The Secret Friend

Washow, assuming the statue may have some worth as a collectible, conducted an exhaustive search with several Boston-based antique dealers specializing in religious items. The Virgin Mary statue amounted to nothing more than a cheap trinket.

Standing inside her office, Darby thought about the lingerie. Did Emma Hale have a boyfriend or someone special she was meeting that night?

And what had happened to Emma Hale's purse? Had it been dumped or had her killer held on to it as a souvenir? Darby considered the question as she left the lab, on her way to an appointment.

3

Moon Island, situated in Quincy Bay, was once the site of a sewage treatment plant. It is now owned by the city of Boston. In addition to an outdoor firearms range, the forty-five-acre site is also used for bomb disposal and as a training facility for the Boston Fire Department.

Moon Island is not open to the general public. Access is through a causeway which is blocked off by a gate.

Darby stood under a cold, grey sky at the outdoor firing range along with six recruits from the Boston Police Academy. They all wore the same navy blue baseball cap, safety glasses and padded earmuffs. They each wore the same black jacket with a single bright blue stripe running down the sleeve.

The recruits, all men, were training with a Ruger.38 special. Darby, having completed her range test and state-certified firearms safety class, now used her own weapon, a 9mm SIG P-229 with a.40 S amp;W cartridge. She had selected the handgun for its relatively compact size and comfort. She was still getting used to the weapon's hard recoil.

The firearms instructor, Steve Gautieri, was demonstrating the classic Weaver stance, the position where the shooter, using a pyramidal base or 'boxer's stance' with one foot in front and the other behind, leaned slightly forward. This stance, Gautieri explained, was the key to accuracy. If the shooter's feet were parallel, the shot would be either too high or too low.

Darby had adopted a strong stance technique where her legs were spread further apart, almost in a V-shape, her shoulders more forward than the male recruits'. She had also adopted a different grip. Instead of securing her free hand, her left hand, around the fingers holding the handgun, she formed a fist and placed the grip of her handgun against her wrist before firing. It had helped tremendously with her accuracy.

The targets were ready. Darby reminded herself not to jerk the trigger, just squeeze it.

The bell rang. Darby fired the gun, her mind flashing snapshots from Traveler's underground basement of horrors – the human bones on the floor and dried blood on the walls; the nightmarish maze of wooden corridors of locked and unlocked doors leading to dead ends; women screaming for help, women crying and begging, dying. She could recall every image, every texture and sound.

Darby fired the last shot and straightened, the muscles in her forearms aching. She felt oddly relaxed, as though having just completed a long, satisfying run.

The recruit standing next to her, tall and rugged, kept glancing at her while the firearms instructor examined the results. The sky had grown darker, and it had started to snow. Light flakes swirled in the wind.

Gautieri held up a paper target. 'Take a look at this shooting, boys. See the nice, tight pattern right here in the centre? This belongs to Darby McCormick, the girl standing at the end there. Nice job, Darby. Want to know why she beat the rest of you? Because she's got her stance down and she knows to squeeze the trigger and not to jerk it. You're dismissed. Darby, I'd like a word with you.'

Gautieri waited until after the recruits left before he spoke. 'What kind of ammo are you using?'

'Triton.40 S amp;W, one thirty-five grain,' Darby said. 'The one-stop shots approach ninety-six per cent.' 'That's some serious firepower.' 'A lot of law enforcement agencies use it.' Gautieri looked back to the paper target and grinned. 'You pissed off at anyone I know?' Darby's clothes reeked of cordite. When she stepped into the parking lot she saw her lab partner, Jackson Cooper, leaning against her black Mustang.

With the exception of his short, blond hair, Coop bore a striking resemblance to Tom Brady, the quarterback for the New England Patriots. Coop wore jeans and a black North Face fleece jacket. He was adjusting the brim of his Red Sox baseball hat when Darby stepped up to him.

'What are you doing here?' Darby asked. 'I thought you took the day off.'

'I did. I spent it with Rodeo.'

'You were at a rodeo?'

'No, that's the name of my girlfriend. Row-day-oh. I got your message about your meeting with the commissioner. I tried calling but you weren't answering your phone.'

'I turned it off.'

'I called the lab. Leland told me you were here, so I decided to swing by. He also wanted me to tell you the files you requested have been delivered to the lab. Fill me in on what's going on.'

For the next twenty minutes Darby filled him in on her meeting with Chadzynski and her review of Emma Hale's clothing.

'What do you want me to do?' Coop asked after she'd finished.

'Tomorrow morning, I'd like for you to take a look at the Virgin Mary statue and see if anything was overlooked.'

'I'll do it now.'

'Don't you want to get back to Row-day-oh?'

'No. I had to fake an emergency to get out of her place.'

'How did you do that?'

'I used her phone to page myself, then told her I had to go to a crime scene.' Coop grinned, pleased by his cleverness. 'I'm going to break up with her. It's not working out. She's into all this artsy-fartsy shit. Last night she made me watch Bareback Mountain.'

'I think you mean Brokeback Mountain.'

'Given what those two dudes are doing up in the mountains, I think I was right the first time.' Coop smiled. 'Did you talk with Bryson?'

'I left him a message, but he hasn't called back.' Darby took out her car keys. 'Do you know Tim?'

'Does anyone know Tim?'

'What do you mean?'

'You know what I mean. Bryson's real private. Do you know his partner?'

'Cliff Watts.'

Coop nodded. 'Cliffy has worked with Bryson for almost a decade and he doesn't know anything about the man. Has never been to his home, never went out drinking with him. Cliffy is solid. Appointing Woody was a good choice, by the way.'

'What is it with guys and nicknames?'

'It's how we show affection, Freckles.' Coop pushed himself off the Mustang. 'We should get going. Weathermen are saying we're going to get a nor'easter. They're predicting two feet.'

'I'll believe it when I see it. Last Monday they said we're going to get a foot and I woke up to two inches.'

'I bet that's not the first time you woke up to two inches.'

'Tell me about it. Remember last month when you passed out on my couch? I saw you in your boxers and let's just say there's a whole lot of truth to that Irish curse thing.'

'Very funny. I'll see you back at the lab.'

Seated behind the wheel, Darby started the car and turned on her phone. There was one message: Tim Bryson had returned her call. He said it was urgent. She dialled his number.

'Bryson.'

'Tim, Darby McCormick. I just got your message. I'm on my way back to the lab, but I was wondering if we could set up a time to meet and talk.'

'A call came in about a body floating in the Boston Harbor behind the Moakley courthouse.'

'Is it Judith Chen?'

'The clothes seem right,' Bryson said. 'I'm on my way to the morgue. We can talk there.'

4

At 5:30 p.m. Hannah Givens stood under the roof of the Macy's department store at Boston's Downtown Crossing, waiting for the bus. This afternoon's light snow had turned into a powerful storm. She wished she had taken an earlier bus instead of working overtime at the deli, helping clean up and do some food preparation for tomorrow morning's weekend breakfast crowd – provided the city was open for business. The weathermen were predicting several feet of snow.