Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
Tenley rolled her eyes. Her mother was about to come looking for her. What if she’d discovered Tenley’d sneaked out? And now was totally pissed? But Mom didn’t sound mad.
“And, um, Tenley? I’m sorry about last night.”
Okay. She was apologizing. And not mad. Whew. Her mother paused. Tenley strained to hear what would come next.
“I need to talk to you, honey,” her mother finally said. “It’s important.”
Tenley waited, heard her mother click off the phone. And then—was her mother crying?
She waited, not sure what to do. Part of her felt like hiding here, like, forever, pretending, trying to erase the whole thing from her memory. The other part of her felt like crying, too, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint why.
Silently placing one sneaker onto the aqua-tiled floor, then the other, Tenley stood. Smoothed down her skirt. Unrolled the waist to make the skirt a little longer.
Paused, listening to the quiet sobs.
* * *
“We’re checking on a story,” Jane said, crossing the city attorney off her mental victims list. This Kelli Riordan, in her patent-heeled power outfit, did not look like a person whose husband had been killed. No grieving wife would still have on that much mascara if she’d gotten such devastating news. Jane’s money was still on Catherine Siskel. Plus, Jake hadn’t gone to Kelli Riordan’s office. He’d come here.
“Nevertheless, my questions still stand,” Riordan said. “What are you doing here? What ‘story’? And where is Catherine Siskel? Detective? Ms. Ryland, isn’t it?”
“She’s in the bathroom, I think,” Jane said. “She wasn’t feeling well. I was about to go check on her.”
“Not feeling well? Why didn’t you tell me?” Siobhan Hult picked up a black desk phone, punched a few numbers with one demanding finger. “I’m calling her. Then
I’ll
go check on her.”
“Check on who?”
A man strode into Catherine’s office, looking at each of them in turn.
Uh-oh.
The checked shirt guy with the coffee. The one Jane bamboozled into letting her into the building.
“I’m here for the eight fifteen.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Hey. Aren’t you—”
“She’s a reporter,” Riordan said.
Jane could have sworn the woman was trying to send telepathic signals of some kind to this newcomer. An odd emphasis on “reporter.” Widening eyes. A barely perceptible flash of distress. But she could be wrong. Everyone at City Hall hated reporters. Riordan was probably the president of the Hate Reporters Society.
Jane smiled to prove she was a nice person, not there to cause trouble.
“Call the cops,” the man said. “This woman
sneaked
by me into City Hall when I walked in—how was I supposed to know—”
“He
is
the cops,” Kelli said, pointing.
“I
am
the police,” Jake said at the same moment.
Now there were five people in the same office. Pretty interesting. And possibly suspicious. Meantime, Catherine Siskel was probably still cleaning herself up in the bathroom and wondering why no one had gone in to make sure she hadn’t passed out on the floor.
At least they seemed to have forgotten Jane’s “sneaking” episode.
The EA hung up the desk phone. “No answer from Ms. Siskel,” she said. “I’ll try to see if she’s—”
“No,” Kelli Riordan interrupted. “
I’ll
go. Listen, Ward. Is her daughter here?”
“Not until nine,” Ward said. “Supposedly.”
Daughter here?
Jane looked at Jake, trying her own telepathy.
Did you know about a daughter here? I didn’t.
No.
Jake used a fraction of an expression to convey his surprise.
Me either.
* * *
Time to take back the morning,
Jake thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he interrupted the three staffers. “We’re all busy, and I understand you’re concerned about your colleague. But I’m here to talk with Ms. Siskel privately. I’m sure any meeting she had arranged with you two can be postponed. Ms. Hult, will you go check on Ms. Siskel? Thank you.”
The EA opened her mouth, closed it, and flounced from the room.
Jake waited until the door closed behind her. “I need your names and contact information, please,” he went on. “And you mentioned a daughter. Does Ms. Siskel have a daughter who works at City Hall?”
Jane’s phone rang again. She made a face, like,
sorry.
And went out into the hall.
“I’m Kelli White Riordan, city attorney.” The woman flapped open a leather portfolio, presented him an embossed business card. “You’ll understand why I’m concerned with your tactics. Might I ask, once again, why you’re here? As the city attorney, I have every right—in fact, it’s my responsibility to know.”
“It’s a private matter, between me and Ms. Siskel. I’m sure she’ll contact you if she deems it necessary.” Jake put the card in his pocket and turned to the man—Ward? He’d tossed his Starbucks paper cup into an empty wastebasket and now seemed at a loss for what to do with his hands. He’d already yanked his shirt collar, scratched his nose, smoothed his hair.
“And you are…?” Jake asked.
Checked shirt and Riordan exchanged glances. Times like these Jake wished for telepathy. Clearly these two had some agenda.
“Ward—” He stopped, frowning. The office door had opened again.
Jane.
“Dahlstrom,” the man went on.
“Title?” Jake prompted. It was nothing Jane couldn’t hear.
Dahlstrom looked at Riordan as if needing some guidance from the lawyer. She waved a weary hand.
Go ahead
.
“Director of external communications.”
“I see.” Jake almost laughed. Politicians rivaled only cops for unmitigated jargon. “Communications?” Maybe public relations? Did it have to do with spinning the Curley Park murder? “And that means…?”
“Detective?” Riordan answered instead. “He handles our surveillance cameras.”
Catherine yanked a length of towel from the automatic dispenser, doused it with cold water, and held the soggy paper to one cheek, then the other, cooling her flushed face while trying not to wet the escaping tendrils of her hair. Every muscle in her body ached. She realized she’d been clenching everything, trying to prevent fifty land mines from blowing up in everyone’s face.
And who was taking care of
her
? No one ever took care of her. Maybe it was her own fault. Every time Lanna talked about leaving, she’d ignored it instead of talking about it. She was a terrible mother. And look what happened.
Her husband started being distracted and distant and silent. Instead of trying to understand him, she’d ignored it, focused on work, figured he’d get over whatever it was. She was a terrible wife. And look what happened.
Now she was a terrible chief of staff, too, crying in the bathroom while the mayor’s political career was about to fall apart. To keep that from happening, she had to lie. And cover up what she knew about her own husband. Her career—and Tenley—were all she had left. Yes. It was her own fault.
She soaked the towel again, listening to the water gush from the faucet, wishing she could jump into the sink and swirl down the drain, lost and forgotten and swept away by the tides of Boston Harbor.
But
Tenley.
She still had Tenley. She would do everything in her power, starting now, everything, not to blow that. She’d be a good mother. Make up for her failings. She’d go to Tenley’s office, right now. Leave her a note. Arrange lunch. She looked at her face in the mirror, all blotches and red-rimmed eyes.
Oh. Greg.
Another sob escaped her. Poor Tenley.
“Mrs. Siskel?” Someone was pounding on the bathroom door. “Mrs. Siskel! Are you in there?”
Siobhan. What was she doing here this early? How’d she find her in
this
bathroom?
“I’m fine,” she called out, attempting to remove any trace of sorrow from her voice. She felt like grief was strangling her. But she could not let anyone know. She raised her voice over the sound of the running water. “Two minutes, okay?”
The meeting. Shit. She moved closer to the door but didn’t open it.
“Are Kelli and Ward waiting?”
“In their offices,” Siobhan said. “Are you
sure
you’re fine?”
“I’ll call them, thanks so much, all good.” Catherine tried to sound cheery and normal. Exactly what she wasn’t. “All good,” she whispered.
Another lie.
* * *
Surveillance cameras? If Jane hadn’t been so distracted, she’d have pounced on that admission and moved into high reporter gear. Did they have the Curley Park murder on tape? Jane knew about the whole traffic cam controversy and the hullabaloo over the decision. Did City Hall have other cameras that recorded? There couldn’t be sound, because it was illegal in Massachusetts to record voices without permission. But you could record silent video. And if there was a person in charge of surveillance, there had to be surveillance.
But the call she’d just taken from Melissa had changed Jane’s entire day. She’d had to call Marsh Tyson, once again, explain she had family issues. He seemed understanding, said he’d assign someone else to the City Hall story, but who knew what he really thought.
She also had to tell Jake about Melissa’s call. Somehow. He’d just heard about this surveillance guy, and that was potentially critical. This was, too.
Standing on the threshold to Siskel’s office, Jane cleared her throat, needing to get his attention. All three turned to her. Ward annoyed, Kelli disdainful, and Jake concerned.
“Ah, Detective?” she said. “Sorry to interrupt, but ah, I’ve got to, uh, go.” Incredibly inarticulate, but her mind was racing so fast her voice couldn’t keep up with it. She hitched her tote bag over her shoulder, locking eyes with Jake. She had to let him know it was important, but she didn’t want the two pols to think he had anything but a professional connection with her. “Regarding the story we were discussing earlier. I do need to follow up with you about that as soon as you have a moment.”
“You’ll need to call the public relations department, Ms. Ryland,” Jake said. “Maybe in about ten minutes? I think the special duty officer will be there by then.”
Great. He understood. She’d call him on his cell in ten minutes. She tried to keep the fear and anxiety out of her voice and knew she was failing. How was she supposed to handle this? Melissa was waiting for her, and it seemed like—
dammit
. She looked at her watch.
“Eight thirty-five, then?” She tried to signal with her eyes,
Please, Jake, we need to talk.
“Right?”
“Everything okay, Ms. Ryland?” Jake asked.
“Sure.” She tried to make that sound like a lie. To him.
Jake looked at Riordan and Dahlstrom. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll just show Ms. Ryland to the elevator.”
A wave of gratitude washed over her, almost tears, as she turned away from the office. She felt Jake behind her.
“Jane, what?” he whispered.
“Gracie,” Jane said. “Melissa called and—”
Jake reached for his radio. She put out a hand, stopping him. “No,” she said. “That’s the thing. Melissa called to say that Lewis had called Robyn—you following this?”
Jake nodded.
“It seems like there’s some sort of ridiculous battle over Gracie, between Robyn and Lewis, which Lewis decided to solve by taking her. Problem is, Melissa had no idea there was a battle. And now—”
“Is she okay? Is Gracie okay? Where are they?”
“Yeah, apparently she’s okay. Lewis took her—” Jane shook her head. “I don’t know. According to Melissa, he told Robyn he was ‘taking Gracie far, far away,’ and she’d ‘never see her daughter again.’ It’s all about the wedding and Daniel, and then she said he said—ah.”
She jabbed the elevator’s Down button, jabbed it again. She’d get out of here, grab her car, head for Melissa. “Hate this,” she said. “Why do elevators never work?”
“Honey,” Jake whispered, “tell me what happened.”
“Okay. Apparently Robyn talked him off the ledge. I have no idea where they are, but now he’s promised to give Gracie back.”
“Great.”
“To me,” Jane said. The elevator was finally arriving. Forget the chance to land a job at Channel 2. Gracie came first. The rest would work out. It was not about her. It was about Gracie. If she was part of the solution, so be it.
“To you what?” Jake said.
“Melissa said that Robyn told her—” She paused, reading his expression. “I know, but that’s all there is. Robyn said Lewis told her at first Gracie’d never see Robyn or Melissa or Daniel again. Even threatened to leave the country and take Gracie with him. But when Robyn said she was calling the police, he gave in and agreed to give Gracie back. But only to me.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jake said. “Or insane.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Jane said.
* * *
Jake could see the fear in her eyes, as well as the determination. Being a reporter was kind of like being a cop, but without the badge or gun. Or training. Or backup. Jane always asked the right questions, always listened to the answers, and never made snap judgments. Had a good instinct. But—just like some cops—she sometimes wanted to be a hero. And this was no time for that.
“No way, Jane,” he said. “I don’t care what some crazy-ass moron is demanding. If he’s taken Gracie without parental permission, that’s—shit. Let me think about this.”
Jake could hear the elevator laboring toward them. “What are you supposed to do now?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Go to Robyn’s. He’s supposed to call at ten with instructions.”
“Do you know where they are? Lewis and Gracie?”
“I know nothing,” Jane said. “At all.”
The elevator doors slid open. Her expression changed. “But what can I do?” she said. “I have to help. I’d never forgive myself if … and you know? Maybe they’re just having a ridiculous argument. Maybe the guy is scared. Trying to come up with a way to save face. Who knows why anyone does anything.”
Jake had a murder to solve, maybe two, and two still-unidentified victims. Was Jane right? Who knew why anyone did anything? Fear was a powerful motivator. Revenge, greed. Jealousy. Sorrow. Love.