She squared her shoulders, attempting to focus on the case. “We need to let everyone know about the advice column. I know. I understand, though I don’t like it.” A glance at Jack told her he wasn’t thinking about the case. His eyes were on her lips. His hands were fisted at his sides, as if he were forcing himself not to reach for her. “More grist for the gossip mill,” she said.
“Hannah—”
“No.” She knew he wanted her to tell him she loved him, too. She did, but…didn’t want to. “I need to process what you said. I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay.” He took her hand and squeezed. “I didn’t tell you to force your hand. I just thought you deserved to know.” He ran the tip of his finger down her cheek and then cupped her chin, stepping closer. “We have a lot to talk about, but I know I can’t be your priority right now. Hell, I’m not even my top priority now. It’s you and Ellen. It’s catching this killer. But don’t for a second believe this conversation is over.” He dropped a kiss on her lips, then met her gaze, searching for answers that she couldn’t give.
Vivian poked her head into the room. Hannah and Jack separated, but Jack held up a finger, silently asking for a minute more. The tech nodded, then disappeared into the hall.
“Hannah, the perp is someone close to you.”
“I know. I understand that we can’t trust anyone.” She didn’t want it to be true, but she would be a fool to discount the mounting evidence.
“Pepperidge needs to be told,” Jack said. “We have to trust him, and I can vouch for Gilroy and Deming.”
“We’ll need to interview the tenants at the brownstone again, but this time to ask if anyone’s been asking about me.” Hannah groaned. “They’re going to love this.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Someone who fits our profile. Who knows you well.”
“You’re thinking of Natalie.” Hannah shook her head. “I trust her with my life. No…with Ellen, Jack. She’d never hurt me. And anyway, she just arrived in Boston, and I’m the one who brought her here.” Jack folded his arms over his chest.
“Our perp knows things about you no one else does,” Jack said. Things she’d only told Jack, Mrs. Branaghan and Natalie. “That you love me.” He smiled, but she could tell he was teasing.
Hannah averted her gaze. “That I loved you.”
Jack grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it, making her heart swell with emotion. “Well, we can agree I’m not the killer. So that only leaves Natalie and Mrs. Branaghan. This case might as well be solved.”
She arched a brow, knowing he was still teasing her. “You say you were on assignment this last year, but I don’t know that. Can you support your alibi?”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “I was undercover. Even the FBI won’t admit where I was.”
“You have connections in the bureau that directed you to my whereabouts. You’re smart enough and strong enough to commit the murders and have information about me no one else does. The same can’t be said for Natalie or Mrs. Branaghan.”
“Not funny.”
“Just saying.” Hannah shrugged. “None of this is relevant, anyway, because I already know our perp isn’t one of you three.” She walked to the door, opening it and flagging the team back into the room. “Our killer’s motive seems to be putting the victims out of their misery.” She met Jack’s gaze. “Mercy killing, so definitely not you.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“In all the years I’ve known you,” Hannah said, “you’ve never once shown me mercy.”
Chapter 15
“Someone tipped off the media,” Vivian said, frowning at her cell phone’s screen as she stormed into the incident room. Before the door could swing closed behind her, Gilroy followed, his lips pressed tightly together, looking pissed.
“Local news. Open WCVB’s website app, Benton,” Gilroy said, striding toward his desk. Deming pushed through the door just behind him, her heels clicking on the tile.
Jack pulled out his phone, and sure enough, live footage of New Sudbury precinct’s building, the Channel 5 reporter, and other venue’s news crews were being broadcast from the sidewalk outside. All the incident room’s desk phones began to ring, and everyone looked at Jack.
Deming stopped walking when she reached her desk, lips pursed, staring at her ringing desk phone. “What are the odds it’s my poetry expert returning my call?”
“I dreamt of poetry last night,” Jack said. Stanza after stanza of “Broken Love” had played in his head with Hannah cast as victim, always killed by the numbers. The phones continued to ring.
“What poetry expert will consult with the team if they know a serial killer might target them?” Deming said.
“More bad news,” Gilroy said, glaring at his computer screen. “Forensics just sent me their findings on the footprints at the brownstone. They match tenants who are not physically agile enough to drop a woman into a marina or a full-grown man into a granite-lidded grave, or stuff a man into a freezer. All casts of footprints are accounted for. We got nothing.”
“And we’re running out of time,” Hannah said, and then covered her mouth with her fingertips.
“Put these phones on mute,” Jack said, reaching for his own. When the room was silent again, he caught Vivian waving at him. He nodded, and hoped she had good news.
“Lieutenant Pepperidge gave me access to the city’s security software.” Vivian moved her mouse across its pad, frowning at her computer screen. “I was able to access online all the cameras we use in Boston.” She glanced at the door, as if fearing her next words might be overheard. “Unfortunately, video logs from those cameras were offline during the murders. Whether by vandalism, or design, I don’t know. I took the initiative to send uniformed officers to check them out.” She pointed to her computer’s screen. “They’ve just gotten back to me. Nothing. No noticeable vandalism. They’re not experts, of course, but I’d need authorization to take down the hardware and poke around inside, see what I can see.”
“You have it,” Jack said. “Talk to Charlie. I want a forensic tech doing the work.”
“Tech. You can’t rely on tech,” Deming said, her lips thinned with irritation. “Vivian, what about software glitches?”
“I’ve requested a thorough malware scan done. I’m waiting to hear back from the department, and the security firm that sold us this software. I want to know if something like this has happened before.” She shrugged.
Ferguson pushed through the incident door and slammed it behind him as he hurried to his desk. “I called the victim’s families again. All of them.” He sat, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. After a few blinks, he focused on Jack. “No new information. They’re as frustrated as we are, and they’re angry that we haven’t caught this guy yet.”
“So am I,” Jack said, glancing at Hannah. She was leaning against her desk, her expression giving nothing away.
“Do you guys know we have a ton of news crews outside?” Ferguson said.
“It’s come to our attention,” Jack said, grimacing.
“Keep up, Ferguson.” Deming turned to Jack, holding up her phone. “I just received an email. FBI forensic accountants say the owners of the Teapot are still off the grid. That feels ominous.” She stepped to the coffee machine, frowning as she poured herself a cup.
It was raining bad news, and Jack was sick of it. “We have a leak, and that leak is helping our killer whether they know it or not. Gilroy, I want you taking lead on finding who’s behind it.” His team dropped their eyes to the floor, their expressions grim. An internal leak meant one of the “good guys” had gone bad, and until they found them, they knew no one could be trusted. It wasn’t a comfortable place for people whose survival relied on their support team.
“Will do,” Gilroy said, turning back to his computer.
“We now have to worry about copycats.” Jack didn’t want to ven
t. Punching a wall never solved anything, but he was tempted. “The horse is out of the barn, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do better about keeping information in-house. No talking where someone might overhear.” Ferguson stewed at his desk. Deming calmly assessed Jack, and Vivian nodded, futzing with items on her desktop.
“The reporters are calling the perp ‘Mercy Killer.’” Gilroy arched a brow, reading off his phone even as his fingers were poised on his computer’s keyboard. “The Boston Globe updated its site, and it’s now breaking news. Our leak seems to know everything.”
Hannah undid her clip and neatened her hair before reclipping it. “Gilroy? What’s happening on the tip line?”
“I have uniformed police following up anything that looks credible. We’ll be flooded now,” Gilroy said, glancing at Jack. “What do you want to do?”
Jack grimaced. “Farm out the responsibility. If they find anything, have them contact you, but the leak is top priority, and…” He focused on Hannah. “Hannah has a lead.”
Gilroy and the other team members turned to Hannah, hope coloring their gazes. Hannah shook her head, surprising Jack, and prompting him to scowl and take a step toward her.
“Vivian,” Hannah said, “we need copies of the Boston Globe’s advice column. March’s issues. Maybe April, too.” Jack waited for her to continue with specifics, but she didn’t, so he gave her another expectant look, making it clear he wanted her to say more. Hannah shook her head again.
Vivian seemed shocked. “March? Any reason why?”
“Please, just do it,” Hannah said. When Jack opened his mouth, intent on explaining, Hannah glowered at him. “Don’t prejudice her, Jack. Let’s see what she finds.” Vivian lifted her phone’s receiver, watching the byplay between him and Hannah.
Jack knew Hannah’s letter might have nothing to do with the case, but it also might be relevant, so for the next three hours—team members coming and going, doing their best to fulfill their assignments—he and Hannah reviewed case files and transcripts of interviews, and studied the poem, while they waited for the Boston Globe to gather and then transmit the requested advice column letters. By the time the tech had them printed out, Jack could see Hannah was wound tighter than a tick. They all watch Vivian as she scanned a few, her expression growing more alarmed by the moment.
“How did you know?” Vivian’s cheeks had flushed and her hands shook.
Hannah squeezed her pencil so tightly it broke in her hand.
“What?” Ferguson said.
“What did you find, Vivian?” Deming approached the tech’s desk, peering over her shoulder.
“Ten advice column letters and their responses. A week’s worth. Last week of March.” Vivian kept her gaze on Hannah’s face, and was clearly upset. “Hannah found the connection between our victims.” Jack’s heart beat a little faster. Everyone leaned forward in their chairs, waiting for the tech to continue.
Deming read over Vivian’s shoulder, and soon pointed to the top letter. “This could be Buntle’s letter.”
Vivian startled, as if she only now noticed she’d been staring at Hannah. Then she focused on the page Deming now touched. “Yes,” Vivian lifted another page, “and this could be Zelezny’s.” She flipped through more. “Some are signed.” She held up a page. “Look. Stone’s letter.”
Gilroy approached Vivian’s desk. “Print us all copies, please.”
Vivian nodded quickly, as if embarrassed she hadn’t thought of that herself. Soon, the printer began spitting out the letters as Hannah slumped in her chair. Jack didn’t like how she’d grown pale, and he feared she might faint. Stepping to her side, he handed her a water bottle from his desk’s supply, and shielded her from the other team member’s view.
Her fears had come true. If, as Hannah insisted, only someone who knew intimate details of her life could tie her to the letter, that’s exactly what had happened. The team had to look more closely at the people in her inner circle. That meant all the cops she’d come to see as her friends here at the precinct. Anyone who could connect her to the letter she wrote to the advice column in the Boston Globe. Even Natalie.
Jack texted just that to Gilroy, minus any mention of Ellen. When he read Jack’s text, he frowned, and then looked up, his unspoken questions written on his face, but after a nod, Gilroy stepped away from his desk and made a call. He was a consummate profession, and Jack knew he’d tie up this loose end, leaving Jack to follow this lead.
Late March. Ellen was born April 12. March was when Hannah had languished in the hospital, afraid of losing their baby, and now her letter was evidence. Admissible in court. It wasn’t just the team who’d be reading this intensely personal letter. Anyone could, and it could be published again, but this time with her name attached to it.
No wonder she was upset. The moment she laid claim to one of these letters…
For the first time since discovering its existence, Jack was more worried than curious about its content.
“Hannah.” Vivian leaned to the side, trying to see past Jack, but he refused to move. “I don’t see any letter that mentions Special Agent Benton.” Gilroy had his back to the room, his phone to his ear, but even he glanced over his shoulder to hear Hannah’s response.
“Hannah?” Deming stepped to the side until she could see Hannah’s face, waving Hannah over to Vivian’s desk. “Is one of these letters yours?” When Hannah didn’t move, the profiler gathered letters and silently read as she walked across the room to Hannah. “Oh, my, this is sad.” She stopped walking when she reached Jack, then handed a packet of letters to Hannah. Jack knew Deming wasn’t trying to be cruel, but the effect was cruel nonetheless. Hannah seemed moments from a meltdown, but Jack couldn’t stop this, nor would he, given the chance. Identifying her letter might be the difference between someone else dying or not.
Jack leaned, whispering for Hannah’s ears only. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”
“Promise, huh?” Hannah’s voice cracked, and then failed. Clearing her throat, she sipped from the water bottle, and then dredged up a fake smile. “Well, if you promise.” She lifted her chin, the image of defiance. Jack knew that her dismissive tone and words couldn’t have been more carefully chosen to shut him out, or to remind him she wouldn’t be in this situation if he hadn’t left last year.
She was right, but this moment wasn’t about the past. If he had his way, they’d have a lifetime to run an autopsy on what happened between them, but now wasn’t that time. Whether she knew it or not, whether she welcomed it or not, he was here for her and here he’d stay.
But it was time for her to tell the truth.
Chapter 16
Hannah took the offered pages from Deming without a word. The top one was Stone’s letter. Signed. The young woman had a distinctive, easily recognizable voice; her word choices romantic, sad, yet hopeful. The weight of Jack’s gaze reminded Hannah her reactions were being logged, judged, and filed away in his highly analytical brain. He was good at his job, one of the best, and they needed him to catch this perp, but knowing her reactions were being entered into evidence made her reluctant to show any.
“The Stone letter suggests her death wasn’t the outlier we’d supposed,” Hannah said. “She was a planned kill.”
Deming shook her head. “But she wasn’t found on the Freedom Trail. She must be an outlier. Our planner messed up, or my profile is wrong.”
“Fancy that,” Ferguson mumbled. Deming glared at him, but then dismissed him with a turn of her head.
Hannah set Stone’s letter facedown on her desk and moved to the next one. Zelezny’s. Filled with tales of his late wife, his feelings of loss, talk of his job, the retired plumber revealed incapacitating loneliness and his struggles with despair. When Hannah finished reading the epistle, she felt overwhelming empathy for the man. He’d been grief-stricken. Like she’d been.
The next letter was
Gary Buntle’s. A veteran, he wrote about his brush with death in the Army, and his paralysis. When his wife died soon after in a car accident, he was pushed to the brink of suicide. Buntle wanted to know if his grief would lessen with time. This was a common thread to all the letters, so far. When would their suffering end? Hannah already knew her letter was no different.
“Vivian,” Hannah said, hating the wobble in her voice. “We need a list of the other people who wrote in to the Globe’s advice column. It’s where he’s picking his victims. Top priority must be preventing his next murder. Let’s try to do this without tipping off the killer.” Jack rested his hand on her shoulder.
“How many issues of the Globe are we talking about?” Vivian said.
“Seventeen stanzas?” Deming lifted her brows. “I say as many as we can. At least, from March until today.”
“Do it, Vivian. Gilroy?” Jack waited until the special agent caught his eye. “We good?” Gilroy glanced at Hannah for a moment, and then settled his gaze on Jack, nodding. She had no idea what they were talking about, but she was so upset, she didn’t have the mental space to inquire. She was too busy trying to project calm, like she was coping, though she wasn’t.
“I’m on it,” Gilroy said to Jack. “Waiting for a call.”
Jack grimaced, nodding. “Then coordinate with Ferguson while you wait. Arrange officers to escort the potential vics to the precinct. I want to question them, and I want this kept quiet, so pick the officers carefully. Ferguson should be able to help with that, too.”
Vivian was biting her lip, deep in thought.
Hannah lifted a page. “This letter says the writer is a salesman. Twoomey’s.”
Deming glanced at Twoomey’s letter, but quickly turned back to the one in her hand. She cringed. “Oh, my heaven,” Deming said. The longer the profiler read, the more Hannah knew it had to be her letter.
Jack was watching her, his show of sympathy so strong it hit her like a wave, but instead of making her feel better, it made her feel weak, and had her throat closing. She couldn’t handle that right now, so she did her best to pretend this was happening to someone else.
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