Several blue-and-whites were prominently parked on the property, but Jo saw no sign of the media or curiosity-seekers. The place looked peaceful, as it should. Jenny deserved a dignified send-off. Jo hated when memorial ceremonies turned into freak shows, crying survivors captured on camera for the evening news, as if grief were entertainment.
The lot held a number of cars but wasn’t full by any means. Hank found a space he could live with and put the Ford in dry dock, with fifteen minutes to spare. He took a blanket from his trunk to make a nest for Ernie on the floor of the backseat, and they left the windows closed against the cold, figuring that if the cat had survived mostly outside since Jenny’s death, it surely wouldn’t freeze in the car during the funeral service.
Jo watched Hank walk toward the church while she waited out front. She had his borrowed gloves on her hands to keep them warm. She’d called Kimberly Parker and arranged to meet her there before the service. She would bring the box Jenny had sent.
Adam was due to show up any minute, so she was on the lookout for him, too.
Sitting on the ledge that sloped alongside the stone steps, she cast her gaze up the length of the spire that reached into the gray sky, wondering about Jenny’s connection to this place. Had she sought solace here? Had she come for answers or prayer?
Mourners continued arriving, glancing at her as they passed, shoes shuffling across the stone walkway.
“Detective Larsen?”
A woman with a head of brown curls approached in black pumps and a black-and-red plaid skirt beneath a leather belted jacket with flowing red scarf. Jo thought of what Patrick had said about Jenny hating black, something Kimberly Parker had clearly known.
“You’re Kimberly,” she said, the shoe box in her arms all too telling.
“Yes.”
She didn’t resemble her sister much, not when compared to the photographs Jo had seen. But there was a similarity in the shape of the face, the wariness in her eyes, like she’d learned early in life never to trust anybody.
Jo rose from the ledge.
“Call me Kim, please.” The woman squinted into the wind, brushing hair from her cheeks, looking at the church doors. “I’m running a little behind, so can we talk more after? I just wanted to be sure you got this right away.”
The package she pushed into Jo’s hands amounted to little more than a battered Keds shoe box covered with stamps, labels, and broken tape.
“Are you coming in?” Kim asked.
“In a little bit.”
Jenny’s sister nodded before turning away to climb the stone steps, holding her skirt against the wind.
Jo sank back down to the ledge, staring at the box in her hands, the postmark dated a week ago. It bore Jenny Dielman’s return address.
She hesitated before removing the lid, and her pulse made a loud rush in her ears as she lifted it, knowing what was inside and feeling anxious just the same. Fingers clumsy in Hank’s gloves, she touched the pale yellow shirt, tightly rolled around the glasses, the metal barely visible.
This had to be the yellow T-shirt noted in Finn Harrison’s file from the night he died, and these had to be the boy’s glasses from the empty case. As far as Jo could remember, the glasses weren’t a part of the report. Had the emergency room physician who’d pronounced him dead merely missed them?
“She told me that she had dreams about him, that he spoke to her. He wanted her to find the truth. He couldn’t see, she told me, because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. She wasn’t making sense.”
Jo closed her eyes, going over Kevin Harrison’s confession about Jenny’s phone call, a week or so before she went missing, about the time she’d sent the package to her sister.
It wasn’t coincidence, she was sure of it.
Jenny had been searching for answers, and Jo had to think she’d found something. Why else would she take such pains to protect the contents of the shoe box?
“Detective?”
Jo opened her eyes to find a woman standing beside her on the steps. She wore black slacks and a calf-length trench coat with a fur collar. Shiny, red hair fell loose on her shoulders, and large sunglasses nearly obscured her face.
It took a moment for Jo to recognize Dr. Harrison’s wife, Alana.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said.
“No, it’s all right.” Jo quickly rolled the T-shirt around the glasses, setting it all back in the box the way she’d found it, and closed the lid. “You’re here for the service?” she asked.
“You look surprised.”
That was putting it mildly.
“Is your husband parking the car?” Jo glanced around Alana, but didn’t see the good doctor lurking, couldn’t imagine he’d dare show his face.
“No, I came alone. Kevin doesn’t know I’m here.” Alana pressed rouged lips into a tight line before declaring, “He wouldn’t harm her, you know. He’s a good guy at heart.”
Not to mention a cheater, cheater, pumpkin-eater.
“You’re looking at the wrong person,” Alana insisted. “All Kevin wants is to move on with his life. You can’t know what it means to lose a child.” She hesitated, and a gloved hand drifted to the buttons over her belly. “Kevin knows it well. We both know, Detective. I’ve had two miscarriages in the past three years.” Her glossy lips trembled. “It’s devastating.”
“You can’t know what it means to lose a child.”
Oh, yeah?
Jo’s palms turned slick inside Hank’s heavy gloves.
“I should get inside, before I’m late. I don’t want to cause a disturbance.” Alana looked up at the doors of the church, not seeming too sure of her decision.
Without thinking, Jo got to her feet, clutching the box to her chest. “Mrs. Harrison,” she said firmly enough to force Alana to turn. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What?”
“Jenny doesn’t . . . she wouldn’t want you here,” Jo stated, knowing it was the truth. “Please go home.”
Alana’s jaw clenched, and she hissed in reply, “She was a mother who suffered the loss of a child, and I sympathize—”
“She was also a married woman who suffered a great loss when you started sleeping with her husband. Where was your sympathy for her then?” The words came out before she could stop them.
“We all make mistakes, Detective Larsen. Surely you’ve done things that you regret.”
The woman looked at Jo like she could see through her, like she knew that Jo had worn a scarlet A on her forehead once, too.
But Jo didn’t back down. “I’m not sure what you’re doing here, Mrs. Harrison. If you’re looking for forgiveness, seek it somewhere else. This isn’t about you.”
Alana stood stock-still, pressed a finger to the sunglasses that covered half her face, and Jo saw her gloved hand shake. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think I do. Now go home, ma’am, please.”
The woman opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.
She brushed past Jo and went down the steps, scurrying along the sidewalk to the parking lot. Jo followed her movement, wondering what the hell that was about, until something else caught her eye.
A black Pathfinder pulled up to the curb and put on its hazards.
She clung to the shoe box and hurried down.
Adam unrolled the window. His pale eyes looked her up and down. “So you’re still in one piece?”
“So far, so good,” Jo said, passing him the shoe box and the photos of Finn and the tree house that she’d shoved in her front pocket. She told him what she needed and asked him to call when he had anything for her. The sooner, the better.
“So much for taking the day off,” he murmured.
“Thank you, Adam,” she said, leaning down to give him a kiss.
He started to roll up the window until she caught it with her fingers, and he stopped the upward slide.
“Oh, hey, will you pick up some cat food and litter while you’re out? I
’m not sure I’ll have a chance.”
“You got a cat? Since when?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She touched his face before she left him, quickly climbing the steps to the church and pulling open the heavy doors as quietly as she could.
She found herself in the narthex, the space no larger than about eight by ten feet. There was a coatroom to one side and a table littered with programs on the other. Noise seeped through a partially opened door that led into the nave, and she heard a surge of well-meaning voices singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” to the accompaniment of an organ.
A fellow appeared from behind her, startling her with a tap on her shoulder.
“May I take your wrap, ma’am?” he said in low tones, clearly respectful of the service beyond the doors. He smiled at her benignly, blinking watery, blue eyes. He waited for her answer with hands clasped at his chest.
“Thank you,” she said, fumbling out of the too-big gloves and unbuttoning the peacoat, only then realizing how filthy it looked with stray cat hairs and bits of muck that Ernie had left upon it.
He helped her out of it and took it from her, giving her that same flat smile and nod as he walked over to the coatroom to hang it up.
Jo smoothed her hands over the pockets of her blazer, feeling the pancake holster hidden at her hip. She turned her borrowed cell to vibrate before she slipped it back in her pocket.
Sure she was presentable, she went inside.
Someone reached for her arm as she entered, drawing her against the back wall. She knew by the scent of drugstore cologne that it was Hank. Whenever he spruced up, he slapped on a little of whatever his girls had given him for his birthday or Christmas. Jo thought it was endearing of him and even tolerable, as long as they never got stuck in a broken elevator.
She stood with him at the rear of the church, noting that barely half a dozen pews were filled with people. At least they were rows away from being heard.
She felt sorry for Jenny, for the small turnout. Then she realized that, had it been her in the casket draped with red carnations, the crowd would likely be as sparse. Like Jenny, she had little left of her family and few real friends, fewer still who really knew her.
It was a sobering thought but hardly devastating.
“You’re still in time for the first act,” Hank whispered. “Dielman’s in the front pew with Lisa Barton. There’s a brown-haired woman I didn’t recognize, came in after the pair of them but sat right up front.”
“That’s Kim,” she said, keeping her voice down. “Jenny’s sister from Iowa.”
“You met her already?”
“She brought me something from Jenny.”
“Something from Jenny?” He blinked. “Like what?”
“It’s Finn’s shirt from the night he died, and his glasses.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She hadn’t figured out how all the pieces fit together yet.
He raised his eyebrows. “And when were you gonna tell me about this?”
“Adam’s taking them to the lab for testing,” she said without answering him directly. “I’m working on a theory.”
“Oh, a theory.” He shook his head. “Jesus, Jo, you might’ve mentioned this before you got a crow in the mail.”
But I had nothing to back it up, she wanted to say, just gut instincts telling her that Finn’s accident was connected to Jenny’s murder.
“I should have discussed it with you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”
He grunted and looked away.
The preacher, in solemn black robes, waited for the sound of voices and lingering organ notes to fade before he began to speak of rebirth and renewal, of death being not the end but the start of a journey into another, better life.
Jo hoped it was better for Jenny than the life she’d had in this world.
The preacher said something about “joining Jenny with her loved ones in heaven,” and Jo shifted her attention to the front of the church. If there truly was justice in the universe, then Jenny would have her son back in her arms about now.
“We’re still waiting on phone records for the Harrisons, but I checked in with Cap, and Dielman’s records were e-mailed this morning. He told his carrier to give us whatever we needed. He told his bank to give us access to his records, too.”
“Was there anything there?” she asked.
Hank reached a hand inside his coat. “We got zip on the bank records. No large cash withdrawals that seem hinky. But his cell’s another story.” He withdrew a folded page, smoothed it open on his thigh, then passed it over.
Jo glanced at the string of about two dozen numbers. Several had handwritten notations beside them, like office, home, and pizza delivery.
Her partner pointed his pinkie at one number in particular, highlighted in yellow pen. “This one’s registered to an Elizabeth Ann Barton,” he said, keeping his voice down. “That’s Dielman’s friendly neighbor, Lisa.”
Jo saw the same number highlighted half a dozen times.
“Check the date and hour here.” Hank tapped a finger on the last line.
Jo let her gaze trail down. She realized the time of the call was just two minutes after five on Monday. The night Jenny disappeared.
“He must’ve called Lisa Barton right after he talked to his wife,” she said. “After Jenny told him she was going shopping at the Warehouse Club. Why didn’t he tell us?”
“He could’ve been returning her call,” Hank suggested. “Maybe Barton tried to call while he was talking to Jenny. He could’ve dialed her right back after he hung up with his wife.”
Jo didn’t like how that sounded. Something about Lisa Barton unsettled her: the scars on her fingers, her easy answers to their questions, the way she pressed the point that Jenny was in a bad state of mind.
“What if,” she started slowly, “Lisa Barton was keeping tabs on Jenny through Patrick Dielman? What if she was the one Jenny was afraid of?”
“Why?”
Jo raised an eyebrow.
“You think she was after the husband?”
“Lisa told us that Jenny didn’t deserve him, right? Besides, her story doesn’t wash.”
“The one about passing Jenny in front of the houses?” Hank whispered.
“That and the brick through her window, finding Jenny’s scarf, all of it feels very—” Wrong, she was going to say, but Hank beat her to it.
“Convenient?”
“Yes.”
Hank grunted. “She’s a tall drink of water. You figure she dressed up like a man, followed Jenny to the Warehouse Club, made up some story in order to catch a ride, then forced her to drive to the quarry, and put a bullet through her head?”
“There had to be someone else involved,” Jo whispered. “They had to stop somewhere in between. There had to be a second car.”
“Who’d she meet up with? Patrick Dielman? Kevin Harrison?”
“I don’t know.” Jo gnawed on her bottom lip. “I think Harrison’s involved somehow.”
But he couldn’t have been in two places at once, and even his surgical team at Presbyterian Hospital had confirmed that he was operating from five until seven on Monday night, the same time that Jenny disappeared with the man from the parking lot, according to their eyewitness. Harrison even had an alibi for afterward, staying at the hospital until eight and dining at Bistro 31 with Alana and her father at nine.
“We’ve got no physical evidence that puts Lisa Barton anywhere near the shopping center or the quarry,” Hank reminded her. His voice started to rise, and she put a finger to her lips.
Patrick Dielman had stepped up to the dais.
He held a piece of paper in his hands, and Jo could see him tremble even from way in the back.
“My wife was always looking for peace,” he began, and his voice was clear despite its tremor. “I don’t think she ever found it, not while she was alive.”
Jo gla
nced at her feet. Her throat closed up, and she swallowed to keep it clear.
“So how about this,” Hank breathed in her ear, drowning out Patrick Dielman’s eulogy. “What if there’s a link between Barton and Harrison?”
“Like what?”
“He’s a surgeon. She manages a medical supply company that’s located not far from Presbyterian Hospital. Say they know each other, got to talking.”
“And planned his ex-wife’s murder?” Jo met his eyes, not sure he believed that any more than she did.
Patrick Dielman finished speaking, folded up his papers, and yielded the podium to Jenny’s sister. They passed each other without so much as a glance.
Kim Parker lifted her head and looked over the church. “Jenny was my big sister, my protector. I loved her so much. I still can’t believe that she’s gone when she hardly had a chance to find real happiness.”
Jo winced as she listened.
“Jen did what a big sister was supposed to do. She looked out for me. She tried to keep me from harm’s way, to help me from making bad decisions. She put herself before me even when it brought her pain . . .”
The rawness in those words rattled Jo hard. They jabbed at what was unhealed inside her, sliced through her so that she felt like she was ripping apart.
“When Jenny loved, she loved fiercely, but she didn’t always love herself.”
“I’ll be outside,” she said to Hank and pushed away from the wall, slipping out the door into the narthex and closing it behind her. She walked straight for the vestibule and shoved open the doors, not slowing until she felt the cold wind nip her face.
She stopped at the top of the stone steps, crossing her arms and rubbing them, sucking in the crisp air so that it stung her nose and the roof of her mouth. She wanted to cry out, to release a bloodcurdling wail that set free all the blackness inside of her.
But she wouldn’t, not here.
Why, Jenny, why?
If she’d found something that proved her son’s death was no accident, why hadn’t she gone to the police with her suspicions? Instead, she’d called her ex-husband and asked him to go through the events of that fateful night again. Had she told him that she was looking for proof to use against him, so she could ruin his fairy-tale life? Because Jenny had wanted him to suffer, too, hadn’t she? To wallow in the same guilt she’d been drowning in for three years.
Walk Into Silence Page 25
