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Brileen had grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t you see?”

“It’s not gonna work,” Tenley whispered.

“Shh,” Catherine said. Though she agreed. Maybe Dahlstrom was too cagey. But Brileen was giving it all she had.

“When they figure out it’s you on the thumb drive video,” Brileen said, still holding Dahlstrom’s arm, “they’re gonna nail you for the murder of Greg Siskel.”

Brileen pointed to her chest, then gestured, wide, with both hands. “And then-like you’re gonna protect me? I’m in as deep as you. But listen. I can get those thumb drives from Siskel,” Brileen said. “I know I can. And I’ll destroy them.”

Silence. Dahlstrom’s back was still to the camera.

Catherine saw the determination on Brileen’s face.

“Dahlstrom, hear me,” the girl said. “I am your only. Frigging. Way out.”

Dahlstrom looked at his cell phone. “I need to make a call.”

Catherine looked at the detective, triumphant. She could almost, almost, make out the numbers he was dialing. But she’d be able to look again. Because even though Ward Dahlstrom’s back was to the computer’s hidden camera, he was holding his phone directly in its view.

Tenley mimed applause. Catherine put her arm around her daughter. They’d won.

Then Brogan’s phone rang.

64

Jake flinched at the sound. Catherine Siskel turned to him, questioning. He waved her off. Clearly Dahlstrom wasn’t calling him. It was DeLuca.

“Hey, D,” he kept his voice low. “Hang on.”

On the computer screen, Dahlstrom had turned away from Brileen as he talked. Jake saw Brileen touch her ear and shake her head.

“She can’t hear what he’s saying,” Tenley whispered.

“It’s okay,” Jake reassured her, his voice low. “I can take his phone.”

“Whose phone?” DeLuca asked.

“Later,” Jake said. “What’s up, D?”

“John Doe 2 has the tattoo we saw in the bystander’s photo,” DeLuca said.

“Awesome.” Jake kept his eyes on the screen. Dahlstrom was still on the phone. “Did he tell you what happened? Why he killed Greg Siskel?”

“Killed who?” DeLuca said. “Greg-?”

Right. DeLuca had no idea about any of this yet.

“Later,” Jake said. “But that’s great.” This was all coming together. Though it had only been, what, not yet forty-eight hours? But if tattoo guy was talking, case closed. Jake could almost envision his own apartment. A beer. A pillow. “What’d he say? About what happened?”

“Nothing,” DeLuca said. “He’s dead.”

In an instant, in his mental video, Jake saw Curley Park, Greg Siskel-trying to protect his daughter from humiliation-with a knife in his back. Saw what happened in Franklin Alley. Finally Jake had enough to make his move.

“Get a warrant for Calvin Hewlitt for the murder of… call him a John Doe,” Jake said. “Bring that asshole in. I’ve got one more thing to do here.”

Jake clicked off, stashed the cell in his pocket.

“Ready?” Jake asked. One more asshole to go.

“Totally.” Tenley brandished her cell. “Say when.”

Jake turned to the greenroom door. Yanked it open. Before Dahlstrom could react, Jake snatched the phone from the man’s hand. Put it to his own ear.

“Hey!” Dahlstrom yelled, waved his arms as he grabbed for his cell. “Hang up!” he called out. “Hang up!”

Jake stood, smiling, holding the now-buzzing phone. Whoever was on the other end had followed directions, leaving only a dial tone.

“You trying to hide something, Mr. Dahlstrom?” Jake said.

Dahlstrom’s face reddened, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. A muscle in his neck twitched. “You can’t take my phone,” he insisted. “Not without a warrant.”

Jake tilted his head left, then right, pretended to think about it. “Possibly,” he said. “But it won’t save you. We’ve got the whole thing on tape.”

“On tape? That girl?” Dahlstrom waved toward the greenroom. “She said she wasn’t wired-I could have looked!”

“She wasn’t,” Jake said. This was almost fun. “The room was.”

He signaled Catherine, who reached out and swiveled the monitor, turning it so Dahlstrom could see it.

Brileen, on her cell with Tenley, waved at the camera. “Hi, Ward,” her voice came over the speaker.

“You can’t record my voice without my knowledge!” Dahlstrom swept his hair from his forehead, then sneered at Jake, hands on hips. “It’s illegal, even for the cops, Detective. I’d have thought you’d know that.”

“Oh, I do,” Jake said. “Massachusetts General Laws chapter two seven-two, section ninety-nine requires all parties to know they’re being recorded.” Jake paused, savoring the moment. Saw Catherine draw a deep breath, take her daughter’s hand. Saw Tenley almost smile. “However.”

Jake held up the thumb drive.

Dahlstrom flinched, his eyes narrowing. He tried, too late, to hide his reaction.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Because in fact, you did know. Right? You set up a taping yourself. Up in the smoke alarm.” He tucked the drive back in his jacket pocket. “So it’s all legal and admissible. Now, tell us about all this. Or you’re going down. Alone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dahlstrom said. “I want a lawyer.”

“Noted.” Jake examined Dahlstrom’s cell phone. The keypad was still illuminated, black numbers encircled in black. “But meantime, why don’t I just give your partner in crime a call?”

He tapped the button for Recents. Clicked on the top listing. And hit Send.

* * *

Jane winced as her phone rang. The sign in the police waiting room said NO CELL PHONES, but she had ignored it. The black-uniformed guard stationed at the metal reception desk glared at her.

“Sorry!” Jane said, trying to look sorry. Robyn Wilhoite had been taken to some interrogation room. Jane was parked here and ordered to wait. For what? she’d asked.

But the cop, an icily chic detective named Bartoneri, had declined to elaborate, saying she’d be back “at the appropriate time.” Jane remembered Bartoneri-she’d been in the supply room with DeLuca for Robyn Wilhoite’s questioning. Jane especially remembered the eyebrows. The heels on her black boots. And that body. She couldn’t wait to ask Jake for the scoop about her.

It had been half an hour now, at least, that Jane had waited on this lumpy sofa for word on Robyn, distracted only by the local news broadcast on the TV monitor mounted high on the plaster wall. The sound was muted, but she recognized the story-the exterior of the University Inn, the blue lights of the ambulance that she knew carried Lewis Wilhoite, and silent talking heads identified only as “hotel guests.” The graphic, a target superimposed over the University Inn logo, was accompanied by the headline “Downtown Drama.”

What you see on TV is only part of the story, Jane thought. That had never been clearer, how little of reality could be revealed in the brief snippets of video and supposedly catchy headlines.

When the guard went back to her paperwork, Jane surreptitiously checked her cell. Melissa had texted that she and Daniel had taken Gracie for ice cream-and the girl seemed fine. She’d have a difficult road ahead. But lucky to have Melissa and Daniel.

“Miss Ryland?”

Jane looked up at her name. The desk clerk was now pointing to Detective Bartoneri, who’d just arrived and stood at the waiting room door, a cell phone to her ear.

Finally. Jane tried to read Bartoneri’s expression. Something must be going on in that phone call, it was obvious from the woman’s frown and her downcast eyes. Jane stood, worrying, yanked her tote bag to her shoulder. Took a step toward the door.