Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Short answer? Money.” DeLuca raised his coffee cup, toasting. His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Or an assignment. What if Sholto was making him prove his allegiance? Whatever. Or maybe he killed for love. Or, I don’t know. By mistake.”

  Jake shook his head, dismissing. “I don’t see it. Dozens of murders a year in Boston, so maybe there’s no connection. Or someone else might have been connected with them both. Or maybe Avery Morgan wasn’t murder.”

  “Huh.” DeLuca was reading his phone screen. “Lookit this, bro. Someone sure murdered Violet Sholto. Here’s a text from—well, the Medical Examiner’s Office, shall we say. Confirming it.”

  Jake toasted D this time. Kat McMahan often released her findings to them in advance, so often that they now took it for granted. “Always nice to have an ‘in’ with the ME,” he said.

  “‘In’ the ME is right,” D said. “Often as I can.”

  “Grow up, D,” Jake said.

  “Why now?” D was texting as he talked, somehow able to leer and type at the same time.

  “You were saying?” Jake had to change the subject from the TMI on D’s love life. “Violet Sholto’s cause of death, Kat says … what?”

  “Suffocated,” D said. “The wrist slashes were inflicted postmortem. Kat says whoever killed her did a good job trying to hide it. You saw the prelim e-mail from crime scene—bathroom’s clean, no unknown prints, no anything.”

  “Someone knew what they were doing. Cleaning-wise, too,” Jake said. “Not the housekeeper, though, certainly.”

  “Husband?”

  “Out of town,” Jake said.

  “Says the housekeeper.”

  The movie of the crime spooled out in Jake’s imagination, as it often did when he was investigating. Part of a detective’s job was imagining the setup, the motivation, the actual performance of the crime. Could it work? Was it feasible? Who would have to be where, and why? The movie of the crime allowed him to envision reality. Whether it would have been too dark to see, if a victim might have tried to defend himself, how the murderer got in, whether a neighbor would have heard a commotion. Where there’d be fingerprints or DNA or trace evidence. Whether a cover-up could be successful.

  He envisioned the Sholto home. Envisioned Grady, trusted underling, arriving at the front door. The housekeeper—he checked his notes. Rissa Murphy—lets him in. He tells her—

  “Hellooo?” D said. “Earth to Jake. Where did you just go?”

  “About the housekeeper. And Grady. Maybe you’re right.”

  “Imagine that,” D said.

  “Listen.” Jake ignored him. “Sholto orders Grady to kill his wife. He does. He scrams. The housekeeper cleans it up. Everyone shuts up. I mean, it’s the Sholtos. That’s what they do. And Sholto himself’s got the perfect alibi. He’s outta town. And ain’t no one gonna say otherwise.”

  “And we’re screwed.” D put his empty coffee mug on a stack of files. Brushed cruller crumbs from his chest. “Should we go have a chat with Grady? Being an informant won’t get you out of jail free if you kill someone.”

  “Gotta hand it to Sholto.” Jake shoved his notebook into a back pocket. Patted for his car keys. “I know it’s not exactly logical, but it’s sort of proof he did it. If he’s out of town, it proves he must be guilty, because he never goes out of town. He’s like … travel-phobic. So this proves he’d do anything for an alibi, anything to disconnect himself from this. Which means he’s connected.”

  “You’re nuts,” D said. “Proving a double negative. Tell that to a judge.”

  “Listen. What if Grady kills Violet Sholto on, say, Monday morning. For some as-yet-undetermined reason. Then kills Avery Morgan—who he also clearly knew, and also knew where she lived. On Monday day. Again, for now, reason unknown.” Jake shook his head. He hadn’t even convinced himself. “Okay, maybe, more likely I guess, what if Grady knows who did it? Because then Monday night he gets nailed in a hit-and-run. So either way, it could be—”

  “Retaliation. Or a cover-up. Or silencing him.” D filled in the blanks. “A message. Either way.”

  “I’ve got about five hours before my flight. If I go. Hospital?” Jake asked. “Take our chances?”

  “Grady shoulda kept his mouth shut,” D said.

  “Let’s hope he can talk now. When we get there, I mean.” Jake’s intercom buzzed, an insistent burr across the deserted squad room. He punched the “talk” button. “Brogan,” he said.

  “Detective Brogan?” Ming-Na’s voice was carefully formal. The receptionist was using her “announcing a visitor” voice.

  “Yes?” Jake turned to D. Held up his watch. Mouthed All we need.

  “It’s a Mr. Tom Galt,” Ming-Na said. “He says he needs to tell you his wife is missing. He says you’ll know who she is.”

  40

  EDWARD TARRANT

  “I know about you and Avery Morgan.”

  Edward Tarrant pushed himself to stand, palms flat on his desk, using those ten seconds to formulate his reaction. Laughter? Dismissal? Anger? He hated the smirk on Sasha Vogelby’s face, hated how her hair went behind her ears, hated her veiny hands and theatrical makeup. And now she was accusing him. Was this a trap? A trick? Or true?

  “Excuse me?” Edward tried to calm his rising apprehension, tried to make sure his face was a mask of confusion. “Avery Morgan—what?”

  “I see your wife is back in town now, and her father.” The woman, uninvited, pulled one of his visitors’ chairs closer, making parallel gouges in his carpet, and propped her elbows on his desk, lacing her hands in front of her chin. “No wonder you look tired. Stress is so exhausting. Isn’t it?”

  “Stress?” The less he said the better, Edward decided. Let this woman show her hand.

  “Very cagey of you to use ‘privacy’ as the reason for withholding student names from the police.” She winked at him, as if they shared some secret. “Very plausible, and even honorable. But you and I both know the real reason you don’t want those officers to know the realities of that videotape. I may not have been invited to that party—”

  “It wasn’t a par—”

  “Edward? It’s me here. I don’t need your sanctimony. And trust me, it won’t be effective. But, though you certainly don’t deserve it”—she smiled, raised one eyebrow—“you should know I’m here to help.”

  He opened his mouth, about to repeat, “Help?” Then thought better of it. He waited, took a sip from his coffee cup. Damned if he was going to offer this woman any.

  “Yes, help,” she went on. “Because even if I wasn’t invited to Avery’s little soiree, I know who was. And I have seen that video. Honestly, just between us? The person who took it forwarded me the file. So charming of dear Trey. He was so proud of their performance and wanted me to see the whole thing.”

  Tarrant tried to calculate the nightmare-level damage. Damn Trey. Not only would the video give police, the press, and the college community here and every damn where else indisputable evidence that he and Avery Morgan had known of—and condoned—underage drinking, a transgression so egregious he’d never work again, it was also corroboration of a relationship. Because of what Tarrant had not said.

  Sasha was shaking her head, looking at the floor briefly in exaggerated concern. “And certainly when the police discover—and they will—not only who shot it, but who else was present? They’ll certainly wonder why you didn’t tell them you were there. Won’t they?”

  Tarrant had to stop this. Stop her. “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t?” Sasha twisted a strand of hair around her forefinger, as if contemplating. “I think it does. It does matter. Because you—clearly, actively, purposely—kept information from the police. And that makes you, dear Edward, suspect number one.”

  It did. It did. That’s what had been haunting Edward ever since he’d shown the cops that video. He hadn’t killed Avery, didn’t know who did, had no idea about any of it. But if it came out that he’d attended the party, if any s
tudent testified—testified!—about his actions, he’d have to resign. Simply and completely. Brinn would go ballistic.

  “Ridiculous,” he said.

  “As my students so often say”—Sasha cocked her head, affected a student-like attitude—“You wish.”

  “I—”

  “And.” She interrupted with a raised-hand stop sign. “Whether you are guilty of murder or not”—she touched her pink-painted nails to her chest in feigned despair—“your life will never be the same after the media, and the parents, and the students you’ve ‘counseled’ begin to put together the pieces of the life you’ve been leading.”

  She actually batted her eyelashes at him. The blood was draining from his brain, it must be, he felt his face go white, then flush, the fear and potential for personal and professional disaster paralyzing his ability to comprehend. What the hell did she want from him?

  “However,” she said. “I have a plan. For both of us.”

  JANE RYLAND

  Was this making a deal with the devil? Too late now, Jane thought.

  Before she’d called McCusker about the newspaper’s wedding photo of Clooney Sholto, Jane consulted with Marsh Tyson, hoping for some reprieve, some way to avoid it. Instead, the news director had sent her here to the DA’s office without a moment of hesitation. Not a whit of concern about crossing the journalistic line between reporting the story and being the story. Could she bring a lawyer? No, Tyson had said. Just go.

  So here she was. Down the rabbit hole. Alone.

  With Frank McCusker standing, arms crossed, in the back corner of his office, the district attorney’s sketch artist, Beverly Wolov, sat at his desk, her sketchpad open. ready to create the portrait of the hit-and-run driver from Jane’s description.

  “For this to be allowed in evidence, it’s gotta be from your recollection,” the DA told her. “I’m somewhat concerned you saw that photo in the paper, to be honest. It’s ten years old, but some defense attorney could argue it colored your memory. So put it out of your head. Simply describe the person you saw driving the car. Bev’s our best artist.”

  “White, male, middle-aged. Pointy chin,” Jane said.

  “Okay. Now what’s the next unique characteristic you remember?” artist Wolov asked.

  “Widow’s peak.”

  The room was so silent Jane could hear Wolov’s pencil move across the thick paper on her spiral-bound pad. Jane had expected some computer-generated process, images popping up on screen, but Wolov had explained that sometimes witnesses thought the computer faces looked unnatural.

  “Pencil works best.” She adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses. “Nose?”

  “Pointy,” Jane said.

  “Cheekbones?” Wolov tucked her pencil into her blond chignon, then opened another spiral-bound notebook, this one full of numbered playing-card-sized mug shots. She opened to the page headlined “Cheekbones,” held it up so Jane could select.

  “Pointy.” Jane studied each photo. “Like picture number four.”

  After fifteen minutes of pointing and choosing and Wolov’s confident pencil strokes in response, the artist held up a sketch. Pink shards from her eraser sprinkled her navy uniform. Her left forefinger was smudged from shadowing the hollows of the portrait’s cheeks.

  “Like this?” she asked.

  “Exactly.” The artist had captured the driver perfectly, so much so that Jane’s stomach clenched in recognition. If the hit-and-run driver was Clooney Sholto, bad guy and thug, this was not a good thing.

  “Thanks, Beverly, we’ll be in touch. So, Jane.” McCusker pulled out his desk chair and sat, leaning toward her, as the door closed behind the artist. She’d left the sketch, signed and dated, on his desk. “Can we get you some water?”

  Get me water? Jane thought. You can get me the heck out of here, is what you can get.

  “Thanks, Frank. Listen, no, I just want to know what happens now. I mean, if this guy…” She paused, tried to deconstruct how she’d become a potential victim. She’d seen a stupid fender bender, a nothing, and she’d reported it to the cops like any good citizen. “So are you going to arrest him? Or what?”

  “Off the record?” McCusker asked.

  “‘Off the record’? ‘Off the record’?” Jane heard her voice go up an octave, couldn’t decide whether to laugh or burst into tears. This whole thing was beyond out of control. She stood, pointing at him. “Frank? I am standing here, in your office, having just described to you, in contradiction of everything I hold dear, a person I saw in a fender bender. It’s your turn, Frank, your turn now. What the heck is going on?”

  The hum of the air conditioner seemed to grow louder in McCusker’s silence.

  “I don’t have to testify,” Jane went on. “My station will fight it, up one side and down the other.” She hoped that was true. “You’ve as much as told me the guy I saw was Clooney Sholto. And all that entails. So you arrest him for a hit-and-run? Or wait—don’t? Is he above the law? Is that what this is?” She’d just come up with that plot twist, but it was an interesting thought. Was McCusker protecting Sholto?

  McCusker started shaking his head before Jane finished her sentence. “Jane, understand this. We want Clooney Sholto more than I can tell you. In fact, turns out the kid who confessed to the thing, one Rourke Devane, is a little-fish Sholto operative, one of many he’s got in the neighborhood. And apparently sent to be the sacrificial lamb. Making his bones, you know? But there’s more to this.”

  “Like what?” Jane demanded. She sat down again, to establish that she wasn’t leaving until he told her.

  “Here’s the plan,” McCusker went on. “And it’s one hundred percent off the record. We’re gonna unleash the red tape. We’re gonna tell Devane’s lawyers—who are certainly bankrolled by Sholto—that we’re postponing the hit-and-run case for lack of evidence. We can’t charge Devane, we’ll say, because you didn’t point him out in court.”

  “Because he wasn’t the driver!”

  “We know that,” McCusker said, reassuring her. “It’s all about stalling. We let the lawyers think we believe this Rourke Devane is guilty, but we’re being forced to cut him a break. Because, possibly, you were mistaken. And the best part—for you at least—we’ll make it look like you stopped cooperating. Right? And you’ll be safe.”

  “Safe?” If McCusker had to worry about whether she was safe, that’s exactly what she wasn’t. “How about that SAY NO MORE letter I showed you?”

  “Listen, Jane. They won’t want to hurt you,” McCusker said. “They’ll only want you to keep quiet. And now they’ll think you’ve followed their directions. If, indeed, that letter was their ‘directions.’ So we’ll keep mum, not say a word outside of our team, use this time to make our case. Once we have Sholto safely in custody, you can safely testify you saw him. But by that time, we’ll have him. Dead to rights.”

  “All this for a fender bender?” That didn’t make sense.

  “For murder,” McCusker said. “Sholto’s told NYPD he was in Manhattan Monday morning when his wife was killed. In New York.”

  Oh no, Jane thought. She realized instantly what McCusker was about to say.

  “But, Jane?” McCusker’s forehead furrowed, his eyes saddened in a half-apology. “There’s no escaping this. You’re the proof he wasn’t in New York. Because you—a very reliable witness—you saw him in Boston.”

  41

  JAKE BROGAN

  Oh, right, Jake thought, listening to the disheveled man fidgeting in the high-backed chair in the victim room. “Victim room,” because the upholstered furniture and potted plants made questioning of crime victims or witnesses less intimidating than if they had to sit in the bleakly concrete and metal interrogation rooms down the hall.

  Sometimes, though, Jake used these rooms for other purposes. A visitor with a dubious story might be lulled into relaxed and chatty complacency if the furniture was comfortable enough and the coffee hot. And “a dubious story” was exactly what Jake was hearing. First
Avery Morgan drowns, the circumstances still under investigation. A 911 call, certainly from the Galt residence, reports the crime. And now Tom Galt says his wife is “missing”? Right. Jake’s “no coincidence” meter was pinging off the charts.

  “Detective Brogan, it’s not too soon for you to look for her, is it?” Galt had raked his hand through his gray hair so many times, Jake could still see the furrows. “I mean, on TV they always say you have to wait twenty-four hours.”

  “This isn’t TV. This is real life,” DeLuca said.

  Jake shot him a shut-up glance.

  “Sir,” DeLuca added.

  “We can use our judgment in these cases,” Jake assured Galt. “Let me ask you this: Do you think your wife’s disappearance had anything to do with what happened to Avery Morgan?”

  “Did you know Avery Morgan?” D asked.

  Why was D so cranky? It threw off their rhythm, and it was time-sucking enough that Galt’s arrival had derailed their visit to Grady Houlihan.

  “Detective, can you give a call to the hospitals?” Jake said. “And the usual other checks?”

  “You da man,” D said. “Back in two.”

  D. When this was over, they’d need to have a talk, Jake thought. But first, Tom Galt.

  “We were talking about Avery Morgan,” Jake said.

  “What does Avery Morgan have to do with this? We’re talking about my wife.” Galt frowned, eyeing Jake as if he didn’t understand English. “Last I saw Willow was yesterday morning. She said she was going for a walk, but she—she’s still gone. She didn’t call. She didn’t take anything, not that I can see. I got home late, but—”

  “So nothing untoward at your home, no signs of a struggle, anything like that?” Jake could check for himself if the time came.

  “No, no, nothing,” Galt said.

  “Exactly like the situation at Avery Morgan’s house,” Jake said.

  “Well, possibly. I mean, I have no idea,” Galt looked confused, Jake’s precise goal. “But now you’re worrying me even more. What does that have to do with Willow? Is there some killer on the loose? Someone who may have murdered both of them? Just tell me!”