He smiled at her, ignoring his clenched stomach, trying to compose his face into whatever she wanted to see. Trying to say what would sell her whatever she was willing to buy. He watched her lick that little straw from her Irish coffee-he’d ordered a double-wondering if she thought using her tongue like that was sexy, making him want her or something.
God forbid. He took a sip of his Harpoon. All he wanted was to know what the hell was going on.
“So enough about me,” Matt said. It was freezing here on the damn deck, but he didn’t want people to see them together. He would pay in cash. He would keep his sunglasses on. Maybe her showing up around Lassiter meant nothing. Maybe he’d overreacted. Maybe he could go back to normal.
“Tell me more about you. Why you came to Boston.”
“I know you, Matt,” she said. “I know what you need. I’ve always known.”
Play it cool. “That’s so interesting, Hollister,” he said. “Ah, what is it that you know?”
Good one, idiot. Subtle. But she didn’t seem to notice his stilted, awkward question. She was yanking his jacket around her shoulders, like-petting it. Smelling it. Disgusting.
“Even when you went away, I knew why,” she said. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned in, closer to him. “It wasn’t about me. It was you.”
Hell it was. It was about you, sister. “Me?” he asked.
“Can I get you anything else?” A scrawny little waitress, black T-shirt and black apron, arrived at their table with a black leather bill flap.
Matt took a twenty from his wallet, tucked it in the flap without saying a word. Handed it back to her with a smile, like, we’re fine.
“Thanks,” the waitress said. “Have a nice evening.”
“Oh, look,” Holly said. “It’s so beautiful!” She clapped her hands like a kid at the circus, then pointed to the harbor. A cruise ship, draped from bow to stern with garlands of glittering white lights, sailed silently past them, so close that Matt could see passengers lining the decks, waving. As the sun dimmed, each waterfront building seemed to disappear, showing only as an outline of twinkling lights, each reflected on the water below.
Holly leaped up, ran to the edge of the deck, leaned over the wooden railing. She turned to him, waving him to come. “Come see it with me,” she said. “It’s like the buildings are wearing beautiful jewelry, necklaces of diamonds and pearls.”
It’s more like you’re a total wack job. The lights and the water and the cruise ship were actually kind of cool looking, but that’s not what he cared about now. Hell with Boston. He wanted this over. He wanted his life back.
“I have an idea,” he said. He put his arm around her waist. Felt her crowd into him. “I know I need to get you back to your car, but should we walk down there for a minute? Get closer to the lights?”
“Oh, I’d love to,” Holly said. She looked at him. My Matt. Then she had an idea. Would she dare put on his jacket? She would. Giggling, she jammed her arms into the sleeves, as if the jacket were hers.
“How do I look?” she asked. She posed like a fashion model, then twirled in front of him. She still wore her extra-tight running pants, and-bad Holly, she gave her body a little extra shimmy as she turned to face him, posing. Her face felt flushed from the cold and the warmth of her drink and the rush of being with Matt again.
“You look great,” he said.
He was so cute, acting awkward and tongue-tied. Maybe because she was so close.
She risked it, then, putting her arm-wearing his jacket!-through the crook of his elbow. “You know best,” she whispered into his ear.
A long wooden ramp, like a sidewalk, stretched out in front of them. It led to a little park, and she could see the lights of a carousel twinkling in the distance.
“Oh, Matt, a merry-go-round! Shall we go see it?”
“Lead the way,” he said.
Was he pulling her even closer? He was, he really was. She could smell the beer on him, just like he used to smell, and wondered if she smelled like sweetness and sugar and whiskey, and whether he liked that.
“You haven’t told me why you’re in Boston,” Matt said, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked up into his eyes-those eyes, I remember them so perfectly-then down at her feet, biting her lip, trying to figure this out. They were close to the merry-go-round now, and the lights were on, all sparkly on the colorful horses and bejeweled elephants and curlicued carriages. Holly’s thoughts were almost like a merry-go-round, she realized, spinning too fast for her to catch.
She would tell him when they got to the carousel, she decided. Maybe they could sit on a bench by the water, the two of them, and she would tell him the whole thing.
Yes. She would.
46
“Let the record show it’s Monday, October thirty-first, at nine twenty-seven A.M., and this interview is taking place in the law offices of-” Jake paused his tape recorder, checking the stiff white business card in his hand. He took his finger off the Pause key and continued. “-law offices of Macording, McMurdow, Rothmann, and Lunt, 90 Canal Street, Boston. Present are myself, Detective Jake Brogan, as well as Detective Paul DeLuca, attorney Henry Rothmann, and Mr. Arthur Vick.”
“And me,” came a bleating voice from the beige leather couch.
“And Mrs. Patricia Vick,” Jake continued. “This interview is being conducted with the consent of Mr. Vick, who is being represented for these proceedings by Mr. Rothmann.”
Jake pushed Pause again. “Anything else?”
DeLuca, leaning against the closed office door, circled a weary forefinger. Roll tape.
Henry Rothmann, lawyer-perfect in tailored navy blue and no-doubt-pricey tie, posted himself behind Arthur Vick’s leather club chair, testy and protective as a wing-tipped pit bull. His client, in chinos and a monogrammed crew neck sweater, rubbed a smudge from his tasseled loafers. “For the record, my client is not under arrest and is free to go whenever he chooses.” He placed one defending hand on his client’s shoulder.
Vick shrugged it off. “Let’s get the show on the road,” he said.
Jake hit Record. “And Mr. Vick is not under arrest and is free to leave. Now, Mr. Vick. We have previously discussed your employee Amaryllis Roldan. Where were you on the night of-”
“You asked him this already.” Patricia Vick, balancing a yellow spiral notebook on her lap, brandished a stubby black Sharpie at Jake, then pointed it at Rothmann. “Didn’t they, Henry? And we told him, Artie was home the night that girl was killed. With me. And listen, Mr., um, Detective. He was with me on the nights those other girls were killed, too. You wanna know where he was every night? Fine. Last night, my birthday party. At my studio. Any other nights you’d like to hear about?”
“Mrs. Vick, you’re only here because your husband insisted that-,” DeLuca said.
“Actually, my client’s wife is correct here, gentlemen,” the lawyer interrupted. “Asked and answered. Let’s move on.”
“This isn’t a court proceeding, Mr. Rothmann,” Jake said. Lawyers. “We can ask anything we want. However often we want.”
“I was with my wife.” Arthur Vick made a dismissive gesture. “Next question.”
“Okay,” Jake said. “Are you acquainted with an Amaryllis Roldan?”
“Henry!” Patti Vick’s voice hit the ceiling. She plunked down the bag, spilling out a black plastic compact and a battered package of tissues. “Are you going to let them-?”