Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Well, she was—she stood, whisked away another tear with a determined palm—finished with prudent. She’d handle her own life, she’d—she felt her heart beating so hard she had to touch one hand to the kitchen table to steady herself. Yes. She’d do it, she’d go out out out—out—and be herself again. For a start, she’d call Professor Tully, and actually attend class. In person! She’d call Professor Morgan, too, who’d complimented her and encouraged her.

  And she’d … ha. She’d listen to the message, because what if it really was something important or life-changing? She smiled, imagining. Say it was Gormay calling. She strutted to the phone, imagining the scene. It would be Grady from Gormay, and he’d say, Oh, I was just inquiring about your order. And, he’d say, Wondering if you’d like me to bring it a little earlier? Or later?

  Oh, she’d laugh and toss her head. What a lovely idea. Can you bring enough for two?

  She tapped her message-retrieval code into the keys, EGBDF like the scales, and heard the message thing whir. It was a salesperson, no doubt, so she’d simply delete it. And, now she thought about it, maybe see what she could do about her hair. Jane and her producer, Fiona something, might be coming. Even though she wasn’t going on camera, she should look nice. For when she finally told her story and saved her own life. Yes, Isabel, Grady would say. You’re …

  She paused her invented dialogue mid-scene to listen to the message.

  Music. The same caller. She started to hang up, annoyed but relieved it wasn’t Mom or Adams Bay, then stopped, the receiver held midway between her ear and the wall. Music, recognizable now.

  She clamped the phone back to her ear, eyes screwed shut, blanking out everything but the sounds from the phone, coming from somewhere, from someone, meant only for her.

  A flush washed across her face, then a chill, her knees gone unreliable. She tapped the phone keys, 2-2, to replay the message from the beginning. And then again. She steeled herself each time, disbelieving, but needing to hear the whole message. The crazed scherzo of strings, then a swelling of orchestra, the opening measures of …

  “O Scarpia, Avanti a Dio!” She heard it, perfectly, clearly, almost as if someone were raising the volume as the climax of the opera continued. So intense, so fiery, lasting less than a minute, but Isabel felt her lips mouth the words along with Anna Moffo—she’d recognize the lyric soprano’s voice anywhere. Moffo as Tosca, the doomed and deceived lover of Cavaradossi, the victim of the evil Scarpia. “O Scarpia,” the line Tosca wails in anguish, hitting that piercing high C before she flings herself to her death over the parapet of the Castel Sant’Angelo. “We will meet again before God.”

  And then the music stopped.

  Tosca. Who knew she was Tosca? And why would they call to torment her?

  Isabel stood in her kitchen, alone alone alone, one foot in a flip-flop, one foot bare, the summer breeze teasing her white curtains and twisting her crystal in the open balcony window as she clutched the now-silent phone.

  25

  JAKE BROGAN

  “About freaking time,” Jake muttered as he and D were led down the carpeted hallway, a corridor of closed and numbered doors, toward Edward Tarrant’s office. Sasha Vogelby, several steps in front of them, had called Tarrant back, and in a hushed but insistent voice relayed Jake’s admonition that with or without his permission, they were on their way to his office. At which point the woman turned the charm on them.

  “Mr. Tarrant will be happy to see you now,” she’d gushed. As if it were his idea. As if his happiness mattered.

  “Piece of work,” D said, keeping his voice low. “You think she really didn’t know? About Morgan?”

  “She’s an actor, right?” Jake muttered.

  “Gentlemen?” Vogelby stopped halfway along the hall, in front of a closed office door. “All set?”

  Jake didn’t like her. He couldn’t help it. He knew that was a pitfall for cops—personal feelings should never get in the way. But a layer of yellowing disdain kept threatening to tinge Jake’s response to this woman. Her obsequiousness toward Tarrant, her ivory tower existence, her flouncing around this insular and otherworldly environment. He knew it well from his Harvard years, had experienced the same entitled atmosphere, the higher learning and know-it-all swagger drawing a hard line between us and them, campus and townie, the educated and the not-so. DeLuca still tormented Jake about his educational background.

  “Set?” DeLuca repeated in reply to Vogelby’s question. “We were ‘set’ when we arrived, about half an hour ago.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Vogelby,” Jake said. Good cop. Might as well be.

  They lurched through preliminary small talk, Jake taking in the opulence of Tarrant’s office. Must make quite the salary, Jake figured, he’d check the records. After he heard the dean’s oh-so-sincere eulogy for the “intensely talented” and “much-admired” Avery Morgan, Jake had another on his personal list of “not-guilty but not-likable.”

  Could Tarrant be the killer? Strangulation was most often a man’s crime. The strength it took to wrap your hands around the victim’s neck, the intensity of the proximity, the willingness to get that close to your prey. Feel their breath on you, match their struggle, hear their last gasps. It wasn’t as instant—or pretty—as in the movies. Drowning, though, that could be a woman’s crime. Especially if Kat found there were drugs involved.

  Sasha Vogelby had retreated to a shadowy corner, dwarfed by the ceiling-high bookshelves behind her.

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” Jake said again. They hadn’t been invited to sit, and Jake now looked pointedly at the two chairs across from Tarrant’s desk.

  “Thank you.” Tarrant, big shot, gestured to the expensive-looking upholstery.

  “Were you particular friends with Ms. Morgan?” Jake said after he and D had sat, taking out his notebook, mostly for show. D did the same, and licked his pencil tip like a two-bit comic cop. For Tarrant’s benefit, Jake knew.

  “‘Particular’?” Tarrant seemed to taste the word, testing it. “We were colleagues, certainly.”

  Jake waited, silent. Waited for Tarrant to fill the space. A shadow passed by the frosted glass of Tarrant’s outer door, then his phone buzzed. “No calls, Manderley,” Tarrant said into the speaker.

  Manderley. Jake clicked his pen, wrote it in his notebook, figuring he’d spelled it correctly. Jane’d love that name. But whoever Manderley was probably knew more than she—she?—was aware. He’d check with her, for sure. Calendar, schedules, phone calls. A secretary knew them all.

  Tarrant, hands steepled, stayed silent. Fine, Jake thought.

  Changing tactics, Jake leaned forward. “How did Ms. Morgan come to be associated with Adams Bay, Mr. Tarrant? Did she have family? Where was she from? And where were you, sir, yesterday from noon until approximately six P.M.?”

  Take that, Jake thought. He heard a sound from the back of the room, turned to see if Vogelby wanted to say something. She coughed, twice, covering her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Sir?” Jake prompted Tarrant, as D shifted again in his apparently uncomfortable chair. Though Jake’s wasn’t bad.

  “Ms. Morgan came to us from California,” Tarrant said. “She lived outside Los Angeles, if I remember, in a suburb called…” He shook his head, then spread his hands, apologetic. “As for her personal information, I must admit I am not clear on the protocol. I’ve put in a call to our president, Reginald Buchholz, but, alas, he is out of the country, and I fear the time zones don’t work in our favor.”

  “Alas,” DeLuca said.

  “I fear—” Jake paused, but not quite long enough to be nasty “—the protocol of the Boston homicide division takes precedence. Sir. I’m sure there’s a personnel file, and that’s what I need. We don’t need the permission of the college president, although I will want to talk with him. So.” Jake gestured to Tarrant with his ballpoint. Clicked it. “You’ll provide that information, as well as more. Was she married? Divorced? Did she have a boyfriend
, for want of a better term? Or girlfriend?”

  Tarrant cleared his throat. “Might I ask you, Detectives, whether the school should put out some sort of alert? Do you think there’s a danger to students, or faculty, or anyone else in the neighborh—?”

  “We don’t, Mr. Tarrant,” Jake cut him off. “We would have mentioned that right off the bat. I can tell you there were no signs of forced entry, no struggle, nothing out of place.”

  Tarrant’s eyes widened. “Are you thinking she knew her killer?”

  Jake saw Tarrant’s face change. Did he exchange glances with Vogelby? Hard to tell.

  “Or could it have been sui—” Tarrant stood, his fingers poised on his sleek black desk blotter. “Could she have—” his voice dropped to a whisper “—killed herself?”

  “It’s all part of the investigation, sir.” Jake flapped his notebook shut. Sometimes that made subjects more relaxed, as if the “real” interview were over. The real interviews were never over. “So. Personnel file. Ms. Morgan’s contact information. Her acquaintances and relationships. As well as President…”

  “Buchholz,” Vogelby’s voice came from the back of the room. This time they did exchange glances. Tarrant glared at her.

  What was between those two? Jake needed to split them up.

  “While we were waiting for you, Ms. Vogelby described student gatherings, parties, maybe rehearsals, at Ms. Morgan’s home,” Jake said. And under the bus she goes. “The house was part of her salary?”

  “Part of her employment package, yes,” Tarrant said, sitting again, leaning into the dark brown leather. “Use of the house. And yes, there were—I wouldn’t quite call them ‘parties.’”

  Tarrant shot Vogelby the glare again. “But certainly Ms. Morgan encouraged students to participate in group gatherings at her home. I understand they did rehearsals there, little theatricals. She was our resident expert in performance, with a specialty in opera. So obviously her students would congregate there—not unlike other professors having teas, or sherry with poetry readings. That sort of thing.”

  DeLuca coughed, which Jake thought unnecessary. But funny. D was not big on poetry. Or sherry.

  “We’ll need the names of her students,” Jake said. He nodded at D, whose notebook was still at the ready. “Especially those who were familiar with the house.”

  “I told them, Mr. Tarrant.” Sasha Vogelby’s voice again. Jake turned, watched the woman take a few steps closer to them, her white hair emerging from the shadow of the shelved leather volumes. “I told the detectives we’d have to get permission from the families to release their names. It’s a classic privacy situation.”

  “It’s a possible murder situation,” DeLuca said.

  “Were you ever at Ms. Morgan’s parties?” Jake looked at Tarrant, then Vogelby, then Tarrant again. “Either of you?”

  26

  JANE RYLAND

  Was she ready? Jane tried not to laugh out loud at the judge’s question. This was the world’s most horrible idea, Jane sitting in open court, faced with six dozen spectators, and expected to point to the driver in a hit-and-run accident. Ready? Yeah, she was ready. Ready to bolt straight out that big double door, uniformed guards or no, and head for the hills.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Jane said. “I’m ready.”

  “Mr. McCusker?” Judge Scapicchio pointed a scarlet fingernail at the assistant DA.

  Jane watched McCusker stand, slowly, and smile at her, the practiced expression of reassurance he must have used before on countless nervous or reluctant unfortunates in her position.

  Jane heard a low rumble from the audience, as a few dozen people murmured what they probably thought was softly to each of a few dozen others.

  “Spectators, you will remain silent during this hearing,” the judge said. “Any outbursts, any discussion or reaction, and I’ll have you removed from my courtroom. And held in contempt. Am I clear?”

  Silence.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Now. Ms. Ryland.” McCusker turned some pages in his loose-leaf binder.

  Jane waited, her world on pause, wondering how she must look to the spectators, each and every one of whom was staring at her. Well, all but one, and he was looking at the judge. She felt herself gulp, and tried to pretend she wasn’t nervous, because there was no reason to be nervous. Except, there was.

  “Ms. Ryland,” McCusker said again. “Where were you on the past Monday morning at approximately nine-forty?”

  Jane swallowed, wished for water. Her brain was somehow short-circuiting on this simple question. What did he mean by “where”? Did he mean—in a car? In Boston? On O’Brien Highway?

  “I was in a car, on O’Brien Highway.” She heard the quaver in her voice. Get a grip, Jane. “On the Boston side,” she added, sitting up straighter. She wasn’t on trial, after all.

  “Were you driving?”

  Just answer what you’re asked, the station’s attorney had instructed her. “No.”

  “You were a passenger.”

  “Yes.” This would be over soon, just a memory, and she and Jake would laugh and go on with their lives. The dark-haired defense attorney, still seated at her table, appeared to be listening intently, fiddling with a hoop earring. But Jane could see the woman had a cell phone in her lap. On. Was she texting?

  “What was the weather?”

  “Sunny.”

  “And did you see anything unusual?”

  Unusual? Well, was a fender bender unusual? Not in Boston, that’s for sure. Just answer, you dingbat, she told herself. “I saw a car rear-end a van. There was a red light, and the van had stopped, and we had stopped. And then the car hit the stopped van.”

  “How did you see that?”

  “I looked out the windshield. And then out my window. The passenger-side window.”

  “I see.” McCusker nodded. “The window was open?”

  “Not at first, but then I opened it.”

  “And what kind of a car, if you know, did you see hit the van?”

  “A Cadillac. I recognized the—” Just answer the question. “A Cadillac.”

  “Color?”

  “Silver.”

  “And you took the license plate.”

  “I did,” Jane said. She heard the audience murmur, saw a few people whisper to their neighbors behind raised palms.

  “Why was that?” McCusker raised an eyebrow, smiling.

  “I’m a reporter,” she said. “I guess it’s habit.”

  “I see. What did the driver do then?” McCusker’s voice was smooth, and he ran a finger down his yellow pad.

  “He…” Jane paused, picturing it. “He sat there for a moment, in the front seat. Then he drove away.”

  “A hit-and-run,” McCusker said.

  “Mr. McCusker.” Judge Scapicchio’s voice did not conceal the rebuke. “There’s no jury here. And no need to characterize.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” he said. “Ms. Ryland. Did you see the driver of the silver Cadillac? Did you look at him?”

  “Yes.” Her heart started beating, so fast it surprised her, so hard it almost made her gasp. Say no more, she thought. Right. It was about to hit the fan. And no question that lawyer was texting.

  The audience murmured again, as if they, experienced courtroom observers, knew precisely what had to be coming next—the big climax, the big identification, the pivotal Perry Mason moment.

  But then the door to the courtroom squeaked open, and all eyes turned left, all heads swiveled to watch the late arrival. A prune-faced man in a dark suit hustled past the court officers, scanned the audience, quickly, then slid into a pew close to the door. A broad-shouldered court officer took a tentative step forward. He approached the newcomer, then seemed to decide there was no problem. Prune-face wasn’t the driver, Jane thought, though he had gray hair and looked kind of familiar. Lawyer, maybe.

  “Now, Ms. Ryland?” McCusker cleared his throat, and the audience’s attention swiveled back his way. “Without pointing to him or
her, if the person you saw driving the car in question, the silver Cadillac, is in this courtroom, could you please tell me that?”

  The audience leaned forward, as one, anticipating, as if the closer they were to Jane, the sooner they’d hear the answer.

  “And,” McCusker continued, “again, not by pointing, but by simply saying yes or no.” The ADA smiled once more, swept a hand toward the audience behind him. “We don’t want any mistaken identities.”

  Jane narrowed her eyes, wondering if that was some kind of crack. She’d been fired from a TV job because she refused to reveal the name of a source—and as a result, most of Boston believed she’d made a mistake in publicly identifying a bad guy. Since then she’d worked to redeem her image, and thought she’d finally succeeded. All she needed now was McCusker reminding the whole world about one of the worst moments of her life.

  But maybe that was her own paranoia. No reason for McCusker to needle her, after all. She tamped down her probable overreaction, wondering how she must look to the spectators, each and every one of whom was staring at her. The defense attorney, too, as she fiddled with her other silver earring.

  “Go ahead,” McCusker said. “Please take your time.”

  Now or never. Jane scanned the audience, left to right, squinting a bit in the spackled lighting of the verging-on-seedy courtroom. The state moguls had slashed funding for courthouse renovations before they got to this one, and as a result, the walls were dingy, the curtains dingier, and the lighting even dingier. The driver wasn’t black, or Asian, not dark-skinned, not female, so those people she could easily skip. She took herself back to that moment on O’Brien Highway, imagined herself looking out the right-side window of the Channel 2 car, seeing the man with his hands on the wheel. Middle-aged, Caucasian, widow’s peak, grayish hair, pointy cheekbones, thin lips, clean-shaven.

  But here in courtroom 206, in the rows of lined-up possibilities, she saw middle-aged but not gray hair, Caucasian but chubby, widow’s peak but wide lips, face after face the wrong shape or the wrong color or the wrong gender. Face after face, linking their eyes with her, as eager with anticipation as a—