The Secret Friend

Darby wondered what the woman had managed to discover on the other side of her grief to inspire that type of faith.

43

Boston detectives worked out of the fifth floor in an area called the bullpen. Pairs of desks sat facing each other down a long, gymnasium-type space lit up with crummy fluorescent lighting that glared off the computer monitors. Phones rang day and night.

While the police department's top slot was held by a woman, the ranks of beat cops filled with women of every shape, size, age and colour, the detective bullpen was still boys only. No matter what time of day Darby came here, no matter what the season, the bullpen always smelled to her like a men's locker room – sweat and testosterone masked by too much aftershave and cologne.

It was 5 p.m. on Monday. Detectives filling out paperwork, typing on their keyboards and talking on the phone watched her as she walked down the aisle.

Tim Bryson sat in the corner near one of the coveted window spots, elbows propped up on his desk and chin resting on his folded hands as he read through a NCIC file for Jennifer Sanders.

'How did you make out with the photograph?'

'Tina Sanders' prints are all over it,' Darby said. 'I sent Coop over to dust the mailbox, but I'm not holding out any hope.'

'Here, take a look.' Bryson pushed himself away from his desk and stood. 'I'm going to get some coffee. You want one?'

'I'm all set, thanks.'

Darby felt the warm spot he had left in his chair. On the corner of his desk was a framed picture of a young girl with long blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile. His daughter looked no older than ten.

The first part of the NCIC file was pretty much a rehash of what Tina Sanders had told them. Darby scanned through the text, stopping when she found the investigative notes.

For the first six months, Danvers investigators had worked the patient angle. Maybe one of her former patients had abducted her. Jennifer Sanders was an attractive woman.

By the end of the year, with no witnesses, evidence or leads, detectives decided to investigate the murder-for-hire angle, the theory being that Witherspoon, wanting to break off the engagement but feeling trapped by the pregnancy, had hired someone to murder his fiancee. Witherspoon was an odd duck, they thought, cold and guarded. Witherspoon submitted to several polygraphs. Each time he passed. Detectives kept working on their theory, interviewing known contract killers.

Two years later, the trail went cold. The case was still listed as active.

Bryson sat on the edge of his desk. 'Anything jump out at you?'

'No. I called the state lab. The only evidence they had was Jennifer Sanders' car. Judging by what I was told over the phone, they really went through it – vacuumed the carpets, everything. They found some interesting fibres but they didn't lead anywhere. They said they'd send over copies of what they have.'

'Great. More shit to read to read through. This asshole is going to bury us in paper.' Bryson stood and grabbed an empty office chair.

'I spoke with Danvers PD,' he said, rolling the chair across the floor. 'The Sanders case wasn't transferred to their computer system, it's somewhere in storage. If we're lucky, we'll get a copy by the end of the week.'

'How did your interview with the mother go?'

'The pregnancy thing bothers me.'

'Not all pregnancies are planned.'

'I'm talking about the fact that she didn't tell her mother. Could be she was ashamed, you know, Catholic guilt about having a baby out of wedlock.'

'Wedlock,' Darby repeated. 'Where did you pick up that word, Tim, the Dictionary for Old Farts?'

Bryson tossed his paper coffee cup into the trash. 'Watts went over to Brighton and interviewed Hannah Givens' two roommates. Givens' backpack is inside her room. He went over to Northeastern and got a copy of her class schedule. Hannah failed to show up for her Shakespeare and history class. Nobody has seen or heard from her.'

'What about the parents?'

'Watts talked to the mother this afternoon. She was worried. Hannah calls and talks to her mother every Sunday. The mother says Hannah always calls. Watts is interviewing Hannah's boss, flashing the picture the roommates gave him to people who work in the area. The picture's going to run on all the news cycles and it will be in tomorrow's papers.'

Was Hannah Givens being held in the same place as Hale and Chen? A trickle of fear ran through Darby, cutting through her fatigue.

'Chadzynski is holding a press conference tomorrow morning to address what's going on with Hale, Chen and Givens,' Bryson said. 'She's debating about releasing Fletcher's name. Personally, I think it's a good move. It might force him to crawl back under his rock. This asshole has us jumping through hoops and, frankly, I'm getting sick and tired of it.'

'I don't blame you. I feel the same way.'

Bryson wasn't finished. 'He sends us to Sinclair, and we waste a day and a half searching empty rooms and hallways for what? Because he left a picture of a missing woman tacked up to a wall?'

'We know who she is.'

'Yeah, and the only reason we know is because the son of a bitch sent the mother down here. And what do we do? We drop what we're doing, and now we've wasted part of the day looking into a woman who's been missing for twenty-six years. For all we know Fletcher consulted on this case years ago, and now he's rubbing our nose into it.'

'I'm not following.'

'It's bullshit. Fletcher is jerking us around.'

'I keep coming back to the statue. It's the same -'

'Darby, I know about the goddamn statue.' Bryson's face was mottled red. 'I was there with you, remember? I saw it with my own eyes.'

She didn't answer.

Bryson waved a hand in apology. 'I don't mean to take my frustration out on you,' he said. 'I'm operating on about four hours of sleep.'

'If it's any consolation, I'm feeling the same way. Fletcher's using the statue as a carrot, dangling it in front of us, and every time he calls or does something, we drop what we're doing and jump.'

'Maybe that's what he wants.'

'We need to find out what he's doing.'

'It's a waste of time.'

'We don't have much of a choice, Tim. Malcolm Fletcher is here, and he knows something. He's not going away.'

'Let's talk about your surveillance,' Bryson said.

44

'If Fletcher calls you at home or at the lab, we can trace his location in about forty-five seconds,' Bryson said. 'The moment your phone rings, the trace starts. Let it ring three times before you pick up.'

'What about my cell phone?' Darby asked.

'That's where it gets dicey. Cell signals bounce through towers.' Bryson reached into his pant pocket. 'It could take anywhere from one to three minutes to pinpoint his location. If he calls you on your cell, the key is to keep him talking as long as possible. Once we get a lock on his signal, we can trace it even if he hangs up, as long as he keeps his phone turned on. I also want you to carry this.'

Pinched between his fingers was a small rectangular piece of black plastic, thin, with a grey button in the centre. The device reminded Darby of the medical alert units some elderly people carried in case they fell and couldn't get up.

'This is what we call a panic button,' Bryson said. 'If something happens, if you believe you're in danger, you press the button – you have to do it hard enough to break the seal. Once that happens, we come running. There's also a GPS transmitter in there, so we'll know where you are at any given time. You're to carry this with you, even when you go to bed.'