“Why do we care?” D lifted one corner of the woven welcome mat, though it didn’t say welcome, let it fall back onto the porch. “No key. They suspects?”
“Everyone’s a suspect,” Jake said. “We’ll come back.”
“Ve’ll be back.” D did his Arnold imitation, then chuckled as if he’d never said the line before. He stabbed at the air, punctuating his words. “Ve vill hunt you down.”
“Good one,” Jake said. “Too bad about Avery Morgan. She might have hooked you up with her Hollywood crew. You’d dig a whole new career, right?”
D stopped, looked at him, shrugged. Turned away, headed toward their cruiser.
“What’s wrong?” Jake called after him. D probably needed more coffee. He sure did.
By the time they found a semi-legal parking place in front of Colonial Hall, fortified themselves with dark-roast larges, and gotten the attention of name-tagged Mack at the security desk—“Security Desk” was spelled out on a black plastic placard in front of the bespectacled guard—it was almost eleven.
“Detective Jake Brogan, here to see Edward Tarrant.” Jake held up his badge wallet.
Mack sat up straight, squared his blue-uniformed shoulders, pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose.
“You got an appointment?”
“Nope,” Jake said. “Is he here?”
“I’ll have to check.” He pointed a yellow pencil at a wooden bench along the wall across from them, a curved dark wood settee bookended with elaborately carved lion-head armrests. The brick wall behind it displayed a painted shield, some Latin phrase in gilt letters encircling it. “You can wait on the lion bench.”
Rent-a-guards were always a trip. He and D exchanged amused glances as this one turned to his phone console. Jake always figured it was better to start out letting guys like this think they had some authority. If Mack let them do what they wanted to do, couldn’t hurt to let him think he’d allowed them to do it.
But they weren’t going to sit on any bench. They waited at the desk, Jake leaning on it with one elbow, D focused on his texting. As usual.
“In a meeting.” Mack wheeled his swivel chair away from the console and closer to them, but still held the phone receiver, its twisty cord stretched to full length. “He says, what’s it about?”
“We say, police business.” Meeting, my ass, Jake thought. Two detectives show up at your office, you don’t give them the in-a-meeting dodge. Unless you’re stalling, or guilty, or an asshole. Or all three.
“Mack? I’ll take this, okay?” A voice from down the hall.
Jake looked up to see a black-suited woman, white hair curly and wild, purple glasses perched on the top of her head. She hurried toward them, her mouth a red slash, her high heels tapping the wooden floor. She looked at Jake, then D, then back at Jake.
“Detective Rogan?” She chose Jake, offered her hand for him to shake, smilingly hospitable.
“Brogan,” he said. “And this is my partner, Detective DeLuca.”
“Ah. Brogan.” She glanced at Mack, rolling her eyes. “Apologies. I’m Sasha Vogelby, head of the Drama Department here. Mr. Tarrant sent me. He very much regrets—”
The woman stopped, mid-excuse. She must be reading the expression on my face, Jake thought.
“Anyway,” she said, her smile plastered in place. “Mr. Tarrant asks, will you please come up to my office? He’ll finish his meeting as quickly as he can, and then join us.”
As they headed for a bank of silver elevators, Ms. Vogelby’s skirt swishing in front of them, Jake realized what had not happened this morning. Mack the guard had not asked, “Is this about Avery Morgan?” Sasha Vogelby had not looked weepy, or red-eyed, or even downcast, had not inquired about the woman Jake assumed was her colleague. Could they not know Avery Morgan was dead?
Possible, Jake answered himself. Which meant the next half hour or so could be pretty interesting.
22
JANE RYLAND
“I’ll take the stairs,” Jane said as Fiola stabbed the “up” button in the station’s glass-walled lobby. Channel 2’s elevator was notoriously unreliable. Jane had once checked the inspection record, handwritten in spidery script with what looked like a fountain pen, and it appeared no one from the state’s Inspectional Services had checked the thing since the blizzard of 2000. Stairs were healthier anyway, and she had to get exercise somehow, since her gym attendance was equally out of date. She yanked open the heavy metal stairwell door and held it ajar with her back, about to wave to Fiola, who’d snagged a Register from the stack on the guard’s desk.
“Fee? Anything in the paper about The Reserve?” Jane asked.
“Hang on.” Fiola flapped open the paper just as the elevator arrived. “See you in a sec.” She stepped inside and the doors closed behind her.
“It worked? Amazing,” Jane muttered. She entered the windowless stairwell of pitted metal banisters and scarred walls peeling their once-green paint. Tromping up the stairs, she tried to focus on how many calories she was burning per step. Her buzzing phone interrupted the count.
“Jane Ryland.” She made it to the landing, grabbed the newel post, swung around the corner to the next flight.
“Assistant District Attorney Frank McCusker,” she heard. “You’re sprung.”
Jane stopped, mid-step, mid-stairway. “Sprung?”
“Yeah. As in, off the hook. In the clear. Excused. You’re livin’ right, Miz Ryland. The driver of the Cadillac has come forward, turned himself in. So all good, we got our man. The judge is aware, nonsuggestive ID session is canceled, life goes on. Justice served.”
Without me, Jane thought. She felt her shoulders sag, almost imagined a black cloud lifting to the ceiling and floating out through the air-conditioning vent. She didn’t have to say anything. If that letter was a warning about her testimony, now it didn’t matter.
“Terrific,” she said.
“We’ll let you know if we need any more,” McCusker went on, “but at this point, seems slam-dunk. I mean—this guy’s all ‘I’m doing the right thing’ and about his ‘guilty conscience,’ I don’t know. Some bullsh—” Jane listened with amusement as the ADA apparently reconsidered his language. “Whatever. He’s here. He’s making a statement now.”
“Who is it? Did he say why he ran?”
“All I can tell you, he’s cooperating like a good little criminal,” McCusker said. “I foresee a plea, probation, and some kind of restitution. And on we go.”
Goodbye, widow’s-peak-and-cheekbones guy. Goodbye, nasty letter. “Middle-aged guilt, I guess, right?”
“Middle-aged?”
Jane heard the confusion in McCusker’s voice.
“Yeah,” Jane said. “Maybe older.”
“Uh, no.” McCusker paused, cleared his throat. “The driver is barely twenty-five. That’s why he skedaddled. He thought his insurance rates would kill him.”
Jane stared at the blotchy wall, then sank to the middle stair, sitting with her feet planted on a lower step. When in doubt, don’t say a word, an irreversible law of the universe, she knew, and I should have kept my mouth shut the wail of regret from centuries of rueful chatterboxes who realized, yet again, they should have left well enough alone. Know when to shut up, her father used to tell her and her sister.
Now, with her one throwaway question about middle-aged guilt, Jane had said too much.
“Jane?” McCusker’s voice dragged her back from her spiral of remorse. “You with me?”
“I lost you for a second—bad connection,” Jane lied. “I’m in the stairwell, and on my way to the office. Want to call me later?”
“What do you mean, ‘middle-aged’?” McCusker’s voice had an edge to it. “Can you hear me now? If we’ve got the wrong guy—”
Jane grabbed the banister, hauled herself to her feet. If she kept quiet, she was letting an innocent person plead guilty to something. She’d seen the driver, completely, consciously, indelibly. He was not a kid.
“D
oes your guy know I’m a witness?” Jane asked.
Silence. “I’m not sure I can reveal that,” the DA finally said. “Why?”
Her turn to be silent. She’d had that one moment of freedom, of relief that she no longer had to rat out a bad guy in front of a courtroom audience and a defense attorney and who knew who else. The bad guy had presented himself to law enforcement. Good news, except it was the wrong guy. Cue the quicksand.
“The driver I saw was definitely older.”
“Shit,” the ADA said.
Jane opened the door marked “Floor 2,” saw the hallway outside the Special Projects Unit and its framed posters of network shows, some of which had already been canceled. Only the smiling stars remained on display, all photoshopped and flatteringly lighted, blithely believing their shows would never become victims of bad promotion or bad writing or bad ratings.
Had Jane gotten it wrong, too? For a fleeting moment, she almost hoped so. Hoped that possibly, in the heat of the moment, she’d made a mistake. She sighed, shaking her head. In hard reality, there wasn’t any heat of the moment. She wasn’t wrong.
“You sure?” McCusker went on.
“Yeah. The man I saw was definitely—”
“Again, don’t describe him,” the ADA said. “We’ll hold this guy, nonetheless. But as for you, it’s back to plan A. Be in courtroom 206, at two. If we’ve got an innocent person confessing to a hit-and-run, that’s a whole ’nother problem. We’ll see who you recognize. If anyone. Remember, the driver, the one who confessed at least, may not be in court.”
So near and yet so far. She continued toward her office, dragging her feet, wondering, again, about that stupid letter. Wondering about bringing the station lawyer to court with her to make sure she didn’t say more than she should, though it might already be too late for that. But there was one more thing she had to ask McCusker.
“Why would he confess?” She’d broken a big story a few months earlier where a confession was key. As long as she was hopelessly ensnared in this, might as well get some answers. “Did he confess to the other hit-and-run, too?”
She paused in the hallway, eager to hear the answer. Two hit-and-runs by the same guy? That’d be a story.
“‘Other hit-and-run’?” the ADA asked.
Jane opened her office door. Fiola had the phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder, apparently taking notes on her computer. That white envelope was still on Jane’s desk. She’d tell McCusker about it in person.
“Jane? What other hit-and-run?” McCusker repeated.
“Sorry, I’m still in the stairwell,” Jane tried the lie again.
“Very convenient,” he said. “Well, listen, Jane. If you can hear me? Two things. One? See you at two. And as for the ‘other hit-and-run,’ that’s one phone call to the cop shop. So again, thanks for your help. We do welcome it when the media steps in to help law enforcement. Much appreciated.”
“Gah.” Jane stuck her tongue out at her cell phone as she clicked him away. Fiola hung up her call at the same time.
“Who was that?” Fiola asked. “Listen, I’ve set us up with the campus big sisters, so we’ll get a bunch of good stuff from them. SAFE, it’s called. They’re like, advocates, buddies, support systems. Victims, too, some of them.” She rubbed her palms together. “They’re happy to give us the scoop. Don’t you love it when someone spills the beans?”
“Yeah,” Jane said. At least Fiola didn’t know about the DA’s phone call. Far as this afternoon was concerned, nothing had changed. “That’ll be great. When?”
Jane’s desk phone trilled, the double ring that meant an outside call.
“Now what?” Jane picked up the receiver. “Jane Ryland.” Better not be McCusker again. Like, asking if the station had raw video of the other hit-and-run. All she needed.
“Jane?” A woman’s voice, tentative. “It’s Tosca.”
23
EDWARD TARRANT
Edward Tarrant let the receiver clatter back into place, knowing that the phone call from Sasha Vogelby signaled the opening curtain of an imminent and all-important performance. He needed to remember that knowledge was power. In this case, right now, he had the balance of both.
He knew Avery Morgan was dead. Trey Welliver clearly had no idea what happened, though thank heaven the boy had shown up with the news. Sasha didn’t know, or she certainly would have asked him about it. College police were not in the picture. Even though the Morgan House was owned by the board, it was out of their campus-only jurisdiction.
Edward prayed with all his being that Avery’s death was an accident. That soon, today, they’d confirm that, and this would all be over.
But certainly Avery Morgan’s death was why the Boston Police detectives were now at his door. The damn homicide detectives, which seemed to put the lie to his hopes of an accidental drowning.
Because of that, he’d sicced the deferential but persuasive Sasha on them, stalling. He needed to regroup, yet again, even though he’d spent hours the night before staring, alone, at his—their—bedroom ceiling, plotting moves and strategies and outcomes.
He could not afford to have Adams Bay involved in a scandal. And he, personally, could not afford to be its cause. The terrifying possibility that Avery’s death might detonate both bombshells was what kept him restless, awake, and calculating the damage.
He pressed his fingers to his forehead, trying to hold in his brains. He’d steeled himself for a flood of phone calls after last night’s TV newscasts, even as shallow and unrevealing as they were—her name had not been used—but thank God for summer break and the diaspora of most faculty and staff. There’d been only a brief snippet in the Globe and Register, and again no name. Maybe the press was also waiting for the word on suicide.
He paused, considering. Then contemplated the uncomfortable reality that he actually wished a “friend” had killed herself. But had she?
A wine-fueled Avery herself had divulged to him that her star was on the wane in what she called Tinseltown, and gushed her intense gratitude for the sinecure that Adams Bay—and Edward—offered. Apparently, though Avery hadn’t elaborated much, there’d been some embezzlement blowup with the head of the studio, with Avery a casualty. An innocent casualty, she’d wailed, hanging on to his arm. Had she truly been distraught? Depressed? In danger? He’d thought she was simply being dramatic.
He realized he was still standing behind his desk, staring at the now-silent phone. Where the hell was Manderley? Of all the days for his assistant to be late. But maybe for the best. Keep her out of this. No need to have her spreading rumors among her little friends.
Sasha would have taken the cops into her office by now, and stalled them with whatever prattle. But she couldn’t stall forever. His “meeting” would have to end. And soon. They were the cops, after all. Homicide cops.
But he needed time. He needed to write a statement of sympathy for Adams Bay president Reginald P. Buchholz to issue, soon as they could reach him in the south of France, where he summered with his family.
Family.
If only Edward had gone with them this year as usual, the dutiful son-in-law, right after spring semester’s end. But no, this year he’d stayed in town, and then … Avery.
Problem was, the moment he contacted Reg Buchholz about Avery’s death, Brinn would also have to know all about it, and ask him all about her, thinking she was being compassionate and wifely, and possibly insist on coming back to Boston. He’d been so exquisitely delighted that Brinn Buchholz Tarrant had agreed to leave him behind for the summer. And now this.
Did Avery have family? The question saddened him, somehow, with a pang of conscience. He had no idea.
Why did Avery Morgan die? How?
The next time his phone rang, shrill and strident, it would signal the beginning of the endgame. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the attack and defense ahead. He was a firefighter. He’d put this one out, too.
JAKE BROGAN
“Look at thi
s.” Jake kept his voice low as he showed the cell phone screen to DeLuca. They were sitting—they’d had no option—on a foofy couch in Sasha Vogelby’s office. She’d left them, bustling out for coffee. Jake tried to refuse, telegraphing they wouldn’t be around long enough to drink coffee. But D accepted, and turned out that was for the better. Jake used the downtime—Tick tock, he thought, imagining Edward Tarrant’s “meeting”—to dig further into Avery Morgan. After finding her on Google this morning, he’d checked her bio on the various Hollywood sites. Now he was following up her connection with Untitled Studios. “About our victim,” he continued.
D had clicked off his own phone, stashed it in his jacket pocket.
“What?” D squinted at Jake’s screen. “My eyes are going. Gonna need cheaters, so says Kat. But what does she know?”
“She’s a doctor. Just saying,” Jake said, taking back his cell. DeLuca’s clandestine relationship with medical examiner Kat McMahan was as under the radar as Jake’s with Jane. Their mutually assured destruction had ensured mutual silence about their professionally improper liaisons, Jake’s with a member of the dreaded media, DeLuca’s with a law enforcement colleague. “Anyway, seems like there was a big embezzlement scandal at the studio where Avery Morgan freelanced. Untitled, remember? From the quotes the feds out there gave, sounds like there was a confidential informant. What if the informant was Avery Morgan?”
D examined his fingernails, moving his hands closer to his eyes, then farther away. “That’s why she moved here, you think?”
“Could be.” Jake stared at the screen on his cell. What’d they do before they could run someone’s life history from their phones? It was either amazing, getting a pile of work done without even going into the squad, or it sucked, since you were expected to be on the job every second of every day. Still. He’d much rather have the instant access.
He checked his watch. Almost noon. California cops would be on the job now, but the US Attorney types not until nine West Coast time. They’d know the deets about this. And they’d have to supply them.
Say No More Page 14