What You See Page 4

  “We can’t find Gracie,” Melissa said.

  7

  “No no no, wait!” The guy in the blue shirt, yelling, held up a hand, palm out, trying to stop Jake and D from coming any closer. “I’m not the bad guy!”

  Forget that. This stranger in the dead-end alley was Jake’s number one suspect.

  The two detectives exchanged quick looks, Jake wondering if the expression on his own face was as baffled as D’s. Both had instantly pointed their weapons straight at the man in the alley, the V of their arms aiming right at his center mass.

  “Take him, D,” Jake said. His Glock stayed rock steady. The man was big, tough looking—rugby player, maybe. Something in his eyes didn’t seem like fear. “Now, sir? You get up, hands in the air, nice and slow. You budge, you bolt, you’re done.”

  In the brick-walled cul-de-sac at the back of Franklin Alley, they’d found this guy, kneeling square on the back of another man, that one smaller, his sinewy arms sticking out from a white T-shirt. The guy underneath was face-planted in the concrete and gravel, arms splayed, not moving. His face was turned toward Jake, his eyes closed. Was he faking? Dead? How? Why? Who were these two?

  “Listen, listen, it’s all good. About time you cops got here.” The man on top kept one bent knee on the middle of the man’s back, the other on the pavement, balancing. Now he was gesturing Jake and D closer. “I’m Calvin Hewlitt, I’m in security, and I heard the yelling, and saw this guy running—running. Not sure if I could have held this bozo when he comes to. He fought me like a—anyway.”

  His face bloomed red, red as his hair, his nose and ears flushed, sweat darkening his pale blue shirt. Breathing hard.

  “I said up.” Jake kept the Glock aimed. What was this freaking guy doing? “Hands in the air, Hewlitt. Then freeze.”

  Hewlitt stood, one foot at a time, pushing himself up from the pavement, brushed a few pebbles from his hands and knees. Most rolled across the concrete, but one bounced onto the back of the “victim.” The guy lay still. Not a fidget, not a twitch.

  Jake’s weapon was just as motionless.

  Was that guy dead? The second victim of the Curley Park stabber? Or the stabber himself? Jake had to secure the scene ASAP, get this balance of power back for the good guys. Hewlitt looked like some average run-of-the-street moke—security guard, had he said? But who knew what a killer looked like.

  “No blood on his shirt,” D muttered as Hewlitt got to his feet.

  “Maybe he ditched a jacket,” Jake said.

  No time for surprises now, no time for tricks, no time for seemingly dead guys to come back to life, maybe come back shooting.

  Hewlitt eyed Jake, up then down, pointed to the guy. “Must have hit his head on the pavement when I brought him down. But as you can see, he’s—”

  “I. Said. Freeze,” Jake repeated. “Right now. You do not move. You do not talk. And I said, hands in the air. Not in your pockets. Now.”

  Jake had to keep his eyes on two people at the same time. Was one a killer? What if both of them were? Was this guy talking to distract him? D could cuff only one person at a time, and Jake couldn’t afford to let down his guard. Or his weapon.

  The redhead—thirtyish, Jake assessed, civilized haircut, okay shoes. Not a street thug. As he raised his left hand, Jake saw a gold band on his ring finger. Saw both knees of Hewlitt’s slacks ripped, shredded, and his shirt twisted and smeared with dirt. In a struggle at Curley Park? Or here? And why? Damn. What was this?

  “Hands behind your back,” D said.

  In one quick motion, D cuffed him, pulling first one, then the other brawny arm. D was a head taller, maybe, but the guy had him on muscles. The triangular shape of a body builder, or at least someone familiar with the gym.

  Jake took in the whole scene, tried to envision what might have happened. Not that it mattered what might have happened. Conjecture and assumption, the two things that would kill a case. All that mattered was what did happen. And why. It was Jake’s job to find out, and soon. On the brick wall behind them, some idiot had graffitied in puffy white letters: REGGIE IS AN ASSO. Below that, the guy on the ground, motionless.

  Wait. Did his back lift? Guy was breathing. Jake crouched on the pavement, two fingers on the neck pulse point, closing his eyes, feeling for a heartbeat. It was there, barely. Held his palms flat on the guy’s back. Breathing. Not dead. Good. He didn’t want to move him, didn’t want to turn him over.

  “Get the EMTs over here,” Jake told D.

  “Hey,” Hewlitt squirmed in the cuffs, protesting. “Listen, officers—”

  “Detectives,” DeLuca corrected. He grasped Hewlitt’s arm with one hand, keyed his radio with the other. “This is Unit Two, requesting medical assistance for victim at Franklin Alley, top priority. Do you copy?”

  “Copy,” dispatch’s voice crackled over the radio. “Unit is en route, ETA is in three, over.”

  Hewlitt shrugged, adjusted his manacled arms. “Detectives. Whatever. I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not trying to run. And given the circumstances, I won’t call my lawyer. Unless it becomes necessary. All I can say is, better make sure this man doesn’t get away while you’re taking me in custody. Like I keep trying to say, I’m not the bad guy.”

  “Bad guy? How do you know there’s a bad guy?” Still holding his weapon, Jake carefully patted the back pockets of the man’s jeans. Little guy, wiry, midthirties, maybe. No blood apparent, on this side, at least. Or on the ground, that he could see, at least. Jake always hesitated to move a victim—possible internal injuries, liability, making an injury worse—wished the damn EMTs would get here. Wasn’t there someone back at the park Doc Kratky could spare?

  “No wallet,” Jake reported. “You happen to have that, Mr. Hewlitt?”

  “We copy,” DeLuca said into the radio. “Like Detective Brogan said, Mr. Hewlitt, you happen to have this man’s wallet? You can hand it over, or I can search you. Your call.”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” Hewlitt widened his eyes, feigning confession. “You got me. Yes, I have it. Makes complete sense. I robbed this man, then held him down and called for help.”

  “You weren’t the one who called for—” Jake began.

  “What’s with the attitude?” D interrupted. “You’re lucky we didn’t shoo—”

  “I’m standing here, aren’t I?” Hewlitt said. “You see me trying to get away? I were you, I’d be more interested in the bad guy.”

  “What happened here, Mr. Hewlitt?” All Jake needed, D and this mouthy possible suspect goading each other into some alpha-male pissing match. Where the hell was the EMT? “Do you know who this person is?”

  “Know who he is?” Hewlitt rolled his eyes. “Are you kidding me?”

  Jake slid a palm under the prone man’s shoulder, scraping his hand against the gritty pavement. His skin was still warm under the jersey T-shirt. Should he turn him? Then, motion. A shudder. A cough. The man’s nose wrinkled, his mouth twitched, his nervous system struggling into reality. The Bruins logo on his back rose, then fell, then rose again. Jake eased his hand away, wiped it on the leg of his jeans.

  “He’s coming to,” Jake said. “Where’s the—”

  A siren keened in the near distance, the wail of the ambulance growing louder.

  “You might want to get another set of handcuffs,” Hewlitt said. “If this gentleman wakes up, he’ll not be happy to see you, and five’ll get you ten he makes a break for it. Like he tried to do when I grabbed him. You see where that got me. I’d figured on headlines. Instead I’m in a dead-end alley with two dumb cops.”

  “Detectives,” DeLuca said. “With two dumb detectives.”

  Jake got to his feet, eyes on the fallen man, brushed the pebbles indenting the knees of his jeans. “You have something to say, Mr. Hewlitt?”

  “Well, you might want to apologize,” Hewlitt said.

  “Jake,” D said. Pointed. “Check it out.”

  The guy on the pavement was definitely moving. The fingers of his left
hand lifted, paused, fell back to the concrete. Jake knew he should cuff him, just in case. He’d be damned, though, if this security guard asshole—asso, he thought, looking at the graffiti—could think he was telling him what to do. Jake was in charge here.

  “Once again, you have something to tell us, Mr. Hewlitt?”

  Hewlitt rolled his shoulders. He cleared his throat, all drama. “Like I said, I’m not the bad guy.”

  “Right,” DeLuca said. They could hear tires crunching the gravel up the alley, a siren blurping. “So you keep telling us.”

  The siren came closer. Hewlitt pointed a scuffed cordovan toe at the figure on the concrete. Now clearly breathing, looking like he might come to at any second.

  “He’s the bad guy.” Hewlitt raised his voice over the siren’s wail. “I saw him stab the man in the park. Then I saw him run.”

  8

  “You can’t find Gracie?” Jane closed her eyes briefly, trying to blank out the crowd and the whirling red lights of the ambulance and the muttering undercurrent as gawking onlookers dissected the scene before them, voices dimmed in respect or horror. Melissa had finally gotten to the point, but that didn’t mean Jane understood it.

  “What do you mean, ‘can’t find’ Gracie?”

  “What part of ‘can’t find’ do you not understand, Jane?” Melissa’s voice, taut and demanding, grated through Jane’s cell. Melissa was relentless when things didn’t work her perfect way.

  Jane poked an available finger into her nonphone ear, trying to block out the wail of an approaching siren. Failed. She looked up, frowning, scoping out the situation. The EMTs still knelt by the victim. Why did they need another ambulance? She couldn’t shoot any video while she was talking on the phone. She turned her back on the whole thing. She’d give Melissa thirty seconds. Thirty charitable seconds.

  “I understand ‘can’t find,’ Melissa.” Jane kept her voice careful, no need to add to her sister’s distress. “You mean Gracie’s late coming home for lunch or something? She’s not where she’s supposed to be?”

  “Her mother—have you met her? Robyn with a y? Is going nuts,” Melissa said. “She’s the neediest person imaginable. But anyway, Gracie. She comes home from school for lunch. Thanks to Daniel’s incredibly generous child support, they send her to Brookline Charter, close to their—well, anyway.” Melissa was interrupting herself now, no need for Jane to try.

  Jane kept her eyes closed and head down, the only way she could focus and not be distracted by little things like, say, her job and a murder. Both of which she was now, to her certain detriment, ignoring.

  “… but they haven’t come home,” Melissa was saying. “Robyn called the school, but she says they said Gracie left with her stepdad as usual, and that was that. We’ve called him, but he’s not answering his cell.”

  Jane’s call-waiting beeped in, an insistent little chirp that demanded her attention. Channel 2. No doubt wanting to know what she’d discovered. “I’m on the phone with my sister” was not a good answer.

  “Hang on,” Jane said.

  “Ja—!”

  Jane winced, frustrated with this whole juggling thing. If Gracie was really gone, truly gone, whatever “gone” meant, naturally that trumped anything. But Gracie was with her stepfather, right? And Melissa always overreacted.

  “This is Jane,” she said.

  “Jane? You there? What’s the scoop? Is there a suspect? Can you confirm a murder? This is Derek at the assignment desk, BTW. It’s been more than fifteen mins since we got you past the rookie cop—you need any more help?”

  “I, um—” He was kidding, right? Jane didn’t need any help.

  “You got video?” Derek kept talking. “Interviews?”

  “Definitely,” she said. She looked up, squinting. Noontime shadows made dark puddles at each onlooker’s feet. Two of the EMTs were standing now, the other pointing the medical examiner to the man sprawled on the brick walkway. They clicked open the legs of a collapsible metal gurney. The crowd stepped back, as one, as if the medics needed additional room for this delicate procedure.

  “Listen, Derek, no cops are talking yet. The ME is here. They’re moving the victim now. Gotta get a shot of this, gotta go, I’ll call you back.” She hung up before the editor could give her more instructions. Or more criticism. Jane had this, no problem, she simply needed to do it her way. Back to Melissa.

  “Lissa, it’s me, I’m sorry, I had to—”

  “She’s fine.” No more stress in Melissa’s voice?

  “What?” Jane tried to process what her sister said. “She’s what?”

  “Fine. She just called, she’s fine. She’s with her stepfather. Robyn’s husband, Lewis. Evidently the left hand didn’t know—anyway, I’ll keep you posted on the drill for the rest of the day soon as I can.”

  “Great,” Jane said, happy Melissa was not there in person to witness the massive eye roll. But Jane had been the good sister, on the outside, at least. Now she could go back to her real life without a guilty conscience. “Glad it all worked out, Liss.”

  “So we’ll see you tonight, then? And finally get to meet your Jack?”

  “Jake,” Jane said. Counting to ten, backward, got to nine. “Jake Brogan.”

  “Jo-king,” Melissa singsonged. “TTYL.” And hung up.

  The woman was a partner-track lawyer, for God’s sake. Who would say TTYL out loud? But at least Gracie was fine. Another personal life disaster successfully solved.

  Now to get her professional life back. She picked up the video camera and headed for the action. The ambulance doors were still open. She hadn’t missed a thing.

  Score one for Jane.

  * * *

  Finally, Jane was off the phone. Bobby Land sucked the inside of his cheek as he silently rehearsed his line. “Hey, Jane Ryland? I’m…” But she wouldn’t care who he was. How about “Jane Ryland? I’ve been a big fan of yours since—” Well, since what? Since you were fired? That’d never fly.

  Now she was getting away.

  He watched her head toward the crime scene tape, saw the curve of her black suit jacket, her shoulder bag banging against her back, the way she ran over the cobblestones in those high heels. How did women do that?

  He snapped off some photos of her. Stalling.

  Come on, Bobby.

  It was now or never, and he didn’t have time for never. This was his career, his life, his one chance to grab the big time. The brass ring, his father used to say, whatever that meant.

  Do it.

  “Jane Ryland?” he called out, not too loud, just enough to get her attention.

  She stopped, turned to him. Some of her hair had come out of her ponytail, and her black bag slid from her shoulder. She hoisted it back up.

  “Yes?”

  She looked like she was trying to be polite, he didn’t blame her, some strange kid comes up to her, what’s she supposed to think? He’d better get to the point.

  “I’m, uh, Bobby Land? I’m, like, a photographer?” He paused, better make this sound as cool as possible. He handed her a card with his phone number. Smart that he’d just put “Photos by Bobby. Freelance photographer.”

  Jane narrowed her eyes at him, taking the card, then reached into an outside pocket of her tote bag. Awesome, she had the Quik-Shot, so she was up for getting video. But she wasn’t here when the guy got stabbed. She might have locators, background stuff, aftermath, but she couldn’t have the real thing.

  She fiddled with her camera, flapped open the viewfinder, didn’t point it at him.

  “Were you here when it happened, Mr.—”

  “Land,” he said.

  “Land. A photographer, huh?” She smiled at him for the first time. Suddenly she was all friendly. “When did you arrive? Did you get any pictures of what happened?”

  He could tell, even though she was trying to be cool, that she was hoping he had something. He could also tell she was freaking a little, looking at the EMTs and the ambulance. He had to reel her
in, convince her he had the goods. Even though he wasn’t quite sure it was true. But he’d gotten pictures, action shots, of something, and more than she had, for sure.

  “I was right here when it happened.” That was true. “And I was shooting.” Also true.

  “Terrific. Great. Listen, can you do me a huge favor? Can you stand by a second, Mr. Land?” She reached out, as if to touch him, but didn’t actually do it. “I’ve got to get shots of them putting the victim into the ambulance. You know the deal for TV. If it doesn’t happen on video, it didn’t happen, right?”

  She smiled at him again, like she understood they were colleagues, like she understood he knew about getting video, and what was important, and what pictures could make or break someone’s career. Or life.

  “Sure, go for it,” he said.

  She lifted her camera, pointed it at the EMTs. They hoisted the guy onto the wheeled stretcher thing, then yanked up the yellow tubing of the metal legs even higher, bringing it to waist level. Everyone went silent, so silent he could hear the creak of the metal as the stretcher clicked into place.

  He knew they couldn’t talk while she was shooting, their voices would be recorded by the Quik-Shot’s sensitive microphone. He put a finger to his lips, signaling to her that he knew how this shit worked. But she wasn’t looking at him. That was okay. He could wait. He’d told her he had pictures. TV people lived for pictures.

  He had her.

  9

  Tenley clicked the mouse to highlight the red Record arrow on the upper right of her screen. In a fraction of a second, it flashed to green, then a series of numbers appeared beside it. First the date stamp—month, day, and year—and then, in bigger numbers, a flashing countdown. Well, more like a count-up. The computers were programmed to retrieve and preserve the last twenty seconds of video, so the system was now in the process of recording digitized pictures, starting with what occurred twenty seconds ago. Pulling back the past. As if Tenley had the power to stop time, then start it again.

  She couldn’t help but wish she had that power with Lanna. She watched the clock tick off the time of the video cache. It recovered three seconds of the past, four seconds. If she could retrieve the past, knowing what she knew now, would she have told on her sister? Would she have broken that trust? But knowing what she knew now didn’t matter. The past was over. Nine, ten …