If he drove in right behind her, she’d hear the car. Matt watched Jane’s brake lights go on, then off, saw her Audi pull in through the arched gateway, stop at the locator. Watched her get out, check the diagrams, get back in the car.
Where was she going? It was an incredible coincidence that whoever’s grave she was visiting was in the same cemetery as his mother’s. Still, that could leave Matt alone with her. He hoped his mother would understand what he needed to do. He needed his life back. Damn Holly, he thought again. But family came first. Time to prove he was a real Lassiter.
He watched Jane turn left, toward his angel, then head slowly up the rise. Matt shifted, touched the gas pedal, eased into the cemetery driveway.
Her car was a couple hundred yards up the access road, still heading toward the angel. Where the hell is she going? Will she get out of the car? If he followed in his car, she’d hear it. He stopped, backed up, pointed his car’s nose toward the exit. Turned off the ignition and opened the door. Closed it as quietly as he could.
What was that? Jane stopped at the end of Row 23. Stood absolutely still, muscles taut across her shoulders. She didn’t want to use her flashlight-what if someone saw the beam? Plenty of light without it. The flashlight was merely backup, in case she needed to read something. The moon, almost full, appeared through the tips of the waving poplars as the rain clouds parted. Constellations glistened into view, Orion. The Dippers. The sound didn’t happen again. Probably a squirrel. An owl.
Three headstones to go. Jane took one step, her dark green boots barely crunching in the close-clipped brown grass. Paused. Nothing. The first headstone was for a Walter Galbraith, born… it didn’t matter. She took another step. Paused, eyes closed, listening as intently as her ears would manage. Opened her eyes. Nothing. Another step.
What was that? She stopped, one hand to her throat. For sure, that was an owl. Go.
The third headstone was the one she cared about.
It looked like marble. Polished, pink marble. Lighter than its neighbors, waist high, gracefully curved across the top, almost glowing a bit in the combination of moonlight and spotlight. One more step and she could read it. She paused. Listened. Nothing.
She took the step.
And there was the inscription. KATHARINE FLANNERY GALBRAITH LASSITER, it said, the elegant letters etched deep into the stone.
BORN OCTOBER 21, 1956
DIED APRIL 14, 2010
Smaller letters below. Jane risked the flashlight, played the thin yellow beam across the words carved into the pink stone.
BELOVED MOTHER OF SARAH (BORN 1989) AND MATTHEW (BORN 1987)
Jane stared at the names.
Then she heard the sound.
It can’t be. Matt took one last stride, crouched behind the big angel, sneaked his head around the curve of her alabaster wing to watch Jane take a few tentative steps toward his mother’s grave. She took one step, then stopped. Then another. She looked right at him. Didn’t she? He darted into the cover of the lofty wings, forehead pressed against the deep grooves in the sleek white stone. Had she seen him?
Jane looked away. She hadn’t. She took another step.
That reporter is visiting my mother’s grave. She knows.
This friggin’ clinched it. Ryland had Holly’s damn photos. Of course, she figured Holly was sleeping with his father. Having an affair. No one would ever believe it wasn’t true. No matter what anyone said. His father would be ruined. Ruined.
He put one hand on the angel’s cool skin, trying to stay calm.
If this woman had half a brain, she would soon know exactly who he was. But in a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter. His father’s future was at stake.
The carved pink marble of his mother’s headstone still seemed different from the other headstones, somehow. Stood out from them, always had. Secretly, he’d thought it his mother’s light shining through.
Jane was taking another step.
Matt could see her car, just down the lane, door open. Holly’s photos had to be in there. He’d seen the manila envelope under her arm when she left Lassiter headquarters, and she hadn’t gone anywhere else. Matt pursed his lips, calculating time and distance and weight.
Jane took another step.
Matt knew exactly what she was about to see. His name.
It was time.
67
“Unacceptable. Unacceptable!”
Henry Rothmann practically frothed at the mouth. In interrogation room C, Styrofoam cups littered the yellowing burn-pocked table and Arthur Vick did not look like a happy camper. His lawyer, tie askew and once-slick hair now tufted above each ear, was also a member of the unhappy camp.
Jake knew the news he was about to deliver would make them even more unhappy.
“Mr. Vick? Your wife is here,” Jake said. He nodded at Rothmann. “I’m afraid we’ll have to get your statement before we allow you to see her, however.”
“Unacceptable! You arrested my client at approximately one P.M. today. It is now ten P.M. You-absurdly-charged him with murder. According to case law, Commonwealth versus Rosario, my client must be arraigned before a judge or magistrate, without unnecessary delay, and clearly this is-”
“Ah, yes,” DeLuca said. He leaned against the wall, dramatically dismayed. “Thing is-”
Jake shot him a look. “Mr. Rothmann, you are, of course, correct. However, by the time we all arrived here at headquarters, and we contacted the magistrate, it was well past closing time for the court. As a result, your client is scheduled to be arraigned in Suffolk Superior Court at nine tomorrow morning. That, I’m afraid, is the best I can do.”
“That’s-” Rothmann flapped his yellow legal pad at Jake. “Preposterous. And a clear violation of the speedy trial decision.”
“Feel free to explain that to the judge,” Jake said. “Tomorrow. As for your client, we’ve got him on motive, means, and opportunity. He knew the victim, he had access to the drugs that incapacitated her before her death, he had proximity to the location of the deceased.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.” Arthur Vick’s voice growled, rising from deep in his throat. His shirt had come untucked. His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot. A splotch of coffee stained his once-pristine sweater. “This is bull. Complete bull. I never did anything.”
“I’m so interested to hear your story, Mr. Vick, all you know about Sellica Darden,” Jake said. How the mighty hath fallen. He flipped open a folding chair and sat down, facing the defendant. “You’re facing life without parole, you know. In Cedar Junction. Maximum security. Where your clothes will still be monogrammed. But with DOC. Department of Correction. In case your lawyer has not informed you.”
“And your colleagues will not be pretty girls,” DeLuca put in. “Though they may think you are kinda cute.”
Rothmann planted himself in front of his client. “Not a word, Arthur,” he said. “Do not. Open. Your mouth.”
Jake smiled, pleasant, infinitely patient. “Your call. No problem. I’ll go see what Mrs. Vick has to tell us.”
Jane could hear her own breathing. The muck of the soft ground under her boots, the tips of her fingers cold even through her gloves. Matthew. Matt. The guy from the news conference was Katharine Lassiter’s son. Owen Lassiter’s son.
Why was that a secret?
She snapped off the flashlight, tucked it under her arm, and crouched low to the ground, flapping her coat underneath her to keep it from dragging in the mud. Stared at the headstone. She reached out, touched the letters. So not only had Owen Lassiter been married once before, but he also had kids. They’d be Moira Lassiter’s stepchildren. Certainly standard practice these days-everyone had stepkids. Why were they out of the picture?