Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
What You See (45 page)
He still felt the weight of the phone call he’d just made to Catherine Siskel. There would be more to come, especially in the fight over the subpoena for the City Hall surveillance. But since Jake and the Siskels had nailed Dahlstrom and his co-conspirators Hewlitt and Bartoneri with their greenroom trap, it turned out the forbidden tape wasn’t needed to clinch that case.
As he’d told Catherine Siskel, they simply needed Brileen Finnerty. If she’d turn state’s evidence, she’d be their star witness. Now, with Finnerty as potential ammunition, Jake was about to fire his final shot. He entered interrogation room C. Endgame.
Hewlitt’s attorney stood, as if some “round two” bell had clanged. “Detectives, we’re ready to provide certain information,” she said, flapping over a page of her yellow pad, “in return for—”
“That’s not how it works, Ms. O’Shaughnessy.” Jake clanked open a battered folding chair but didn’t sit. “Information first, then we go to the DA. As you are well aware. Ready, Mr. Hewlitt?”
Jake had seen this look before, the deflating of arrogance, the collapsing of ego, the cold realization that whatever a suspect had believed about his own invulnerability, it was defeated by the sometimes successful system of justice.
Sometimes, like today, it worked.
“Hewlitt?” Jake said. “Again, this is all being recorded. First. You’re Hugh, correct?”
The lawyer gestured a weary hand toward her client.
“Whatever.”
“That a yes?” DeLuca sat the end of the table, one ankle on the other knee. He pointed toward a microphone mounted in the corner. “You have to say it out loud, Hewlitt. You know how tape works, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Hewlitt said to the corner.
And it was yes that Angie Bartoneri was in cahoots with Hewlitt and Dahlstrom. Hewlitt had explained she’d hired a street guy named Rodney Field to do the money-for-thumb-drive exchange.
“All he had to do was take the fricking bag,” Hewlitt complained. “It wasn’t my fault he went nuts when Siskel refused to pay. He’d put a fricking phone book in the bag to make it look heavy. Field told me he thought it meant
he
wouldn’t get paid. Fricking crankhead. I
told
you the truth! I told you he was the bad guy. Remember? You should charge
Field
with murder, not me.”
“Mr. Field is dead,” Jake reminded him. Angie was, too, professionally and personally.
DeLuca leaned toward Hewlitt, pointing. “After we stopped
you
from trying to kill Rodney Field, you knew Angie Bartoneri would make sure of it.”
And then Jake saw the whole thing, how even though relying on surveillance felt reliable, felt unassailable—in reality, it wasn’t.
“Think of it, Hewlitt,” Jake said. “If you’d succeeded? You’d have been the hero. Catching the Curley Park killer. And the surveillance tapes would have proved you right. Except they’d be wrong.”
“Screw you,
Officer,
” Hewlitt said.
Jake shot D a look.
Don’t.
“Nice mouth,” DeLuca said instead. “Getting ready for lockup?”
“We’re done.” Hewlitt’s lawyer stood, flapped her legal pad closed. “I’ll wait for your call, Brogan.”
In fifteen minutes, Hewlitt was in custody, DeLuca at his desk with one last assignment, and Jake in his car. He pulled out of the HQ parking lot. Four hours until takeoff. But this damn case still bugged the hell out of him.
The whole crime was caught on camera, Catherine Siskel had admitted it, all on the illicit City Hall video. At least now they knew what it meant. But according to the supe, Mayor Holbrooke and the lawyer Kelli Riordan had already called, strong-arming them to withdraw the subpoena, demanding that the police superintendent, a mayoral appointee, keep the taping confidential. The supe had ordered Jake—“for now”—not to mention it. Jake wouldn’t be surprised if the supe had known about it all along. But the cover-up appeared to be under way.
That was way above Jake’s pay grade. He wasn’t sure how he felt about caving to City Hall, but he’d decided not to think about it. For the next four days, at least.
But he had one more thing on his preflight checklist. One last bit of police work before he turned off his brain.
Angie Bartoneri. What had happened to twist her from ambitious young cop to a jaded manipulative…? Well, greed, he guessed. Power. Ego. A destructive combination. And in a cop, especially dangerous. She’d even leaked information to the media. Unforgivable.
She’d admitted she’d tried to cover up Greg Siskel’s identity to give her crew time to get their stories straight. But was she complicit in murder? Though Jake’s crime scene guys were on it, there was no real evidence to link her to Bobby Land’s death. Jake needed a smoking gun to put her away forever.
He stopped at the light at Beacon Street, pulled out his cell phone, scrolled to D’s speed dial.
“Anything?” he said.
“You oughta be a cop,” DeLuca said. “Guess our Ms. Bartoneri forgot there was surveillance video in the back of the ambulance. We got her dead to rights, yanking out the poor tattoo guy’s oxygen tubes. She put ’em back just as they arrived at Mass General. And Jake? Get this. It also shows her swiping his ID. She probably took Greg Siskel’s, too. And his phone. She just couldn’t know he’d hidden the thumb drive in his shoe. She was there, right?”
“So…” Jake smiled, listening as D explained. “Live by the sword, you know?”
“Yup,” DeLuca said. “What you see is what you get.”
“What Angie Bartoneri gets is murder one,” Jake said.
For a moment, the only sounds Jane heard were the roar of the jet engines and the rattle of suitcases, black rectangles on wheels, rolling side by side across the concrete pavement of the short-term lot at Logan Airport.
Her gray chiffon maid of honor dress was safely in Chicago, pre-teen Eli upstairs happy to cat-sit Coda. Wedding of the century in progress as planned, with Daniel telling her “he’d always suspected” about Gracie but that there was “more to love and fatherhood than DNA.” Gracie had sent Auntie Jane a selfie, her little arms wrapped around a smiling Melissa. Next to them was Lolly, Gracie’s white cat, who everyone agreed should be wherever Gracie was. Today was all about beginnings, not about endings. Which is why they ought to change the name of the parking lot.
“Terminal parking,” Jane said. “They should call it something else, you know?”
“Jane.” Jake’s suitcase wheels came to a halt.
She turned, wondering. “You forget something?”
“Thank you, you know? For showing me that Quik-Shot video?”
A car eased by. Jane stepped away, even though it couldn’t be anyone who’d care. But it might be they’d have to start hiding again. Maybe.
“That must have been a tough call for you.”
Jane rolled her suitcase to tap his. “Aw,” she said.
She paused, stepped back as another car trolled past them. The golden light of the afternoon spilled through the open sides of the parking lot, casting Jake’s face in half shadow. She and Jake would be away—together—for four whole days. They had so much to discuss, but she couldn’t do it right now. And who could predict the future? She’d wait. Tread lightly. She didn’t have to tell Jake everything. Right now, at least.
She gestured toward the elevator, pulled the handle of her roller bag. The two sets of wheels sounded again as they walked.
“I was at Channel 2 after the news conference, though,” she said, skipping the important part of that meeting. The part where Tyson had offered her the job. The part where she said she’d think about it. “I gave the tape back to Marsh Tyson. So if you want it again, you’re gonna have to subpoena it. Without mentioning me.” She poked his arm to remind him. “I know the station won’t give it to you.”
“Ow,” Jake said. “Turns out it wasn’t the tape we needed to clinch it. It was simply you saying ‘hyoo.’ That’s when I remembered what Brileen Finnerty had said in the greenroom. I’d never heard ‘Hugh’ before.”
Jane thought back, remembering when she’d first heard DeLuca yelling the name. When Bobby Land had latched on to her as his ticket to the big time.
“Poor Bobby Land.” She pushed the elevator button. “All he wanted was fame.”
“Well, you know,” Jake said, “if Bobby Land hadn’t bragged about what he saw, Hewlitt would have ignored him. If Hewlitt hadn’t trashed Land’s camera, we might not have been able to take him into custody. If it hadn’t been for Bobby Land, they might have gotten away with it.”
“So Bobby gets to be famous after all,” Jane said. “He’d have loved that. I’ll talk to his mother, maybe. Maybe do a story about him.”
She winced. Had Jake heard that? The elevator doors opened, and the two of them circled their luggage into the space. The silver doors closed them in, and Jane pushed the button for their floor. They were off, on a journey of family, and change, and reunion, and healing. Families were not always easy.
“So,” Jane began. She had one more question. She wasn’t sure whether Jake would answer, but she had to ask. Even though she wouldn’t be a reporter again until—well, she’d think about that when she got back. “Is there a City Hall surveillance tape of the Curley Park murder? Catherine Siskel cut off the news conference without answering. But did Dahlstrom or Siskel ever admit it existed?”
“So, this,” Jake said. He patted his jacket pockets, reached into the inside left.
Was he about to give her a tape? Or a DVD or something? Of what?
“You don’t have to give it to me now,” she said. They’d arrived. The elevator doors slid open, and they walked side by side into the light-filled expanse of the Logan terminal. “Over there,” she said, pointing past a chattering group of backpacking kids and a line of blue-suited flight attendants. “We need to check for the gate.”
But Jake wasn’t following her. She stopped, pivoted, turned back to him.
“‘You don’t have to give it to me now,’” he said, imitating her. He reached out, a look on his face she’d never seen before, and offered her a little white box tied with a light blue ribbon. “Jane Elizabeth Ryland? I think I do.”
“What—is it?” she asked, although as soon as she saw the box, she knew. Inside was her future.
Their
future. And here they were, surrounded by the hubbub of hundreds of others traveling their own journeys. Some arriving, some departing, some, like them, at the beginning. If they could make it work. Jake apparently thought they could. Did she? Could they?
“What is it?” Was all she could manage.
Jake leaned in close. Kissed her. Barely, briefly. “Well, why don’t you open it? What you see is what you get.”
Unending gratitude to
Kristin Sevick, my brilliant, hilarious, and gracious editor. Thank you. The remarkable team at Forge Books: the incomparable Linda Quinton, indefatigable Alexis Saarela, and copy editor Cynthia Merman, who noticed everything, thank you. Another wow of a cover—my story fully realized—from Seth Lerner and Vanessa Paolantonio. Desirae Friesen and Bess Cozby, I am so grateful. Brian Heller, my champion. Bob Werner, you are amazing. The inspirational Tom Doherty, leader of us all. What a terrifically smart and unfailingly supportive team. I am so thrilled to be part of it. Thank you.
Lisa Gallagher, a wow of an agent, a true goddess, who changed my life and continues to do so.
Francesca Coltrera, the astonishingly skilled independent editor who lets me believe all the good ideas are mine. Editor Chris Roerden, whose care and skill and commitment made such a difference. Editor Ramona DeFelice Long—your insights are incomparable. You all are incredibly talented. I am lucky to know you—and even luckier to work with you.
The artistry and savvy of Maddee James, Jen Forbus, Charlie Anctil, Erin Mitchell, and Mary Zanor.
The inspiration of John Lescroart, Mary Jane Clark, Linda Fairstein, Tess Gerritsen, Lisa Unger, Mary Higgins Clark, and Reed Farrel Coleman. To Linda Miele, Alice Jacobs, Ed Ansin, and Chris Wayland—thank you for letting it happen, for your vision and your devotion to journalism.
Sue Grafton. And Lisa Scottoline. And Lee Child. Words fail me.
My darling posse at Sisters in Crime, and the dear Guppies. Thank you. Mystery Writers of America, you rock. Facebook pals, thanks for the grammar guidance, character names, and enthusiasm.
My amazing blog partners. At Jungle Red Writers: Julia Spencer-Fleming, Hallie Ephron, Rosemary Harris, Roberta Isleib/Lucy Burdette, Susan Elia MacNeal, Jan Brogan, Deborah Crombie, and Rhys Bowen. At Femmes Fatales: Charlaine Harris, Dana Cameron, Kris Neri, Mary Saums, Toni Kelner, Dean James, Elaine Viets, Donna Andrews, and Catriona McPherson. At Lipstick Chronicles: Nancy Martin and Harley Jane Kozak, who brought us all together.
Law enforcement and surveillance insiders who, as promised, will remain nameless, thanks for the scoop.
My dear friends Amy Isaac, Laura DiSilverio, Mary Schwager, and Katherine Hall Page; and my darling sister, Nancy Landman.
Dad—who loves every moment of this. And Mom. Missing you.
And Jonathan, of course, who never complained about all the pizza.
Do you see your name in this book? Some very generous souls allowed their names to be used in return for an auction donation to charity. To retain the magic, I will let you find yourselves.
Sharp-eyed readers might notice I have tweaked Massachusetts geography a bit. It is only to protect the innocent, so forgive me. And I adore it when people read the acknowledgments.
Keep in touch, okay?
www.femmesfatales.tyepepad.com
