“No need to salute, Officer Canfield,” Jake said. It hadn’t been that long since he was the new kid. He pulled out his BlackBerry, opened a new file to take notes. “So what’ve we got here?”
“At approximately nine twenty-seven P.M., dispatch received a nine-one-one call for an open front door at this address, sixteen Kenilworth,” Canfield said. She kept her hands at her sides, fists clenched. A strand of brown hair escaped from under her billed cap, and she puffed it away out of one side of her mouth as she continued her recitation. “Two units responded to the scene, and upon entering through the open door, discovered a-”
“Detective Brogan? This is dispatch,” Jake’s radio squawked from his jacket pocket.
“Excuse me, Officer,” Jake said. He stashed his BlackBerry, pushed the talk button. “This is Brogan.”
“Are you ten-eight, sir?” Dispatch’s voice, measured and careful.
What the hell? Jake bit back a curt response. Why were they checking on him?
“Superintendent Rivera is inquiring,” dispatch said, her voice telegraphing it wasn’t my idea, but I’m following orders.
“Gotcha,” Jake replied. He rolled his eyes at the young officer, bringing Rosie onto his team, can you believe the big shots? “Yes, Dispatch, I’m at the address.”
“Superintendent said please report on the situation ASAP.”
“Will do in five,” Jake said.
“Copy that, thank you, Detective.”
A siren wailed in the distance, the high-pitched howl of Boston Medical Center’s go team. About time. Although since whoever was inside was apparently DOA, it wouldn’t matter when they arrived. To the victim, at least.
In this case, Jake thought as he pulled out his phone, the bad guy couldn’t have been Elliot Sandoval or Gordon Thorley. Both of them were in custody. “Okay, then,” Jake said. “You heard the dispatcher, Officer Canfield. The Supe himself is standing by to hear the latest. What’ve we got?”
The house was empty? Foreclosed? Maybe Jane had chosen the perfect person to interview, proving man-on-the-street sound bites could be more than filler.
“Thanks, Dr. Wander,” Jane said. She gestured to TJ, drew a fast finger across her throat. Cut. Was this guy making stuff up to get his name and face in the paper? Didn’t seem like it. It was all easy enough to confirm, and if true-pretty darn interesting. “Give me a wave if you hear anything more, okay?”
Jane sneaked a look at the now-closed front door of the house. Jake stood, right under the porch light, the screen of his BlackBerry catching the glow. Typing notes, as always, in his usual black T-shirt and those jeans, talking to the uniform stationed near the door.
That was the frustrating part. How she knew the Jake thing would have to change. Any other crime scene, any other detective, Jane’d be right up there on the front lines, not pushing, but persistent, probing, making her presence known, asking questions and trying to get the story. Nothing on the record came from inquiries like that, cops and reporters tacitly-well, openly-agreeing that attributable stuff came only from the PR flak. But a little judicial pointing-in-the-right-direction was the currency of those relationships.
Cops would give reporters a bit of juicy takeaway, something exclusive, and reporters would make sure the cop shop looked good, if they could. Mutual trust bred mutual benefit.
But with Jake, there was baggage. He had to be careful not to treat her any differently, she knew that, and as a result, he treated her completely differently. No scoops, no exclusives, no insider info. Good for him, bad for Jane. And she knew she often might do the same with him-holding back, being one level less insistent. Also good for him, bad for Jane.
Their whole existence was out of balance. And even more now, she realized, that Jake’s going-to-Washington story cast a shadow of mistrust between them. He had been called to D.C. “unexpectedly.” Then came home “unexpectedly.” What was “unexpectedly,” except an excuse to do whatever he wanted?
“Now what?” TJ asked. “Siren.”
The wail got closer, screaming onto Kenilworth, the crowd, as one, stepping away from the street, as if the high-speed arrival of the ambulance might mean the driver would skid out of control. The swirling red lights slid across each bystander’s face, glowing each one red for a fraction of a second. Soon as the ambulance stopped, the crowd inched forward again, closer to the action. The streetlights made amber pools on the sidewalks; the red ambulance lights, silent now, continued to spiral; the stars were full out in the expanse of velvet night sky. The neighborhood light show, Jane thought, all illuminating tragedy.
“Let’s see what’s going on.” Jane pointed to the jumpsuited EMTs emerging from the red and white van. The phone in her jeans pocket had stayed silent. Where the hell was Peter? If he was in this house-but, she silently repeated her mantra as she and TJ headed across the street. Whatever happened, happened. Nothing she could do about it now but wait and see. And ask questions.
She was a reporter, no matter what detective was in charge at the crime scene. She’d do her job. She’d ask the professional questions now. The personal ones later.
Jane. A few steps away, down the front walk, behind the crime scene tape. In the shadows from the streetlights, Jake couldn’t read her face.
“Hey, Jane,” he said. Sure, they usually used their full names on the job, elaborately careful, but at ten at night at a crime scene, he figured he could ditch the formality. Who were they trying to fool, anyway?
“Detective Brogan.” She gave half a wave. “You remember TJ Foy.”
Jake nodded. He hadn’t finished talking to the officer at the door, and until he did, he had nothing for Jane. He’d give her the lowdown, he figured, then make her call the cop’s PR flak to confirm before she went with the story. He’d do the same for any reliable reporter, he reassured himself, so why not for her?
Although they each sought the same information, right now, the balance was on Jake’s end. He had access, she didn’t. He could go inside, she couldn’t. The flimsy yellow crime scene tape was the inviolable barrier, the delineation of the information battle lines. She’d have to wait for him. This time. She recognized it, too. She’d called him “detective.”
“Give me five minutes, Jane,” he said, holding up a palm, five fingers. He pointed to himself, then to her, pantomiming, then I’ll talk.
He saw her agree, nodding, then whisper to her photographer. The crowd across the street stood three deep now. Where had all these people come from, giving up their TV shows and their families and their sleep to get a close-up look at someone else’s disaster? He’d never understand that. As a detective, his job wasn’t to prevent crime-by the time he was called in, the bad thing already happened. That was his whole life, now that he thought of it, dealing with one bad thing after another. Was he drawn to that, same way the bystanders were?
No, he decided. I solve crimes. I don’t watch.
“Officer Canfield?” he said. “What have we got here?”
“White female,” Canfield pulled out a pocket-sized spiral notebook, already open, the pages dog-eared and wrinkled. She smoothed out the top page with one finger, then squinted at her handwriting. “According to the identification, it’s one Elizabeth McDivitt, age thirty-three.”
“Mc-” Jake typed the name into his own notes.
“Divitt.” Canfield spelled it out. “It was on a Mass driver’s license, and on her work ID. Officer Vitucci’s inside.”
“She live here?” Jake asked, listening and typing at the same time.