What You See (40 page)

“Jake.” His radio rasped his name. If he stopped to think about how tired he was, he’d be tempted to take over Gracie’s spot behind the candy counter. Maybe she’d even left him some candy, though from the looks of her face and dress, maybe not. But hey, cops don’t need sleep.

“Yeah, D?” D. Upstairs.
Right.
Catherine Siskel would have to wait.

“You bringing the, uh, person requested?”

Jake knew D had to measure his radio transmissions, keeping them legally beyond reproach since they all were taped by dispatch and subject to subpoena. He understood, from years of listening to D’s subtext and radio voice, what he was really saying:
Get Jane the hell up here before Robyn Wilhoite decides she needs a lawyer.

“Copy,” Jake said. “Be there in two.”

“Jake.” Jane had a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Hang on.”

He needed to get her up to the third floor to help them solve the puzzle that was Robyn Wilhoite. Was she a frantic mother who’d do anything to rescue her missing child? If not, what the hell was Robyn doing here?

“I didn’t tell you what I found out about Lewis Wilhoite.” Jane’s voice was low, her eyes on Melissa and Gracie. Jane’s sister had pulled a pack of tissues from her purse, licked the corner of one, and was wiping Gracie’s smudged face. Gracie, fidgeting, grudgingly allowed it. Daniel watched the two, looking exhausted but relieved.

“What about Lewis?” Jake whispered back. Lewis Wilhoite. Victim? Kidnapper? Or both?

“He may not be who he says he is,” Jane said.

“Shit, who is?” Jake needed to hear the rest of it, but first things first. He hoped Wilhoite’s secrets could wait. “Whoever he is, he’s now under guard at Mass General.” Where maybe-tattooed guy was still unidentified, still sedated. Was he the Curley Park killer? And who the hell was his victim? That still-unidentified John Doe waited in the morgue.

“We’ve got to talk to Robyn first,” Jake said. “At least,
you
do, Jane. And right now. You up for it?”

*   *   *

The hotel lobby was beginning to come back to life, Jane saw, as she and Jake headed toward the elevators. The concierge at his desk, a phone clamped to each ear. A woman in a blue blazer inched open a door behind the registration counter. Neither could have seen the discovery of Gracie.

Outside the front window, cops in sunglasses and orange-webbed bandoliers still kept the curious away. Hulking TV trucks idled, satellite dishes tilted in place and yellow microwave masts poked into the air, waiting to be given some news to transmit. The reporters and news anchors would have to explain it all soon, Jane thought. As soon as the cops figured out what to say.

And here she was, right in the middle of it. A participant, not an observer. Being an observer was easier. Much, much easier. “Behind the candy counter” now sounded alluring. Gracie’s decision to hide was a tempting strategy.

“So, Jake? Where was Lewis, anyway?” She and Jake waited for the elevator to arrive. Jane had assumed she was to meet Lewis and Gracie in the lobby because it was public and crowded. If Lewis had actually checked in to the hotel with Gracie, he would have been easy to find, traceable by credit card, a million ways. If he was trying to cover his trail, that seemed a pretty dumb way to start. Robyn had certainly found him.

Jake punched the elevator button again. “Room five oh three,” he said. Again, no light came on. “Damn. They’re still switched onto cop mode and I don’t have a key. Let me radio, get the damn thing switched off.”

Jane scanned the lobby while Jake checked in with his troops. Checked in.
Checked in.

“Be right back,” she said. She hurried past the palms, past the fountain, and across the lobby to the registration desk.

“I’m Jane,” she said to the woman behind the counter.

MS. SIEGER
, the gold plastic name tag on her fitted jacket read. And underneath,
HAPPY TO HELP
.

Jane hoped that was true.

“I’m working with Detective Brogan,” she said. Which was accurate. Accurate enough. “Can you check on a guest’s registration for him? Lewis Wilhoite.” Jane spelled it.

Ms. Sieger frowned, looked up from her computer keyboard, a lock of curly auburn falling over one cheek as she tilted her head in thought. Eyed Jake, still by the elevator.

Jane pushed, the tiniest of bits. “Ms. Sieger? The detective is on his radio, as you can see. He just needs to know who made Mr. Wilhoite’s reservations. And when.” She smiled, oh so reassuring and unthreatening.

“You’re Jane Ryland,” Julie said. “The reporter. Are you still a reporter? I’m Julie. I’m new.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jane said. Avoiding the questions.

“I love your work.” The clerk scratched an eyebrow. “I guess it’s okay for me to show you, if you’re working with the police and all. I saw them take out an injured guy. On a stretcher. Oh—is that the guy you’re asking about? Your job is so
intense
!”

“Sometimes,” Jane said. A man shot and a woman in custody—real life, not a movie—and this girl was making conversation. Maybe life was getting back to normal.

“Got it.” Julie turned a computer monitor to face Jane. “Okay, see? The reservation was made, um, four days ago? By … let me see. A Robyn Fasullo?”

“Four days ago?” Jane kept an appropriately blank expression on her face as her mind whirled.

“Yes. I remember this especially, because I was on reservations that day.” The clerk swiveled the monitor back into place. “The woman wanted a room close to the pool. She said her little girl loved to swim.”

59

Elbows on her desk, Catherine Siskel stared at the phone receiver in her hand. The light on her phone console blinked green, the dial tone humming, expectant. Detective Brogan hadn’t called her back. He was homicide, she’d discovered. And that’s who she needed. But there was one more option. Not a very pleasant one, but pleasant was over for the foreseeable future.

So far she’d lived her life solving problems for others. Now it was time to solve her own problems, and her daughter’s. The dial tone changed to the hurry-up signal, harsh and insistent. Catherine hung up. Thinking it through one more time. Making sure.

Even though shafts of late-afternoon sunlight persevered through the barely opened blinds, it felt like the walls of her office were closing in. Tenley sat in the corner of the couch, her legs storked underneath, her dear little eyes still red from her tears, as quiet as Catherine had ever seen her. Brileen, in the guest chair facing the desk, clasped her hands in her lap, staring at nothing.

Catherine needed that damn thumb drive. With the pictures of Tenley.

What if it had been in her dead husband’s pocket? If Greg had died to get it, what if he still had it? Which meant the police had it now.

Catherine eyed the white business card again, decided, and dialed.

It didn’t even ring once.

“Naka,” the voice said.

Catherine paused. This was the moment her job ended and her life changed. She’d lied to the police. On purpose. But at least she
had
her life, and Tenley did, too.

“This is Catherine Siskel,” she said. “Detective Brogan told me to call you. It’s about my missing husband, Greg Siskel.”

Tenley uncurled herself from the corner of the couch, wary, listening.

“I think I know where my husband is,” Catherine said.

Catherine heard Naka clearing her throat.

“I see,” Naka said. “So he’s not missing?”

Tenley stood up, came to the desk.

“He’s the victim in the Curley Park incident. So I suppose he’s in the”—she looked at Tenley, about to say a word she’d kill to spare her daughter from hearing—“morgue.”

Tenley came closer, nestled into her mother’s shoulder, her head fitting just under Catherine’s chin. Brileen wrapped her arms across her own chest and stared at the floor.

“I see,” the voice came back. “Why do you think that, Mrs. Siskel?”

“Because—” Catherine gulped. She actually gulped, she’d never thought that was something people really did. And then she found her words. “Because it’s all on tape.”

“No, it isn’t.” Tenley stepped away from her, frowning. “Mom, I
told
you—”

“That’s right,” Catherine answered Sergeant Naka. She held up a palm to stop Tenley’s protest, added a wan smile.
Wait, honey.
“I’ve seen the tape of it. I’ve called Detective Brogan to tell him the same thing. Now I need to see my husband.”

Catherine heard a long breath on the other end of the line, the sound of a thin spool of air coming through the phone. She imagined this Naka, assimilating it all. Considering protocol. Planning her next move.

“I see,” the police officer’s voice came back. “In fact, that’s where I am right now. At the morgue. We’re compiling the missing person dossier, in fact. Getting a photo for identification. Inventorying the possessions. Someone will have to come do a formal identification, I’m afraid, Mrs. Siskel.”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Catherine said. She hugged Tenley closer to her. “But you said—possessions. Was there a phone? A wallet? And might I ask, did you find a thumb drive?”

Another pause. Tenley took a step closer. Brileen stood, putting the tips of her fingers on Catherine’s desk. The three women waited.

Catherine took a chance. Pushed the button for speakerphone. Heard the staticky buzz that meant the next words could be heard by all in the room. All three had a stake in this. They should all hear it at the same time.

Silence.

“Sergeant Naka?” Catherine leaned toward the speaker. “Did you hear my question?”

“Yes.” The voice crackled through the tiny holes of the black metal speaker. “No, there’s no phone, and no wallet. But yes, there’s a thumb drive. It was hidden in his shoe.”

*   *   *

“Jane!” Robyn stood, holding out her arms, sobbing, as Jane opened the door, Jake close behind her. The supply room looked like a padded cell of towels and sheets, identically folded piles of white linens stacked on metal shelves, almost floor to ceiling. The place smelled faintly of bleach and summery fabric softener. A long rectangular table occupied the middle of the room. Robyn had been seated on a beige folding chair, its back against the table. She was flanked by two uniformed cops.

One of them, a surprisingly attractive woman with a French twist under her billed cap, not quite gently returned Robyn to her seat. The other was DeLuca. Though he leaned against one row of shelving, one leg crossed over the other—a study in nonchalance—he seemed to be in charge.

“Clearly you’re free to leave, Mrs. Wilhoite,” DeLuca said. Jane had never heard his voice like that, saying one thing and clearly meaning the opposite. “At any time. But if you stay, we’d love to have you keep your seat.”

“Tell them, Jane.” Robyn’s voice, entreating, needy, insistent, reached out and encircled Jane, almost pulling her closer. Robyn’s lipstick was gone, her hair wild, a single trail of black mascara jagging dramatically down one check. Her pale yellow blouse floated over black capri pants, her toenails painted pale blue. She still looked gorgeous, Jane thought. Even after she’d just shot her husband. And she was a complete liar.

In the elevator on the way up, Jane told Jake what she’d discovered at the front desk. “Which changes things, right?” As the elevator doors opened on the third floor, she added, “Does Robyn think Lewis is dead? Are you going to tell her he’s not?”

“Let’s see how that plays out,” Jake had told her.

Jane felt a pang of hesitation, her reporter instinct balancing both sides of the story even while she was also part of it. “Don’t you have to give her the chance to ask for a lawyer?”

“Not as long as she insists she’s the victim,” Jake had said. “Anyway, Judge Ryland, I
did
give her that option. And she said she wanted you.”

Now here they were, face-to-face. Robyn had called Jane to be her lifeline.

“Mrs. Wilhoite? You said you wanted to talk to Ms. Ryland.” Jake directed his words to Robyn, using his cop voice. “Here she is.”

Uh-oh,
Jane thought. We were all at dinner together. Was Robyn savvy enough to use that against them? To wonder why Jake was suddenly calling her “Ms. Ryland”? DeLuca knew about them, of course. But the female cop … Exactly why this was a problem. She hoped they didn’t have to cross that bridge.

“Tell them, Jane,” Robyn gestured, entreating, with both hands. “Tell them how worried I was, that Gracie wasn’t home from school, that Lewis had called in sick for her, how I didn’t know that. Tell them!”

“So you were shocked when Gracie and Lewis weren’t where you thought they’d be,” Jane said, nodding, encouraging her to tell the story. Hoping she didn’t mention dinner.

“Exactly! Can you imagine? You were there, you heard it all.”

“I heard
you,
” Jane said. The Rubik’s Cube that was Robyn began to change colors, clicking into place a different way. Jane had heard
Robyn,
only Robyn. Never Lewis.

“And tell them how upset and frustrated I was when they had the idiotic flat tire, and they had to stay in the garage, that horrible garage, and—”

“What garage was that?” Jake asked.

“What?”

“Just wondering what garage was open that time of night, which place your husband would have called for a flat tire.”

“I don’t know! Why would I know? How would I know? He didn’t tell me. You heard him, Jane.”

“I heard
you,
” Jane said. The cube clicked again. “Not Lewis.”

Robyn raked both hands through her hair, making her wild curls even wilder. “But tell them, Jane, about what you found in the computer. About who Lewis really was? Or wasn’t?”

Click.
It had been awfully easy for Jane to find that “fake” identity. Jane had never heard about Wharton from Lewis. Only from Robyn. What if Robyn simply found another Lewis Wilhoite? And facilitated Jane’s finding him? To pretend he had stolen an identity?
Click.

“So you were shocked when they wound up in this hotel?” Jane went on, ignoring Robyn’s last question. “Is that what you’re saying?”