“Ever seen her before? Do you know who she is?”
“Why?”
“Just—do you? Know her?”
Trevor shaded his eyes with both hands. Shrugged. “Ah, not as far as—”
“I’ll call you about the Mrs. Lassiter thing,” Jane said. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She waved over her shoulder. “Thanks so much, Trevor. Talk soon. Gotta go.”
Jane raced down the three steps, slinging herself around the corner by holding on to the railing, slammed open the stage door, and headed into the daylight and onto the Esplanade grass. Then skidded to a stop. Suddenly she wasn’t four feet higher than the crowd. Suddenly the swirl of people who’d been individuals from her lofty stage-high vantage point became an impassable mass of shoulders and faces and hats and signs and blue uniforms and impenetrable motion.
She stood on tiptoe in desperation. Ridiculous. She couldn’t even see tops of heads. She tried again. Nothing. She looked longingly at the stage behind her—and the locked door with the unknown passcode. Her shoulders sagged.
Come on, she said to herself. You can find her.
In a flash, she hopped onto the wooden riser of the press platform, now empty of everything but left-behind tripods and canvas equipment bags. She shaded her eyes, scanning for the pack of TV cameras certain to be following Lassiter. They were already way down the green, past the gingerbread-decorated ice cream stand, almost to the river.
Leaping off the riser, Jane dodged through the edges of the crowd, turning and sidestepping like a wide receiver headed for the goal line. “Come on, Red Coat,” she muttered. “Be there. Be there. Be there.”
10
Gotta love it. Less than a mile from Charlestown, but everything is different. Here on Beacon Hill, cobblestones and gas lamps, home of money and privilege and history, people actually answered their doors. Opened them. Offered Jake coffee. Like this one, the eleventh this morning, they wanted to chat. Wanted to help the police find the Bridge Killer.
Damn. There was no Bridge Killer.
“We don’t think the killings are connected, Mrs. Connaughton,” Jake said, putting his glass of ice water carefully on the dark leather coaster she’d scooted in front of him. Ten A.M. Friday, he’d already had enough coffee. Growing up just a few blocks away, he’d seen a million of these Beacon Hill brownstones: seasonally decorated living rooms, too-long curtains pooled on hardwood floors, fresh flowers.
“No matter what the Register says this morning, ma’am”—he smiled conspiratorially—“there’s no ‘Bridge Killer.’ I’d stake my job on it. They’re trying to scare you into buying papers.”
“Well, they’re succeeding.” The woman, navy trousers, white shirt, heavy necklace, reading glasses on a gold chain, took a sip of whatever filled her teacup. She tapped the newspaper folded on a mahogany side table. “You must admit, it appears to be more than a coincidence, two poor girls killed, both by bridges, both left in the water. Honestly, when was the last time—?” She tilted her head, eyeing Jake. “You really don’t know who they are? Is it true, they weren’t wearing shoes?”
Jake shifted on the leather couch, unbuttoning his tweed sport coat, pulling another sketch from his inside pocket.
“Ma’am? That’s why we’re asking for your help.” He placed one of the colored-pencil sketches, the head shot, facing her on the coffee table. Brown hair, shorter than the Charlestown girl. He called this one the Longfellow girl, since her body was found near the Longfellow Bridge. She was listed on the squad’s case board as “Victim One.” Didn’t seem right, though, to make her just a number.
“Do you recognize her? Brown hair. Dr. Archambault, the medical examiner, says it was professionally colored. ‘Walnut brown number 16,’ apparently, if that means anything to you?”
The woman stared at the drawing. “Have you checked beauty salons?”
Everybody’s an expert. “We’re in the process, ma’am. But meanwhile. Anyone you know have a daughter, supposed to be at college? Maybe she was expected home, never made it?”
The woman was shaking her head. Using one tentative finger, she pulled the drawing toward her, then picked it up, adjusting her reading glasses. “I’m so sorry.” Almost as if she were talking to the drawing. “It’s very sad, isn’t it?”
She handed the sketch back to him. Interview over. Jake turned toward the front door, and she followed his lead.
The woman touched his sleeve as he stepped across her threshold. “Do you think the Bridge Killer will do it again?” she asked. “Are we in danger? Should we all stay home?”
* * *
“Jane Ryland! How fantastic to see you. Do come in! So glad you could make it this early in the day! You’re calling me Ellie, okay? And you’re Jane.”
Eleanor Gable, dripping exclamation marks, greeted her as if they were long-lost sorority sisters. And what was that accent all about? Locust Valley meets London. Far from the Massachusetts North Shore.
“Thank you, Ellie.” Jane edged through the door into the spacious, window-lined office in Boston’s West End. Gable’s elaborate, expensively framed campaign posters displayed on cream-colored walls looked like Norman Rockwells. Dinner tables. Kids with cops. Ice cream parlors. American flags. Then, still in Rockwell style: Wind farms. Recycling centers. Skateboards and bicycles.
“Nice to see you, too,” Jane added. “I—”
“Sit, sit.” Ellie, interrupting, waved her to a puffily upholstered sofa, caramel colored and elegantly feminine, angled in front of an antique-looking desk. Ellie took the dark wooden desk chair, its cushion covered in crimson silk. “Coffee? Can you believe how well this election is going? We’re so excited about what a difference we can make.”
To the left Jane saw an American flag, ceiling high, set in a brass post. Next to it, the ocean blue and white flag of Massachusetts. On a narrow wooden table, an array of photos. Gable with at least two presidents. A general. Gable arm in arm with a T-shirted little boy. A beach scene, a rainbow of umbrellas on a stretch of white sand. Nantucket?
“Big, big changes,” Gable continued. The soft collar of her tangerine bouclé jacket—Chanel, no question—barely touched the ends of her ash blond pageboy. “That’s what the voters are looking for. Don’t you think?”
Jane flipped open her notebook. She hoped Alex was happy. She sure wasn’t. Eleanor Gable’s office was the last place she wanted to be. After yesterday’s sighting, her mind was still on red-coat woman. At least she’d seen her. But the woman had disappeared. Vanished. Jane had lost her.
So, now, she should be scoping out Lassiter headquarters, showing Archive Gus’s photo, asking if anyone recognized Red Coat.
Jane sneaked a look at her watch. She had to get out of here.
“Interesting, Ellie. No coffee, thank you. My editor at the Register hopes you can give me an in-depth interview. Later.” Jane looked around the room. “Maybe at your home on Beacon Hill? Would that be possible?”
* * *
Holly held up the padded brown manila envelope, making sure the address label was aligned exactly between the top and the bottom. Neatness counts. Perfect. She laid it on her dark green blotter, giving it an appreciative pat.
She slid the rest of the padded envelopes into the upper right-hand drawer of her desk, carefully keeping the shrink wrap intact as much as she could. Maybe she should put some clear tape on it? No time.
The left-hand drawer was full of hanging green file folders, each one tabbed, labeled, and dated. She slid them forward, one by one, not giving in to the temptation to look at each and every photo again. When she reached the date she needed, she withdrew an eight by ten, put it into the padded envelope. Her thin white cotton gloves made picking up the glossy paper a little difficult, but she’d never thought it would be easy. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy. And it was going to be so worth it.
She paused, one hand on a green file folder, daring, allowing herself to imagine what it would be like. Knowing what it would be like.
Oh, he would say. You did this for me? You’ve loved me all along, and I never knew it? And now you were ready to sacrifice.… She closed her eyes to keep the vision from escaping.
He’d reach out and touch her face, using one finger to trace her cheekbone, move her curls aside, looking at her with those eyes. Ah, my beautiful Hollister, he’d say—he always called her that, Hollister—how could I have let you leave? And how did you know what I needed to be truly happy? My deepest desire? And now, she could actually hear his voice. You’re here, you’ve solved my problem, you’re my deepest—
The apple timer dinged.
Holly blushed, feeling the warmth as she touched her own fingers to her face. Oh, no. No. Now she’d daydreamed her time away. She’d have to make up for it, somehow.
She selected the final photos, quickly, perfectly, with the one on top the newest.
From yesterday. That nice man had offered to use her camera to take the photo she’d been struggling to get on her own. So it really looked just right; they looked so happy together. It must have been obvious—she could see the flashes from other cameras, and even those bright television lights, as she smiled her perfect smile.
She felt her mouth practicing it, even now. Oh, yes. It was just right. He could not fail to love her. And very, very soon.
Now she had to make two final decisions. Which mailbox. And when.
11
“It’s green, idiot.” Jane glared at the driver of the Jeep, who’d ridiculously honked at her as she trotted across the striped pedestrian walkway at the corner of Merrimack and Causeway.
“No, not you, Alex. Some driver. Never mind. Anyway, we need to talk. I saw the red-coat girl yesterday.” She confirmed she had the walk light, still talking into her cell phone.
“I’m on the way to the paper now. Almost to the T station. Yes, I went to see Gable. She said yes.”
Jane put her head down, listening with half an ear to Alex’s instructions. Causeway Street was a wind tunnel, the chill blasting across the river. The white cables of the new bridge, spiking up like the rigging of some huge sailing ship, glared in the noontime sun. Poor Jake, she thought. He sees that bridge, he thinks about murder, not colonial schooners. The subway station was a block or two away, just past the—
“Hey, Alex? Listen, I’m right by Lassiter headquarters. I connected with a great possible source yesterday, a guy in the campaign, who says he can maybe hook me up with Moira. Okay if I stop by there first? See if he’s there? Great. See ya.”
She pushed through the revolving front doors of Lassiter headquarters into the spotlit lobby of a political photo gallery. Lassiter with a president. Arm in arm with at least three senators. Lassiter, hand on a bible, sworn in as Governor of Massachusetts. Moira beside him, elegant even with her Hillary headband and ’90s shoulder pads. A FedEx guy in shorts and a backward baseball cap wheeled an overloaded cart of packages behind her, retrieving a few that slipped over the edges, and hurried through as the elevator doors were closing.
Place is a zoo. Blaring Sousa music. Messages squawking intermittently over a PA system. Two metal tables covered in patriotic bunting, heaped with multicolored campaign brochures. TIME TO TRUST, one said. ENERGY FOR ENERGY. Jane stashed a few into her tote bag. She’d post them on her “half” of the bulletin board, if Tuck’s morbid photos didn’t take up all the room.
Now to find Trevor. But the reception desk was empty. A green notebook, obviously a sign-in sheet, lay open in plain view. A can of Diet Coke, lipstick-ringed straw inserted, sat abandoned next to an elaborate telephone console. Lights flashed as phones rang, unanswered. Someone sure wasn’t doing their job. No wonder the campaign was in disarray.
Jane reached into her tote bag for her phone to call Trevor. But it was already buzzing with a text.
“Call me, roomie,” it said. Roomie? Tuck? What does he want, another shelf? Ah, sure she would call. Later. She found the white business card Trevor had given her and dialed him instead.
* * *
“There’s no Bridge Killer, Supe. I’m telling you, there isn’t.” Jake placed a manila file folder of his printed-out canvass notes onto his boss’s desk, then plopped into the ratty padded seat of the chair beside it. Boston Police HQ was new on the outside, limestone and double-tall glass, but they’d moved in all the old furniture from downtown. Even the superintendent’s office, prime territory, looked furnished from law enforcement yard sales.
“There’s however many bridges in Boston, and the Charles River runs from Beacon Hill out to Newton,” Jake continued. “The harbor. Fort Point Channel. Water and bridges, hard to have a murder here that’s not near one or the other. Or both. But they’re not connected. You know? Sir?”
Superintendent Francis Rivera had opened the file, looked at it briefly, tossed it back at Jake. “So what I’m hearing is, you’re nowhere,” Rivera said. “And your partner DeLuca is nowhere. Correct, Detective?”
Jake started to answer.
“I’m not interested in files of nothing, Brogan. You’re a murder cop, right? You’re supposed to be about answers. That’s why I called you in here. Answers.”
“Yes, sir.” Jake knew Rivera’s bad-cop mode was SOP. The supe was a good guy, up from the ranks, born in Roxbury, football, debate team, West Point, Desert Storm, Boston’s second black superintendent. Knew his stuff. “Let me run this by you. Remember the ME findings. Doctor A says the Longfellow victim was well taken care of. Good teeth. No tats. No piercings. Professionally colored hair. Manicure. No bruises, nothing. No defensive wounds. Nothing. I’d put her—college kid. Maybe older. Sir.”
“So? And that means?” The supe laced his fingers behind his head, waiting.
“The Charlestown, not so much,” Jake said. “Bruises. Big-time. That ankle tattoo. Another on her thigh. She’s older. Like, thirty-something. Missing some back teeth. And Dr. A says—” He paused, scanning through his BlackBerry notes.
“You’re killing me with that thing,” Rivera said. He pretend-scratched his sleek-shaved head, dramatically dubious. “You got something against paper?”
“Easier for me, Supe,” Jake said. “Anyway—”
“You think hookers?”
“I suppose. Seems kind of—” Jake made a skeptical face, shrugging. “—made-for-TV movie, you know? But like I was saying—” He clicked his BlackBerry, scrolling through his notes. “—ninety-three homicides last year in Boston. Eighty-one so far this year. It’s a big city. People get killed. Sometimes two in a row. It makes sense there’d be two in a week and a half. Mathematically, there’d have to be.”
“All closed,” Rivera said, raising one finger. He tilted back in the worn leather of his big chair, stared at the ceiling. “By murder cops who did their jobs. Bad guys put away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Except for these two. IDs unknown. And you’re saying there’s no connection.”
“Yes, sir. No, sir.”
“Tattoo parlors? Beauty salons? Colleges?” Rivera was looking at Jake again. “Anybody missing a student? A client?”
“Nothing yet. We’re on it, though. DeLuca’s out there now.”
The superintendent reached into his wastebasket, picked out a folded copy of the Register, the same issue Jake had seen this morning on so many Beacon Hill coffee tables. With a quick sidearm throw, Rivera tossed it across his desk.
Jake, startled, caught it with both hands.
“What the hell is this, Brogan? Who’s talking? Look at that headline. ‘Police Deny Bridge Killer’? The more we deny something, the truer it seems.”
“Hold on, Supe.” Jake put the newspaper back on his boss’s desk. Was this why he’d been called in? “That’s not me. That’s your guy, Laney Driscoll, in the press office. I told you, that Tuck kid was lurking at the Charlestown location. Trying to take photos. A bottom feeder. But none of what’s in the paper is coming from me.”
“What if it turns out there is a Bridge Killer?” Rivera, on his feet now, all six-five,
was talking right over him. “Then what do you think ‘my’ Officer Driscoll is supposed to say?”
“But—”
“But, hell. You have no idea. We have two dead girls. No identifications. No suspects. The damn newspaper is scaring the shit out of people, saying we’re covering up a serial killer. What’s more, we got nothing proving there isn’t one. And you, Detective Brogan, are giving me that nothing. Am I wrong?”
A quick knock, then the office door opened. Behind it, a lanky brunette Jake didn’t recognize, wearing the orange webbed shoulder strap of a police cadet. “Superintendent Rivera? Sir? Cadet—”
“What is it, Kurtz? Detective Jake Brogan, this is Cadet Jan Kurtz. From intake.”
“Sir,” Kurtz said again. “They told me Detective Brogan was here. There’s another body, sir.”
Jake looked at his boss. Rivera was back in his chair, rubbing both hands across his wide forehead. Jake had a dozen questions he needed to ask. He was almost afraid to.
Instead, Rivera fired, “Bridge? Water? Woman?” His voice sounded dark with certainty.
“North Street, yes, sir.”
Jake stood, his mind racing. The newspaper headlines taunted him.
“ID?” Jake had to ask, though he knew the answer. He knew, like the others, there would be no identification. And when Cadet Kurtz said no, as she certainly would, he’d be facing an impossible possibility. That maybe there was a serial killer seeking out single women, or students, or hookers, or whoever they damn were, stealing their purses and wallets and anything that had their names, and murdering them. And Jake would be screwed.
“Yes,” Kurtz said. “We have ID.”
12
Lucky she checked her voice mail. While she’d been leaving a message for Trevor, Alex left a message for her. Now she sat in a row of empty chairs outside the closed door of the Register’s fifth-floor conference room. What on earth can this be? She’d told Alex about the girl in the red coat. Was it something about that? Her interview with Gable? Maybe Alex had gotten caught in his affair. Maybe because he’d hired her, she was going to be fired. But that didn’t make sense.
The Other Woman Page 6