“I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there for a minute trying to sort it all out. But as soon as I started my car, I heard the call over the radio about a double shooting in that alley, so I knew someone else was there, too. I thought it was a drug deal gone wrong. He wouldn’t have been the first hotshot to get involved in that kind of trouble. I didn’t want any part of whatever he’d done, so I stepped on the gas and got the hell out of there.” He sank into his chair, seeming exhausted.
“I was never so scared in my whole life.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Jessie sank into her own chair, exhausted from listening and remembering the flowery scent that had clung to Nick that night. “Can we stop for a minute?” she asked. Sam paused the video, the tick of the clock the only sound in the room.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Water?” she asked softly.
When Sam returned, she nodded. “Go ahead, it’s okay. Might as well get it over with.”
She rested her gaze on the screen.
“Just so you know, these interviews were done over a few days. This video is spliced together. These are the relevant highlights. We’ve edited out his complaints about the force, the unfairness of life and how he’s been screwed.” He raised a skeptical brow.
Jessie nodded. “Okay, I get it. Can we just watch?”
Sam pressed a button and the video continued.
“I could hear the sirens as I drove away,” Nick said. “I knew, I just knew this whole stinking mess would fall on me. Rob Hart was a big fucking deal, a big shot, and he knew it. I knew that alley would be swarming with cops and media. The goddamn gun, his wallet—which was empty, by the way—and his phone were on the seat next to me.” Nick’s gaze rested on the camera that was recording him, and he twisted in his seat as if trying to get out of the camera’s range. “I had to figure out what to do, but first I had to get rid of his stuff. I turned around and drove to the Mass. Ave. bridge and threw everything over. There were no cameras there, and I made sure no one saw me. After that, I headed to the ER. I needed to see what was going on. I got there just as the ambulances pulled in.”
The detective who’d been perched on the edge of the desk stood, rubbing his back. “That’s all? You’ll swear to this?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s all,” Nick said. “I don’t know if you can find anything now, but check the Charles River by Mass. Ave.”
“What happened then?”
“I tried to find out what happened. By then I knew his wife had been shot, so it was no drug deal. I didn’t know what to do. I’d thrown the gun away. Who could I tell? I knew he’d say it was me. I had to protect myself. I was a damn fool to answer his call and even stupider to meet him that night. I had to figure out how to save myself, and I had to do it fast. I knew that Jessie would know what was happening, so I waited around to see if she’d go to the club with me for a drink, but she wasn’t interested. I followed her to her car, thought I’d ask again, but she seemed spooked. She never saw me, so I just gave up and went home. I decided the best thing to do was to lay low and keep my mouth shut.”
Jessie remembered that night, that feeling that someone was watching her. It had been Nick. Her cheeks flushed red with anger, or maybe it was embarrassment. She couldn’t be sure. She turned to Sam. “Can I watch this alone?”
“No, but we can stop if you need to,” Sam said.
She shook her head, and sat stiffly watching as Nick picked lint off his pants and looked into the camera again. “Are you going to use this against me?” he asked.
“As long as you’re telling the truth, this might help you. Let’s go on.”
Nick smoothed his hair and started again. “Rob called me the next morning, said he’d told the police a Hispanic male was the shooter. He said he needed help in finding someone who would fit that bill. I still thought it was just a shooting, that his wife would be okay. I told him to tell the police everything. They’d find the shooter. He said he couldn’t do that. He reminded me that we were from Charlestown, that we had our own secrets, and that meant sticking together no matter what. He knew that would get me.” He sat forward, elbows resting on his knees. “He knew I had to help him.”
The detective in the chair leaned back, folding his arms and crossing his knee over his leg, and then he smirked. “Really?” he asked, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable.
“You just don’t understand that kind of loyalty. It means something to be a Townie, to have grown up there. That loyalty to one another—whatever happens—is fed into you as soon as you’re born. If you’re from Charlestown, you’re as good as family to everyone else, and Rob knew he had me as soon as he mentioned that. He knew I couldn’t turn away. We’d been best friends once, and that meant relying on each other, no matter what.” He exhaled noisily, his hands balled into tight fists in his lap. His torment was etched into his every movement. Jessie wanted to turn away, stop the video, but she had to see this for herself.
The second detective, who was perched on the edge of the desk, leaned close to Nick, so close that he could probably count the eyelashes over Nick’s once bright blue eyes. “So, you want us to believe that, because you’re from Charlestown, you’re bound in some kind of blood oath to cover for one another? Bullshit! I’m from Charlestown. I never heard that one.”
“I… well, you must be from a different part.”
The detective slammed his hand down on the desk. “Try again, and tell me the truth this time, not some bullshit you’re hoping I’ll believe. What did he have on you?”
A bead of sweat ran along Nick’s forehead and he reached to swipe it away, his hand trembling. He turned to his lawyer and whispered something. The lawyer nodded. “I’d like to speak to my client in private.” He looked straight at the camera. “In another room. Without Big Brother watching and listening.”
The detective on the desk stood and walked to the door, opening it wide. “Be my guest. The room right there is surveillance-free. Nick can have a look to confirm that for himself.”
Nick and his lawyer shuffled out, and the tape fast-forwarded to their return. “I want assurance that any past illegal activities will not be used against my client.”
One of the detectives raised a questioning brow. “As long as the statute has passed, that’s fine. Unless Nick has been involved in another murder.”
“I wasn’t even involved in this one,” Nick said with a sigh as he dropped into his seat.
“Okay, then tell us everything. Start from what Hart has on you.”
Nick sat forward. “We were about fifteen, maybe sixteen, and Rob and I were both being raised by single moms. My parents were divorced, his dad had died.”
“Hey, how about you just cut to the chase. We don’t need a sympathy lead-in.”
Nick huffed out a sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. “We robbed three or four variety stores. We wore ski masks, pretended we had guns, and went to those stores late at night. We never robbed a store in Charlestown. We stuck to Chelsea and Revere, maybe Everett once.”
“Noble of you to help keep your own neighborhood safe,” a detective mumbled.
“Listen, I know it was stupid. I knew it then but Rob convinced me we’d get away with it, and we did. No one ever asked us why we suddenly had money. It had been easy. Too easy. Once he got into Harvard, after his mother died, he swore me to secrecy. He said if I ever said anything, he’d deny it, and say I was the one robbing stores. He said no one would believe me anyway. I knew he was right, so when he called me that night and told me I had to help, his meaning was clear. I had no choice.”
“Okay, so we know you threw the gun into the Charles River by the Mass. Ave. bridge. When did you see him again?”
Nick seemed suddenly animated. “He called me from the hospital just hours later. Said to find a Spanish speaker with something specific that he could tell the police. I had just read a bulletin on Ramos—a Salvadoran member of MS-13 with two distinctive tattoos. Ramos was alr
eady wanted for murder, so I described his tattoos—the one on his face and the one on his hand, and Rob just repeated that to the detectives on the case. I knew the police would land pretty quick on Ramos, and you guys did.” Nick smiled, a strange, self-satisfied smile. “I was damn surprised when I spotted Ramos and pulled him over. I have to tell you—I knew I’d be seen as a hero. Forget the Hart shooting. Ramos was a murderous thug.”
“Like your friend Hart, you mean?” the detective said.
“So, why arrest Ramos that day if you knew he wasn’t involved?”
Nick’s smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “Any way you look at it, I helped get a murderer off the street.”
“And gave another one time to escape.”
“I didn’t know he was going to disappear. Check my phone. He hasn’t called me since he was discharged.”
“What about Bert Gibbons, the reporter? Do you know anything about him?”
A visible shiver went through Nick. “The reporter who bothered Jessie?” he asked, his voice shaky. “I never met him, but Rob did. He said that guy snuck into his room in the ICU, but that he’d been helping him plant stories that would put him in a good light, so he was useful for a while.”
“Did you know that Hart told Bert the police were involved in his wife’s murder?”
Nick’s eyes opened wide; his hands gripped the chair. “Rob told me he was going to do that. I thought it was an empty threat, but he said it would guarantee I’d have to keep my mouth shut.”
“You never went to Bert’s apartment?”
“Hell, no! I don’t even know where he lived.”
“That’s easy enough to find out, isn’t it?”
“I guess, but I wasn’t worried about Bert. Not a bit. I had no reason to bother with him. I was worried about Rob, and that detective who seemed to be talking to Jessie all the time. When I slipped into Jessie’s apartment, or watched from the street, I was looking for him, too, for any hint that he was sharing information about Hart with her, but that was a dead end, a waste of time. I decided that if I just kept quiet, it would all go away.”
“Do you think Rob had anything to do with Bert’s death?”
“He killed his wife. I think he’s capable of anything. But why? What did he have to gain?”
The detective shrugged. “Maybe he was afraid he told Bert too much.”
Nick was silent.
“So, back to Ann Hart. Why did he shoot her? Why not just get a divorce?”
“His wife was pregnant by another guy. He said she was planning to leave him, to humiliate him, to stick the knife all the way in. Rob was a guy who always got what he wanted and Ann was taking that away. He was not a guy you screwed. I’d always known that. Ann didn’t know it until it was too late.”
The detective raised a brow and looked at the camera as if asking what the hell? Finally, hands on his hips, he turned back to Nick. “Did you know that Hart was having an affair?”
“No, but I’m not surprised.”
“Has he been in touch again?”
“Not since he left the hospital. He used to call from his room, said it couldn’t be traced. He talked about Jessie, said she was his nurse in the ICU, and I blew up. I told him to stay the hell away from her. That’s why he sent her flowers. They were really for me—to let me know he was watching me. And her. I was trapped, and he knew it.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
“Has he called you?”
“You have my phone. Just check. No calls since he left the hospital.”
“And you have no idea where he is?”
Nick shook his head. “Rob’s a guy with stardust sprinkled all over his life—Harvard, the mayor’s office, a bright future. He’ll land on his feet somewhere, and the rest of us will be left to pick up the pieces. He’s probably hiding in plain sight. You know what he always said? Follow the stardust. So, that’s my advice to you. Follow the stardust and you’ll find him.”
The video stopped, Nick and the detectives frozen in that final moment. Stardust, Jessie thought, follow the fucking stardust. What a crock of shit. And she wondered if Nick had really cared about her, or if she was only a convenient source of information. It didn’t really matter. It was over. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Sam watching her. She turned and gave him a wary glance. “Where is Nick now?”
“Confined to his mother’s house with a GPS ankle monitor and a court order to stay away from you. The DA will decide what kind of deal he’ll get.”
“And you have no idea where Hart is?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Anything on Bert’s murder?”
“We have some prints from his apartment, nothing workable on surveillance tapes, so we’ll see if we can get a match on the prints. My guess is they belong to Rob Hart. We have a search warrant for his apartment. We’ll try to pick up his prints and his DNA there. Bert had someone’s skin under his fingernails. I think we’ll get a match.”
Jessie slid down in her seat. She hadn’t realized her heart had been racing until it slowed, the tightness in her chest easing. Her gaze was drawn to the window and the street beyond. Everything was white. She stood and walked to the window, rested her hands on the sill, and let the quiet, clean image of the falling snow surround her. Sam was still speaking behind her, but his words were lost somewhere in the peaceful swirl of snow until finally, he cleared his throat. Twice. Jessie turned reluctantly and shifted her gaze to Sam.
“We’re going to keep you under surveillance.”
“Why? Nick won’t bother me now.”
“Rob Hart is still out there. He might. We’re trying to trace him through the burner phones, trying to get a hit on them, see where he is, but until then…”
Jessie nodded and turned back to the window, placing her hand flat against the pane—the cold seeping into her skin as the snow spun and swirled, the world outside a blanket of pure white. She leaned her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes, wishing she could lose herself and her racing thoughts in the whirling lacy flecks. A lone tear coursed along her face, and she wiped it away before Sam could see.
She had no idea how she’d gotten into this mess.
Chapter Forty-Three
That night, she slept fitfully, waiting for news from Sam. The next day she puttered about, and when it seemed the wait would never end, she closed her eyes and curled up on her couch. A soft rapping on her door startled Jessie from her nap. Her eyes flew open, the room was dark but the world that filtered in through her blinds was that stark, clean white of fresh snow. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
“Jessie, are you in there?” the familiar and welcome voice of Rufus asked.
“Yes,” she said, pulling open the door. Rufus stood holding a bouquet of white roses and a warm smile.
“These came for you,” he said, holding them out.
Jessie took the flowers, aware that her hands were trembling. “Come in,” she said as she pulled out the card.
“You’re quite the popular girl these days.” He watched as Jessie read the card, a wide smile draping her lips. “A new suitor?” he asked.
“Better,” she said. “The final chapter on an old story.”
“Ahh, now that’s cryptic. Well, I’ll be going. Let me know if you need anything.”
Jessie closed the door behind him and read the card aloud. “We’re making a big announcement at The Parkman House on Beacon Hill. Thought you’d like to be there. See you there at 7 p.m. Sam.” The Parkman House—the grand old mansion bequeathed to the city over a century before. It was used now for receptions, announcements, fundraisers. She glanced at her watch. It was six-thirty. He probably should have just called, but that didn’t matter now. At least he wanted her there. They must have Hart, she thought giddily.
She tried to call Sam but it went to voicemail. She called a ride service, hurriedly pulled on jeans, a heavy sweater, her leather jacket and boots and grabbed
her bag, arriving to the street just as the car pulled up. She slid onto the backseat. “The Parkman House on Beacon Hill,” she said to the driver.
“Fancy digs. Is the city having a party there tonight?”
“Kind of,” Jessie said as she sank into her seat, her gaze on the falling snow and the backdrop of twinkling Christmas lights along the street.
“Hey,” the driver said as they pulled away. “Did you call another car service?”
“No, just yours,” she answered. “Why?”
“Some guy jumped out of his car waving his arms and shouting. I can’t see him now. He probably slipped on the ice and fell.”
Damn, he must be her surveillance. Sam must have forgotten to tell him about The Parkman House, or maybe she was supposed to go with him. Too late now. She’d apologize later. Though the plows were out, the snow was falling quickly, the roads as slick as ice. Jessie checked her watch. Five to seven. Damn—she hoped Sam would wait for her. The driver eased onto the expressway and headed downtown where the streets were empty of people but alive with sparkling holiday lights draped over trees and in windows, the scene framed by the softly falling snow.
It was after seven when he pulled onto Beacon Street, the grand old brownstones on one side, the glittering lights of the Boston Common on the other. “This is it,” the driver announced, pulling up in front of an elegant four-story brick home.
Jessie craned her neck, but couldn’t see any cameramen, or police for that matter. “You’re sure this is it?”
“Thirty-three Beacon,” he answered. “Maybe you’re early. Want me to wait?”
Jessie hesitated, that all too familiar bubble of fear blooming in her gut. She forced it back down. She couldn’t be afraid of everything. “No, he probably got the time wrong. They must be inside.”
Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1) Page 25
