Jane didn’t believe a word she said. But how to prove she was a liar?
This was Jake’s show. She kept silent, waiting for his cue. Probably Marsh Tyson was calling her, wondering why the hell she was in the middle of this huge story and hadn’t let him know. She’d have to come up with an answer for that one.
Her phone buzzed again. Jake nodded, giving her permission. “Might be-”
True. She hit the green button. “Yes?”
Melissa.
“Can anyone else hear me?” her sister asked.
“No.” Jane checked Jake’s expression, to see if Melissa’s voice had carried. “No.”
“I asked Gracie what you told me to,” Melissa said.
“Okay,” Jane said. “And?”
“I’m going to put her on the phone so you can hear it, firsthand. I think you’ll be interested.”
“Okay.” Jane heard a rustle and a murmur, Melissa handing the phone to the little girl. “Tell Jane what you told me, sweetheart,” she heard Melissa say.
“Hi, Jane,” Gracie said. “I’m sorry I was mean to you.”
“You did exactly the right thing, honey.” The girl sounded so sincere. “I’m proud of you. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Who is that?” Robyn tried to get to her feet. “Who is that?”
“So remember what Melissa asked you?” Jane said, pretending to ignore Robyn’s demand. “Why were you waiting in the lobby, Gracie?”
“She doesn’t know, for heaven’s sake.” Robyn’s voice, disdainful. Dismissive. “You can’t talk to a child. You can’t expect a child to tell the truth.”
Jane smiled at Robyn, a smile of pity and triumph that grew in strength as she heard the truth of what Gracie was saying. The truth of the Rubik’s Cube that was Robyn, her fragmented lies snapping into place. Jane put her hand over the mouthpiece so Gracie, now prattling about Twizzlers and grown-ups running, wouldn’t be distracted.
“What’s wrong with the truth, Robyn?” Jane said. “Perhaps you’d like to hear it for yourself. On speaker.” She poised her finger over the red button, saw Jake nod, saw DeLuca’s thumbs-up.
“Gracie?” Jane said. “Tell me one more time? Why were you waiting in the lobby?”
“Mommy told me to.” Her warble came through the tinny speakers of Jane’s phone. “Mommy told me to go wait in the lobby. She said not to talk to anyone. She said Daddy was going to be busy, and going out of town for a long, long time, so I should wait for her, that she would come get me. Add that’s what I did.”
61
Catherine inserted the thumb drive into the port on the side of Brileen’s laptop. Felt the click as the tab slotted into place, heard the whir of the mechanism.
The waiting room at the morgue room was so silent, so expectant, Catherine believed she could actually hear the seconds tick by on the old clock, which had probably hung on the wall since Mayor John Collins or Kevin White ruled the Boston roost. The clock, still here, proved time waited for no one.
The white triangle coalesced into place on the laptop screen.
Whatever was on this video was there whether Catherine watched it or not. And she had to admit her little daughter-not so little, now, but always little to her-was correct. What was on the video Brileen had given her in the Purple Martin might be heartbreakingly horrific to watch, but it might also give them some answers.
In politics, answers were always elusive, changing, linked with the polls or the zeitgeist or the budget. But in the world of her heart, her family, her children, there needed to be some sense of knowing. Of truly knowing.
She sighed, drew on her courage.
Look at the damn video.
Tenley was so close to her left side she could almost feel her daughter’s heart beating. She sat quietly, long eyelashes blinking, blinking.
Brileen, too, leaned close.
Catherine clicked the white triangle. The recorded world spun into view.
Her greenroom. Empty. The camera was obviously in the upper left corner, pointed at the door, showing a wide shot of the room, the couch, the big puffy chair, the bathroom door, the coffee table. The rich paisley of the Oriental rug looked twisted, almost distorted, through the surveillance lens.
The door opened, silently, a shaft of light from the hall striping the couch. Catherine had seen exactly that same striping, many times, as she’d escorted pols and performers, supplicants and celebrities to wait there until their meetings or appearances. Lanna had loved visiting City Hall during her college days, exploring the warrens of corridors and secret back stairways. The greenroom had been her study hall, her headquarters. There was even a computer, all hooked up for visitors. In years before, when Catherine couldn’t get a babysitter, she’d parked both girls in the greenroom, where they’d played happily, often falling asleep on the couch.
There she was.
Her gorgeous Lanna walked into the room, laughing, almost tossing that mane of hair in an attitude Catherine never remembered seeing. Grown up. Womanly. Promising. She paused, turned on one high-heeled toe. Beckoned with fluttering fingers. Was someone behind her?
Catherine curled her hand through Tenley’s. This was awful for her, Catherine realized. Maybe she shouldn’t allow her to see it? But Catherine narrowed her eyes as she watched, anger now underscoring her dismay.
Who had put a camera in her office? When? She had never, ever known about this. She’d been chief of staff for eight years. Had it been there the whole time? Or could someone have installed it without her knowing? The mayor? Who?
And then a figure, a taller, bigger silhouette, cut through the shaft of light. Whoever it was must have flipped the light switch, not the overheads but the soft glow of the table lamp.
Lanna turned to face whoever it was, her body-was that Catherine’s curvy black cashmere sweater?-relaxed and open. Her body language-open arms, canted hip-was welcoming. Familiar. Though the surveillance video was not quite in focus and the muffled sound, barely audible, Catherine imagined she heard the sound of Lanna’s soft laughter.
The shadow changed. A foot appeared, then a leg, then a back. A man.
“He’s facing her to the camera,” Tenley whispered. “He knows it’s there. He’s staying out of the picture on purpose.”
Catherine’s blood chilled as she watched a hand caress Lanna’s face. Her daughter didn’t move. The man, only the edge of his back barely visible, put one hand on each of her shoulders. Her daughter, smiling, flirtatious, didn’t move.
He began to lift the black cashmere, teasing the sweater up from the bottom edge, Lanna, full out laughing now, lifted her arms.
“Mom,” Tenley said. “Mom.”
“Mrs. Siskel?” Sergeant Naka called from across the room. “We’re ready for you now.”
Catherine slammed the laptop closed.
62
Nothing like a takedown to give you a jolt of adrenaline. Jake watched the collapse of Robyn Wilhoite’s charade with some satisfaction, the reality emerging, absurdly, in the ridiculous towel-lined supply room. Apparently Angie Bartoneri had wrapped up her doctor’s appointment and returned just in time to work the big event with DeLuca. As always, Jane had asked just the right question. With Gracie’s coup de grâce answer, the woman’s story began to unravel. And now was pouring out of her.
As Jake had predicted, it was all about the money. The child support that Daniel Fasullo had paid all these years. The money he had sent to support a child who, Robyn had finally admitted, was not his biological daughter.
“You can’t understand what it was like. What was I supposed to do? It might have been Daniel’s, you know? He believed it was, and he-did the right thing.”