The lawyer nodded, picked up his yellow pad. “Yes, indeed. The appeal process. Could be probative. I did some preliminary research on that, and it appears-”
Jane stood, slowly, balancing herself, palms down on the table. The lawyer stopped, midsentence, pad in the air. Tuck pivoted to face her.
“No one knows who my source is. No one. Not even at Channel Eleven.” Jane took a deep breath. She had to sort out her secrets. Her responsibilities. And her future. “I never said it was Sellica Darden.”
“Well, no, but…” Alex was frowning. So was everyone else. “I mean, if not Sellica, then who? It’s pretty obvious. And listen, Jane, promises end with death.”
“They don’t.” Jane collected her notebook and her tote bag, then looked at the door. This decision was going to cost her another job. Perhaps her career. Her father would not believe this. “I promised I would never reveal the name of my source. The fact that Sellica Darden died-was murdered-doesn’t change that. Never means never. If it doesn’t, no one will ever tell me anything again.”
She paused. Good-bye, Register. Hello, unemployment.
“You’d do the same thing,” she said, trying to keep her voice on track. “You would.”
The air went out of the room. Tay Reidy, eyes narrowed, rolled his pen between two palms, the metal clinking against his wedding ring. The lawyer closed his laptop and seemed to be studying the grain of the conference table. Tuck swiveled her chair back and forth, her eyes on Alex.
No one looked at Jane. And then, in an instant, everyone did. And everyone began talking. Alex’s voice was the loudest.
“Are you kidding me?” Alex tossed his notepad onto the polished table. It slid across the glossed surface, stopping, pages splayed, against the law book. “So you’d rather keep this secret? A secret about a dead hooker? Even if-”
“Hey, that’s not fair, Alex.” Jane tried to keep the edge out of her voice. Failed. “I don’t have a choice. You know that.”
Alex dragged his fingers through his hair, then shrugged. “Okay. I’m sorry. I know, it’s-difficult. But, listen, you see our position.”
“Not to mention, of course, it could be critical evidence in a murder case.” Reidy’s voice, arch, cut into Alex’s apology.
“Interesting call, Jane,” the lawyer said. “Unnecessary, I must say.”
Tuck raised a hand, as if asking for permission to talk. “Listen, though. Storywise? Whether Sellica’s the source or not, I mean, does it really matter?”
Alex thumbed the edge of his yellow pad, flipping the pages. Did it again, then again. When he finally looked up, he was nodding. “Okay, I hear ya. I suppose-it doesn’t. We know Sellica was involved in the sex extortion case. She hit up a bigwig for money; he ratted her out. And Arthur Vick sued Jane for saying it was him. So for us to do an inside story about Sellica’s murder? I suppose… we don’t need to know Jane’s source.”
From the depths of Jane’s tote bag, her cell phone trilled. Maybe Moira Lassiter was calling, since the universe loved irony. Or Dad. It rang again.
“Pick up,” Tuck said. “Might be the cops.”
“Or a friend of Sellica’s,” Alex said. “Maybe she left you a note. We’re pushing deadline here.”
The phone rang again.
Tay Reidy nodded at her. “Might as well.”
Maybe it’s Jake. I need to talk to Jake. Jane mentally crossed her fingers as she pawed through her bag, searching for her suddenly too-small cell. Found it.
“This is Jane,” she said.
Everyone leaned forward, eyes wide, waiting. Jane sat back down, the cell clamped to her cheek.
She needed to talk to Jake. But this wasn’t Jake.
“Yes,” she said. “I know that.”
She paused, her lips pressed tight together, her spine rigid, as a wheedling voice from her too-recent-employment past made her an offer.
“You’re kidding,” she said. Her head was shaking no, as if the voice on the other end could see her. “You must be kidding.”
“What?” Alex whispered.
“Who is it?” Tuck reached out a hand as if to bring Jane closer.
“Please don’t ask me to do that. And please don’t call me again.” Jane clicked the phone to black, slamming the door on her career and on her dreams. All to protect a sex-selling criminal who’d lied and cheated and ruined a marriage and was now lying dead in the city morgue.
“What?” Everyone in the room asked it at the same time. Then everyone waited.
“Channel Eleven,” Jane said.
She swallowed hard, then slowly walked to the sideboard at the end of the room. She carefully selected a plastic bottle of water from a silver ice-filled container, twisted off the cap. Turned back to the table.
“They want me to come back. ‘Do the Sellica story,’ they said.” She took a sip, leaning against the sideboard. She didn’t trust her knees.
“But you said you didn’t tell them your source.” Alex took a step toward her, brow furrowing. “You said they don’t-”
“Alex. Stop. They don’t know who it is. But, like you-” She waved her water bottle at the room. “Anyway. They said if I talk, do the big reveal, maybe the court will reverse the ruling, and reverse the million-dollar judgment. If that happens, they said, they ‘might even have an opening for a new reporter.’”
She tried to smile.
“All I have to do, they said, is tell.”
14
Sellica Darden’s murder could mean only one thing.
Maybe two. And they were both disasters.
He needed to talk to Jane.
Jake drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the police department’s undercover Jeep and watched through the windshield. The streetlights, most of them working, barely made a dent in the late afternoon gloom of Hampstead Street. Struggling chrysanthemums made a last stand in the cared-for houses. In others, forgotten bicycles sprawled on crabgrass or frost-heaved driveways. The trees, municipal afterthoughts, had already lost most of their leaves.
At Leota Darden’s house, one of two porch lights allowed Jake to see the faces of those arriving to pay their respects. Surprising that Leota’s daughter had used her real last name. Surprising they hadn’t moved out of town after the Arthur Vick mess. Wonder if the neighbors came to visit after that hit the fan.
Jake watched as the afternoon turned into evening.
Maybe there are three possibilities.
More people arrived at the Dardens’ triple-decker: a man in a Celtics cap and a woman teetering on ridiculous heels, holding hands.
Three possibilities. And all disasters.
Jake slid back the front seat in a futile attempt to get comfortable. The radios glowed, pinpoint lights flashing, their squawk turned down.
Sellica’s body had been found by water, by a bridge. Possibility one, damn it, meant he was 100 percent wrong. There was, in fact, a Bridge Killer. Sellica was his third victim. Which meant some maniac was stalking random women-random?-and killing them. Getting away with it. Holy Christ, a serial killer on the loose in Boston.
But serial killers had patterns. Processes. Habits. Their killings had similarities. And Sellica was an outlier. At least, not the same. He’d spent hours at the crime scene. Looking for something. Anything. Looking for similarities to Charlestown and Longfellow. Hoping there weren’t any. Hoping there were.
Knowing that cops aren’t supposed to hope. They observe. Connect. And find answers.
Sellica’s body lay at the ME’s office, autopsy still under way, but Dr. A’s prelim had found roofies. Maybe it had nothing to do with her job, but why would someone give a hooker a knockout drug? Had some john flipped out? Or was there another reason? Charlestown and Longfellow, tox screens there showed no drugs. Different. Sellica was different.