The Secret Friend

Darby tapped the phone against her leg, wanting to do something. The matter, she knew, could wait. There was no urgency.

Emma Hale had lived in the Back Bay – a quick ride on the T, which was still running. Darby wondered if the young woman's belongings were stored inside the building, maybe even in her home. A building like that probably had someone who worked the front desk.

Darby didn't want to wait, wasn't good at waiting. She needed to know. She stuffed Emma Hale's murder book into her backpack and grabbed her coat.

10

Emma Hale's building had a concierge who, in addition to tending to the needs of the thirteen owners, also acted as security guard. The man's name was Jimmy Marsh. He sat behind an ornate front counter with two crystal vases on each end holding lilies. Soft, decorative lighting offset the glare of the six security monitors.

Darby introduced herself and then asked about Emma Hale's penthouse.

'Mr Hale hasn't cleaned it out yet,' Marsh said. He saw the look of surprise on her face and added, 'Some people grieve differently, you know?'

'So everything's still upstairs.'

'I can't say for sure. Nobody is allowed up there. After Emma's body was found, Mr Hale asked me to change the locks.' Marsh sighed and rubbed a liver-spotted hand over his bald head. He was a big man, thick and hard with fat, with a crooked nose that had been broken one too many times. 'Emma was such a beautiful girl, beautiful and charming,' he said. 'Every Sunday morning she'd go out for coffee and bring me back a blueberry muffin from the place I love right around the corner. I'd offer to pay her, but she always said no. That's the kind of girl she was.'

'Sounds like you two were close.'

'I wouldn't say that. She was a good kid, and I kept an eye on her. I promised her dad. Mr Hale owns this building – he owns half the buildings here in the Back Bay. He's a very powerful man.'

So I keep hearing, Darby thought. 'Do you work here full time, Mr Marsh?'

'Yeah, me and this other guy, Porny – Dwight Pornell is his name. Dwight generally takes the night shifts, but his old lady had a baby, and I've been covering for him. We see everyone who comes and goes. That's why this desk is set up here right by the front door. Every guest who comes in is required to sign in right here.' Marsh tapped the open leather guest book set up on the counter for emphasis. 'We check licences and make photocopies of 'em. Security here is tight, Miss McCormick.'

'How long have you been keeping this guest book?'

'Ever since nine-eleven,' he said. 'That changed everything. You can't go anywhere without signing your name and flashing your licence.'

'Do you keep all the copies?'

'Yes ma'am.'

'The security cameras,' Darby said. 'How long have you had them?'

'They were put in place when Mr Hale was rehab-bing the building back in, oh, ninety-six or so. They watch the front doors, the delivery area – we got a camera inside the private parking garage. We take security here very seriously.'

'You keep mentioning that, Mr Marsh. Is there something you want to get off your chest?'

'Me? No, I'm just a lowly security type. Your buddy there, Mr GQ Detective, he thought I might have had something to do with what happened to Emma. You ever walk around with a microscope up your ass?'

'Can't say that I have.'

'Well, let me tell you, it don't feel too comfortable. I think if Detective Bryson put the same amount of effort into the investigation as he does how his hair looked on camera he would have found Emma. Are you any closer to catching the son of a bitch who killed her?'

'We're investigating several leads.'

'Which is cop-speak for you don't have jack shit.'

'How long have you been retired from the force?'

'I worked patrol in Dorchester for twenty years. That's why Mr Hale gave me this job. It's a great gig. I don't have to wonder if some dipshit I pull over is going to pop a cap in my ass.'

'Mr Marsh, you said you put new locks on Emma's home.'

'That's right.'

'Do you have a set of keys?'

'The penthouse was released back to Mr Hale.'

'You didn't answer my question.'

'I have a spare set, yes, but no one is allowed up there. I'm sorry, but I can't let you up there without his permission.'

'Then you better get on the phone.'

'Mr Hale's out of town.'

'How do you know that?'

'He was here Wednesday or so and happened to mention it to me.'

'Why was he here?'

'He wanted to go up to his daughter's home.'

'Why?'

'I don't know, and I didn't ask.' Marsh leaned back in his chair, the spring squeaking under his weight, and clasped his hands behind his head. 'Tell you what. Why don't you come back here Monday morning and -'

'Maybe I wasn't clear,' Darby said. 'I need to get inside Emma's penthouse tonight.'

'I don't have his number.'

'But you do have an emergency number to call in case there's a problem.'

'The number I have goes to his answering service,' Marsh said. 'You think I have the man's home phone number? You know how many people he employs? Come back Monday.'

'I can have a court order here within the hour.'

Marsh stared at the makeup-covered scar on her cheek. Darby took out her cell phone and started dialling.

'I'll see what I can do,' Marsh said, standing. He walked into the back room behind the desk and shut the door.

Darby paced the small lobby, listening to the wind howling outside the front doors. Why had Marsh given her such a hard time? Was it because she was a woman? She wondered if Tim Bryson would have received the same treatment. Maybe Marsh was simply acting in what he believed was the best interest of his employer.

Darby turned her attention to the security monitors. One camera monitored the front door. Two swept the street, what little of it she could see; the snow was coming down at a furious clip. Another one was installed above a large bay door – probably the delivery area for bulky items such as furniture. The other two cameras kept watch on the garage door and the parking garage. If Emma's abductor had, in fact, come back for the necklace, how did he manage to get through without being caught?

Twenty minutes later, Marsh came out of his office. 'Emma's place is on the fifteenth floor,' he said, handing Darby a set of keys.

'Alarm?'

Marsh glanced at a computer console. 'It's off. I think it's been turned off for a while now.'

'Is that unusual?'

'I remember Mr Hale had it shut off when you people were running in and out of Emma's place. You'll need to talk to him about it.'

'Did you speak to him?'

'No, I spoke to his assistant, Abigail. She spoke to Mr Hale. He wanted you to know you have his full cooperation.'

'I'd like Abigail's number,' Darby said. 'I'll collect it when I drop off the keys.'

Darby rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor. She stepped into a dimly lit hallway containing two doors. At the end she saw a delivery elevator.

Emma's door was on the right. Darby unzipped her coat and then slipped on a pair of latex gloves. She checked the two locks and didn't see any signs of forced entry. She unlocked the door, reached inside and found the light switch.

Emma Hale's home was two floors of blonde oak hardwood floors and windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Darby was taken back by the enormous amount of space. The main room, twice the size of her condo, was magazine-showroom perfect, from the modern-type furniture and rugs to the Jackson Pollock-inspired oil paintings and knock-off Greek statues. The kitchen had black granite counter-tops, a Viking range and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. Nice living for a Harvard student.

The air had a stale quality to it, and the heat was on, as though Emma was expected to return. Darby wanted to roam through the rooms to get to know Emma better. First, she needed to find out about the necklace.