by Unknown
Here was a picture of Emma Hale attending some ritzy party. An antique platinum locket dangled above her ample cleavage. Here was another picture of the pretty co-ed with her arm around a good-looking man with dark hair and brown eyes – the boyfriend, Tony Pace, a Harvard sophomore.
Something twitched deep in Darby’s mind, a twinge of familiarity. Was it something about the boyfriend? No. Bryson had interviewed Pace. He hadn’t attended the party. He had the flu and stayed in his dorm room. All of his alibis checked out. Pace agreed to a polygraph and passed. What was it, then?
Here was a picture of the couple standing on a boat, their skin deeply tanned, smiles perfect, not a wrinkle on them. Darby wondered why she was focusing so much on Emma Hale and switched her attention to a picture of Judith Chen dressed in sweats, a black Labrador puppy held in her arms as she smiled to the camera. Here was a picture of Chen with her roommate.
Darby paced inside her office. Every few minutes she stopped and looked back to the wall to see if something in the pictures or the women’s faces grabbed her attention. When it didn’t happen, she went back to pacing or stopped to pick up trinkets and held them in her hands for a moment before putting them down. She kept neatening her desk, making sure everything was in its proper place and alignment.
The wind blew, shaking the old windows. Blinding white sheets of snow whipped across the old brick buildings. Darby finished the last of the bourbon. She felt relaxed, calm. She thought about spring. It felt years away. Emma Hale had a summer home on Nantucket. She played tennis and golf and spent days on the boat. She wore designer dresses and lots of jewellery.
(the locket)
What about it? The locket, Darby knew, contained a picture of Emma’s mother. What else? Jonathan Hale had identified the locket, which Emma was wearing when her body was found. She was wearing the locket when her body surfaced. She was wearing the locket…
‘Oh Jesus,’ Darby said out loud, hands trembling as she reached for the murder book.
9
Darby flipped through the pages, stopping when she reached the one containing the list of items found in the jewellery boxes located in Emma Hale’s walk-in closet. Here it was: ‘Oval antique locket with platinum chain, middle drawer, jewellery box #2.’
She grabbed the phone and called Tim Bryson. The phone seemed to ring forever. She felt a surge of relief when he picked up.
‘A week after Emma Hale’s abduction, you and your team went through her house and catalogued her jewellery.’
‘That’s right,’ Bryson said.
‘I’m looking at the list of Emma’s jewellery. It says an oval antique locket with platinum chain was found in the middle drawer of the second jewellery box.’
‘Where are you going with this?’ Bryson sounded put out. Was he still sore from their talk at the morgue?
‘When Emma Hale’s body was found, she was wearing a platinum chain and locket,’ Darby said. ‘It’s listed on the inventory page.’
‘The woman owned a lot of jewellery. It’s possible she owned a similar locket. I remember seeing a lot of necklaces that looked the same.’
‘This necklace is unique. Hale gave it to his daughter for Christmas a few years ago, when she was sixteen.’
‘Why would her killer go back to her penthouse for a necklace after she had been abducted? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Did your team take pictures?’
‘Tons of them,’ Bryson said.
‘They’re not included in the file you gave me.’
‘They’re back at the station.’
‘Where?’
‘ID has them. I never asked for copies since the whole thing was a monumental waste of time.’
Darby checked her watch. It was after seven. ID was closed. Coop was at the lab but he couldn’t access the ID office. It was a separate department.
‘I’ll call Hale and see where he stored Emma’s things,’ she said.
‘She’s been in the ground for, what, five months? You think he’s held on to her jewellery?’
‘There’s one way to find out.’ Darby found Hale’s numbers listed in the file. ‘I’ll call you if I find out anything. Thanks for your help, Tim.’
Darby hung up and dialled Jonathan Hale’s home number. Hopefully the man would allow her to view his daughter’s belongings, all of which had been released back into his possession. Hale didn’t have a high opinion of BPD. The man had openly criticized the department in the press.
A woman with broken English answered the phone. Mr Hale wasn’t home, she said. She wouldn’t elaborate.
Darby explained who she was and why she was calling, and then asked for a number where he could be reached. The woman didn’t have a number – she was just the housekeeper, she said – but offered to take a message. Darby left her numbers.
Darby tapped the phone against her leg, wanting to do something. The matter, she knew, could wait. There was no urgency.
Emma Hale had lived in the Back Bay – a quick ride on the T, which was still running. Darby wondered if the young woman’s belongings were stored inside the building, maybe even in her home. A building like that probably had someone who worked the front desk.
Darby didn’t want to wait, wasn’t good at waiting. She needed to know. She stuffed Emma Hale’s murder book into her backpack and grabbed her coat.
10
Emma Hale’s building had a concierge who, in addition to tending to the needs of the thirteen owners, also acted as security guard. The man’s name was Jimmy Marsh. He sat behind an ornate front counter with two crystal vases on each end holding lilies. Soft, decorative lighting offset the glare of the six security monitors.
Darby introduced herself and then asked about Emma Hale’s penthouse.
‘Mr Hale hasn’t cleaned it out yet,’ Marsh said. He saw the look of surprise on her face and added, ‘Some people grieve differently, you know?’
‘So everything’s still upstairs.’
‘I can’t say for sure. Nobody is allowed up there. After Emma’s body was found, Mr Hale asked me to change the locks.’ Marsh sighed and rubbed a liver-spotted hand over his bald head. He was a big man, thick and hard with fat, with a crooked nose that had been broken one too many times. ‘Emma was such a beautiful girl, beautiful and charming,’ he said. ‘Every Sunday morning she’d go out for coffee and bring me back a blueberry muffin from the place I love right around the corner. I’d offer to pay her, but she always said no. That’s the kind of girl she was.’
‘Sounds like you two were close.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. She was a good kid, and I kept an eye on her. I promised her dad. Mr Hale owns this building – he owns half the buildings here in the Back Bay. He’s a very powerful man.’
So I keep hearing, Darby thought. ‘Do you work here full time, Mr Marsh?’
‘Yeah, me and this other guy, Porny – Dwight Pornell is his name. Dwight generally takes the night shifts, but his old lady had a baby, and I’ve been covering for him. We see everyone who comes and goes. That’s why this desk is set up here right by the front door. Every guest who comes in is required to sign in right here.’ Marsh tapped the open leather guest book set up on the counter for emphasis. ‘We check licences and make photocopies of ’em. Security here is tight, Miss McCormick.’
‘How long have you been keeping this guest book?’
‘Ever since nine-eleven,’ he said. ‘That changed everything. You can’t go anywhere without signing your name and flashing your licence.’
‘Do you keep all the copies?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘The security cameras,’ Darby said. ‘How long have you had them?’
‘They were put in place when Mr Hale was rehab-bing the building back in, oh, ninety-six or so. They watch the front doors, the delivery area – we got a camera inside the private parking garage. We take security here very seriously.’
‘You keep mentioning that, Mr Marsh. Is there something you want to get off y
our chest?’
‘Me? No, I’m just a lowly security type. Your buddy there, Mr GQ Detective, he thought I might have had something to do with what happened to Emma. You ever walk around with a microscope up your ass?’
‘Can’t say that I have.’
‘Well, let me tell you, it don’t feel too comfortable. I think if Detective Bryson put the same amount of effort into the investigation as he does how his hair looked on camera he would have found Emma. Are you any closer to catching the son of a bitch who killed her?’
‘We’re investigating several leads.’
‘Which is cop-speak for you don’t have jack shit.’
‘How long have you been retired from the force?’
‘I worked patrol in Dorchester for twenty years. That’s why Mr Hale gave me this job. It’s a great gig. I don’t have to wonder if some dipshit I pull over is going to pop a cap in my ass.’
‘Mr Marsh, you said you put new locks on Emma’s home.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you have a set of keys?’
‘The penthouse was released back to Mr Hale.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘I have a spare set, yes, but no one is allowed up there. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you up there without his permission.’
‘Then you better get on the phone.’
‘Mr Hale’s out of town.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘He was here Wednesday or so and happened to mention it to me.’
‘Why was he here?’
‘He wanted to go up to his daughter’s home.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, and I didn’t ask.’ Marsh leaned back in his chair, the spring squeaking under his weight, and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you come back here Monday morning and –’
‘Maybe I wasn’t clear,’ Darby said. ‘I need to get inside Emma’s penthouse tonight.’
‘I don’t have his number.’
‘But you do have an emergency number to call in case there’s a problem.’
‘The number I have goes to his answering service,’ Marsh said. ‘You think I have the man’s home phone number? You know how many people he employs? Come back Monday.’
‘I can have a court order here within the hour.’
Marsh stared at the makeup-covered scar on her cheek. Darby took out her cell phone and started dialling.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Marsh said, standing. He walked into the back room behind the desk and shut the door.
Darby paced the small lobby, listening to the wind howling outside the front doors. Why had Marsh given her such a hard time? Was it because she was a woman? She wondered if Tim Bryson would have received the same treatment. Maybe Marsh was simply acting in what he believed was the best interest of his employer.
Darby turned her attention to the security monitors. One camera monitored the front door. Two swept the street, what little of it she could see; the snow was coming down at a furious clip. Another one was installed above a large bay door – probably the delivery area for bulky items such as furniture. The other two cameras kept watch on the garage door and the parking garage. If Emma’s abductor had, in fact, come back for the necklace, how did he manage to get through without being caught?
Twenty minutes later, Marsh came out of his office. ‘Emma’s place is on the fifteenth floor,’ he said, handing Darby a set of keys.
‘Alarm?’
Marsh glanced at a computer console. ‘It’s off. I think it’s been turned off for a while now.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘I remember Mr Hale had it shut off when you people were running in and out of Emma’s place. You’ll need to talk to him about it.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘No, I spoke to his assistant, Abigail. She spoke to Mr Hale. He wanted you to know you have his full cooperation.’
‘I’d like Abigail’s number,’ Darby said. ‘I’ll collect it when I drop off the keys.’
Darby rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor. She stepped into a dimly lit hallway containing two doors. At the end she saw a delivery elevator.
Emma’s door was on the right. Darby unzipped her coat and then slipped on a pair of latex gloves. She checked the two locks and didn’t see any signs of forced entry. She unlocked the door, reached inside and found the light switch.
Emma Hale’s home was two floors of blonde oak hardwood floors and windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Darby was taken back by the enormous amount of space. The main room, twice the size of her condo, was magazine-showroom perfect, from the modern-type furniture and rugs to the Jackson Pollock-inspired oil paintings and knock-off Greek statues. The kitchen had black granite counter-tops, a Viking range and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. Nice living for a Harvard student.
The air had a stale quality to it, and the heat was on, as though Emma was expected to return. Darby wanted to roam through the rooms to get to know Emma better. First, she needed to find out about the necklace.
The master bedroom was most likely on the second floor. Darby climbed the spiral staircase. The penthouse, she had read, had four bedrooms and two bathrooms, one of which held a Jacuzzi tub and a plasma-screen TV. She was about to step into the hallway when the lights went out.
11
Blackout, Darby thought. The snowstorm must have knocked out the building’s power.
This wasn’t the winter’s first blackout. The endless cold days and even colder nights with their mean, freezing winds had knocked down power lines all over the city, sometimes for hours. Darby hoped that wasn’t the case here. She hadn’t brought a flashlight.
She did, however, have some light. Directly across the hallway was a bedroom. The door was open, and Darby saw a large bay window overlooking Arlington Street and part of the Public Garden. The street lights were on, as were the lights for the Ritz Carlton. The hotel must have had a backup generator – no, wait, the lights were on in the brownstones across the street. The storm must have knocked down the power lines for this side of the street. Wonderful.
Looking down the hallway, Darby saw another opened door; a dim rectangle of silver light spilled onto the hardwood floor and across the wall. She doubted the walk-in closet had windows. To examine the jewellery boxes would require a flashlight.
Two choices: she could wait here in the dark until the lights came on or she could go back downstairs and see if Marsh had a flashlight she could borrow.
Darby placed her hands on the railing and made her way down the stairs. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she could see well enough.
The creak of a floorboard above her made her stop. Darby spun around, heart racing, and looked to the second-floor hallway. It was empty. She was alone.
Darby moved up the steps, another part of her mind taking control, reminding her of the night over two decades ago when she was fifteen, leaning over the second-floor banister of her home and staring down into the semi-dark foyer convinced an intruder had somehow broken into the house. Her rational mind told her she was being ridiculous. All the downstairs doors and windows were locked. She was alone and she was safe. Then she saw a black-gloved hand grip the railing.
Darby reminded herself she wasn’t fifteen; she was thirty-seven, an adult. The creak she had just heard was probably nothing more than the sound of a big empty home settling in a particularly cold winter.
Still, she didn’t move. Something about the hallway was off. It took her a moment to recognize it.
The rectangle of street light she had seen earlier on the floor and wall outside the room down the hall was different. The light was narrower now – not by much but there was a perceptible difference. The door had been wide open. Now it was three-quarters shut. Someone was in here, she was sure of it.
Only one way to play it.
Mouth dry and heart hammering against her ribcage, Darby removed the SIG from her shoulder holster. Her other hand
was inside her jacket pocket. She took out her cell phone, and as she dialled 911, she kept her eyes focused on the bedroom door.
‘This is Darby McCormick from the Boston Crime Lab.’ She spoke loud and clear. ‘I’m calling to report an intruder at four-six-two Commonwealth Avenue. I need you to send multiple backup units. Have them cover all of the exits.’
Shoving the phone back inside her pocket, she climbed the remaining steps. She stepped into the hallway, stopped. No movement, no sound. She spoke into the silence.
‘Put your hands behind your head and step into the hallway, nice and slow.’
‘I have no intention of harming you.’
The deep, male voice had a slight accent – British or Australian, she wasn’t sure which. It came from inside the room down the hall.
‘Step into the hallway with your hands behind your head,’ Darby said.
The door opened and the intruder moved into the square of light, his hands clasped behind his head. The man stepped back, his face covered in shadows. He was tall, well over six feet, and wore a long topcoat and black shoes.
‘You’re much taller than I expected, Miss McCormick.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘We haven’t officially met.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m not ready to share just yet.’
‘How do you know me?’
‘You’re Boston’s Persephone, the queen of the dead. Or is it queen of the damned?’
His topcoat was open. Underneath his suit jacket Darby caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster under his left arm.
‘This is what you’re going to do,’ Darby said. ‘With your left hand, I want you to take out your weapon. Make a sudden move and you’ll be on a feeding tube for the rest of your life.’
