Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
“Call Jake? Or give you his number?” Jane finished the sentence. Just like she’d done all the years growing up together. Jane babysat her little sister when Jane was fifteen and Melissa nine. Before that, she’d shared her stuffed animals, let her little sister win at Candyland, taught her to play War and Spit and how to do a French braid. “The girls,” their father had called them, as though they didn’t have separate personalities. Then Jane went off to college, and Melissa gloried her way through high school. When Jane came home, it was as if they didn’t know each other anymore. Melissa continued to exceed expectations. Their mother died. Their dad favored Melissa. Jane was outgrown. Unnecessary. Third wheel. Childhood’s end.
And now all of that was in the past. Jane was the older sister again. Protective and in control.
“Yes, would you, Janey?” Melissa asked. “I mean, it might all be fine. But I can’t help but worry Gracie’s in trouble. Don’t you?”
* * *
Catherine heard the whir of the computer mechanism as her disc drive opened, felt the hesitation as she settled the DVD into place, pushed it in carefully, delicately, the way she’d done so many times, until the door clicked closed. She heard the spin of the player as the disc engaged, watched the first screen of the illicit video pop up in the center of her screen.
“Hit the green triangle to make it play,” Riordan said. “There’s no sound.”
Catherine held her tongue. She knew how to make it play.
She clicked the mouse.
The time code said 11:55:42. First, a tree-lined Curley Park, bustling with tourists and businesspeople, an ordinary June day. It was sunny, she could tell by the shadows, the majority of faces with sunglasses.
Surveillance tapes used to be impossible to watch. She’d seen endless clips of unrecognizable bank robbers, no mask necessary, identities blurred incognito by the primitive recording capabilities. The action in Curley Park was several stories down and a block away from the camera. This was clearly a new-generation video, not fuzzy or jumpy, but still not as sharp as a movie or TV. The faraway faces were tiny. Featureless.
“You can’t recognize anyone,” Catherine said, hoping she was right, as she watched the tourist parade, balloons and shopping bags, lots of little kids. She put the action on pause, turned to Riordan and Dahlstrom. “It’s leaves and tops of heads. This is just a blur, far as I can see.”
Her colleagues stood behind her, one leaning over each shoulder, peering into the monitor. Kelli Riordan smelled green and summery, like she had showered in citrus rainwater. Ward Dahlstrom smelled like coffee and musk, thick with tension. Catherine wished they would back off, let her see it, let her think, but there was no way to say that. The video clip was brief, they’d told her. Fifteen minutes.
“Well, watch,” Dahlstrom said. “Yeah, there’s trees, but see how the park itself is in the open?”
“Ward.” Riordan raised a palm. “Shut up.”
They watched in silence as the secret movie of a Boston noontime unspooled. These people had no idea they were being watched, let alone taped, Catherine thought, no idea their actions would later be scrutinized by three nervous staffers trying to decide whether to launch a full-scale cover-up to protect their big-time boss. Whether to hide evidence from the police.
Catherine saw a few people sitting on the various park benches, hats and feet, shopping bags. A kid touched Mayor Curley’s bronze knees, supposed to be lucky. She’d done that a few times herself. It was all she could do not to fast-forward.
Let’s see it,
she thought.
Get this damn thing over with.
When the time code hit 11:56:42, one of the people on the bench stood up, a guy, it looked like, in a T-shirt, maybe. The others on the bench moved farther away from each other, reallocating the space. The man moved toward the center of the park.
“That’s him,” Dahlstrom said.
“Shush,” Riordan said. “Let her watch.”
“Watch what?” Catherine said. The time code read 11:58:59. Then 11:59:00. The man didn’t move. “What?”
Fifteen seconds later, a man carrying a shopping bag walked into the park, then stopped next to the man in the T-shirt. His back was to her, but she could see he was wearing a baseball cap, white shirt, and tan pants. There was something about his stance that seemed—
Catherine leaned forward, as if getting closer would make the out-of-focus images more distinct. It didn’t help. Squinted. That didn’t help, either. The image nagged at her.
And then it happened, so quickly Catherine almost didn’t see it. When she hit Rewind, moved the white dot backward along the video line to replay the scene, she still could not grasp what she witnessed.
“My God,” she whispered.
She heard Kelli Riordan puff out a breath, felt her stand. Heard her brushing down her skirt, moving away. “I know. Hard to watch. They exchange the bag, he dumps out the—I don’t know. Phone book? Then he just turns and stabs the person. Then whoever it is, cannot see his face for shit, just runs. Dammit. It’s right there.”
The screen had gone to black. And so did Catherine’s brain. She wrestled herself to the present moment with every ounce of human resolve she could muster.
“I need to think,” she said, surprised that she recognized her own voice. Surprised she could even speak. She looked at her watch. “Give me an hour. We don’t have to do anything this second. This is a lot to digest.”
She had to get them out of her office. Had to, had to,
had to.
She quieted her mind, willed her heart to be still, willed her hands not to shake. “Ward? Kelli? Go home. In the morning, we’ll brainstorm. Decide what to do.”
“Do we have to admit we have this?” Ward asked. “I mean, what if we simply, ah, pretended—”
“It’s a subpoena,” Riordan interrupted, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “If we actively fail to provide materials we are aware are in existence, any judge would rule that’s an illegal—”
Catherine didn’t care what these two thought. Not now.
She held up a hand, calling on every bit of her self-restraint. Their speculation and bickering had to stop. “Kelli, I need you to check the precedents for something like this. Local option executive privilege, extraordinary powers potentially granted to the mayor, public safety exemptions. I mean—anything. And we’ll reconvene at seven thirty.”
“Eight,” Kelli said. “Or, say, eight fifteen.”
Had Tenley seen this?
Oh, my God.
Her daughter. Her daughter who she’d fought with, and yelled at, and left alone. Her daughter who, according to Dr. Maddux, thought she’d never be understood, never be happy, never have a real family again. Maybe she was right.
“Fine,” Catherine said. Let Kelli micromanage. “Eight fifteen.”
Her office door slowly clicked shut, sealing out the rest of the world and leaving Catherine alone with the video. She stared at the freeze-frame on the screen. This was life, and it was real, and by the ridiculous vagaries of the universe and technology, it was all caught by the uncaring eye of the surveillance camera.
Did
they have to tell the police they had it? What if there was a way for the police to solve this crime without knowing about the video? If the point was to catch the bad guy, wouldn’t any method of coming to that conclusion be satisfactory? And then the mayor’s pompous and arrogant decision wouldn’t destroy them all. Politically, at least.
She should call Tenley. But she couldn’t do it. She’d let her sleep. Let the poor child have one more hour of her world. And maybe—Catherine was wrong. Maybe she was mistaken about what she’d seen.
Catherine’s hand felt odd, heavy and uncooperative as she lifted it to her white plastic mouse. Her engagement ring shimmered under the halogen desk light. Her wedding band, a thin platinum circle that matched her husband’s, reminded her of the day they were married, a gorgeous July afternoon, blue skies, puffy clouds, she and Greg, smiling, surrounded by friends and possibilities. Two weeks from now, she realized, was their anniversary.
She clicked again on the little green triangle, dragged the dot to 11:59:00.
And watched, once again, the videotaped murder of her husband.
“Can you talk?”
Jake heard the tension in Jane’s voice. If she was up now, calling his cell phone at just after six, it was important. He hoped she’d gotten some sleep, at least. He sure as hell hadn’t, dozing all night in an uncomfortable chair, waiting for maybe-tattooed guy to show his arm or wake up. The man might be a killer, and Jake still had no idea who he was.
“Sure, I can talk,” he said. “Are you okay, Jane? Where are you?”
“Home,” she said. “Trying to get dressed. You’re on speaker. And yeah, I’m okay. But—”
“Gracie? And Wilhoite? They home?” That awkward dinner at the Taverna seemed decades ago. He needed food. Jake frowned. He had to check on Bobby Land, too, hadn’t heard from upstairs for three hours now. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the Curley Park murder. Was he any closer to the solution?
His frown deepened as Jane spun out the story. Gracie had never been at school? And now Jane was telling him Wilhoite was not answering his phone.
“Does Robyn think—” He stopped. Better not to put words in someone’s mouth. “What does Robyn think?”
“Who knows?” Jane said. “I’m getting it all by way of Melissa. She wanted me to call you and find out what to do. She can contact you, right? I gave her your number.”
“Jane?” Damn. His call-waiting had clicked in, interfering with what Jane was saying. He’d been trying not to picture her getting dressed, since that wasn’t the point, but she’d mentioned it, and after that it was hard to resist. He’d rather think of her getting
un
dressed, rather see it in person. Now someone was interrupting. Maybe word on Land? Or maybe D with the video? Jake could happily stay awake long enough to see that. “Hang on,” he said.
“Jake?”
“One second.” He clicked away to the new call. “Brogan.”
“Detective Brogan?”
“Yes?” A familiar voice, but he couldn’t quite—
“It’s Angie Bartoneri,” she said. “How quickly they forget. Anyway, Detective. I have a call you might want to take. I called Missing, but they insisted I give it to you. Transferring now.”
“Who?” Jake started to ask for details, then realized, after the click and change in tone, that Angie had already transferred the caller. Always a game with her. “This is Detective Brogan,” he said.
“My name is Catherine Siskel,” the voice said. “And I’d like to report a missing person.”
* * *
“Jake? Jake?” Jane, one arm in her black T-shirt and the other one out, glared at the phone, annoyed. Stupid speakerphone was incredibly unreliable. She pushed the other arm through the short sleeve. Taking two quick steps, she punched the phone to regular talk. So much for multi-tasking. And she needed coffee. “Jake?” she said into the phone. “You there?”
Nothing. Jane grimaced, yanked down her T, wondered if she should hang up and try again. She hadn’t accomplished a thing with this phone call. Robyn was counting on her. Or at least Melissa was. Where the hell was Gracie? This was a job for the police, no question. She’d hang up, call Jake again, get her cop on the case. She clicked the reset, ready to start over.
“Hello?” The connection sounded funny. Maybe she was still on hold. “Jake?”
“Jane?” Not Jake.
She tucked the phone between her check and shoulder, zipped up her black jeans. She could throw on a scarf and blazer if she needed to look presentable, or stick with the simple jeans and T if she was only going to be at Robyn’s. Impossible to predict what the day would bring.
“This is Marsh Tyson,” the voice said. “At Channel 2?”
“Hi, Marsh.” Jane frowned, getting her bearings. It was six thirty in the morning. This was not a social call. “What’s—”
“Glad you’re up,” he said. “Listen. Our sources at the cop shop say there was some kind of assault near the police station late yesterday. Headquarters, by the Ruggles T stop, you know where that is?”
Of course she did. “Yes, I—”
“Apparently, this is somehow connected to the Curley Park stabbing. So says our source.”
“Your source?” This was a new one. When her boss told her something was based on a source, was she supposed to ask who it was? Or take him at his word and go from there? That was the thing about journalism, especially these days. Always a new ethical dilemma, without any new rules to resolve it.
“Trust me on this, Jane. The identity of the source—it’s a nurse, okay? But you’ll find the info for yourself, right? You’ll dig, fill in the blanks, get confirmation. So, Jane? How about another freelance gig? You covered Curley Park, you know the players. You shot the video. I assume your—sister was she, or niece?—is not really missing, or we’d have heard about it by now. So, what say you? Your personal life calmed down enough to sign on?”
Jane paused, staring at the toes of her black flats, trying to assess who she was and what was important. Telling the truth was always the best option. Right now, however, she didn’t know what the truth was. Had her life calmed down?
“It has and it hasn’t, Mr. Tyson,” she said. “Calmed down.”
“Marsh.”
“Marsh. My sister’s fiancé’s daughter—” She stopped midsentence. Too much information. But Melissa and Robyn—and the police—could handle the possibly missing Gracie. They didn’t need Jane in person, right now, at least. If they did, she’d be available. Plus, she needed the money. Quitting her newspaper job had been a glorious and unregretted moment of honor and principle. But that did not pay the rent. Or make car payments. And she didn’t even want to think about health insurance. She was unemployed, for the second time in two years, depressingly, and with her savings evaporating, that was not good. Melissa had Jake’s number. Jane could stay fully involved with them
and
handle the freelance gig. Let the juggling continue.
“Anyway. Sure,” she said, not feeling sure at all. “What’s the plan? Want me to come into the station, or meet a photog somewhere? And do you have any info on the victim? Name, next of kin? Why do they think he’s connected to Curley Park? Is he—it’s a he, right?—in the hospital?”