“They matter if Avery Morgan was murdered.” Jake didn’t try to keep the contempt out of his voice. “And that means—”
“Well, of course,” Tarrant tried to interrupt.
“And that means whatever privacy rules you’ve made or think you understand disappear into college handbook limbo.” So much for honey. Jake had completely had it with this guy. “Now, sir? Please start the video again. We’ll need to watch the whole thing. And then we’ll do it again, with the names. All of them. I can pick up this phone and get a warrant faster than you can say ‘contempt of court.’”
Jake ramped it down, de-escalating. “And happy to do that if it’ll make your decision easier to sell to your boss. Clear?”
“A court order is a court order,” Tarrant said.
“Great,” Jake said. “When was this taken, anyway? There’s no date stamp.”
Tarrant clicked his mouse, and the party hubbub echoed through the office again.
“In May, I think. Before the end of the spring semester,” Tarrant said. “Avery Morgan arrived in … February, if I remember correctly. I could look it up.”
“Do,” DeLuca said. “And the identifications?”
Tarrant shook his head, reluctant again. “Well, even if I agreed. I can’t possibly recognize every—”
“Mr. Tarrant?” Jake kept his eyes on the video. This was a flat-out party, far as he could see. It looked nothing like a rehearsal, or a formal lesson of any kind. Why would they have characterized it that way? Maybe because “Party with the teacher” was not something they’d want in their school brochures. Underage drinking was even more problematic, and there was no doubt that had taken place—Tarrant had just admitted that some of the attendees were under twenty-one.
For now, Jake would ignore it. Let this guy also think Jake hadn’t noticed the ubiquitous beer bottles. Or the yellow cups. “We’re in a ‘sooner or later’ situation here. That means, sooner or later, you’ll have to tell us.”
“You indicated you could get a warrant.” Tarrant’s voice had turned taut, taunting. “So do that.”
DeLuca took out his cell phone. “With pleasure.”
On the video, the atmosphere seemed to shift. Shadows moved through the background, the once-raucous music stopped.
“Avery, watch this!” A voice, off screen, cried out. “You ready?”
Avery Morgan twisted in her chair, following the changing sound. With a blare of orchestration, a new selection of music blasted over the scene, and a line of students, some wearing bathing suits and others in cutoffs and T-shirts, all carrying drinks, danced—Jake guessed it was dancing—in a line in front of the camera. Some were singing, a few pretending their beer bottles were microphones. Avery Morgan stood, applauding, then adjusted her long skirt, picked up her drink, and stepped out of the picture, leaving the camera lens trained squarely on the teenagers’ antics.
Kids these days, Jake thought. Calling her “Avery.” His own college interactions with professors were formal and arm’s-length, certainly never first-name. Appropriate or not, it did look like these students, if they were students, were having fun, animated and enthusiastic, arms linked, lost in their performance.
Had any of these students been “special” friends of hers? Did any of them know more than they realized? Morgan called out to one of them, a young woman, then hugged her. Had any of these people been inside her house, that night, or before? Whose drink had been parked next to hers? Did any of these revelers know she was now dead? Had one of them caused her death? Killed her?
Avery Morgan walked through the picture again, briefly blocking the camera shot. She laughed apologetically and fluttered a playful wave at whoever was taking the video. She stopped at the edge of the screen, then beckoned to someone, smiling.
“Over here!” Jake heard her call out.
Tarrant tapped the mouse, stopping the action. “That girl comes into the shot, they hug, then the food and beer arrives, then it ends.” Tarrant looked at his watch again. “Gentlemen? I have an appointment out of the office, so…”
DeLuca clicked off his phone. “Warrant’s in the works.”
“We’ll need to see the rest, Mr. Tarrant,” Jake said. Passive-aggressive tactics might work on students, but not on them.
Tarrant moved the mouse, and the video flickered back into life.
In one quick move, DeLuca leaned forward, close to the screen, squinting. Momentarily blocked Jake’s view.
“Jake,” DeLuca said. “Look.”
“I can’t, long as you’re in the way,” Jake said. D leaned back, and Jake watched the scene continue. A delivery person had appeared, carrying what looked like three pizza boxes stacked on top of each other. On top of that, a brown paper bag, almost obscuring the delivery person’s face.
But not quite.
“Holy sh…” Jake said under his breath. Grady.
28
JANE RYLAND
I’m excused? As the meaning of the judge’s words sank in, it was all Jane could do not to leap up, dash from the witness box, race out the door, run home, and dive under her comforter. Three-thirty in the afternoon was too early for a glass of wine, but she was spent and exhausted. She’d awakened every hour on the hour the night before, taunted by the glowing green numbers of her alarm clock, terrified of being late, her restive dreams full of winding dead-end corridors and unopenable doors, of unfindable addresses and incorrect clocks. But she’d promised McCusker she’d meet him in the DA’s courthouse office after her testimony, and then needed to get back to Channel 2 and Fiola.
Home wasn’t an option.
She left the courtroom, trying not to run, and hustled past the burly court officers, ignoring the stares from the still-silent audience, their curiosity so piercing she could almost feel it against her back.
Once in the clear, thankful at hearing the door shut behind her, she paused for a moment in the silence of the frescoed hallway. And then with a lifting heart, she realized. I’m done. This is over. Say no more? She wouldn’t have to.
Allowing herself a brief smile of relief, Jane trotted down the wide staircase to the lobby. Welcoming the caffeine, she grabbed a sludgy but convenient courthouse coffee from the weird guy at the snack bar. She wondered what happened after she left the courtroom. Why had Hix arrived? And who was the earringed Ms. Obele—some kind of legal lookout?
She’d ask McCusker for the deets. Least he could do, after all this, was give her the scoop.
Coffee in hand, Jane trudged back up the curved marble staircase to the second floor, lamenting her too-high heels, the pressure of the witness box, and the loss of her day. But she’d gotten a reprieve from having to rat out a criminal. That part of her life was finished. She was never going to divulge another word to law enforcement again. Except to Jake, of course.
Unlike in her dream, she easily found the door marked “District Attorney,” which in real life had a doorknob, and entered the office. Empty. Empty reception area, empty couch, three empty chairs, empty reception desk. Fine. She’d wait.
Plopping onto the couch, muscles deflating, she pulled out her phone. Maybe call Jake? And certainly Fiola, see what the plans were to interview Tosca. That part of her life seemed so easy, suddenly, so risk-free.
But not, of course, for Tosca. It all depended on whether you were the questioner or the questioned. She let out a breath, stared at the blank wall, realized that for the first time in eight hours she wasn’t quaking with apprehension.
She could close her eyes, just for a moment.
“Jane?”
McCusker. She bolted to her feet. Had she been asleep? Didn’t matter. “Hey, Frank. How’d it go?” Reached for her coffee, took a sip. Still hot, so maybe she hadn’t been asleep.
“It’s complicated,” McCusker said, beckoning her to follow him. “We can talk in my office.”
She shadowed him down a narrow hall that smelled of old paper and older coffee grounds. The crackling overhead fluorescents only highlighted
the grunge. Inside McCusker’s office, stacks of file folders lined the yellowed walls. She surveyed the place, a cell-sized cubicle, one four-paned window curtained with forlorn translucent nylon.
“Taxpayer dollars,” he said, one hand waving to encompass the shabbiness. “At least you can’t do a story about how District Attorney Santora is overspending on office décor.” He pulled a manila file folder from his shiny black briefcase, opened it, pulled out a photograph. Didn’t show it to her.
“Listen, Jane,” he went on. “Thanks for taking the stand this morning. You did us a solid. But, you’re sure about who you saw driving that car?”
“Yeah,” she said. The only visitor chair in the room was stacked with files. Not that she wanted to sit. She was leaving, soon as she could. “He was—”
“It was nine A.M.,” McCusker interrupted, then leaned back against the edge of his desk. “The sun was glary, there was heavy traffic, lots of distractions, you had to look through two car windows. Yours and his. It all occurred very quickly. Eyewitness identification is notoriously tricky. You’re absolutely sure?”
“No question.” And there wasn’t any question. As she’d scrutinized the courtroom audience, she’d held that image of the driver in her imagination. No one matched. She’d know the driver if she saw him. And she hadn’t seen him in court. “I’m a reporter. This is what I do.”
McCusker looked at the photo in his hand, turned it toward her, held it up between his thumb and forefinger.
“This is the person who confessed,” he said.
Baby-face kid.
“No way.” Jane shook her head. “Never saw that guy in my life. Well, until today, when I saw him in the audience. He was the only person not looking at me. Who is he, anyway? And, listen, Frank, can I just say? The man I saw was middle-aged, white, widow’s peak—”
“Don’t—” McCusker tried to interrupt.
“Pointy cheekbones, thin lips,” she finished before he could stop her again. She’d braved the stupid identification hearing, and it had resulted in a nonidentification identification. She didn’t see the actual driver in the audience, didn’t recognize the kid who confessed, so now she could go home.
The ADA stared at her, still holding up the photo.
“You sure?” he said.
“How many times do you want me to reassure you? I’m a very reliable witness.” Shut up, Jane.
“Tell me about that other accident.” He slid the photo back into the file, slid the file back into his briefcase. “The later one. On Melnea Cass. Did you happen to see that one, too?”
McCusker’s desk phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” he said, and turned, facing the wall as he talked.
Thank goodness. Jane brushed her palms across her cheeks, smoothed her hair behind her ears. She needed a shower, and a nap, and then a glass of wine. Maybe a back rub, or whatever else Jake might have in mind for tonight’s entertainment. What she did not need was another dilemma, another decision about where reporters drew the line at giving information.
Had she seen the second accident? Well, she had, in a way. The aftermath. On tape. And Channel 2 still had the raw video of it. But to get it, the DA would have to subpoena it, and the station would fight it, as they always fought subpoenas. Whatever video didn’t get on the air was never shared with anyone, even law enforcement, without a subpoena. To circumvent such controversies, every station she’d worked for simply destroyed the raw video, erased the tape, or deleted the digital file. Or said they deleted it.
So if she had seen it, and the video was gone, what was the point of saying so? And she hadn’t seen the actual accident. She tried to take another sip of coffee, but her paper cup was empty.
McCusker hung up the phone. He still looked impeccable, tie immaculate, even after the harrowing—for Jane—day in court. “Jane? Did you see that one, too?”
“I didn’t see the accident happen,” she said. That was true.
“I’m sure you didn’t.” McCusker aligned a few yellow pencils on his glass-topped desk, putting all the erasers in an even row. “Good answer. But you know perfectly well what I’m asking. Nevertheless. Tell your station to expect a subpoena.”
Jane shrugged, smiling, weary. “Above my pay grade,” she said.
She tossed her empty coffee cup into a black metal wastebasket, where it landed with a soft thud. Now it was her turn to ask questions. She would check the court records, the docket file containing all the official reports and maybe even evidence, and make copies of everything the moment she finished here. But might as well get the scoop firsthand.
“By the way, who is the guy who ‘confessed’?” she asked. “Did he own the Cadillac? Did he confess to the second hit-and-run, too?”
“It’s complicated.” McCusker sat behind his desk, picked up one of the pencils, rolled the others into a drawer. “That was part of what the judge and I were discussing. Why I was delayed. Why she sealed the court records.” He pointed the pencil at her. “But we’ll find the bad guy.”
“Sealed? Why?” Jane was so close to the door, and almost home free, but she couldn’t help it—once she was onto a story, she had to know how it ended. Getting court records sealed was a difficult burden. A judge had to be convinced there was a threat, or some crucially private information that needed to be concealed. That keeping the records secret outweighed the public’s right to know. “Will you at least tell me—”
“We’ll be in touch,” McCusker said. “All I can say.”
“Great,” Jane said. You owe me, she didn’t say. She put her hand on the doorknob.
“And I’ll let you know when your next court appearance is,” McCusker said.
He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. She took her hand off the knob, faced him square-on.
“What ‘next court appearance’?”
“Yours,” the DA said. “When we find the real driver. Because, Jane? You’re the only one who saw him.”
“But—”
“You said it yourself, Jane. You’re a very reliable witness.”
29
JAKE BROGAN
“Could you believe it was Grady Houlihan in that video?” Jake said.
He and DeLuca were about to jaywalk across Beacon Street toward their cruiser, dodging the Kenmore Square pre-game traffic.
“You heard from him lately?” DeLuca frowned as a car of boisterous Red Sox fans made an illegal left turn. “Grady?”
“Had a message yesterday night.” Jake began to step off the curb, then decided against it. “He was updating on the Sholtos, says their drug sales will go into high gear once fall classes start. Molly and poppers, he says. Roofies. Knew about Avery Morgan, too.”
“Kills me,” D said. “When I was that age it was all weed. Quaaludes, if you were a stoner. Now that stuff’s for punks. Molly and poppers. Roofies. Shit.”
Jake knew Grady used the delivery job to infiltrate local campuses without being noticed—and a good idea it was—but the last person Jake had expected to see in the Avery Morgan video was his CI.
“Clooney Sholto, there’s an asshole. His son Liam, too,” Jake said. “Selling drugs to college kids. There’s a legacy. I told Grady, don’t say anything. Just listen.”
“And then inform us, right?” D said. “That’s why they call them ‘informants.’”
“Freaking witness protection budget.” Jake, wanting to remain alive, checked both ways for traffic. Remembered Grady’s apprehension the day before. “My fault, you know? If the kid gets hurt while we’re waiting for the DA’s office to get its act together? Why is it always about money?”
“It’s about business.” D said.
“Wonder what Avery Morgan’s business was. Talk about assholes. Tarrant, I mean. I’d like him for it, big-time, if he didn’t have an alibi. His colleague is dead. Maybe murdered. Hard to believe he tried to stall about naming the kids in the video.”
“‘I don’t recognize them all’?” D imitated Tarrant’s mannered accent. “Bull. Shom’s chec
king them out.”
“Think Tarrant’s lying about Grady? That he doesn’t know him?”
“Fifty-fifty.” D pointed to the sidewalk opposite. “Now.”
As they headed for the cruiser, Jake mentally reviewed the personnel records Tarrant had finally handed over. They revealed Avery Morgan moved to Boston from an L.A. suburb earlier in the year. No husband, no next of kin, but there was a social, a landlord reference, and a California address. Good leads. And that intriguing Untitled Studios connection. Had Avery Morgan been a whistle-blower? A rat? Had she moved from California to distance herself from the bad guys? Jake had called the US Attorney out there before he and D were even out of Colonial Hall.
“Hold on.” Jake stopped in the middle of Beacon Street. A guy in a speeding Volvo slammed the horn, had to swerve to avoid them. A middle finger extended from the driver’s-side window as the car careened though the yellow light.
“You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” D said. “Can you tell me whatever it is on the sidewalk? So we’ll survive to discuss it?”
“Yeah, D. We suck.” They stepped onto the curb together, then separated for their cruiser doors. Jake clicked the car open, and both slid inside, slamming their doors simultaneously. Jake cranked the AC. Then, with the twist of a knob, turned it off.
“Hey, gimme a break,” D said. “It’s a million degrees in here. Suck? We suck?”
“Yeah. So we’re getting out,” Jake said. “We’re going back to Tarrant. I’ve got one more question for him.”
WILLOW GALT
Never say another word?
She was never supposed to say another word? About who she truly was, or where she came from? How was that humanly possible? Willow had whiled the day away, browsing the Kenmore boutiques, pretending to be normal. Pretending to be carefree, having a lovely snack at Galatea. But as she sat at the raffia-topped sidewalk table, watching the fans elbow their way to the Red Sox game, she knew it was no good pretending. She and Tom were in real danger.
Avery’s killer had struck in error. It had to be true. The killer had been sent to track down Willow and Tom. Why didn’t Tom realize that?
Say No More Page 18
