“I just got here,” Angie said. “Perhaps DeLuca knows. Perhaps he’ll tell you when he shows up with that coffee. You’re lucky to have him for a partner. Instead of me.”
“Detective Bartoneri. Angie. Give me a freaking-” Jake said. “It’s not my fault.”
The boy on the bed stirred. Jake heard a tiny plaintive sound, almost a sigh. Land’s eyes fluttered, then went still. Jake checked the square black screen of the wall-mounted monitor. Heartbeat, fine. No alarm beeps or flatline, just the steady, jagged digital rhythms of sedated sleep. An IV drip was taped inside the crook of his left arm. No tattoos, Jake noticed. That would have been interesting, if Land and John Doe upstairs had matching tattoos. But real life wasn’t like Law & Order. TV cops solved their crimes in fifty-two minutes.
Jake waited until Land’s breathing calmed, then took four steps to the Levi’s on the chair. Picked them up, started to check the pockets.
“Ahem.” Angie stood, twisted her hair onto the top of her head, then let it fall back over her shoulders.
“Ahem?” Jake stopped, midsearch.
“Aren’t you worried about the legality of that search, Detective? You have a warrant to go through Mr. Land’s apparel?”
“Mr. Land is not a suspect,” Jake said. “As you well know. Or perhaps you don’t. Nevertheless.” Nevertheless? Jake couldn’t believe he’d said that.
“Mr. Land is a victim of a violent assault,” he went on. “If we can ascertain a motive for such an assault, then-” Ascertain a motive? Why did she persist in baiting him? “Anyway, Ang, you know this is by the book.”
“Knock yourself out,” Angie said.
Jake held back from rolling his eyes. This whole night was a disaster. He felt inside the left front pocket of Land’s Levi’s, nothing. Right front pocket, nothing. Back left pocket, nothing. Back right pocket, nothing.
He picked up the T-shirt. And underneath, on the chair, was a wallet.
“Hey,” he said.
“They found it in the bushes,” Angie said. “But who knows if it’s his, right? You sure you don’t need a warrant?”
Jake gritted back his inappropriately nasty response, dumped the pants on the chair, and pulled apart the wallet’s black strip of Velcro, opening a flap of silver-and-white Tyvek. Angie raised an eyebrow at the ripping sounds, then stared at the wall again, actively ignoring him. Three slots for credit cards and ID. All empty. Jake knew the kid’s name was Bobby Land, but that was all. DeLuca had HQ tracking down the next of kin. No T passes, though, no college ID. Nothing. He opened the long pocket where bills should be. No money.
“Empty,” he said.
“Surprise surprise,” Angie said.
Then he noticed what seemed like another compartment, secured by another bit of Velcro. Angie turned her head toward him at the sound as he opened it. Inside, a piece of paper, folded in thirds. Jake tucked the empty wallet under his arm and opened the paper. A cashier’s check, from Bay State Bank. The name “Bobby Land” was written in felt-tip pen, on the “pay to” line. Today’s date. And the signature was-Jake squinted at the name. No matter how he looked at it, an illegible scrawl.
But the amount was easy enough to read. A five, then three zeros, a decimal point, two more zeros. Someone-clearly Hewlitt and his lawyer-had paid off Bobby Land with this five thousand bucks. The check they’d prepared-in advance-to “make it right.” Seemed like they hadn’t planned any negotiating.
Why was that the only thing left in the wallet? Muggers didn’t take checks? Or maybe the check was so well-hidden they didn’t find it. Identity thieves were only interested in cash and IDs-was that the motive? Or maybe they were tracking down where the kid lived.
“Find something?” Angie deigned to look at him.
“Maybe,” Jake said. “Maybe a fat check to Bobby Land from Calvin Hewlitt.”
“Ca-Who?” she said.
“Who what?” DeLuca stood at the doorway, holding a tray with two coffees.
Jane deposited her tote bag on her dining room table. Ridiculous name, since no one ever dined there. The walnut expanse served as a handy extension of Jane’s filing system, holding her research, stacks of usually meaningless mail, and accumulating magazines.
“Hey, cat.” Jane grabbed the tiny calico, who had padded into the room and hopped on the table. Another reason why no one ate there. Coda loved to curl up on the magazines. It all worked.
Coda writhed out of Jane’s arms and scampered into the kitchen, hoping for food. Jane was starving, too. She should have brought the uneaten swordfish home for the cat. It was almost eleven o’clock. Time for the news.
She took a few quick steps down the hall to the study, grabbed the remote and clicked to Channel 2. Beverly Chorbajian, fashionably tousled and dressed more for cocktails than news, faced the camera with practiced grim concern. Behind her, a hard-edged red-and-black graphic warned of “Curley Park Chaos.” “And at this hour,” Beverly was saying, “police have not yet released his identity. Let’s go now live to the scene, where Roberta Gibson has the latest…”
Curley Park was dark at this hour-the reporter illuminated by a portable Klieg, dim streetlamps, and the occasional flare of car headlights. A few windows glowed, yellow rectangles in the monolithic City Hall.
Remote in hand, Jane watched the story go by. They’d used her video of the first ambulance, then the second ambulance, then a couple of the eyewitness sound bites. “I was getting lunch at the cor-nah,” the woman said. Still no photo or drawing of the victim. And no explanation of the second ambulance, or what had happened in that alleyway. That kid. Bobby Land? He had given her a card, right? She should call him. See what had happened at the police station.
Jane shrugged, staring at the shifting colors on her TV screen. Did it matter? She wasn’t covering the story. She quickly scanned through the other stations to see if anyone had any new info. Far as she could tell, they didn’t. And no victim pictures, either.
Why did she care about this? After today’s crazy freelance afternoon, she wasn’t even a reporter anymore. She should leave the crimes to Jake, be relieved about Gracie, and think about making a new life for herself. And feed the cat.
Laser focus on the bright side, Jane. Okay. She was no longer required to stand in front of an empty building or in a deserted park after eleven at night to illustrate where an event had taken place twelve hours earlier. Right? She didn’t miss TV, not really, not at all. If Marsh Tyson never called her again, good riddance. She could get a job as a-well, she’d figure that out.
“This is all about Calvin Hewlitt. Gotta be.” Jake kept his voice low as he talked with D, though Bobby Land was still dead to the world. They’d released Angie Bartoneri to HQ, even though she’d insisted she wanted to stay here with Land at the hospital. Probably trying to convince DeLuca she was a team player. But Jake didn’t need her attitude.
Bobby Land hadn’t moved. His breathing was shallow but steady. A couple of nurses in flowery scrubs had stopped by, checking and rearranging and tucking, then left, promising to return. A real hospital room was allegedly in the works, but with no next of kin and no insurance, things were not moving very quickly.
Jake showed D the wallet and the check. “This has gotta be from Hewlitt. You think it’s authentic?”
DeLuca tilted his head back and forth, examining the check, rubbing it between his fingers, then handed it to Jake. He leaned against the wall, took a slug of his coffee. Winced. “Six of one,” he said. “Who knows what a bad guy would do.”