What You See (28 page)

Why would he mention the police?

She thought about Lanna, and what had happened to her in Steading Woods. And her father, and what her mom said happened to him in Curley Park.

Did that make any sense? Two violent deaths in the same family? Was that the random act of an uncaring universe, like she’d read about in school?

Or was there something else? Something that maybe meant she wasn’t safe either? Or her mother?

She wrapped her arms around her chest, leaned her head against the soft side of the chair, felt the nubby thick upholstery press against her cheek, and without making a sound, cried and cried and cried. And somehow, like the smoke from a tiny forgotten fire, Tenley felt her childhood vanish, vanish just like Lanna did, vanish like her father did, leaving her alone.

*   *   *

“Our man’s on the move.” DeLuca’s voice crackled through Jake’s two-way, interrupting Jake’s questioning of Catherine Siskel. Probably for the best. He was impatient with her evasions. His annoyance was about to escalate farther than was wise.

Jake heard motion, engine noises, acceleration.

“I’m in the van,” D’s voice came through again. “We’re on him. Can you move into second position? Everyone else is out of pocket.”

D paused again. Jake knew he was trying to talk on the radio and drive at the same time. Exactly what traffic cops gave civilians tickets for.

“Copy,” Jake said. But why did they need him? Wasn’t Angie on the way? “But Bartoneri?”

“Doctor’s appointment, she says.”

Give me a break.
“I’ve gotta get the cruiser, so it’ll be five at least till I’m on the road.”

“Copy,” D said. “Stand by, let me get in position.”

There was no way Catherine Siskel hadn’t heard every word, but no matter. It wouldn’t mean anything to her. The amount of juggling Jake was about to pull off was ridiculous. The mayor had promised to beef up the BPD budget, but so far their staffing was still frustratingly tight. Everyone from cop to admin was exhausted, short-tempered, and bitter. And law enforcement certainly would suffer. Jake wanted to look on the bright side, but there wasn’t a bright side. He’d been without sleep for a solid twenty-eight hours now. That was supposed to keep the city safe?

“Looks like he might be headed toward the Pike now,” DeLuca said over the radio. “He goes west, he’s out of jurisdiction, so we’d have to call the staties or forget it. He goes east, we’ll nail him.”

There was no backup car for DeLuca. The motor pool was also gutted by budget cuts. Now Jake had to put aside the City Hall investigation to focus on whether Calvin Hewlitt was up to no good. Which left John Doe No. 2—maybe-tattooed guy—guarded only by a cadet outside his hospital door. If they’d had a budget for it, and a warrant, D could have tapped Hewlitt’s car with a tracking gizmo, see if he left town, see who he visited. But they barely had enough resources to follow the guy, let alone convince a judge to bug him. It was the old-fashioned way or nothing. But he’d be easy to trail on the eight lanes of straight-arrow Massachusetts Turnpike.

“Copy,” Jake said. “I’ll go with lights till I get in earshot.”

What if Calvin Hewlitt was the Curley Park killer, not the guy claiming to have captured him? Who did that make tattoo guy? What role, if any, had he played in Bobby Land’s death? A video would be one easy way to answer two of those questions. If there was video of the incident, Catherine Siskel had to know.

“I’ve got to leave,” Jake told her. He pulled a card from his wallet, placed it on her desk. The thick paper made a little tap on her leather-cornered blotter. “Two things, quickly. One, call me if you want to tell me more about your, ah, missing husband. And in approximately thirty minutes, call the Boston Police Department’s Missing Persons division, ask for Sergeant Naka. Kiyoko Naka.” He spelled it. “She’s the one who had you call me. You tell her I sent you. Tell her it’s been twenty-four hours. Got that?”

Catherine Siskel took the card, smoothed it between two fingers. She pressed her lips together, seemed to be considering. She nodded, looking at the card, without a word.

Was she crying? What was she not telling him?

“Two.” Jake checked his notebook. “Ward Dahlstrom, the surveillance supervisor. Does he have video of what happened in Curley Park? If he does, that’s our top priority. We need that. Right now.”

“Video?”

Jake strode toward the door, radio crackling, on his way to help track Hewlitt. Great. A potential fugitive on one end, a potential liar on the other.

Enough with her bullshit. “You already have a subpoena demanding it.” And even though this was
his
bullshit, he couldn’t resist. “And ma’am? Don’t leave town.”

40

And there it was.

“You know Wharton, don’t you Jane?” Robyn had said it last night, at dinner, as a waiter hovered.

Now Jane had found Lewis Wilhoite. On the Wharton School alumni roster. Lewis Delano Wilhoite, class of ’91. A photo, too.

Jane rolled the padded chair closer to the desk in the Wilhoites’ study and clicked the white mouse on their computer. Twenty-some years ago, Lewis wasn’t the pudgy accountant milquetoast Jane had imagined but a normal-looking sandy-haired guy in a preppy shirt. One of a row of mostly white-male thumbnail photos taken by a commercial photographer.

Rats.
She’d half expected not to see his name. She would have easily believed it if Lewis had been some kind of impostor. But there it was, as described. Lewis Delano Wilhoite, summa cum laude. The online yearbook listed all kinds of community good works. Big Brother. Boy Scout.

When she was a little girl, Jane’s father had told her to ask the universe if she really wanted something. Eight-year-old Jane had decided that was simply another way for him to say no. Now she was asking.
Let Gracie be safe.

She put her chin in her hands, elbows on the desk, thinking, looking around the little study. Maybe a third bedroom, with a desk, printer, pencil holder. One wall bookshelves. On another, an array of black-framed photographs. Lots of Robyn. A baby—Gracie?—cradled in masculine arms. Toddler Gracie clutching a stuffed rabbit, hand in hand with an unidentifiable man. Lewis? Robyn and someone in wedding attire. Lewis? Older Gracie with the same man, glasses and sandy hair.
Lewis.

So far, Jane had not heard the phone ring. The computer clock slid to 10:30
A.M
. She eyed her cell phone. Time to call Jake.

The Wharton website faded, and a screen saver—the family’s white cat—appeared. Jane closed her eyes, clamped down the cover. Splayed her fingers on the smooth silver of the laptop, then, with one quick motion, flapped it open again. Went to the Wharton page, clicked on the photo of Lewis Wilhoite. Blinked at it, trying to memorize it.

Then she looked up at the wedding photos on the wall. Compared. Looked at the computer again.

Fifteen years, maybe more, separated college Lewis from wedding Lewis. Of course, Jane herself looked significantly different from her college photos. Thank God. But.

She tapped one finger to her lips, considering, then shrugged. Picking up the laptop, she lifted the computer next to the wedding photo, bringing the two pictures of Lewis as close together as she could.

“What are you doing?” Robyn asked. She stood in the open doorway.

Jane jumped.

“Jane?” Melissa stood behind Robyn.

“Did he call?” Jane asked.

“Not yet,” Robyn said.

“Did you call
him
?” Jane asked.

“No answer,” Melissa said. “But yeah, what’re you doing?”

“Here’s the thing.” Jane turned the laptop screen so the women in the doorway could see it. “This is Lewis Wilhoite’s Wharton photo. But look. I think—I think it’s not the same Lewis who’s on the wall.”

*   *   *

Ignoring the elevator, Jake had raced down the back stairs at City Hall and slammed himself into his cruiser. The yellow crime scene tape was still up at Curley Park, but otherwise it was midmorning Boston as usual, buses and straggling commuters, tourists with backpacks and foot-dragging kids. Frustratingly, cadets were coming up with zero in their search of all those bystanders’ cell phone photos—so far they’d viewed a repeatedly useless collection of blurry bodies, backlit silhouettes, out-of-focus trees, and an occasional shoe. Surveillance tapes from local businesses were nonexistent, deleted, erased, or fuzzy as hell. So much for the new technology. A couple of Facebook and Twitter posts, all capital letters and italics, but nothing helpful. No leads. And still no next of kin on Bobby Land. He’d call Kiyoko Naka in Missing, see if anyone had reported a young family member who’d disappeared. Someone must be wondering where this kid was.

So far, they were nowhere on Curley Park. Not a good thing.

Boston had more than three hundred cold cases, a pitiful record for unsolved murders. Jake vowed that the number wouldn’t rise on his watch. Before he could crank the ignition, DeLuca radioed in.

“The good guys win, Harvard. Sit tight. Hewlitt’s eastbound on the Pike, headed right for downtown, looks like.”

“Or the airport,” Jake said.

“Shit,” DeLuca said.

“In which case, the good guys lose,” Jake said. “Since we have no way to stop him if he’s bolting.”

“Shit.” DeLuca’s radio clicked off.

Did Hewlitt know Bobby Land was dead? Had he participated, somehow, in that murder? Without any hard evidence, much less a warrant, they had to find out what Hewlitt was up to. He’d done a fast Google, found “Hewlitt Security” at Faneuil Hall. Had to be him, but hadn’t Angie—
at the doctor’s, for crap sake—
even done a web search? He’d do his own, soon as he got half a second. Hunches, intuition, and logic did not make a case.

“He’s semi-speeding.” DeLuca’s voice again. “Past Prudential. So there’s only two more exits. The Ted, and then the split. Want me to pull him over?”

“Why? Just to show him we’re on his tail? He’d recognize you.”

“Shit.” The radio static seemed to underscore D’s annoyance. “You got any better ideas?”

What DeLuca called “the split” would take Hewlitt either down Exit 24A to the twisty narrow one-way streets of the financial district where he’d be a huge pain in the ass to follow, or Exit 24C, to the south shore. Also a pain, since he’d be out of jurisdiction. But if he chose Exit 24B, he’d be headed right into Jake’s waiting arms. At HQ, Hewlitt had told DeLuca he “worked security” at Faneuil Hall. Had Angie Bartoneri confirmed even that? Could be Hewlitt was simply going to work. They’d see.

“Jake. There is a God,” D’s voice came over the radio. “He’s passed the Ted. Not using the airport tunnel, not going to the airport. One down. You set?”

“Standing by,” Jake said. “He goes to the south shore, we’re screwed.”

“Well aware,” DeLuca said.

Had to be the first time Jake participated in an undercover in a car chase without moving. He didn’t close his eyes—times like this that was too risky—but he pictured DeLuca on the road, hanging back a few car lengths, different lane, monitoring his quarry’s every move. D loved a good chase, but this one would employ no flashing lights or screaming sirens. The whole point was to remain unobtrusive. The only possible snag? Hewlitt had seen DeLuca in Franklin Alley. Hell, more than seen, DeLuca’d held a gun on him. If they made eye contact, Hewlitt might recognize him. Even so, it’d be no biggie for Hewlitt to see a cop car on the Pike. If anything, it’d just make him stay under the speed limit, probably the only driver who did.

“Bingo.” DeLuca’s voice crackled the radio into life.

Jake bolted upright. He must have fallen asleep, just for a fraction of a second. Not good. He should have brought some of Catherine Siskel’s dark roast with him.

“Bingo what?” Jake said, making sure his voice sounded normal.

“Hewlitt and his jockmobile are headed right to ya. Getting off at Government Center.” DeLuca’s voice was triumphant. “Black Isuzu Trooper, ski rack on top. And listen to this. His plate is GUILTY1.”

“No way.” Jake cranked the ignition, shifted into reverse, backed out of the spot and onto Congress Street. “You’re bullshitting me.”

“Yeah, I am,” D said.

“You’re an asshole,” Jake said.

“So I hear,” D said.

41

“Not the same Lewis Wilhoite?”

Jane watched her sister’s face change as she realized what Jane had discovered, saw Melissa’s expression morph from questioning to suspicious to accusatory to frightened. Jane was holding up the laptop like a tiny electronic billboard. Melissa and Robyn examined the thumbnail-size snapshot, then the photos on the wall, comparing.

The three of them stayed silent for a beat, each processing what Jane revealed. If the Lewis Wilhoite in the photo was not the Lewis Wilhoite who married Robyn, then who was the man who had Gracie? Who had Robyn actually married?

“That’s terrifying,” Melissa said.

“That’s ri
dic
ulous.” Robyn waved at the computer screen dismissively, turned her back for an instant, then whirled to face them. “My husband might be a bit”—she looked at the ceiling, as if searching for exactly the right word—“quirky. But he is who he is. I mean, I married him four years ago. I know him. He’s got a passport, a birth certificate, I’ve seen them. I’m not a compete fool.”

She stopped, put her hands over her face, then wiped underneath each eye with one finger. She straightened her shoulders, almost challenging them. “You
think
I’m a complete fool?”

Melissa and Jane exchanged worried glances. Jane felt silly, standing there holding the computer, and placed it on the desk, still open to the archived photo.

“You want to call the police now?” Melissa said.

Jane winced at the venom in her sister’s voice, though she understood it. If Robyn had been duped by this guy from the start, the situation was far more dire than it had seemed at first. Her mind raced, playing out the scenarios. A grieving father making a misguided play to keep his stepdaughter was one thing. A masquerading con artist with a phony background who’d stolen someone else’s resume and lured Robyn into marrying him was a whole other story.