Camera four, the monolith of the JFK Federal Building. Fuzzy pedestrians, nothing ever happened here. Why’d they have a camera? Worried some terrorists would rob the ancient basement coffee shop? Make off with a stash of expired candy bars? Ticktock, change the screen.
Camera five, northeast, she could actually see the Dunkin’ Donuts, thanks, universe for once again pointing out what she couldn’t have. A limousine sailed by, and Tenley imagined who might be inside, all leather and champagne.
Sometimes, just for grins, she looked for celebrities. Last Wednesday, she saw a guy who, for a second, she really thought was her fave singer Lachlan Zane, very underground and totally alt, and she’d considered maybe rocking a screen save, and maybe even selling it to one of the places that put cool or embarrassing stuff on TV, like that guy in the elevator, or that star who always destroyed hotel rooms.
It seemed like kind of a terrific idea until she’d realized how easy it would be to trace, and she’d be in deep trouble. Who knew what would have happened then, not to mention the level of grief she’d have to take from her parents.
Camera six. All fuzz. Pigeons nested in the little place above the screen and fritzed the heck out of it, pecking at the lens and perching on the connection. She’d report it. Soon.
Camera seven. Aimed at North Street and Faneuil Hall-Fan-You-Will, she called it, instead of Fan-yool, just to drive her mother crazy. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. Weird. The shot was from high up, through the leafy trees, so it was like she was looking down from three stories onto the street. A row of touristy bars. The University Inn. The little alley by the wine store. The cameras were supposed to watch traffic and pedestrians on the streets, but-weird.
Funny that there were so many people in this shot and so few in cameras four and five.
Tenley clicked the silver mouse to bring in a closer shot. She’d been in Curley Park a million times, it was right across from her bus stop. She couldn’t see much except trees, and tops of heads, and shadows. But there was sure an ambulance there.
Lacing her fingers under her chin, Tenley stared at the computer screen.
Would she get yelled at for missing whatever happened down here? She was following protocol, and she couldn’t oversee every little place every little minute. She wasn’t even supposed to. This was streaming video, live, and only archived if a viewer pushed the Record button to put twenty seconds into what they called the “video cache.” But she hadn’t pushed Record, because she hadn’t seen anything. Not her fault.
The ambulance doors were open, and it was parked. She could see the dark outfits of the EMTs scurrying around. It had definitely been longer than twenty seconds since whatever happened began.
Her therapist promised that telling the truth could never hurt you. Was that really right? She’d only been following the rules, changing screens, it took a certain amount of time to look at seven cameras, the powers that be had to understand that. If she failed, at whatever, it was because the rules had made her fail. It seemed like she couldn’t stop making the wrong decisions.
She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. The shape of the crowd was changing. What was going on down there?
3
“Down that way-in the alley!” The cadet grabbed Jake’s arm, and Jake followed the kid’s pointing finger toward the narrow curved passage between the bank and the liquor store. “Some guy’s apparently hiding in a Dumpster. Down there. Or put something in the Dumpster. Something like that.” The cadet gulped for air, trying to get the words out. “A girl-I mean, a woman-told me. Anyway, what if it’s the-”
“Who told you? Where’d she come from?” Jake needed specifics. “Where is she now? This girl-woman? What’d she say?”
“Ah, I don’t know, she just said-what I said. The Dumpster. We were all taking names and addresses, see, they’re still doing that, like you wanted, and she came up to me and-” The cadet’s black plastic name tag said BRAD LONNERGAN. Lonnergan pointed again, jabbing the air. “Down there. What if it’s the guy who-”
“You kidding me? Do you see her? Find her.” This Lonnergan kid was not clear on the law enforcement concept. “Hold her. Do not let her leave. Understand? D!”
Jake signaled DeLuca with one finger. Me. You. That way. Let’s go.
They couldn’t afford to spook the crowd. All he needed, a mob following them into Franklin Alley, hooting like medieval peasants while they dragged some poor jerk from a Dumpster. Jake, checking to make sure D was behind him, snaked behind the spectators, dodging and weaving. Only one or two seemed to notice they were on the move. He and D didn’t look like cops, after all. Just two guys wearing jeans and leather jackets. Walking fast.
Jake glanced over his shoulder again. Most eyes focused on Kat McMahon, the ME now kneeling over the victim. For once, better to keep it that way. Cadets-the ones with brains-were taking names and addresses. Asking if anyone saw anything. Asking spectators with cameras and cell phones to stand by. The whole thing was already verging on out of control. And now this.
But maybe this would solve the whole damn case and they all could go home.
Ahead of them, the alley. Cracked pavement, cobblestones scattered with gravel. Framed on the right by the bank’s brand-new red brick, on the left by the pockmarked brownstone of Jodi’s Liquors and the University Inn. With its twists and turns, only the first ten feet or so of Franklin were visible from the street. Jake knew it was a dead end. If someone was in there, like Lonnergan’s “girl-woman” said, there’d be no way out except toward him and DeLuca. A bad guy who planned where he was going, or was at least familiar with this part of the city, would never have chosen this as an escape route. Unless he was panicking. Or hurt. Or trying to hide, waiting it out.
Or luring them in? Trapping them?
At the curb, Jake stopped, put up a hand, assessing. DeLuca skidded to a halt, almost slamming into Jake’s back. Broad daylight, not like anyone could surprise them. The quiet hubbub of Curley Park softened into background.
One second, two.
Jake felt for his Glock, drew it, felt the sun on his face. A seagull squawked, swooping, headed for the harbor. Lured into a dead-end alley? Windows above. Rooftops. Where was the woman who’d sent them down here? Who was she? Whose side was she on? What if-well, there were too many what-ifs to consider right now.
“You ready?” he said.
“Ready,” DeLuca said.
“On my three.” Jake began, “One.”
“Help!” A voice, from down the alley. “Help me!”
“Three,” Jake said.
A dead body, a stabbing in Curley Park. And Jane was on the way.
It wasn’t funny, not one bit of apparent murder was funny-Jane zoomed her Audi around the curve and onto Atlantic Ave.-but the fact that she, Jane Elizabeth Ryland, who two hours ago had been out of work was now on the way to cover a homicide, clearly proved the universe had a droll sense of humor.
She was simply to “gather facts,” Marsh Tyson had instructed, and phone them in to the assignment desk. If it turned out to be big breaking news, she certainly could go on camera, since she’d dolled up in a black suit, black patent heels, and Gram’s pearls for the non-job non-interview. She hadn’t done a live shot for almost a year, but she had to admit the idea of live TV felt like home.
She shifted into third, open road ahead, past the Coast Guard building. Life was strange. She’d given the Register blockbuster stories-political corruption, an adoption scandal, mortgage fraud. And what did she get? Unemployment. But now, Jane Ryland was back. Freelance, sure, but with a lovely per diem. Take that, mortgage payment.