Holly thought she saw Mrs. Wilkes blush. Huh.
The phone rang, but the Wilkes person ignored it, she was so locked in to Lassiter’s greeting. When he let go of her, finally, she didn’t seem to know where to put her hands.
Then Owen Lassiter himself turned to her. To her! He held out his hand, smiling at her, drawing her in with those eyes. “And who do we have here?”
Holly almost blushed, seeing him. He would never recognize her.
Not until she wanted him to.
“I’m Hannah,” she said. “I’m so delighted to see you.” See you again, she was careful not to say.
She could almost feel the camera in her bag.
Perfect.
When things worked, they just worked.
17
“Is it the Bridge Killer? Is it? Oh, Detective Brogan, I’m not sure I can do this now.”
“Take your time, Mrs. Darden,” Jake reassured the woman on the couch. The low-slung coffee table between them could not have held one more doily-covered plate of cookies or little muffins. “Let me know when you feel up to continuing.”
Jake sat in the striped wing chair, pretending to read over his notes, while Sellica Darden’s mother composed herself. Leota Darden had made it through about five minutes of Jake’s questions, poised and polite, even offering Jake tea, answering carefully.
She’d been too distraught to talk last night, so they agreed he’d return first thing this morning. He hoped that wasn’t a mistake.
Wearing a flinty gray silk dress that ended below her knees and what his mom called sensible shoes, Mrs. Darden had shooed all but one of her other Saturday morning callers down the hall. The woman now sitting beside Mrs. Darden, pinched face and bright red fingernails, gave Jake a dark look. He’d seen it in many other living rooms. It meant, Get out, cop.
He wished he could. But this was part of the deal. Death. Trying to explain it. Trying to understand it. Intruding on grief. Sitting in people’s living rooms, bringing up exactly what grieving families didn’t want to hear.
The scent of flowers, heavy-headed dark red roses and masses of carnations, mixed with the fragrance of brewing coffee and burning candles. A black-framed photo of a sleekly stylish young woman wearing a white turtleneck and ropes of pearls was displayed on the mantelpiece, a single white lily in a slim crystal vase beside it.
The ME’s photos of Sellica that Jake had studied last night were not so attractive. He hoped her mother would never see those.
He had started with the easy questions.
Yes, Mrs. Darden told him, her Sellica kept in touch. Yes, she knew what her daughter did for a living. No, she hadn’t mentioned being afraid of anyone.
He’d ignore her question about the Bridge Killer. But that’s what was haunting him, too.
What’s more, the newspaper sure as hell isn’t ignoring it. Tuck’s story this morning was total bullshit, speculation and psychobabble. The “Bridge Killer” cases aren’t exactly the same-and that proves they’re connected? That girl never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
“Did Sellica ever mention trouble of any kind?” Jake asked. “Anyone who threatened her? Bothered her? Followed her?”
But Mrs. Darden was deflating, collapsing, fingers to her forehead. “It is, isn’t it. The Bridge Killer.”
“I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Darden.” So much for ignoring it. “But I don’t think there’s a Bridge Killer. And that’s why I need to-”
The other woman sniffed. “Ridiculous. Of course there is. I read the newspapers. You people couldn’t stop him, and now-” She stopped, giving her head a fretful shake. She clutched at Mrs. Darden’s arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, Leezey. Honey. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m all right, Neesha.” Leota Darden patted her friend’s hand, then rearranged herself on the couch. “It all started when she talked to that reporter. I told her she shouldn’t talk to her. I said to her, ‘Sellica-’”
“Jane Ryland, you mean, right? Did you ever meet her?” Jake had to interrupt. Jane had never admitted Sellica was her source. But never said she wasn’t. And if Jane’s story had something to do with Sellica’s murder somehow… Jake’s thumbs flew over his BlackBerry as he continued his questions, looking up at her as he typed. “Mrs. Darden? Did you ever meet Arthur Vick?”
“I most certainly did not,” she said. Her back stiffened. “That man-”
“Ruined Sellica’s life.” Neesha finished the sentence. She turned to Mrs. Darden. “Well, he did, honey. You know he did. But she’s in a better place now.”
With that, Leota Darden lost it. She collapsed onto her friend’s shoulder in a flood of sobbing. Neesha glared at him again.
Can’t you go? she mouthed.
Probably should have questioned her alone. Too late now.
“I’m sorry, no, I can’t,” he said. This sucked. But he had no choice. “Take your time, though. It’s okay, ma’am.”
Jake scanned his BlackBerry screen, letting the women comfort each other, trying to give them some privacy. He scrolled his Google search results into view. Arthur Vick, owner of the Beacon Markets grocery stores, megabucks, big political donor, wife in hiding post-scandal, she was some kind of artist apparently, million-dollar judgment, yadda yadda, Wrong-Guy Ryland. Poor Jane. But it wasn’t so much Jane who was the key. It was Arthur Vick.
“See if L and C”-Jake’s shorthand for Longfellow and Charlestown-“connect with A Vick.” Jake banged out a reminder e-mail to himself, and hit Send. Maybe the other victims worked at grocery stores. He’d have the guys do a photo array at Beacon Markets. Maybe Arthur Vick used his employee files to track down his victims. Possible.
Maybe Arthur Vick’s grocery stores were not the only place the victims worked for him.
“Detective? I’m so sorry.” Leota Darden dabbed her reddened eyes with a shredding tissue. “I know you’re doing your job. I’m better now, thank you.”
“Tea?” Neesha stood, edging between the couch and coffee table. “I’ll go get you tea.”
She did not offer any to Jake.
“Arthur Vick,” Jake said as Neesha left the room. “We were talking about Arthur Vick. Did Sellica mention anyone who was missing? Someone she knew from her-work?”
“You’re thinking of the other Bridge Killer victims? You think they did what she did? No, Sellica never mentioned anything like that. Poor things.” Mrs. Darden leaned back against the softly flowered cushions, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she sat up straight, planted her hands on her hips.
“Detective Brogan. Arthur Vick promised my Sellica she could be in his grocery store commercials. She counted on it, with those other girls, thought it was a way out of the life. All she wanted was what he promised her. He promised her! Then he turned on her. Dragged her into court. And she, she…”
“She fought back by talking to Jane Ryland. Correct?”
One white candle hissed as it sputtered out, a wisp of smoke rising toward the ceiling. Jake leaned forward, needing to hear what would come next.
“Sellica was ordered by a judge not to tell,” Mrs. Darden whispered. “But she did. She did tell. Now she’s dead. Now Arthur Vick is even richer.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are…”
Matt tuned out the staticky voice coming from the plane’s public address system. His fingers worried the iPhone in his hand. The flight attendant had caught him using it during takeoff, almost confiscated it. Now he had to wait till the damn plane landed till he could call. He’d already programmed in the number.
Resting his forehead against the window, he peered at the whitecaps on Boston Harbor. He could feel the plane descending. Almost there. One hand curled around his phone. Almost time. He had to be here in person. He’d call first, because he was curious, then get up close and personal. See her. If it was her. And find out what the hell she was doing in Boston.