What You See Page 5

  “Miss Siskel?” Of course it was Ward Dahlstrom, hovering over her like a cloud of imminent criticism, but she guessed this was his job. They’d all been instructed to avoid “the twenty,” since whatever was digitized and downloaded existed. No longer a fleeting unrecorded moment in time but a legally obtainable piece of reality. “Might there be something you’d like to tell me? I saw you hit the twenty. Is there something I should know?”

  Tenley knew if you pushed Cancel before the counter hit twenty, the entire recording would disappear. Thirteen, fourteen …

  The twenty-second cache was the compromise the city’s big shots made with the civil liberties people, her mother had explained to her, after they got all pissed off, claiming the city’s surveillance system was an invasion of privacy. As a result, though, every time a twenty was recorded, it had to be reported, entered into a video log, and never erased. Before the compromise, the city had digitized and stored everything, easy enough to do, but soon the lawyers for every driver who’d been accused of running a red light demanded the video as some kind of proof of their clients’ innocence. She remembered her parents discussing it—“an evidentiary can of worms,” her mother complained.

  Fifteen. “Well, see that ambulance?” Tenley said. “And I think those are EMTs, see? I was thinking that if something happened down there, it might help someone if we—”

  Sixteen.

  “Help the police?” Dahlstrom did not look happy. “Why?”

  Fine, she was only a peon and she was trying to help and Dr. Maddux had encouraged her to be more responsible. Assertive. Not afraid of people. So here she’d done that, done exactly that, and now her boss was frowning.

  “In case…” she began, watching the count-up, knowing that in a few seconds, the past would be captured. This time, at least. There were no do-overs in life, her father always tried to tell her, as if she didn’t know that. But. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was her moment to make it happen.

  Dahlstrom reached out his right hand and clicked her mouse. She saw his hand had a bruise on the top of it, right in the center. She’d Purell the mouse, Purell everything, after he left. She wished she could Purell the air. He clicked on the green light just as it reached nineteen. The light went red. White letters popped up.

  Cache TERMINATED.

  “Can of worms,” he said.

  * * *

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be…” Jake aimed his Miranda warning at the poor schlub on the paramedics’ portable gurney. Had he even heard it? They’d hoisted the guy—passive, drooling, and shuddering for breath—onto the thin flat mattress, then cuffed his left leg to the manacle bracket welded to the foot of the cot. The EMTs pulled three black straps across his trembling body and fastened the shoulder-to-waist webbing on each side.

  Jake finished the rights as one paramedic checked the plastic strap couplings. The patient—victim?—wore running shoes, cheap, the soles worn and blackened. Both knees of his jeans were ripped, showing lacerations and scratches on his legs, scratches that would certainly correlate to the crumbling bricks of the walk beside the Curley statue.

  “How is he?” Jake began. “You see his ID? I didn’t want to look too hard.”

  “Good call. Possible internal injuries. Could have hurt.” The older one hung the stethoscope back around his neck, shaking his head. “Heartbeat weak, pulse ox iffy. He’s unconscious, and more than banged up, Jake. We’ll get him to Mass General, check it out. Call you if we find ID. Okay, gang, let’s get him inside.”

  They flapped open the rear doors of the orange-striped ambulance. The driver had pulled his vehicle nose-first into the alley’s entrance. He’d have to make a tough U-ey to get out.

  Jake and D had holstered their weapons, and D stood watch near Calvin Hewlitt, still cuffed, now silently watching.

  “Sir?” Jake took a step closer to the gurney, smelled beer and sweat and fear. The patient—suspect?—had his eyes closed. Jake saw an ugly red welt on the right side of his neck. “Sir?”

  Nothing. The guy’s skin was pale, splotched with red. Could be drugs, or alcohol, or poverty, or panic. Why did people do what they did? But Jake didn’t need a motive to convict this man. With any luck there’d also be bystander photos and surveillance videos of him in the act. So talk or not, buddy, Jake thought. We got you.

  Jake stood, signaled to the paramedic. Take him. “Let’s get him outta here.”

  The guy was going nowhere but the hospital, where he might recover, at least, and where, under armed guard, he’d get a doctor’s attention. They’d find ID. With a clean bill of health, or cleanish, at least, his next stop would be the Suffolk County lockup. Match the fingerprints on the knife—if there were any—with this guy’s? One and done. Shortest perp apprehension time ever. Even the hottest-shot defense attorney would have a tough time with that one. Case closed.

  “Officers?” Calvin Hewlitt, still cuffed, had watched the whole thing, silent. “Might I remind you I exist?”

  Shit. Problem was, although the mute suspect was most certainly—well, probably—the stabber, Jake had no way to determine whether this Hewlitt was the hero he claimed to be, or was involved in some way.

  A witness? A good Samaritan? A partner in crime? Who was who in this deal? Sure seemed like—but “seemed” didn’t matter.

  “Just doing our jobs. Sir.” Jake tried to balance the proper police procedure with the potential outcomes. Getting sued for false arrest always loomed. Police brutality, although there clearly wasn’t any, would be a pain to handle. On the other hand, if this Hewlitt was part of the crime and Jake let him go, some theoretical lawsuit would be the least of Jake’s problems. Plus, either he or D would have to ride with the injured guy in the ambulance. Even strapped down and cuffed, no telling what might happen. Or what he might decide to say.

  “We have to bring you downtown, sir.” Jake nodded at D, cocked his head toward the alley entrance.

  “You’re taking me out there, in front of everyone, in freaking handcuffs?” Hewlitt’s face got even redder, the cords in his neck tightening, showing taut above his collar. “You don’t think that’s prejudicial? There’ll be a raft of TV cameras, hell knows what else. I’m warning you, Officers—”

  D opened his mouth to protest, Jake raised a palm to stop him. Guy might have a point.

  “If my picture gets on television in these handcuffs?” Hewlitt tried to gesture, failed. “I’ll own the damn police department. And I’ll own you.”

  * * *

  Bobby Land, totally psyched about his new name, had caught a flash of orange as the second ambulance made the sharp right into Franklin Alley, the same alley where the leather-jacketed cops had gone. An ambulance? With a suspect on the loose? Had to be connected. And where there was a connection, there was a good picture.

  “Jane? I mean, Ms. Ryland?” Bobby touched her shoulder, just for an instant, didn’t want to spook her.

  The reporter turned around, took the viewfinder from her right eye, pointed the camera at him, then at the pavement. He could tell she was deciding what to do. His life hung in the balance. Well, not really, but this chance meeting felt momentous. His chest tightened. If she ignored him, he’d push harder.

  “Hang on, okay?” she said. She’d already turned back to the crowd, aiming her little camera at City Hall.

  Good. Bobby watched her back, saw her inching closer to the action, camera aimed steady, even in those high heels. He could tell she was kinda nervous about him, she’d retreated a little before, keeping her distance from him, but he couldn’t worry about that. She’d understand soon enough. And accept him.

  But he couldn’t delay much longer. Whatever was going on in that alley was already under way. News would not wait for anyone, even Jane Ryland. Taking a chance, seizing the moment, like his professor always said, he took a few quick steps, got close enough to tap her on the shoulder again. He had the eye, and this was his chance to prove it to her. This would make his care
er.

  10

  Jane recoiled at the touch on her shoulder.

  She’d told that annoying kid to wait. What was up with him? “Hang on,” she called over her shoulder.

  The ambulance with the ME riding along pulled away. Maybe this kid—Bobby? Robby?—actually had witnessed what happened, maybe gotten photographs of it, as he’d said. She reminded herself to be wary. Someone at a story often tried to latch on to her, to any reporter, something about the lure of fame or celebrity, as if being near a person who was “on TV” had some cachet. Everyone had an agenda, even if it was only proximity. Why did everyone hate TV but lust after celebrity?

  But if he had actual crime pictures, that’d be big. And Jane needed big. She needed exclusive. She needed something that would clinch her a job at Channel 2.

  It bugged her, though, that the groupie vibe coming from this kid was getting louder and louder. Reporters thrived on news tips, but sometimes tipsters got too invested, deciding they were part of the team. And once under way, an escalating fantasy relationship was tough to untangle. Jane still had people calling her years after they’d contributed to a story. Maybe it was the power of revealing a secret, of being the one in the know. The power of telling. But what if this kid knew something? Couldn’t hurt to find out.

  “Sorry,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I think it’s going down in Franklin Alley.” Bobby, she remembered. Land. Like the camera. “I saw two cops, plainclothes, heading down there. And now an ambulance. It’s, like, around the corner, so you can’t see, but maybe you should—”

  Jane glanced left, right, scanned the crime scene. Ambulance gone, cops still questioning clumps of possible witnesses. Traffic had started again, lunchtime returning to almost normal. Except for the bloodstain on the sidewalk. Two other TV stations had arrived, including her ex-employer, now competitor, Channel 11. Ha. With a bit of luck and a lot of fast driving, she’d beaten everyone on this story, and now they had to play news catch-up. Little late, she imagined the fun of telling them. Excitement’s over. They’d get aftermath, that was all. Score two for Jane.

  Was this kid about to provide score three? This day was not playing out as she’d imagined. Not anywhere near.

  “Okay, Bobby,” she said. She’d already started walking toward the alley, turning her back on her competitors. “Show me.”

  * * *

  The moment her computer flipped to 1:00 P.M., the minute she saw the double zeros, Tenley clicked the mouse, putting her computer station to sleep and setting herself free. Forty-five glorious minutes. Outside, maybe in the sun. Where life happened for real, not on video.

  She had to admit she was curious. Something was going on in Curley Park. Even though Dahlstrom stopped the recording, that didn’t make it not exist. You couldn’t erase reality. She was bummed about the deleted video, but it wasn’t her fault. They better not blame her for it.

  Out in the City Hall corridor, around the corner, she ducked into the ladies’ room—four stalls, all empty—and rolled up the waistband of her skirt so at least she looked cool. She untucked the tail of her T-shirt, EFFING AWESOME it said, and tied her cardigan around her waist. She looked in the mirror, just long enough to remember her earrings were gone, but her hair would cover all those little holes. Now if she could get out of here without running into her mother. Mom’s office was on a different floor, so all she had to do was pray to the elevator gods to protect her from coincidence. She hardly ever saw her mom at City Hall. It wasn’t like bring-your-daughter-to-work time around here—that’d be the day. Tenley looked again at her mirror image, frowning. She was sorry she was such a disappointment.

  But that’s how the cookie crumbled, huh, family? One daughter dead, the other a disaster.

  She pushed open the door, checked the time on her cell phone. Forty minutes to go. Down the zigzag staircase, out past floor three, no mother, past two, alone, past one, banging out the metal side door into the surprising glare of sunshine on Congress Street.

  It was usually crowded at lunchtime, but today the swirl of cars and pedestrians had a feel of—off. Cops all over the place, some in uniforms directing traffic. Globs of bystanders milling around by the statues. She looked both ways on Congress, ignoring the crosswalk—pretty funny if someone upstairs was watching when she jaywalked, ha ha—and stepped onto the sidewalk by the park. A strip of yellow tape—CAUTION CAUTION CAUTION—prevented her from getting any closer to whatever she’d already missed. An empty brown paper bag caught the breeze, puffed up, and blew away.

  She’d seen the ambulance arrive, but it was gone now. She was too late.

  She was always too late.

  How could she get the scoop on whatever happened? Seemed like some kind of law enforcement guys were interviewing people on the street. She sidled over to the back of one group, assimilated herself into the crowd. She’d stand there, try to blend in, see what she could pick up. No one cared about a college kid.

  She looked up at City Hall across the street, counted two squares of plate glass down and three across. That was her mother’s window. Right next to the mayor’s. Mom could look out here and see me in the park.

  She considered waving, thought better of it.

  “I got here after I picked up my sushi.” One poseur in a too-tight suit was holding up a glossy black paper bag, as if to prove his lunch to the woman taking notes on a little pad with a cheap-looking Bic. A cop, must be.

  “Did you see anything?” the cop asked.

  What was sushi guy going to say? Tenley took a tentative step closer, then another, so she could be sure to hear. No one noticed her, seemed like.

  This time that was a good thing.

  * * *

  Jake cringed as the ambulance driver attempted to make the three-point turn to exit Franklin Alley. Fourth try now. Detective Angela Bartoneri, of all people, who’d been at the crime scene, would ride in the back, babysit the suspect. Thanks to the alphabet, Angie Bartoneri had always been seated next to Jake at the BPD’s continuing education sessions. He and Angie also shared coffee, then dinner, and almost a hell of a lot more, but then he’d made detective before she did. Their relationship never recovered. Just as well, Jake told himself at the time—three years ago? four?—since the divorce rate for cops married to cops was probably about one hundred percent. Plus, if one person in a relationship couldn’t be genuinely happy for the success of the other, it wasn’t much of a relationship. Angie’d moved on professionally and had recently been promoted to detective in the white-collar unit, assisting homicide when they needed backup. Working shoulder to shoulder with Angie again was—a trip. He’d also heard she’d now hooked up personally with some computer whiz. Very Angie. More power to her.

  Jake had moved on, too. To Jane. And all that entailed. Now that Jane was no longer with the Register, the two of them had new decisions to make. Decisions that might be—Jake shook his head, clearing his thoughts of the mental tangent. Funny how fast your brain could plow ahead, even at the most unlikely time.

  Before the rear ambulance doors closed, Jake had finished giving Angie the quick lowdown on the man she was chaperoning. “This guy didn’t say a word, and no easily accessible ID,” Jake added. “Maybe you’ll have better luck. I read him his rights, so if he does decide to talk, you’re covered.”

  “I’m clear on Miranda,” Angie said. “Hope he heard you.”

  Jake ignored her sarcasm, outwardly, at least. “The guy in the cuffs—we’ll check his ID now, see if we can get confirmation. Says he’s a security guard.”

  “One phone call,” Angie said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks,” Jake said. Maybe he wasn’t ignoring her as much as he imagined. “Anyway, Angie, the cadets are canvassing the eyewitnesses, getting cell phone photos. This guy should be a cinch to be ID’d, so once the photos come in, it’s case closed.”

  “You know your stuff,” Angie said. “I can see why you were promoted so early. Before I was, I mean.”


  “After all this time?” Jake couldn’t stop himself. He looked around quickly. D, standing nearby, was focused on Hewlitt, the medics were moving their patient into the vehicle. “Are we really still gonna do this?”

  “Do what?” Angie gave that smile. “I’m teasing, Jake.”

  Teasing? Not exactly the time for that. He’d go by the book.

  “Bartoneri? You’ll stay with him—whoever he is—at Mass General. Let me know the instant he says anything. I’ll contact you when the witness photos come in. If they’re potentially confirmatory, I’ll bring them to the hospital. We’ll get an arrest warrant, go from there. Questions?”

  “No, sir,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Yes, sir.”

  Angie’s dark hair—Jake remembered it all too well—was twisted up under her navy patent-billed cap. If any woman could look good in a cop hat, Angie could. He watched her clamber into the back of the ambulance. She’d been a dancer, Jake remembered, until she’d gotten impatient with the food restrictions and turned to law enforcement instead. He’d felt twinges of jealousy over the other cadets lined up to spar with her in defense training. She’d been aware of their attention, too. Teased them, with that throaty voice of hers, then kicked their asses, every one, every time.

  She stood, framed by one still-open white back door. Fluttered her fingers at him. “Detective? Hope our paths cross again.”

  She closed the metal door before he could answer.

  Dammit. And dammit again. The back of his neck prickled, and it wasn’t from the sun. He would not let Angela Bartoneri get under his skin. She was history.

  The ambulance’s piercing back-up beeps yanked him back to reality. Fifth try to turn around now. The driver stopped a fraction of an inch from the liquor store’s redbrick wall, shifted into Drive, and crept toward the giant green Dumpster. The Dumpster. “A guy in a Dumpster”—that’s what the cadet had relayed to him.