Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “The police will solve this on their own,” Willow reassured herself, reassured them both, reassured the universe. “They don’t need me. I won’t have to say a word.”

  16

  JANE RYLAND

  “I remember him perfectly,” Jane called over her shoulder. It had been a mistake to tuck the chilled bottle of rosé under her bare arm, but there was no other way to carry it and two wineglasses and two plates from her kitchen into the living room in one trip. “Hi, cat.”

  Coda looked up from her spot on the striped wing chair as Jane arrived, then stood, turned around, and settled into the upholstery again, wrapping her calico tail around her. Dismissing the humans, even non–cat person Jake, whom she usually stalked.

  “We’ll eat on the couch, okay?” She put the bottle and plates onto the coffee table, set the glasses side by side. “There’s too much stuff on the dining room table.”

  “There’s a table under all that?” Jake came into the living room behind her, holding silverware wrapped in napkins and two just-nuked Gormay delivery bags. “So you remember the hit-and-run driver. Great. Did Frank show you a photo array?”

  “Nope. That’s what I thought would happen, too, but McCusker wouldn’t let me say a word about him. Here, let me help with that.” Jane reached out for the steaming containers, put them on the table. “Weird it’s from Gormay, isn’t it? After this morning. But thank goodness for home delivery, or we’d never eat.”

  She took the silverware from Jake, made two place settings. “Anyway, McCusker told me the judge insisted on a…”

  She paused, and stood in front of him, hands on hips. “Hey,” she said. “You okay? You haven’t said a word about your day. Since the shower, I mean. Probably because I’ve been yammering about this car-accident thing ever since we got out.”

  “Nope, all good.” Jake had pulled apart the clipped-together top of the insulated bag, and lifted out two plastic containers. “Whoa, hot!”

  “Thanks,” Jane said. Jake’s hair was still wet, one sandy curl dropping a rivulet of water down his neck, his white T-shirt clinging damply to his chest. “You, too.”

  “I meant the food.” Jake put the black containers on the table.

  “You did?” Jane pretended to pout.

  Jake leaned closer, smelling of her coconut soap. She couldn’t help but melt as his kiss landed on her neck. She’d been in the shower when he arrived, and he’d joined her, making the whole thing take much longer than a shower should. Now in T-shirts and sweatpants, they’d finally gotten to their food, carry-out grilled salmon and asparagus. Brown rice. And chocolate cake.

  Coda looked up again as Jake pried open one of the containers. “That cat can smell fish a mile away,” Jake said. “Protect yourself.”

  They dumped the salmon onto the plates, and Jane padded into the kitchen with the empty containers, Coda trailing behind, predatory for leftovers. She and Jake had gotten into their rhythm, she realized, like an old married couple, in a good way, thigh to thigh on the couch, sharing wine and dinner, maybe watching a little TV. Comfortable. And now, with her new life-career decision, not even a guilt-inducing problem. They had separate jobs. Pretty much. She wasn’t covering breaking news, so they’d promised each other—and their bosses—to keep it all compartmentalized. And so far, so good. It had only been a month, ish, since July 4th.

  “Watch the news?” Jane curled up on the couch. She always sat to his left, an unspoken decision, like they’d been doing it for years. “Oh, wait, yuck.”

  She scraped the gray stuff off the bottom of her salmon. Balancing the goop on her spoon, she carried it into the kitchen for the always-ravenous cat so Jake wouldn’t have to fight Coda for his food. “Cannot believe it’s so late,” she said as she returned.

  Jake was aiming the remote at the TV, clicked it a few times. “Yeah, news is almost on,” he said. “I’ll mute it till then. Anyway, what’d he look like? The driver?”

  “Middle-aged, Caucasian, widow’s peak, gray hair, pointy cheekbones, thin lips, clean-shaven,” Jane recited, poking at the salmon with her fork. “I’ve said it to myself a million times.”

  “Fiola see him?” Jake asked.

  “She told me no.” Jane picked up an asparagus stalk. “That poor delivery guy. Glad he wasn’t the one who brought this.” She gestured at their food with her asparagus. “That would have been bizarre. I mean, cripes, the Caddy just drove away.”

  “Jerk,” Jake said. “Hit-and-run’s like, well, he could get two years, if they find and convict him. You got his license plate? Stupid move on his part, as opposed to just owning up to a nothing accident, getting his insurance to pay. Bad luck for him you were there, Brenda Starr.”

  “Yeah, well.” Jane contemplated her asparagus, thin and striped with grill marks, poked it into her rice. “What would you have done? Well, you-you, not police-you.”

  “There’s only police-me,” Jake said. “It’s in the secret oath. So, in open court? Tomorrow? By yourself?”

  “Do I need a lawyer? You think?”

  “Do you have an extra thousand bucks?” Jake asked.

  She poked his arm with one finger “No, seriously.”

  “No, seriously.” Jake took a sip of wine. “If you needed a lawyer, the DA would tell you.”

  “Oh, right,” Jane said. “Like he’s out to protect me. I mean, do you think there’s any…” She didn’t want to say the word danger. It sounded way too melodramatic. People testified in court all the time, without ramifications. But there were also witness protection programs, and right now she could understand why someone would want to disappear after ratting out a bad guy. Still, this was only a fender bender. Though one that could lead to a two-year jail sentence.

  “Honey?” Jake said. “You stopped in the middle of a sentence.”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Maybe the station will send their lawyer. I’d feel better if…”

  Jake had clicked up the TV volume. As she watched the screen, all thoughts of pending court appearances were overridden by Channel 2’s swirling “Breaking News” graphic announcing Death in The Reserve. The Reserve was that ritzy neighborhood, right near Adams Bay College, where she and Fiola had been this morning. Death? What did “death” mean?

  “Jake?” she began. “Do you know about this?”

  The shot switched to veteran anchor Lisa Solari, wearing a camera-friendly black suit and sitting behind the neon-blue news desk. She spoke in portentous intro mode, her voice concerned, eyes locked on the camera. “For more on the possible homicide, we go to Sean Callahan with the latest.”

  “He’s an idiot,” Jane said. “A know-it-all who doesn’t. One of the reasons people hate reporters.”

  “Welcome to my day,” Jake said, pointing at the TV. “Young Mr. Callahan’s my new best friend.”

  “Wait. ‘Possible homicide’?” Jane stood, almost knocked over her wineglass as she focused on the screen. “Hey. That’s you!”

  JAKE BROGAN

  It had almost been a relief, listening to Jane chatter about her fender bender. He’d been tempted to ask for the license plate number of that moron Caddy driver and run it, just for grins, see if he could make anything of it. But he hadn’t asked, and now the subject was changed. Big-time.

  Jane was still standing, her cute ass between him and the TV. He shifted on the couch to get a better view. Of the TV.

  She turned, hands on hips. “Is there a murder? Why didn’t you tell me? The Reserve? I was near there, with Fiola, this morning. When’d it happen? Who’s the dead person? Is it a domestic? Or, oh, a suicide? Or hadn’t you notified next of kin? That why they didn’t say her name?”

  Jake sighed at her barrage, so Jane, and clicked the TV back to mute once the story ended with the predictable “We’ll keep you posted on any new developments.” Which Jake truly hoped there would be. Though preferably not tonight.

  “Yeah, well,” he said. “Those are certainly the questions.”

  He watched her settle
against the opposite end of the couch, crossing her legs under her.

  “And you know what? This is terrific.” She was still talking. “Now that we’re out, ish, we get a whole new set of rules. So what’s the deal with—what’s her name? You know it, obviously. How did she die? Hey. Is there a killer on the loose? Now you can tell me everything. I love it.”

  “There’s no ‘killer on the loose,’ Jane.” He waved off the question with his fork. Always a reporter. “But off the record? Her name is Avery Morgan. We have no cause of death. Okay? And that’s it. I can’t tell you ‘everything.’”

  “Why not?” She had that Jane look, raised eyebrows and batting lashes, like I’m so obviously right.

  “Because.” He saw the flicker of the TV screen in his peripheral vision, now headlining some story about a person hit by a foul ball at a Red Sox game, and a pitching trade, which was pretty interesting, but he figured he should focus on Jane. And she was semi-right. They could risk being more open about their jobs. But some cop stuff had to stay cop stuff. And not just for investigative reasons.

  There wasn’t anything threatening in the Morgan case, that he knew of, but that was the whole point. He didn’t know. Once he told Jane something, whether she kept it secret or not, he couldn’t un-tell her. They’d changed the rules, all right. But as it turned out, they might have to discuss some new ones.

  Which now he had to try to explain.

  “Because I can’t tell you anything that might put you in danger, honey. Can you get used to that?”

  He clicked off the TV, popping the screen to black. Even at 11:30 at night, they needed to focus on this conversation. Jane already knew about his informant Grady, who’d just texted him with updates on the newest Sholto drug deal and the Morgan death. It worried him, Jake had to admit, that Jane knew who Grady was. That he was feeding Jake information.

  “And because, if all goes as planned, you’re going to be married to a cop. And everyone will know that.”

  “I know,” Jane said. “And it will go as planned.” She fluttered her ring at him, Gramma Brogan’s ring. Then gave him two thumbs-up. “Married to a cop. Pension city. And great health insurance. Rocks.”

  “I’m serious.” Jake took her hands, leaned closer, kissed each one. Maybe he was tired, and maybe because of Avery Morgan he’d been reminded, once again, of how short life was, and how it could be over in one unexpected moment, one wrong move or unwelcome visitor, one ill-chosen word.

  “It’s not an easy life.” Jake heard the solemnity in his voice. “It’s not predictable. I signed up for the danger. But what worries me every day—now you’ve signed up for it, too.”

  JANE RYLAND

  What had gotten into Jake? He’d been teasing and low-key, slipping into her shower, and having a second glass of wine. But now he had that I’m serious look, his eyes narrowed and his jaw tight.

  “Being a cop is no more dangerous than being a reporter,” she said, half-smiling. “Usually. Sort of. Maybe.” She looked down at her hand, fingers splayed. Gramma Brogan’s emerald-cut diamond had fit perfectly without any adjustments. Meant to be, Jake had said. The ring, catching the light, was a symbol of so much. Jake’s grandmother, and his grandfather, Commissioner Brogan, had handled their share of danger—the Strangler, the Lilac Sunday killer, the rise of the drug lords and the fall of the Mafia, the Angiulos and the Winter Hill gang. Gramma still visited the commissioner’s grave. So did Jake, a solemnly loving remembrance every anniversary of his death ten years ago. Two weeks ago, Jane had joined them.

  Gramma, who still wore her wedding rings on a gold chain around her neck, approved of Jane. Showed her a photo of goofy preteen Jake in his grandfather’s patent-billed police hat. Take care of him, she’d whispered.

  “And if it’s good enough for Gramma, it’s good enough for me,” Jane said. The cat leaped from her chair, bolted down the hall.

  “What’s with the stupid cat?” Jake asked.

  “She’s smart. Hates the phone.” Jane reached down and hit the button on her landline. “Jane Ryland,” she said. “I mean, hello.” She could never remember how to answer the phone at home.

  “Fee Morrello,” the voice said.

  “Fee—oh, hi, Fee,” Jane said. Fiola. Fee. Okay.

  “I thought that accident was a random hit-and-run, didn’t you?” Fee went on as if they were picking up a conversation already in progress. “Like, the food truck guy just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “It was,” Jane says. “He was.” She turned to Jake, shrugging.

  “Aren’t you watching the news?” Fiola asked.

  “Uh, yeah…” They had been, but then Jake turned it off. Oh. No. Impossible. “You mean the body at The Reserve? Do not tell me—”

  “Body? Nope, huh-uh. This is something else. It just came in, so maybe it hasn’t been on yet,” Fiola—Fee—said.

  “Huh? ‘It’?”

  “Listen, I was down in the newsroom. Watching the feeds just for grins, and I saw video from another car accident coming in. Not where we were this morning, though, this was some street called Melnea Cass. Happened at eleven, around then. This time it’s worse. The van’s a mess. But it looked like the same truck, you know? As this morning?”

  “A Gormay truck?” Jane asked. Fee was talking so fast, Jane had to untangle her words. “In an accident?”

  “Yeah,” Fee said. “I mean, it might not have been the exact same truck, no way to tell, but it was a—”

  “A hit-and-run?” Jane stood, pacing away from the couch, dodging the empty plates and the empty wine bottle, facing the dining room, her back to Jake. She pictured this morning’s scene, yet again. The food truck, the Cadillac, the pointy-chinned driver. The guy kicking his crumpled fender.

  “Yeah, that’s the thing. Didn’t I say that? Exactly. But this time, I guess, no witnesses. I called the cops, but all what’s-her-name Karen in the press office would confirm was the driver of the Gormay van was badly hurt. Might die.”

  “Another hit-and-run?” Jane turned and looked at Jake, wide-eyed.

  “What?” he said, coming up beside her. “Hit-and-run what?”

  “Apparently,” Fee said. “I mean, yeah, definitely. But they’re not releasing any identification info. Karen at the cop shop insists they don’t even know his name, there’s some hassle about the next of kin. But, Jane. What if it’s the same guy?”

  TUESDAY

  17

  JANE RYLAND

  So much for no breaking news.

  So much for sharing everything.

  Jake had headed out at the crack of dawn, promising to see what he could find out and decide how much he could tell her. Problem was, if he eventually spilled the inside beans about the Reserve death, every cell in her reporter brain would be tempted to tell the news desk. That was exactly what Jane had promised she wouldn’t do. And once she changed her mind, the news director would expect her to do it again. Jane pumped the metal walk-light button at the intersection of Cambridge Street and New Chardon again, hurrying it up so she could cross to the Dunkin’ Donuts.

  So, this wasn’t going to work. Day two, eight A.M. Jane was already back in reporter mode. Maybe you couldn’t simply “decide” your passion away. Her diamond winked at her in the morning sunshine, as if it were agreeing. She’d forgotten to take off her ring. She moved it to her right hand and turned it in a one-eighty, hiding the stone. She was being silly, she recognized that. The ring was still there, no matter how it appeared to the outside world. Reality was still reality.

  She pursed her lips, concentrating, as she tried to dial her cell phone and watch for the walk sign simultaneously. Now she’d see whether her agreement to help the district attorney’s office meant they’d scratch her back, too.

  She’d talk to McCusker about last night’s car crash. Then get back to Channel 2. See if Tosca contacted her. And then, because she had no choice, show up in court at two. She’d be fine with no lawyer. She guessed. She needed coffee, maybe
iced, on this wiltingly hot day.

  Green light. Jane still looked both ways, trotting across the zebra stripes as she listened to the phone ring at the DA’s office. Another car accident? With the same delivery company? She needed the police report of the second accident. The first one, too. McCusker’d better give it to her. After all, she was involved.

  “Hey, Frank.” She finally reached him after being tele-navigated through a maze of secretaries and gatekeepers. She opened the coffee shop door as she talked. “You got the report on the Storrow Drive accident yet?”

  She covered the speaker of her phone as McCusker answered, quietly ordering her large iced with skim milk, no sugar, hoping McCusker couldn’t hear. She could hear him fine. He was telling her no. Absolutely no.

  “And what’s more, Jane,” he went on, his voice escalatingly dismissive, “you know better. It’s under investigation. I wouldn’t even be speaking with you if we weren’t seeing each other later today. Two P.M. in Boston Municipal.”

  As if she could have forgotten. “But I’m also calling about—”

  Her coffee arrived, and she acknowledged it with a smile. The barista raised a critical eyebrow at the phone clamped to her face. Jane tried to look apologetic. She hated to talk on her cell in stores, seemed so rude, but this was an exception. Two hit-and-runs?

  “Jane?” McCusker took advantage of her brief silence. “Whatever it is, the answer is no. I’m clearly not supposed to be talking to you, but I was worried you were calling to cancel. Since you’re not, we’re done. ’Kay?”

  “But there was another—”

  “Not talking to you,” he said. “See you later.”

  He hung up.

  Jane stabbed off the phone, stashed it in the black hole of her tote bag, tamped down her orange straw against the plastic counter to break off the paper.

  “So much for that.” She jammed her straw into the clear plastic lid of her icy cup. The barista looked up, questioning. “Nothing,” Jane said.

  And so much for the mutual back-scratching Marsh Tyson had predicted. She’d told the news director this was a bad idea. That the DA’s office only took information, they didn’t give it.