I think you’re wrong about Brileen.”
“Wrong?” Her mother’s eyebrows lifted.
“Yeah.” Tenley was sure of this now. It was good and right. Lanna would be proud. Her dad, too. She held up her cell phone. “And I’m going to call her. So you two can talk. Face-to-face.”
51
Was there anything she could have done? Should have done? Jane ducked behind the palms again, trying to look invisible, as a swarm of blue-uniformed police banged through the hotel’s front doors. Jane thought about that stop for gas and the turkey sandwich. How long it took. Thought about the Twizzlers for Gracie, now burning a hole in her tote bag. Thought about Robyn, who was not, Melissa reported, at home. Robyn, who could easily have gotten to the hotel before Jane did.
The arriving cops ran to Jake, and within seconds, in a clatter of footsteps and bristling radios, they’d trooped into the hotel, reassuring the still-nervous tourists and employees. A line of lobby refugees, some smiling, a few in tears, little kids gawking and clutching their parents’ hands, were escorted out to North Street, cops ahead and behind, shepherding. Lewis was not among them.
Through the expanse of the hotel’s front windows, Jane saw three news vans, lined up with their numbered logos on the side and precariously balanced satellite-dish uplinks on top. Her colleagues—former colleagues—would be clamoring for info. And here she was, inside. Exclusive. With exclusive video. Pretty soon they’d find out she was in here. Should she call Marsh Tyson?
Was she a reporter? Or a family member? How did she balance the two?
Now two cops were pointing her out to Jake, frowning. She smiled, nothing to see here.
“She’s fine,” Jake told them, waving away their question. “Press.”
Which she was and wasn’t, but at least the cops ignored her as they listened to Jake’s terse orders. Jane stood, no longer needing invisibility. She wasn’t the problem. Gracie was. Where was Gracie?
When Jane had approached her, the poor girl, obviously terrified, had called out, “Daddy!” That meant Lewis was here, and she wasn’t running away from him. So if Gracie hadn’t been waiting for Jane—which she clearly had not been—why had she been in the lobby?
Now four black-uniformed EMTs hustled through the door, then careened around the turn to the elevators, heads down, pushing a clanking metal stretcher. The concierge unfolded himself from beneath his desk and trotted to Jake, his gold-buttoned blazer rumpled and dust streaked, his hair askew.
“What can I do?” He raked his hand through his hair, making it worse, and surveyed his almost deserted lobby. The clanging fire alarm stopped. “You sure upstairs is safe? I can let the guests know? We’d broadcast a message to the guest room floors saying—”
“It’s safe,” Jake said. “But we’re looking for a missing little girl. How many exits in the building?”
“Ah, four,” the concierge said. He eyed Jane, concerned. “Hey. This woman’s the one who—”
Uh-oh. He’d seen what happened with Gracie. And the guards.
“She’s fine,” Jake said, cutting him off. “Exits?”
Jake, still glued to his now-constantly sputtering radio, assigned a lobby cop to each exit as the concierge explained. The main entrance went to North Street, the back door down a narrow alley past Dunkin’ and a hair salon. The kitchen and side doors opened to the same alley, and all exit routes eventually led t
o North Street.
“But unless she went out the front,” the concierge said, “we’d know.”
“How?” Jake said.
“How?” Jane said.
The concierge glared at her, then spoke to Jake. “The back and side doors have special alarms. Not like the fire doors. I’d recognize them. Didn’t hear them.”
“Good,” Jake said. “Thanks. You got an office? Stay there. Got it? Your employees, too. Out of the lobby. Out of the way. You can tell your guests the threat is now over, sir. But please ask them to stay in their rooms for now.”
“Gracie didn’t go out the front,” Jane said as the concierge left. “I’d have seen that.”
She had to be here somewhere. Hidden in the hotel.
Gracie had dashed toward the elevators, away from the entrance, Jane remembered. A second later, Jane was corralled by Beefy and friend. Had Gracie gotten on the elevator? Had she gone upstairs?
Gracie. Robyn. Lewis. Shooter. Domestic.
Jane could picture, all too well, one chilling possibility of how those words all came together.
What if, when Robyn arrived, maybe demanding Gracie back, Lewis had sent the girl to the lobby so she wouldn’t be involved? But then, terrified by Jane, she’d called out for Daddy and run back to the safety of her stepfather. Who at that very moment was shooting her mother, who’d come here only to protect her daughter.
What if Lewis had lured Robyn to the hotel? Told her not to tell Jane? Would anyone actually do such a thing?
What if Gracie had seen her stepfather shoot her mother?
“Jake,” she said. She felt tears well with the rightness of her idea.
“Hang on, Jane,” he said. He clicked his radio. “D? What’s your status? You got ID on the victim? The shooter?”
“Victim alive, awaiting transport,” D’s voice came back. “Shooter in custody, cuffed, in the supply room. Headed there now.”
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