Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
Jane entered the elevator, turned to him. When the doors closed, she’d be gone. The hallway was empty, office doors along the corridor closed, and dark.
He slammed a hand against the thick rubber edging of the elevator door. Leaned close to her.
“Jane, I’m serious.” He saw a flicker of a smile cross her face, the first he’d seen in the last fifteen minutes. “Okay, fine. But I mean it.”
The doors struggled to close, thumping and insistent. He held them open. Leaned in even closer, supported by his arms against the demanding doors, his body in the hallway, his head close to hers. He couldn’t control her. It was part of the reason he loved her. But he could try to keep her safe. He would kiss her, he would, damn the hallway and damn City Hall.
Two young women approached, coffees in hand, chatting. They looked at him inquisitively, as he stood holding the door. He smiled at them—
nothing to see here, move along
—to indicate all was well. But the moment had passed. It was probably for the best.
“Do not,” he said, straightening up, now holding the door with just one foot, “do anything without calling me. Somehow, I’ll come with you.”
“Will you?” she said. Her smile got bigger. She reached out, touched his cheek. “Promise?”
He burst out laughing, wondering if she’d done that on purpose. The doors closed and she was gone.
“Mom, Mom, it’s okay.” Tenley’d waited until Siobhan went away, trying to think of a way she might come out from the bathroom stall without scaring her mother, but no matter how she did it, her mom was still gonna be surprised.
Catherine’s almost silent little scream of shock made Tenley scream, too, a copycat reflex. Tenley stood, the beige metal door clanking against the toggle lock behind her.
Her mom was staring at her, pushed a curling wet strand of hair from her tear-streaked face.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” Tenley took a step closer. Man, she looked awful. Worse than when Lanna—She should hug her mother, she guessed, but somehow couldn’t bring herself to do it. “Are you sick?”
“Were you hiding from me? Why?”
Tenley couldn’t read her mother’s expression. Like she was sad
and
mad, and trying to get her balance.
“No, really, Mom. I didn’t know it was you.” All true. She would have stayed in the stall until whoever it was left. “But when I heard Siobhan talk, then you talked, then I knew. But what’s wrong? What’re you doing here—and so early?”
“It’s not really early,” her mother began. Correcting her, as usual. But then she stopped midsentence. Her shoulders dropped. “Oh, Tenner,” she said.
Then silence. Her mom turned the water off, and then it was really quiet.
“What?” Tenley said. This was incredibly awkward, and Tenley didn’t know how to handle it. What was making her mother so upset? Unhappy? Was it something to do with her? Had she found out about last night? “What?”
Her mother leaned against the fake marble counter, then stood up straight, patting the rear of her skirt. She tested the counter’s surface with one finger, sighed, then wiped it dry with a bunch of paper towels. She sniffed, dabbing her red nose with another wad of towels, and leaned back again. Like she was trying to think of how to say something. Well, if she was mad about last night, she’d have no trouble coming up with what to say. She’d said plenty of mean stuff to Tenley in the past. Well, maybe not exactly
mean,
but critical, at least. So maybe she didn’t know Tenley had sneaked out. Good. Anything else she could handle.
Tenley looked at the floor, away from her mother’s face. Unless this was about the video. She felt her stomach tense, like it always did when she was anxious. But it wasn’t her fault the video got erased. It was Dahlstrom’s.
“You remember yesterday—the, ah, situation in Curley Park?” Her mother’s voice did not sound mad. But it did sound like something bad was about to come next.
Crap.
It was about the video. Her stomach was killing her. “Mom, that wasn’t my fault.” Time to stand up for herself, for once. That guy Dahlstrom, no matter how cool Lanna had thought he was, probably blamed everything on her, like, ratted her out to her own mother, and now he probably told her mom she had to fire her own daughter, which would be humiliating and awful. And that’s why her mother was crying. Because she thought Tenley had been a failure, yet again, the pitiful misfit daughter of the big-shot chief of staff. Maybe it would be better if she
had
stayed away, stayed at Brileen’s. But, hey. No way. She wouldn’t take the blame for something she didn’t do.
“Not your fault?”
Her mom was scowling. She knew that expression, knew it perfectly. Double crap. Her mother didn’t believe her.
“Mom, I’m not kidding. This sucks. I saw what happened. I tried to—”
“You—saw?”
“Yes, like I said.” Why was Mom acting like Tenley was lying? “I did everything right. I saw something was going on, whatever it was, I pushed Save. But that Ward Dahlstrom, you know? Saw me and came over and pushed Cancel. So we
would
have had it, you know? But
he
did it,
he
pushed Cancel.”
She’d already said that, but now she was really pissed. Like that guy was going to get her in trouble? Screw it. Let them fire her. She was so out of here.
Her mom’s face had gone all white, or gray, and her eyes got so big.
“You saw—” her mom said again.
What was the big deal? Yes, she’d said that, a million times, yes, she’d seen—well, it was all a blur, and she guessed not from moment one, but still.
“Yes, Mom, like I said. But—”
The bathroom door pushed open. They both turned to see who was invading their private territory, interrupting.
“Go away!” Her mom actually yelled at the person. The door slammed closed.
And it was all quiet again. Her mother tossed a soggy wad of paper towels into the silver bin along the wall. It landed on the edge, teetered, then fell to the floor. Her mother made no move to pick it up.
“Tenley,” her mother said, “I have terrible news.”
* * *
Jane dropped her tote bag by the table at Robyn’s front door and followed Melissa into the living room. Her sister looked crazy-disheveled, hair yanked back, jeans, bare feet. Robyn was in a bathrobe, ice blue chenille, belt knotted at the waist, her pale hair tousled over her shoulders. Lipstick, Jane saw.
“Robyn?” Jane stopped at the edge of the jewel-toned Oriental rug, scanned the room. Just the three of them. “He hasn’t called yet, has he? Have you heard anything new?”
“Jane.” Robyn sipped something from a china cup on table in front of her, replaced it in the saucer. In her other hand, she clutched a cell phone, gestured with it. “Thank you so much. Melissa’s been lovely, and I’m not quite sure exactly how to handle this, and now I’m so grateful you’re going to…”
Jane knew that look on Melissa’s face.
For better or for worse,
she’d be promising a few days from now. Well, here was a possible worst. She watched her sister pull it together, arrange her face in a semblance of patience and professionalism.
“Legally, this is a mess, Jane.” Melissa crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not kidnapping. Gracie’s not adopted, but Lewis has partial custody, as guardian, and as such”—she glanced at Robyn—“legally it creates a quagmire, because we cannot report Gracie as lost or missing or abducted. In the eyes of the law, she’s legally with her stepfather.”
“But now he says—” Robyn stopped, dabbing at her eyes with a white tissue.
Melissa shook her head. “Look. Legally you and Lewis are having a marital disagreement. In the eyes of the law, that’s something you’ll have to work out for yourselves. Unless. Has Lewis—again, forgive me—threatened you or Gracie? It’s a question that needs to be asked. And answered.”
Robyn took another sip from her cup. “No, no. Really.
No.
Like I
keep
saying. Of course not.”
“Do you think Gracie’s in danger? At all?” Melissa persisted. “If so, that provides us a way in. We call the police, explain that Lewis threatened Gracie, explain we are in fear for her life. They take over. I mean, Daniel’s plane is supposed to be here. In
two hours.
If his daughter is still gone—I mean, if I haven’t—”
“Melissa?” Jane had to interrupt. Robyn was on edge, Melissa verging on frantic. Two women who shared so much—and had so little in common. But it wasn’t doing any good for them to snipe like this at each other. And no one had ever intimated Lewis was dangerous, or was going to hurt Gracie. Had they?
“It’s nine forty-five. Lewis is supposed to call at ten, right?” Jane looked at Robyn, confirming. “Is that what he said? He’ll tell me where to pick up Gracie. And I’ll bring her to you both. And Daniel.” She sighed, mulling it over. “I mean … is it possible Lewis is simply acting out his anger that Melissa and Daniel are taking Gracie away?”
Robyn made a little sound, like a gasp, or a whimper.
“I’m sorry, Robyn,” Jane said. Now her own words were sounding harsh. She shouldn’t have said “taking Gracie away.” “I only meant—for the summer. I know
you
are willing to accept that, right?”
“Of course,” Robyn said.
“But maybe Lewis is upset? He’s been a good stepfather, loving and … appropriate. That’s all Melissa is really trying to confirm. I’m thinking maybe he’s embarrassed at his behavior. Maybe he, I don’t know, loves her so much he can’t bear to lose her. And now he doesn’t want to deal with, you know, Melissa and Daniel. The ones—in his view, at least—who are ruining his life.”
“We—” Melissa protested.
“He—” Robyn’s voice was stone.
“I’m only saying.” Jane held up a palm. “I’m a safe option. I pick her up; he doesn’t have to face you. Gracie doesn’t even know there was a controversy, right? So she’s not traumatized in any way. As far as she knows, she was on a spontaneous fun jaunt with her dad. Melissa and Daniel bring Gracie to the wedding, you and Lewis get your lives back.”
She paused, gauging the reaction. “Right?” She nodded at each in turn, as if that would encourage them to agree. It sounded semi-plausible, and Jane had almost convinced herself to believe it. She pictured herself holding Gracie’s hand, walking into this living room, happily ever after. “Right?”
Silence.
“I don’t know,” Robyn wailed. “I don’t.” She stood, then threw herself onto the couch, head in hands, blonded hair tumbling across her shoulders. When she looked up again, her face had paled to ice, her eyes wide. “She’s my
daughter.
I’m terrified. Lewis sounds completely crazy. And I don’t believe a word he says anymore.”
“Then we’re calling the police,” Jane said. “End of story.”
“No!” Robyn stood again, hand on hips.
The phone rang.
Had Catherine Siskel been crying? Maybe. Still, Jake figured, no one looked too hot after they threw up. Her face was red, and her blouse, now rumpled and askew, had come out of her skirt. Throwing up sucked. It meant you were either sick—which this woman wasn’t—or upset. Which she clearly was. Or feeling very guilty.
“You okay, ma’am?” Jake continued to assess as the chief of staff headed to her desk. The secretary had retreated to her own territory. Riordan and Dahlstrom were dispatched to wait for a call summoning them. Now he and Siskel were alone. Now she’d have to explain. Her husband was missing, she’d told him. He’d finally find out why she thought so.
He’d already texted DeLuca to get over here. With a missing husband and two dead guys, counting Bobby Land, the day was—
duh
—out of control. Turned out D had not been sleeping, as Jake had predicted, but was staking out Calvin Hewlitt’s condo. So far, though, he reported no activity. DeLuca had requested a backup to take over Hewlitt watch. Who caught it? Angie Bartoneri. Jake shook his head.
Figures.
With luck, though, Hewlitt would never know the occupants of the beat-up gray van parked opposite his South End brownstone were employees of Boston PD and not Paul Revere Landscaping.
Not even twenty-four hours since the Curley Park murder. Jake had been awake the whole time.
“Coffee?” Catherine Siskel was asking him, gesturing to one of those pod coffee machines.
“Thanks,” he said, grateful for as much coffee as anyone could provide. “Appreciate it. Black is fine.”
Still, luck of the Irish, because he’d been called here, he’d also gotten a damn good lead about City Hall surveillance video. Which, despite her loss, the enigmatic Ms. Siskel would have to explain. The coffeemaker hissed and gurgled, and hot water spat into a white mug. Jake smelled dark roast.
“So your husband?” he asked. “I take it he hasn’t called.”
Siskel handed him the steaming mug. Her hand trembled, the slightest bit.
“No,” she said. “He’s a consultant, so there’s no office he uses. Just home. He didn’t come home last night. He’s not there now. And not answering his cell. Mind if I sit?” She gestured to the black leather swivel chair behind her desk. “I’m not feeling that well.”
“Of course.” Jake took a less-comfortable guest chair opposite. “Has your husband been gone for twenty-four hours?”
Siskel blinked, looked at her watch. “Ah, I guess not,” she said. “I mean, technically? No. I talked to him on the phone around eleven yesterday morning. It’s almost ten now. So fine, twenty-three hours. Is there some—”
“Technically,” Jake said. Funny word to use. He took a sip of coffee, then looked at Siskel. She slid a little notepad across her desk, and he put the hot mug on it like a coaster. “Technically,” he repeated, “we can’t move into missing-persons mode until an adult—especially one we have no indication is in danger, or—”
He stopped, reading her expression. “What?”
She shook her head, barely. “Nothing,” she said.
“Ma’am? Do you think your husband
is
in danger?” This is exactly what he sensed. The woman was not being straight with him. If she’d murdered the guy herself, or hired someone, this is how he’d imagine her behavior. Half sentences. Distractions. Evasions. All the elements of a cover-up. “Has he been threatened, does he have enemies? Is he driving? Is there a car we should look for?”