by Lisa Regan
Jocelyn got in the same time he did. “What was that about?” she asked.
“That girl is the neighbor.” Kevin pointed to a salmon-colored rowhouse beside the Porters’. “Her name is Tessa. She lives there with her parents. She was just here watching the Porters’ son.”
It was only in that moment that the realization that the small, adorable Porter boy would grow up without a mother hit Jocelyn right in her gut. Why, she wondered. Why would a traffic accident cause Molly Porter to throw herself off a bridge when she had a baby boy waiting for her at home?
“Did she say where Molly had gone?” Jocelyn asked.
Kevin shook his head as he pulled out of his parking spot. “Tessa is homeschooled. She says every Tuesday for the last nine months, Molly has asked her to watch the baby for exactly two hours. She never says where she’s going—and here’s the kicker.”
Jocelyn waited, a sinking feeling starting in her stomach to accompany the gut-punch from earlier.
“She pays Tessa to never tell her husband that she’s gone out.”
~~~
Kevin had learned from young Tessa that Evan Porter owned a small craft brewery and restaurant in Conshohocken, which was a short drive up the Schuylkill expressway, roughly ten miles from Manayunk. Porter’s Pub was housed in a former warehouse and had been rehabbed to look modern, edgy, and yet inviting to the crowd of young professionals who filled its large bar and dining room. This time, Kevin didn’t protest when Jocelyn followed him inside and up to the bar.
Although Kevin’s suit made him fit right in with the other patrons, his age—mid-fifties—made him stand out like a parent at a college keg party. At thirty-eight, Jocelyn was closer in age to the crowd filling the place, although she was more shabbily dressed. Still, she felt the eyes of several customers on them as they waited for the bartender to come over. She wondered if they looked like they had when they were both on the job—very much like cops.
The bartender was a young, muscle-bound man whose smile failed the moment he laid eyes on them. Yep, she thought. We look like detectives.
“Help you?” the man said, his gaze falling somewhere between them as though he wasn’t sure which one of them he should address.
Kevin tossed his credentials onto bar. “We’re here to see Evan Porter. It’s important.”
The man took a few seconds to look over Kevin’s identification before disappearing into a door behind the bar. Moments later, he emerged with another man in tow. Evan Porter was tall, a little older, and a little less fit than the bartender, although he was dressed the same—in a black polo shirt and khaki pants. Jocelyn estimated mid-to-late thirties. His short, brown hair was brushed back from his forehead and stiff with gel. He had a square jaw, his skin close-shaven, and he walked with the confidence of someone who always got what he wanted. Jocelyn had seen it often. His blue eyes flashed as he smiled widely, as though they were old friends coming to call. He wasn’t in the least bit worried.
“Detectives,” he said, extending a hand to each one of them from across the bar. “Evan Porter. What can I help you with?”
Kevin nodded toward the door he had emerged from. “Is there somewhere more private we can speak?”
Porter crossed his arms over his chest. The bartender shot them surreptitious glances, but the patrons’ attention was now glued to several of the large-screen televisions, hanging from the walls, which played a Phillies game. “Is that necessary?” Porter asked. “What’s this about?”
Kevin gave him a look that said, “it’s your funeral,” and then told him, “Your wife was in a fender bender about two hours ago. She rear-ended another vehicle. Afterwards, she jumped off the City Avenue bridge into the Schuylkill River. The Philadelphia Police Marine Unit is looking for her.”
The smile stayed plastered on Evan’s face, but his posture went rigid. No part of his body moved except for his lips. “Excuse me?” he said. “I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong person.”
Jocelyn rattled off his address, ignoring the stern look of caution Kevin shot her. “Is that where you live?”
“Yes, but...”
“You have a wife named Molly?” she went on.
“Yes, but...”
Kevin pulled out his cell phone and brought up the picture he had taken of Molly Porter’s driver’s license. The rest of the contents of her purse, and her vehicle, had been taken into evidence. He turned the screen so that Even Porter could see her face. “This your wife?”
Evan’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat like a yo-yo. His words seemed to come from deep within his diaphragm, bubbling up from some place his body had trouble accessing. “Please, come into my office.”
~~~
His office was four gray walls and a desk with very few personal touches. Only a framed photograph of Molly and their son sitting on the corner of his desk hinted at his private life. There were bookshelves with binders, filing cabinets, and a bank of screens on one wall showing various parts of the building. On his desk was an open laptop, which he snapped closed before collapsing into his chair. Jocelyn and Kevin remained standing.
One hand swiped down over his face, which had lost a shade of color in the time it took them to round the bar and go into his office. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Molly is at home with our son, Christopher. This can’t be right.”
“Your son is at home with the babysitter,” Kevin said.
His eyes lit up as he latched onto this piece of information. “We don’t have a babysitter. You must be mistaken.”
Jocelyn said, “It’s your neighbor. A young girl named Tessa. She’s watching your son. Your wife went out. Tessa says that she didn’t tell her where she went. Do you know where she might have gone?”
“That’s impossible,” he said. “Molly is a stay-at-home mother. She wouldn’t need a babysitter, and if she needed to go out, she would have called me. You just—you have to have the wrong person. This is some kind of mistake.”
His gaze went to the photo of his wife and son. Tears welled in his eyes.
“Maybe she went to visit a friend?” Jocelyn suggested, although she thought of the clothes Molly Porter had been wearing. More professional looking than Jocelyn would have expected from the stay-at-home mother of an infant. When Olivia was that small, Jocelyn had alternated between jeans and pajama pants and nearly always been covered in spit-up or remnants of baby food. “Or to a job interview?”
Porter shook his head and blinked back his tears. “No, no. Molly wouldn’t be going to a job interview. She wanted to stay home with Christopher. All her friends live in New York. That’s where she’s from.”
“Her family?” Kevin asked.
Porter shook his head. He continued to stare at Molly’s photo. His voice was low. “I’m her family. Me and Christopher. Her parents passed a long time ago. She doesn’t have anyone else.”
“Sounds lonely,” Jocelyn remarked.
His brow furrowed as he stared at her, hesitating momentarily. Then he said, “I guess it seems that way, but we’re happy. We have our son. I was—I was going to give Molly the family she never had. My wife is happy, Detectives. This has to be some kind of mix-up.”
But happy people don’t jump off bridges, Jocelyn thought.
As if he had had the same thought, Kevin took out his phone once more and brought up a picture of the Porters’ mangled SUV. He showed it to Evan. “This your wife’s vehicle?”
Porter’s hand flew to his mouth but not before the words “Sweet Jesus” slipped out. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to compose himself.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kevin said.
Evan’s eyes snapped back open. A phone appeared in his trembling hand. “I’ll call my wife,” he said.
Jocelyn and Kevin watched as he dialed a number. After four rings, a tinny female voice said, “You have reached Molly Port—”
He hung up and dialed another number. In the silent office, they could clearly hear a female voice,
thick with emotion, answer. “Oh, Mr. Porter. Oh my God. It’s Tessa. The police were here. Molly, she—”
Evan cut her off, his voice growing steadier with each word. “It’s okay, Tessa. I’m with the police now. Is this true? Molly went out this morning?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. She’s always come back before.”
His eyes widened. “Before?”
“Oh—well, yeah. On Tuesdays, she goes out. I’m sorry, Mr. Porter. She asked me not to tell you.”
A pink flush started at his throat and rose to the roots of his hair. “How long?”
“Mr. Porter, please don’t be mad. I—”
“How—” His voice had risen, and he caught himself, as though he had just remembered that Jocelyn and Kevin were in the room. “How long has she been going out on Tuesdays?”
There was a silence. Jocelyn leaned forward in her seat, straining to hear Tessa’s answer. “Like, at least since Christopher was born.”
He closed his eyes. “Thank you, Tessa,” he said. “I’ll be home soon. Stay with Christopher until I get there.”
Jocelyn couldn’t help but bristle at the flat-voiced way he gave instructions to the girl. As though she were a servant, not a neighbor who had been doing his wife a favor. What if she had somewhere to be? Evan Porter was either too arrogant or too grief-stricken to consider that. Jocelyn’s money was on arrogant.
Porter threw his phone onto the desk and put his head in his hands. “Oh my God,” he cried. “Dear God.”
“Mr. Porter,” Kevin said, “did your wife have a history of mental illness? Depression?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Can you think of any reason why your wife would attempt to harm herself?”
“No,” Porter replied without looking at them. “No, I can’t, but you can ask her when you find her.”
Kevin sighed. “Mr. Porter, we believe Molly survived the fall, but witnesses say she appeared to struggle once she was in the water.”
Evan palmed his forehead. “Oh God. Oh God. She can’t swim. You have to get her out of there. She never learned to swim. Did you call someone? Did someone go in after her?”
Jocelyn said, “Mr. Porter, I’m sorry. No one was close enough to dive in after her.”
“But someone has to get her out. Is anyone looking for her?”
Kevin answered, “As I told you when we got here, we have the Marine Unit looking for her now, but Mr. Porter, you should know that based on all the information, we believe this is a recovery operation, not a rescue operation. I’m very sorry.”
~~~
Back in Kevin’s car, they watched Evan Porter rush from the double doors of the front entrance to the parking lot. He got into a big, black Escalade and peeled out, tires squealing.
“She was isolated,” Jocelyn said. “No family, no friends. Not even a regular babysitter.”
“Lots of women are stay-at-home moms,” Kevin pointed out. “And often they don’t have time for much else, especially when their kids are very young.”
“She jumped off a bridge, Kev.”
“Could be postpartum.”
“I’m not sure she’d still have postpartum depression at this stage. That boy looks almost a year old. You should check and see if there have ever been any domestic calls.”
“Yes,” Kevin said, smiling at her briefly as he pulled out of Porter’s Pub and headed back toward Philadelphia. “I haven’t forgotten how to do the job, Rush.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Truth is, I miss having you around.”
“I’d love to know where she was going every Tuesday. Can you get her phone records? Write up a warrant for the GPS in her vehicle?”
Kevin said, “I can. Not sure I’ll get them. You know there’s no crime here, right? She jumped off a bridge. Offed herself. There’s no one to arrest. I’ve notified the husband. No need to talk to anyone else, because you and Anita saw her kill herself. Case closed.”
Jocelyn knew this was true. Had she been on the job, the two of them would be back at the station writing up their reports, waiting on a call from the Marine Unit, if and when the divers found the body. Had she been on the job and not directly involved in the accident, she might even be able to let it go. But she had harshly misjudged Molly Porter, taking all of a few seconds to peg her for a bitch, thinking only of the injuries to Anita and how the accident could have been much worse. What if she hadn’t gotten out of the car to confront Molly? Would she still be alive? What if Jocelyn had simply let her drive off? Would little Christopher Porter still have a mother? Had Jocelyn’s signature anger and rash behavior cost the woman her life? What if she had just gotten out of the car and told her she was calling the police instead of berating her? Would it have made a difference? Jocelyn knew she wouldn’t be able to let it go, whether Philadelphia police closed the case or not. But for now, there was no sense in pushing Kevin. He was still a detective, and Jocelyn knew from experience the cases would be backing up at Northwest Detectives.
“You’ll let me know when you hear from the Marine Unit at least?” she asked.
“Of course.”
Her gaze went to the narrow streets flashing past the window. “Thanks. You can take me to the hospital.”
~~~
Anita had a concussion and a laceration to her forehead. Jocelyn waited with her as the nurse prepared her discharge paperwork. She used the time to look up Evan Porter on her phone. He was thirty-five, an MBA graduate of Columbia University, the son of David and Maryanne Porter. The older Porters owned one of the largest real estate development companies in the area. David ran the company and Maryanne spearheaded their charity foundation. The Porters had been turning up at every red-carpet event in the city going back as far as Jocelyn’s browser had been collecting photos.
Evan began showing up in the photos as a gangly teenager, standing in a tuxedo between his smiling parents. Over the years, he grew and developed into a handsome, brooding college student. Not at all like the man she had met today, with his easy charm and artificial smile. With a bit more digging, Jocelyn found that Evan Porter had been spending the family money since leaving college to open a series of failed businesses. A nightclub on Philadelphia’s waterfront that had gone under in less than a year; a restaurant in center city that lasted three years; and a trendy, upscale bar in Manayunk that had closed after two years. Porter’s Pub in Conshohocken was the longest-tenured venture yet, in its fourth year of business.
“You’re looking those people up, aren’t you?” Anita said from her hospital bed.
Jocelyn grunted and typed in Molly Porter’s name along with the keywords “New York.” There were dozens of Molly Porters. Jocelyn searched for her name using Philadelphia as a keyword and turned up even more Molly Porters. When she typed in Evan Molly Porter, she got a wedding announcement from four years ago.
“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” Anita asked.
Jocelyn looked up long enough to give her a tight smile.
Anita sighed and shifted the soft ice pack on her head. “It wasn’t your fault, Rush. People who jump off bridges will jump off bridges whether you’re yelling at them or not.”
“But what if I was what finally pushed her over the edge?”
“You weren’t. Whatever sent her off that bridge started long before she ever laid eyes on you.”
Jocelyn said nothing. She knew Anita was right, but that didn’t do a damn thing to dispel the feelings of guilt ballooning inside her.
Closing her eyes, Anita said, “Wait until tomorrow, would you? I’ll dig up what I can.”
In their time together as Rush and Grant Investigations, Anita had become one of the finest internet stalkers Jocelyn had ever known. If there was dirt to be found on the Web, Anita would locate it.
Jocelyn took one last quick look at Facebook and Instagram but found nothing for either Porter. “Only if you feel up to it,” she told Anita. “Tomorrow this will all be forgotten. Other than fi
nding her body, the case is already closed.”
“Pretty white blonde lady living in a nice neighborhood, married to a rich white boy, jumps off a bridge?” Anita said. “I find it hard to believe the press isn’t interested in all that.”
Jocelyn stood up, her phone back in her hand. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I’ll be right back.”
She slipped into the hall and called one of her media contacts from her days with the Philadelphia Police Department. After finishing the call, she waited with Anita until she was discharged. Caleb picked both of them up. With assurances from Anita that she would be just fine under the care of her mother and two teenage children for the next couple of days, Jocelyn and Caleb took Olivia and went home to Jocelyn’s Roxborough rowhouse. As she soaked her sore back in a hot bath, Jocelyn couldn’t help but wonder about Molly Porter. The woman lived maybe ten blocks away from Jocelyn. It was even possible that they’d crossed paths at one of the local grocery stores, coffee shops, or other businesses. Jocelyn could have even passed her in one of the neighborhood playgrounds where she often took Olivia to play.
In her bedroom, Caleb’s long, lean body was stretched out on what had become his side of the bed. He wore his usual choice of pajamas—a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. The lights were off; only the flicker of the television cast a jittery glow over the room. Beside him, smack in the middle of the bed, snored Olivia. Bare feet peeked from beneath her My Little Pony nightgown, and cinched tightly in her arms was the stuffed animal du jour—a long-necked dinosaur that Caleb had bought her at the Academy of Natural Sciences over the weekend. Her brown hair fanned half across Caleb’s pillow and half across Jocelyn’s.
“I thought we were making her sleep in her own room,” Jocelyn said, though she couldn’t help but smile. Olivia’s face was even sweeter and more angelic when she slept.
