Though now he was trapped. It was illegal to lie to the cops, everyone knew that, and if he couldn’t recognize the “suspect,” as this cop had called him, might he be in big trouble? And what happened to Jane Ryland, anyway? She’d been right behind him, she’d be able to help him explain, or get out of this. But Jane was gone. Crap. You couldn’t trust anyone.
Bobby ran his tongue across his dry lips, wishing he were anywhere else, wishing he’d never opened his-but wait.
The memory card. Over there, in the middle of one square of gray cobblestone. If there was a picture of the stabber, if he had actually gotten it, they might be able to get it from the card. Not definitely, but maybe. Then he wouldn’t have to identify the person at all. Would he? They could all go by what they saw in the photo.
The memory card was the key. All he had to do was get it.
Both cops were staring at him, waiting for an answer. The preppy one moved closer to him, Bobby saw that, watching him edge into his space, ready to nail him, probably, if he made a move. Which, he had to admit, had crossed his mind.
But if he tried to run for it they’d probably shoot him. And he’d look guilty as hell, of something, even though he wasn’t.
Bobby took a deep, shuddering breath, the cop’s eyes on him, the jerk’s eyes on him, thinking about how this had all started because he thought he was in the right place at the right time. Now it might have been the wrong place.
“Mr. Land?” One cop came closer. The other one, the tall skinny one, had his hand right by his gun. The handcuffed guy, they’d called him Hewlitt, was staring daggers. They were all silent, waiting for Bobby. Waiting for Bobby to say something.
Why didn’t he ever learn to keep his mouth shut?
But wait a minute. He had the eye. Right? And if there was a good photo in the camera, he’d be a hero, and it’d be all he’d need to make his career. Either it was there or it wasn’t. If it wasn’t-He mentally shrugged, imagining it. He could say he’d made a mistake. He was only a kid, after all. If it was? A good photo might, just might, change his life. Not exactly as he’d planned. But to be famous you had to be flexible. Open to possibilities. Someone had said that, he was sure.
“Well, I guess I…” he began, though he had not quite decided what to say next.
A yell, like the roar of a-?
Bobby, startled by the sound, tripped backward, losing his balance, stumbling over his own feet, landing on his ass as all the shadows moved and both cops were yelling, as Hewlitt, bellowing like a crazy person, charged toward him. Bobby raised his arms, ready to duck, ready to run, but wait, the guy couldn’t punch him, he was in handcuffs, right?
With a sound that echoed through the cul-de-sac, Hewlitt stomped one heavy shoe on the memory card. “No pictures of me!” he shouted.
Bobby heard himself shouting too as the two cops grabbed Hewlitt’s arms and yanked him away, twisting and pivoting even as they dragged him, his brown loafers scraping on the pavement.
It didn’t matter. The memory card was useless, now tiny fragments of plastic and metal.
14
If Jane’s phone didn’t stop buzzing, she was going to crush it to tiny phone smithereens. Still crouched in the alley by the droning air conditioner, she tried to ignore her cell, the nasty little creature, the insistent piece of technology that connected her, relentlessly, to anyone who decided their life was more important than hers. She could hardly remember life before cell phones, when everyone on the planet couldn’t electronically demand attention every minute of every day. Jane had understood she was over the edge on the phone thing the day she’d walked down the back hall of the Register, talking, gone into the bathroom, listening, and tried to figure out how to pull her tights down while she asked her source one more question. At that exact moment, she’d realized she was addicted, hooked, inalterably chained to it.
Was it Jake calling? Checking on her? Only three minutes ago, maybe less, he’d ordered her to leave the alley. She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t.
Jake was one of the city’s top homicide cops, and this was a homicide. So where Jake was, that’s where the story would be. Here she would stay until she discovered exactly what the story was. She couldn’t hear a thing from way back there, but they had to come out sometime. She’d be ready.
The phone buzzed again. Maybe it was the assignment desk. Maybe they had updated information.
She dug out the phone, punched the button. Private caller. “Yes?” she whispered.
“Jane?”
Jane narrowed her eyes, trying to focus. The voice was familiar but off somehow.
“It’s Melissa.”
“Hey, Sis,” Jane whispered. “You okay? I’m right in the midst of a-”
“I might need you,” Melissa said. “Maybe. About the Gracie thing.”
Jane took the phone away from her ear, looked at it in brief bewilderment, as if looking through it to her sister.
“But you said-” Jane began.
“I know what I said.” Melissa sounded worried, her voice tight, cutting Jane off. “But I’m kind of freaking. How can I be a good mother if I can’t even handle this? Daniel’s not arriving until tonight-and… Anyway. That husband of Robyn’s. He’s-hang on a second.”
Jane lifted her eyes skyward, pleading with the universe for one tiny break. Melissa was telling her to hang on? Hang on?
Jane peeked around the edge of the thrumming air conditioner. Saw shadows moving, the light changing, down where the turn began. Heard voices, then footsteps. Jake and DeLuca must be on the move. With Bobby. And whoever else was back there.
She had to get her camera. This story was about to break.
“Does your family live in Boston?”
Figures. Brileen was asking the one question Tenley hoped to avoid. Now she’d have to decide what to tell her. Reality was too complicated. Who her mother was. Who her father was. Who her sister was. Or wasn’t.
The two girls had skirted the walkways of Curley Park, headed away toward the Purple, watching as bystanders, dismissed by the police, drifted back to wherever. Tenley had seen the first ambulance pull away, siren screaming, then another one come out of Franklin Alley. Now cars were being let through, as usual. Seemed like normal was back.
Tenley knew she had less than ten minutes more with this girl, this Brileen. That would be barely long enough to grab a coffee. Not enough for the story of her family.
Maybe she should change the subject. Or find out more about Brileen, because in ten minutes, she’d have to say good-bye, and that would be too bad.
“Do you?” Tenley asked. “Have family in Boston?”
“Sure,” Brileen said. “Doesn’t mean I like ’em.” She yanked the leather shoulder strap of a black laptop bag over her head, carried it cross-body.
“Tell me about it,” Tenley said.
She looked down as they walked, watched how her steps matched Brileen’s. Bri’s feet in chunky Maddens, all thick laces and blocky soles. Tenley’s were in black flats, which she used to love, just this morning she’d loved them. Now they looked like loser shoes. Why did everything always change?
“Hang on a second.” Brileen tilted her head toward the alley. “Hear that? See that? Somebody’s coming out,” she whispered. She flattened herself against the bank’s stone façade, gestured Tenley to do the same. “We should be careful. What if the bad guy is still-you know. Out there.”