What You See (15 page)

He started climbing the stairs from the basement garage, rounded the landing to the lobby floor, still listening. Jane’s voice was guarded, he could tell. Stating the facts, without her usual appraising commentary or revealing inflection.

“Am I on speaker?” he asked. “Everyone in the room?”

“Nope.” She cleared her throat. “But yes, they’re here.”

“There has to be a potential abduction for an AMBER Alert,” Jake said. “Or a—”

Jane interrupted. “Yeah, I know. But no one is, uh…” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “No one is exactly saying that’s what happened. Apparently he takes her on ‘adventures.’”

“Well, yeah. So, problem. Although we don’t need a formal alert to be on the lookout for a missing kid, you know? We just like to be pretty sure the kid is actually missing,” he said. “Has—what’s her name, Robyn? Has she called everyone she knows?”

“She said so,” Jane said. “Hang on for a sec.”

Jake tapped his wallet against the flat black security pad designed to keep the stairwell free of intruders and opened the door in to the lobby of police headquarters. Built twenty years ago, it was still dismissed by the veterans as “new.” The marble-floored great room, which was designed to be intimidating and welcoming at the same time, failed at both. The ceilings were too high, the chairs too uncomfortable. Two-story windows let in all the light, so much that in summer it was glaring orange and hot, in winter freezing and gloomy gray.

“Jake,” Jane said. “They’re okay.”

He could hear hesitation in her voice. She didn’t sound quite right.

“Who’s okay? Wilhoite and the little girl? Are they there? With you?” If she was seeing them, case closed. Another family emergency resolved. Happened all the time. Panicked parents, missed connections, mixed signals, easy explanations.

“No,” Jane said. “Robyn has the stepfather—Lewis—on the phone, though. They—hang on. Sorry to keep doing this, Jake. Just hearing this now.”

“Sure.” Jake waited, watching the beams from the illuminating streetlights outside HQ on Schroeder Place create bands of light and shadow on the dust-streaked marble floor. Every passing footfall echoed in the cavernous lobby, whether the clack of high heels or the thud of the cops’ regulation black boots. The squeak of a rubber-soled running shoe distracted him. Jake looked up to follow the sound.

Bobby Land. Head down, walking fast. Almost to the revolving door.

“Hey, Bobby. Land.” Jake took a step toward him, then another. Jane was still away from the phone. At least now he could find out the latest. Calvin Hewlitt had been ordered to make it right with this kid. Jake still wondered what “make it right” entailed.

Land looked up, registered Jake. Stopped. And gave him a thumbs-up.

“Copa-cetic,” Land said.

He’d put his camo hat on, bill to the back. Jake tried to unsee his phony-rebellious Red Sux T-shirt. The kid had probably shelled out forty bucks for that get-up, all to prove his antipathy to “the man.” Did he ever consider who profited from the forty bucks?

“All cool, all set,” Bobby was saying. “You guys rock.”

Jake knew the cops didn’t “rock.” If this kid was happy, it probably had something to do with money. Calvin Hewlitt’s money, presumably. Jake was eager for details. Calvin Hewlitt’s hush money might pay for the camera, but it wouldn’t quiet Jake’s questions.

“Jake?” Jane’s voice in his ear now. “Here’s the scoop.”

“Hang on, Jane.” If the girl and her father were okay, Jane could wait a second while he corralled Bobby Land and set up a time for an interview.

“Is that Jane Ryland?” Bobby took a step closer, pointed to the phone.

Okay, that was interesting. The boy knew Jane? Oh, right. Land talked with Jane as Jake led him out of the alley, so the kid knew they were connected. Land might think she was calling as a reporter. Jake’s thoughts stopped, turned a corner.
Was
she a reporter? Not for the
Register
anymore, that was for sure. But Jake remembered she’d mentioned Channel 2, a reference he still hadn’t grasped.

“Excuse me?” Not answering the question was sometimes successful.

“Yeah, Jane Ryland,” Bobby said. “You know. The one you were talking to in the alley today. Wondered, because I was trying to call her, and she wasn’t where she said she’d be.”

“Which is where?” Jake asked.

“Who are you talking to?” Jane was saying.

“Channel 2.” Land held up two fingers. “She told me she was a reporter for Channel 2, but when I called there, they were, like, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Jake said. She’d told him she was at the station, too. Why would she say that unless it was true? But he didn’t want to discuss it in front of Bobby.

“Jake?” Jane made his name into two syllables, inquiring. “You hearing me?”

“You want to give me your phone number, I can have her call you,” Jake said.

“So that
is
her? Is she at Channel 2? Or not?”

Persistent kid.

“Jake? Are you hearing me? I guess everything is okay with Lewis and Gracie,” Jane was saying. “They went out to the mall to buy clothes for Gracie’s trip to Chicago, had a flat tire, then a broken jack. Phone battery died. But it’s all good. They’re at the repair place, and the guy there had a phone charger.”

“So our previous plans are still in effect?” Jake tried to sound like they were talking business.

“Is someone there with you?” Jane said. “You’re so funny. I can always tell. I guess that’s a good thing. Anyway, yeah, so far so fine. Melissa is freaking, but what else is new? So. We pushed the dinner reservations to eight-thirty, Brookline Taverna. Jerry’s on duty, he’s holding a table. Daniel’s still stuck in Geneva. Lewis and Gracie will get there when they can. Apparently Gracie’s jazzed about getting to stay up late. All’s well that ends well.”

“Hey. Tell her to call me,” Bobby said, pointing at the phone. “I know she’s gotta still be a reporter. She was covering the story, right? Tell her I know the whole picture. I’ll tell her everything.”

“Great,” Jake said. That one-word answer would work for Jane and Bobby, too. Clicking off the phone, he waved to Sergeant Thomason, the veteran desk clerk who’d just arrived at her longtime post behind the shoulder-high intake booth. Monday nights were always a parade of human drama: fallout from weekend domestic squabbles, battles over reneged sports bets, complaints about unfairly towed cars. “Fill out the form,” Shelley Thomason would instruct one unfortunate after another, her cigarette voice both sympathetic and dismissive. “I know, life isn’t fair.”

“You’ll tell Jane everything, huh?” Jake shook his head. Life isn’t fair, he thought. “Your call, Mr. Land. But here’s the deal. You’re gonna have to tell
me
everything, too. And you’re gonna have to tell me first.”

21

“Mom? I’m home.”

Catherine Siskel opened her eyes, slowly, processing the voice, remembering. Tenley. Home.
Good.
She closed her eyes again, tight, trying to unstick her contacts—she must have fallen asleep here on the couch still wearing them.
What a pain.
Opened her eyes, tried to focus.
What time is it?
Dark in the living room now, even with the shades up and curtains tucked back, so hard to tell. She must have slept awhile. Didn’t really matter, though, and in truth, might be a somewhat reassuring sign. She hadn’t been sleeping well at night for—well, since Lanna, if she had to honestly calculate.
Greg,
she thought. He hadn’t slept well, either. With her, at least.

“Hey, honey.” Her voice came out a little croaky. She cleared her throat, tried again. “In here.”

Tenley appeared in the archway to the living room, her canvas messenger bag strapped diagonally across the buttoned cardigan. Catherine knew Tenley had probably unrolled her skirt on the way home, trying to fool her mom. Lanna had never been a problem when it came to clothes. She was always impeccable, more fashion conscious even than Catherine, who prided herself on dressing for success. What could Tenley be dressing for?

All Lanna’s clothes were still in her bedroom closet, still arranged by color and season, just the way Lanna had left them. Tenley’s clothes were arranged by last use, hangers optional. All of that ran through her brain after one look at her one remaining daughter.
Will I ever see just Tenley? And not the empty space where Lanna used to be?

“Hi, Mom.”

Catherine saw Tenley’s eyes light on the empty wineglass. “Hey, honey.” Catherine ignored the girl’s silent rebuke. “Did you have fun? Where were you?”

“Why do you always have to know that?” Tenley frowned, adjusted the strap on her bag. “I’m in college. I have a job, thanks to you, right? If you want me to be self-sufficient,
in the world,
like Dr. Maddux says, why are you always bugging me about, like, where I am?”

“You know why, Tenley.” Catherine’s head felt like a dark fog was circling, muffling her thoughts. She knew her reaction was too harsh, heard her own unfairness, and yet couldn’t figure out how to soften it.

“You think the same thing that happened to Lanna will happen to me.” Tenley’s voice, a sarcastic singsong, mocked the reality. She ran her tongue across her front teeth, her nervous habit. “Don’t you?”

Catherine remembered Tenley’s baby teeth. When the very first one came out, tooth fairy Greg had tucked a dollar under the little girl’s pillow. Catherine remembered the braces, too, and the “braces-off” celebration. Lanna had showed Tenley how to use lipstick, her reward for making it through orthodontia. And now Lanna was gone.

“Honey, of course I don’t. That was, you know, an accident.” Of course, that was not a good answer. Accidents could happen to anyone. That’s why they were accidents. Catherine struggled to remember what a good mother would say. She used to know, but it all seemed far away. Work, that was easy. Running a city, easy. But having a daughter—two daughters, once—there was no Kennedy School for that.

“I love you, Tenner, but as long as you live here, which I hope is a long time, I simply feel more comfortable knowing where you are. When you have a daughter, you’ll understand.”

“Yeah. About that,” Tenley said.

“About what?” Catherine’s mind floundered, trying to keep up with this conversation.
When you have a daughter,
that was the last thing Catherine had said. “Are you—?”

“OMG, Mom.” Tenley rolled her eyes heavenward. “That’s disgusting.”

Catherine watched her blow out a breath, as if deciding whether it was worth it to continue the conversation with such an idiotic adult.

“Forgive me, dear, if I’ve ruined your life by being so dense.” Catherine had meant to gently tease, but her words came out derisive. Why were they fighting? How could she stop it? “Why don’t you just tell me what you mean?”

“I
mean,
” Tenley said, “I’m thinking of moving out.”

*   *   *

“Don’t. Even. Move.”

Bobby Land heard the words, felt them, soft and whispery in his ear. Someone—one person?—had clamped two strong hands around his, yanked them behind his back. And now he couldn’t move.

He’d been walking from the police station to the Ruggles T stop, ready to take the subway home, enjoying the last of the evening light, noticing how the shadows fell across the Vernon Street pavement, seeing a couple of seagulls, off course, he guessed, silhouetted against the twilight. Calculating f-stops in his head, thinking about how he could get a good shot of them. With the new camera he was about to buy.

He touched his jeans pocket, reassuring himself that the big fat check from that woman lawyer was still there. He could deposit it first thing in the
A.M
., then hustle downtown to Bromfield Camera and pick out a prime piece of camera real estate. They’d have to respect him then, right?

He stopped, staring at the random pieces of grass stabbing up through cracks in the sidewalk. He was still in mourning, deeply in mourning, for those pictures Hewlitt had destroyed.

But hey.

He started walking again, shaking it off. Funny how a little dough could help erase all the bad. There’d be other good shots, right?

“Right,” he said out loud.

And it was kind of a cool story, actually, the fight, and the destroyed memory card. Exciting and dramatic. He’d talk to Jane Ryland, she’d call, for sure, after the cop gave her his number. Maybe he’d even get on TV. He could just see it, him on TV and that blue line with his name under it:
Bobby Land, eyewitness.
He’d witnessed something, that was for sure.

He pictured it again, the noontime image forming in his brain. Tourists. The statue.

Yeah, he might have to testify. He planned it as he walked. That detective said he’d be showing him photos of some suspects when he came in tomorrow. So, fine, he might actually recognize someone. And if he didn’t, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He still hadn’t quite decided how much he remembered.

But then, that voice in his ear.

And now he was almost shitting his pants. Who the holy crap had come up behind him?

He could feel the person’s chest against him, actually feel them breathing. There was only one, and not that huge, but they must be doing some kind of martial arts hold or something, Bobby couldn’t fight back. How could some asshole rob him, like, not two blocks from the police station? Why would they think he had anything to rob?

He was gonna be so screwed. He couldn’t even comprehend how—

“Listen to me,” the voice was saying, all whispery and hissing. Bobby could smell cigarettes, and leather? And something else. What? But no time to think about smells. There was only time to, like, pray to whatever, that he come out of this alive.

“And listen to me good.”

And now he felt something at his side, sharp—like a … like a knife. At his side.
Like the one that stabbed the guy in Curley Park.
His knees buckled and the night went white and then black and his eyes were, like, on fire. What if he never saw anything again, not ever, and his mother would wonder where he was, and the cops would call and he would never—he slammed his eyes closed, kept them closed.