Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
Catherine leaned forward across the desk, trying to see what Ryland was seeing. Maybe her secretary had finally arrived? But Siobhan never got here before nine.
Jane stepped aside, revealing the newcomer. Leather jacket, Levi’s, black T-shirt, sandy hair, needing a shave. Holding out a badge.
“Catherine Siskel?” The cop seemed nervous. Eyeing Jane Ryland. Well, of course he was. He’d shown up at her office and a reporter was already there. He probably thought Catherine had called her. How would she ever explain any of this?
And her husband was dead.
Catherine felt her stomach lurch, felt the floor move under her, felt the earth twirl off its axis and spin her into outer space.
“Excuse me,” she said. She clamped a hand to her mouth, horrified at what was about to happen. Looked at her open office door. Embarrassed, overwhelmed, defeated. “I have to throw up.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
It was a ridiculous thing to say. Jane was so flummoxed to see Jake in Catherine Siskel’s office that she blurted the first thought that popped into her mind. Her second thought was that if Jake was here, she was on the right track. That, she did not blurt.
“Ms. Siskel seems to be in extremis,” Jake said. “Hope she makes it to the bathroom.”
“Yeah.” Jane blinked, trying to decide what to do. Jake needed a shave. The black T-shirt and Levi’s were the same ones he’d worn yesterday. The exact same ones, she decided, not just another from Jake’s collection of identical work clothes. Jake had not been home since they’d last seen each other twelve hours ago at the Taverna. Where had he been? And why?
She shifted to the other foot. They were alone in the chief of staff’s inner office. The wooden door to the outer reception area had slammed closed behind Catherine. Ten after eight. Back to the question. “So, uh, what’re you doing here, Officer?”
“Detective,” Jake said.
It was one of their routines, an inside joke because people always called him officer. It would be followed by him saying the one phrase that especially annoyed
her
: “And you are
who
?” She’d reply “your worst nightmare” and ask him to “speak into the microphone,” usually a beer bottle or wineglass. Then they’d laugh, and kiss. And go from there.
This time no one laughed. They each paused. If Marsh’s source was correct, Catherine Siskel’s husband might be a murder victim. That’s why she was here. Jake, too, probably. Jane put a hand on his arm, felt the familiar leather of his jacket. They were alone, after all. “You okay?” she asked, still holding on. “You look tired.”
Jake rolled his eyes, got a funny look on his face. “Lots going on. How about you? When last we saw each other—”
He paused, his eyes softening, put his hand over hers. She could tell he almost smiled.
Love you,
that was the last thing they’d said to each other.
Love you, too.
But this was not the time to discuss that, though Jane could not repress her own desire to smile at the memory. It was all she could do not to move even closer, stand nearer to him. Who would know? What was the protocol for this?
“Anyway.” Jake cleared his throat, squared his shoulders.
Jane knew he was going into cop mode. Probably a good decision. She stepped away, changing the moment, silently agreeing to keep it business.
“What’s the latest with Gracie?” he asked. “Any news?”
Jake was scanning Catherine Siskel’s office as he talked to her, hands now linked behind his back, peering at the framed photos on the bookshelves, checking the top of the wooden desk.
Plain sight,
she knew he’d say.
Anything I can see is evidence.
“Didn’t Melissa contact you?” Jane frowned. A little niggle of uncertainty crept up her spine. “When I didn’t hear from her again, I thought the two of you had connected. Really? No? Hang on. I better call her.”
Jane grabbed her cell, dialed Melissa. Voice mail.
Really?
Waited, left a message. Maybe it was good that Melissa hadn’t called her, or called Jake. Maybe all was well. She mentally crossed her fingers. No need to panic herself over imaginary disaster. Melissa was a lawyer, an adult, and fully capable of handling this.
“So, seriously.” She stashed her phone, saw Jake looking out the window. “What
are
you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Yup,” Jane said.
“So? I’m asking.” Jake turned to her, focused on her.
She knew that look. He thought she’d tell him anything when he gave her that look. Sometimes, under the right circumstances, she would. This was not one of them. She glanced at the door, paused. Nothing. No one. “Good luck with the ‘cute’ look,” Jane said. “Seriously—”
“You said that,” Jake said. “I get it. You’re serious.”
“C’mon, Jake,” she said. Might as well tell him the truth, since they were always off the record anyway. The moment he’d shown up at Siskel’s office, she knew the tip had been accurate. Plus Catherine had run off to throw up, a sure sign of crushing distress and grief. On the other hand, maybe it was a colleague’s husband who’d been stabbed, and Siskel was simply upset. Jane narrowed her eyes, considering.
She poked him in the arm, then leaned on the edge of Siskel’s desk, crossing her arms in front of her. “Okay, fine. Two questions. Does anyone have surveillance video of what happened at Curley Park? And is Catherine Siskel’s husband the victim of that stabbing?”
* * *
Jake stared at her, trying furiously to decide how to answer. Where the hell had
that
question come from? If he paused too long, Jane would know he was calculating what to say. She could read him way too well. Times like this, that put her at an advantage. And half the time, she got him to say more than he planned. Still, his only real dilemma was how to tell Jane she’d gotten a bogus lead without seeming to feed her inside information. Clearly she’d heard something was up with Catherine Siskel’s husband. She simply had the facts wrong.
The identity of the man in the morgue, John Doe No. 1, was still unknown.
“That’s some chase you’re cutting to.” Jake tried to look concerned and unconcerned at the same time. He wasn’t worried about the video question. DeLuca was on that. They’d get whatever they could, though he knew the City Hall traffic cams were only live feeds, ever since the mayor had caved to political pressure, deciding so-called privacy was a bigger priority than law and order.
“Catherine Siskel’s husband?” he repeated her question. “Who told you that?”
“Oh, right,” Jane said.
It killed him when she did that, stuck out her tongue at him. It sent his brain off in another direction entirely.
“Like I’m going to tell you my source,” she was saying. “Besides, I know you,
Detective.
Answering a question with a question means you don’t want to answer me. Which means I’m right.”
“But you’re not!” Damn it. She’d done it again. But she
wasn’t
right.
“Jane,” he said, starting over. He eyed the still-closed office door. The digital clock showed 8:14. How long should he wait for Catherine to return? “Do you think you should check to see if Catherine Siskel is okay? Or I’ll do it if you want.”
He saw the change in her expression.
“Oh, yikes,” she said. “I’m a terrible person. Of course, I’ll go look.” She started away, then turned back. “Except, ah, I don’t really know her, you know? She was about to order me to leave. You think she’d want me to—”
A knock at the door. “Catherine?”
A woman’s voice.
He and Jane exchanged glances. Viewed through a stranger’s eyes, they were two uninvited, unwelcome guests alone in the empty office of a top-level city official.
“You’re the cop,” Jane whispered. “More acceptable for you to be here than for me. Although Catherine never actually told us to leave.”
“Yeah, because she could barely talk,” Jake said.
Another knock. Then the door opened.
“Who’re you? And where is Ms. Siskel?” A black-cardiganed lioness with a mess of gray hair and red-framed eyeglasses took up all the room in the open door. Brandishing a lethal-looking metal clipboard, she looked them up and down as if she couldn’t decide whether to make them stand in the corner or throw them overboard. “Does Ms. Siskel know you’re here? How did you get in here? I’m one second away from calling the police.”
“He
is—
” Jane began, then stopped as he caught her eye.
Call the police, huh?
Jake loved this part. “I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD.” Jake did the badge thing, which stopped the woman’s rat-a-tat questioning.
She stared at the badge, coming closer to inspect it.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “With Ms. Siskel? Or what? I’m Siobhan Hult, her EA. What are you doing here? Do you have an appointment? I know you don’t have an appointment. Did someone call you?”
She pointed to Jane. “And who is she? Why is
she
here? Are you a police officer, too? Let’s see your badge.”
Okay, so it didn’t stop the questioning. An EA? Oh, executive assistant.
Geez.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” Jake tried to interrupt her. And now Jane’s phone was ringing. He glared at her, couldn’t help it, and she clicked it off.
The outer office door opened again. Jake relaxed. It had to be Catherine Siskel. She was the one who had called
him
to report her husband missing. He’d been here a total of fifteen minutes and made zero progress, except to almost get thrown up on, encounter his secret girlfriend, and be interrogated by a crazy person.
But it wasn’t Catherine at the door. A sleek-haired blonde, tight black skirt and impossible heels, carrying a sheaf of legal-looking papers, swept toward them, almost elbowing the secretary
—
the EA—out of the way.
“Siobhan?” The newcomer stopped at the threshold of Siskel’s office. “What’s going on? Where’s Catherine? We have an eight fifteen. And will someone please explain to me why there’s a reporter here?”
Darn it.
Tenley hated when someone came into the office bathroom when she was there. And this early in the morning? She’d left Brileen’s as soon as she could, so she could get to work on time. Weird that she wanted to get to City Hall. Never thought
that
would happen. But getting whisked away from home and waking up in an unfamiliar place—even though she’d agreed to go and all—now seemed a little less like a cool adventure and a little more like a dumb idea. She could always go home again, though, no biggie.
Since she’d brought her backpack to work, all her stuff, it was like she’d never been in that house. She’d seen the metal numbers on the wall beside the front door and the name on the street sign—798 Cadogan Street—before she headed to the bus stop, which she’d looked up, easy peasy, on her phone.
Her phone.
Her mom still hadn’t called. That was kind of good news, since now, with any luck, she’d never know Tenley’d sneaked out. Later, Tenley would explain to Brileen. It wasn’t like she would never see her again, she’d say, they were pals, after all, she’d say, but she didn’t think the time was exactly right to—
Anyway
now, though, someone else was in here, in an out-of-the-way bathroom nobody
ever
used this early. Hiding in the stall, Tenley pulled her feet up, crossed them yoga style, balancing herself on the toilet so her feet wouldn’t show under the door. Silly, and totally uncomfortable, but if she came out while someone was in the bathroom, she’d have to talk to them, and she didn’t feel like it. She didn’t even start work till nine, almost an hour from now, but she was allowed to use her City Hall ID to get in whatever the time. The guard guy downstairs at the lobby desk had been dozing at his post. She’d waved and walked right by him.
She heard someone turn on the water, full blast, in one of the metal sinks that lined the back wall. She tried to peer under the stall’s door to see if she could recognize feet, but, tilting, almost fell over. It didn’t matter who it was, anyway. She’d wait her out. No one could be in the bathroom forever.
That was weird, though, the person had now gone into the stall next to hers but left the water running,
moron.
The person coughed, like she was puking, which was incredibly gross, and if that person actually threw up, Tenley didn’t care what happened, she was so out of here.
Her rear was killing her now. All she needed, to be trapped in the john with a hangover-throwing-up person. Could life get any weirder?
The person didn’t throw up, thank God. Although sounded like she was trying hard enough. The toilet flushed, the stall door opened, the water turned off. Okay, final-fricking-ly. She was almost out of here.
She adjusted herself, trying to keep her balance, trying to imagine what the person was doing. A wisp of color went by the crack in the doorjamb of Tenley’s stall, but not enough to recognize anyone.
Come on,
Tenley thought.
I want to leave.
Silence. But not quite silence. Now the woman was making a phone call. What was this, her office? Tenley tried to lean against the tiled stall wall, felt the metal flusher thing instead, and succeeded only in making a wet spot on the back of her T-shirt.
“Tenley?” the voice out in the bathroom said. She almost fell off her perch on the toilet. She knew that voice. Her
mother.
Her freaking mother. But how had Mom known she was in here? And her mother had been trying to throw up? Why?
All this raced through Tenley’s mind the second she heard her own name. She almost opened her mouth to answer, even though she was one hundred percent baffled. Impossible for her mother to have seen her in here, right? But then Mom kept talking, and Tenley realized she wasn’t talking to her. Not in person. On the
phone.
She was leaving her a message, on her cell! Which right now was under her desk in the surveillance room.
“Honey? I’m at the office,” her mother was saying, “and just checking on you, but you must be on your way in. I’ll find you as soon as I can.”