What You See (27 page)

“No, he—I have the car.”

Again, subtext. Omissions.

“Ma’am?” Shifting in his chair, Jake took out his spiral notebook. DeLuca had teased him mercilessly about his BlackBerry note taking. It wasn’t that Jake was backing down. The notebook method simply turned out to be easier.

Tolja,
D had said. Whatever.

Jake flipped the notebook open.

“You know, I’ve handled many missing person cases, Ms. Siskel. And there’s a pattern we see, even though each case is unique. The family is—worried, sure, but there’s always a theory about what
might
have happened. Abducted on the way home from school. Drunk again. Incipient Alzheimer’s. Ran off with the other woman.”

Jake paused, checking Siskel’s expression for a response. Poker face.

Jake went on. “Gambling debts? Fired from work? Deep into drugs? Leading a double life with a new family?”

Still nothing. Okay, then.

“And ma’am, I’ve got to tell you, in my book? You’re behaving as if you, in fact, know what happened. And maybe you somehow want me to find out about it, so you can act surprised.”

Jake remembered when his mother always seemed to know what he was doing. “I have eyes in the back of my head,” she’d say whenever he’d stashed candy or contraband comic books. Or sometimes—especially during Jake’s lurching adolescent encounters with girls—she’d say, “I have ESP, my dear, don’t try to lie to me.” Jake still didn’t understand exactly how his mom could have known he’d invited high school senior classmate Olivia Magnussen to their house that Saturday night while his parents were at the symphony.

Now, twenty years later, he knew “intuition” was a mixture of training and experience, and he appreciated how he could use it to perceive beyond the exterior. “A good cop will know if it passes the sniff test,” his grandfather used to say. Jake wished Commissioner Brogan had lived long enough to see him in action. Or even better, to give him advice. Although sometimes it felt like he still did.

Jake recognized the look on Catherine Siskel’s face. He bet it was exactly the one Jake used when his mom caught him lying about Olivia Magnussen.

“Know what happened?” she replied. “Surprised?”

Had it been less than an hour ago that Jane accused him of ulterior motives when answering a question with a question? She’d been right. And here it was again.

Jake stood, elaborately flapped his notebook closed. “If you’re not going to be cooperative,” he said, “might I ask why you called the police? Let me put it this way, ma’am. What did you expect we would do?”

Catherine fussed with her coffee. Her eyes shifted toward a side door in the room, looked at it so purposefully that Jake turned to see who she was looking at. No one.

“I expected,” she drew out the words, looking at Jake again, “to give you a photograph of my husband. And then you would look for him.”

“Look where?” Jake said. His question came out more sarcastically and a little louder than he’d planned. But he had too much going on to parry her transparent attempts to manipulate him. No one had heard from Greg Siskel since yesterday’s phone call, she’d insisted. He wasn’t at home, hadn’t come home last night, didn’t have an office, wasn’t answering his cell. But his wife was not giving the police one bit of useful information to help them find him. In truth, not offering any information at all.

“Can you give us
any
idea where we might look? Or are you thinking—simply out there in Boston?” Impatient and frustrated and exhausted, he waved toward the office window, a double-tall pane of plate glass, topped with a strip of slatted blind, that looked out over Curley Park. “Maybe out someplace on Congress Street? Or maybe in Curley Park?”

*   *   *

Jane was using every bit of her hearing ability to figure out what was being said on the other end of Robyn’s “conversation.” Even so, even scooting to the edge of the big armchair, she could hear only Robyn’s terse responses. Robyn, cell phone clamped to her ear, sat in the corner of the Wilhoites’ living room couch, one leg tucked under her, the edge of her blue chenille robe touching the fringe of the figured carpet. The phone had rung just before ten. Lewis was supposed to call at ten.

Jane looked at Melissa, mouthed a question.
Lewis?
Melissa, standing by the desk, shrugged her answer.
No idea.

“I understand,” Robyn was saying. “Okay.” She clicked off.

“Lewis?” Melissa took a step toward her, palms out, inquiring.

“No.” Robyn looked at Jane, then at Melissa. Put down the phone. “My lawyer.”

Melissa planted her fists on her hips. “What?”

“What?” Jane echoed her sister’s incredulous tone.
Robyn had called her lawyer about Lewis and Gracie?
Lewis had clearly instructed her to tell no one.

“Are you kidding? A lawyer? Why?” Melissa’s voice went up in pitch and volume with every question. “What if the lawyer calls the police, Robyn?”

“Oh, Melissa, I’m not a
complete
fool.” Robyn stood, tossed her hair, brandished the phone at Melissa. “Of course I didn’t
tell
him. And
I
didn’t call
anyone.
He called
me.
It’s none of your business, anyway. Obviously privacy’s one more thing in my life that’s going out of control.”

“It
is
our business,” Melissa protested. “Because—”

“Fine.” Robyn cut her off. “Lewis and I are—”

She flipped a hand in frustration, then plopped down on the couch again, the flowered cushions plumping beside her as she sat. “Unhappy. Okay? We’re un-freaking-happy.
I
was doing my best.
I
was trying to stay sane.
You
try living with the Mr. Midlife Crisis. Suddenly he’s Mr. Impetuous. Mr. Spontaneous.
I
was the only one trying to make it work. As I told him in no uncertain terms.”

Robyn made a dismissive sound,
whatever.
“We didn’t argue in front of Gracie, of course. Poor thing has no idea her stepfather’s a nutcase.”

“Nutcase?” Melissa’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Does he
know
you’re talking to a lawyer? Are you getting a divorce?”

This development put the situation in a different light, Jane thought. Two parents, one a “nutcase,” playing marital chess with a little girl as their pawn. Melissa in the middle of it, too. What could Lewis’s endgame be?

“Divorce? That’s
also
none of your—” Robyn began.

Jane’s cell phone beeped. She’d set the alarm for ten. She waved a hand, hoping to quiet the escalating tension. She was glad there was a coffee table between the two women.

“Melissa, listen. Robyn. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but Lewis asked for me, he drew me into this.” She paused. “We have to think about Gracie now. If you have any inkling she’s in danger, we need to call the police.”

“No police,” Robyn insisted. “Lewis
will
call. It’s not that there’s danger, it’s only—”

“Only what?” Jane said. “It’s after ten.”

“He can be, well, careless,” Robyn said.

“Careless?” Melissa narrowed her eyes at Robyn. “What does that mean?”

Jane thought back. This woman’s story was somehow—evolving. “Robyn? Did you ever ask to talk to
Gracie
on the phone?”

“No.” Robyn shook her head. “But look, he’d never harm Gracie. It’s only me he wants to hurt.”

“Hurt?” Melissa interrupted.

“Oh, no, not hurt physically.” Robyn waved her off. “But he’s always been jealous. When I married Danny instead. He called him a big-shot asshole.”

“Police,” Jane said.
Yeesh.
She took out her cell. “Right now.”

“Jane. Listen.” Melissa put her a hand on Jane’s arm, stopping her, pulled her aside. “I’m really trying to stay calm here. That’s what Daniel would want, I know it. What if I’m—overreacting? What if I look like the crazy one?”

“Really?” Jane tried to read her sister’s face.

Melissa pressed her lips together, nodded. “Look. Lewis has already said he’d return Gracie. If he doesn’t call soon, then fine, all bets are off, we call the cops. But if Lewis is simply upset and jealous, and late because he’s careless, as Robyn seems to be saying, we’ll just do what he says. Until we get Gracie.”

“You certain?” Jane wasn’t. “Really?”

“Really. You’re right. Lewis is remorseful. He’ll call, and you’ll go pick up Gracie, Jane,” Melissa instructed, turning back to include Robyn. “Daniel’s plane gets in at one. His driver’s bringing him here. It’ll be fine. Not everything is a big drama. Agreed? Robyn?”

Robyn nodded. “Agreed.”

Jane did not agree. Not at all. But no one seemed to care. It was already a drama, far as she was concerned. Who was this Lewis Wilhoite, anyway? She tried to remember what Robyn had told them in the restaurant last night.

“You guys? It’s five past ten,” Jane said. “How long are we going to wait for the call? Meanwhile, Robyn? Can I use your computer?”

39

Tenley wanted to go home. Just go home. Home where all her stuff was, and where even Lanna’s goneness was better than living somewhere Lanna had never existed. It wasn’t yet time for her to leave. It wasn’t. There was only one
home,
no matter what she’d told Brileen, or how she had felt, or the anger she’d stored away over her parents, poisonous as nuclear waste. Her mother needed her now. They needed to be together.

A minute ago, her mother had called Ward Dahlstrom, made some excuse so at least Tenley wouldn’t get in trouble for missing work. Now Tenley curled up in the big chair in the greenroom off her mother’s office. She and Lanna hid out here when they were younger, with Lanna as babysitter and, later, companion. They’d painted each other’s toenails. Read comics. Lanna had even taught her to text. All in the little room with no entrance from the hallway, a room the size of a super-big walk-in closet that was connected to their mom’s office, where dignitaries and emissaries and deal makers could hide from paparazzi and nosy reporters. There was even a private bathroom. Five minutes ago her mom had stashed her here, ordered her not to come out, not to make any noise, until she returned. A police officer waited in Mom’s office. What was she telling him? What she’d told her daughter?

Tenley could almost replay the tape in her head. How absurd to be told of her own father’s death—his
murder
—in a tile-walled public bathroom at City Hall.

“We should go someplace private,” Mom had said.

“This is private,” Tenley’d replied, still on edge, still suspicious, still worried, by seeing her mother so upset. Still a little nervous she might get in trouble over the nonexistent video.

Mom had put a hand on each of Tenley’s shoulders, looked straight into her eyes. When had she become as tall as her mom? She remembered so clearly being little, her mother—and her father!—scooching down to come to eye level with her. Not anymore. She met her mother’s gaze on an equal level.

“Tenner, honey.” She’d heard the tremor in her mother’s voice. “It’s difficult, it’s awful, and I know you’ve—we’ve—already been through … through hell.”

Tenley’s eyes widened, remembering. She heard the rumble of the plumbing, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the clack of footsteps in the hall. She tilted her head as if listening, mentally reenacting the scene, living it as if for the first time.

“What?” she’d asked. Was her mother sick? A whole scenario of potential disasters flooded Tenley’s imagination as fast as her brain could concoct them: cancer, hospitals, death, abandonment. Maybe divorce? Okay, right, that wouldn’t surprise her. Her father had ignored Tenley, ignored Mom, too, since Lanna. Divorce would end in abandonment, too. Everything did.

“It’s your father,” her mother began. She took one of Tenley’s hands, palm up, traced the lines on her skin as if she were a fortune teller. “I remember when you were so tiny, you couldn’t wrap your hand around one of my fingers,” her mother whispered.

Okay, this was scary.

“What, Mom? What about Dad?”

Her mother pressed Tenley’s hand to her own cheek. Tenley felt the clammy skin, damp from tears, felt the clutch of her mother’s grasp.

“He’s dead, honey,” her mom said.

The word didn’t even make sense. Tenley tried to capture it, think about it, remember what it meant. Her father? Her father who—was dead?

“Why?” It was the first thing that came out of her mouth. It didn’t make sense, she realized that as soon as she said it, so she thought of what else. “When?” Which also wasn’t exactly the right question, but somehow her brain wasn’t working, not at all. They were in the bathroom, a stupid bathroom of City Hall, and her mother was telling her an impossible thing. “How?” she asked. And then, “Are you sure?”

And her mother was sure.

What she could not handle, could
not
handle to the point of almost screaming, was that she had seen it. Seen it on the video monitor.

“Tenley Rebecca Siskel,” she whispered to herself. She pounded a fist on each of the chair’s padded armrests to punctuate her own stupidness. “Shut up.”

Because she hadn’t seen it, not really. The world was so dumb. She’d worried that she might get in trouble because she wasn’t looking at the screen when it—the
murderofmyfather
—happened. As it turned out that was a good thing. The universe spared her that, at least. Even though her brain insisted on remembering what she
had
seen, everything was kind of fuzzy, and you couldn’t really recognize faces.

Would she have recognized her father anyway? His stance, the funny way he held his arms, something about his walk? Had he been coming to see her? Or Mom? Why had he been in Curley Park? She hadn’t gotten to ask her mother about that.

She replayed yesterday morning. Her brain was a video game, starting and stopping, fast-forwarding and rewinding. She sighed, crossed her legs under her, burrowed herself into the curve of her chair. She was so tired. She closed her eyes and envisioned the scene yet again. She’d pushed Save on her computer. And then Ward Dahlstrom said something about the police.