Passing the JFK Federal Building and trotting down the expanse of steps, Jane crossed the concrete tundra in front of City Hall. They called the building’s architecture Brutalist. Not just a description of the exterior, with its massive concrete teeth and stacked narrow windows, Jane thought. It was brutally difficult to find your way around inside the illogical structure. Boston City Hall was a pain, an inconvenient marble-floored disaster for anyone in heels. Maybe it was designed deliberately to keep people out.
Not her, not today. She yanked at the glass side door on the plaza level. Locked. She checked her watch. Seven fifty-eight. She’d try another entrance.
Down a set of steep steps, up Congress Street, toward the ground-level door. Maybe a guard would be there, let her in. She had no press credentials, she realized. Hoped that wouldn’t put a snag in her plans.
Pausing a beat, she stared across the street at Curley Park. Crime scene tape still garlanded the circular bricked area where the stabbing occurred. No police officers were on duty guarding it. Did they think there was still evidence there? Or had no one bothered to take the yellow plastic down?
She’d forgotten to ask Marsh Tyson about her Quik-Shot video from yesterday. Bobby Land might be on the tape, which could be helpful for the story. Would they broadcast his picture, asking if anyone recognized him? She shook her head, answering herself. No. They’d have to wait until police confirmed an identification. Or asked for help.
She bracketed her face with her hands, peering through the smoky glass of the door. Inside she could see the guard’s desk and chair, empty. Lights on, but no one home. Eight o’clock now. Where was everyone?
Footsteps behind her. A haggard middle-aged man in a checkered shirt who looked like he hadn’t slept much tapped a white pass card against a metal box attached to the door. With a mechanical click, the door unlocked.
She smiled, as if she and the guy were best friends. “Hi,” she said. “Gorgeous day, huh?”
He looked at her, semi-quizzical, then adjusted the sheaf of papers under his arm, juggled a Starbucks venti with foam oozing from the plastic lid. Pulled open the door. Paused. And that was all she needed. It was a public building, after all. And she was the public.
“Thanks,” she said. Big smile.
And she was inside.
Catherine stared at the photo of her husband, her dead husband, wondering how long it would take the police to figure it all out. Wondering how long it would take her to figure it out. Wondering why her life had crashed and toppled off the cliff into sorrow and tragedy. She pressed her fingers to her temples, tried to hold back her tears.
Although the cop would be expecting her to be sad, right? Her husband was missing? Was it suspicious if she was too sad? Was it ridiculous to be protecting the mayor, and the city, instead of running to the police, screaming, Someone killed my husband?
How do you know? They’d ask.
“What the hell,” she whispered, and dropped her forehead onto her crossed arms. Maybe if she just went to sleep, this whole thing would disappear, evaporate into the past. Or have never happened. Maybe it wasn’t Greg.
But what she saw was all on tape, right here, right in front of her eyes. She could watch it again and again. Had she been nasty to Greg, the last time they talked? Had it mattered? Had they been arguing over something meaningful? It was over Tenley, she remembered. Whether Tenley could stay out. Mundane. Ordinary. What if she had known that was the very last time they’d ever talk? Would she have handled it differently, forgiven him, forgiven everything, decided not to sweat the small stuff?
Now there was no small stuff. All the stuff was huge and hulking and relentless. What had Greg been doing at Curley Park? It must have been just after they’d talked on the phone. Had he been on the way to see her, maybe to apologize? Had he been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Who had killed him, for God’s sake? And why?
And that cop was on the way.
She punched the intercom to Ward’s extension. He and Kelli Riordan were supposed to meet with her at eight fifteen so they could strategize. So much for that idea. Now she had strategy of her own to handle first. She’d have to stall them. She should have arranged to meet the cop somewhere else. She wasn’t thinking straight. How could she?
A knock at the door disoriented her even more. Ward? Kelli? The cop? He couldn’t have gotten there by now. Could he? Dammit. She was panicking, and this was not the time for that. It was certainly Kelli and Ward, just as planned. But she wasn’t ready for them, not yet. She’d make some excuse, send them away.
Another knock. “Catherine?”
“Come in,” she called. She touched her hair, her cheeks, tried to pull herself together. She’d take Kelli’s research and say she had to study it, which was true. The mayor wouldn’t arrive for an hour, probably two. At this point, it was all about stalling, as long as she could. If the police identified the victim-Greg-in Curley Park, they wouldn’t need to tell anyone about the video.
Would they?
The door opened.
“Hi,” a voice said.
A woman took two steps into her office. Not Kelli. Younger, prettyish, with a black T-shirt, black jeans, a gray scarf around her neck.
“Mrs. Siskel? I’m Jane Ryland. From Channel 2? You have a moment?”
“Do you have an appointment?” Jane Ryland. A reporter. No wonder she looked familiar. What the holy hell she was doing here? To show up unannounced at Catherine’s office was a surprising breach of protocol. And security.
“Jane? All press inquiries must go through public relations.”
She looked at her watch. It was eight o’clock, maybe three minutes after. That cop was supposed to be here any second. If Jane saw that police officer coming into her office, she’d put two and two together. No matter what answer she came up with, the result would be disaster. Catherine knew about Jane Ryland, knew her reputation perfectly well. If this tragedy magnet so much as smelled a story, she’d never let go. “You know the rules.”
The reporter took another step into the room. Then another.
Catherine stood. This had gone far enough.
“I can’t help you,” she said.
“But you don’t even know what-” The reporter stopped, midsentence. Turned to look in the hall behind her.
Catherine leaned forward across the desk, trying to see what Ryland was seeing. Maybe her secretary had finally arrived? But Siobhan never got here before nine.
Jane stepped aside, revealing the newcomer. Leather jacket, Levi’s, black T-shirt, sandy hair, needing a shave. Holding out a badge.
“Catherine Siskel?” The cop seemed nervous. Eyeing Jane Ryland. Well, of course he was. He’d shown up at her office and a reporter was already there. He probably thought Catherine had called her. How would she ever explain any of this? And her husband was dead.
Catherine felt her stomach lurch, felt the floor move under her, felt the earth twirl off its axis and spin her into outer space.
“Excuse me,” she said. She clamped a hand to her mouth, horrified at what was about to happen. Looked at her open office door. Embarrassed, overwhelmed, defeated. “I have to throw up.”
34
“Did you get any sleep?”
It was a ridiculous thing to say. Jane was so flummoxed to see Jake in Catherine Siskel’s office that she blurted the first thought that popped into her mind. Her second thought was that if Jake was here, she was on the right track. That, she did not blurt.
“Ms. Siskel seems to be in extremis,” Jake said. “Hope she makes it to the bathroom.”
“Yeah.” Jane blinked, trying to decide what to do. Jake needed a shave. The black T-shirt and Levi’s were the same ones he’d worn yesterday. The exact same ones, she decided, not just another from Jake’s collection of identical work clothes. Jake had not been home since they’d last seen each other twelve hours ago at the Taverna. Where had he been? And why?