11

“It’s green, idiot.” Jane glared at the driver of the Jeep, who’d ridiculously honked at her as she trotted across the striped pedestrian walkway at the corner of Merrimack and Causeway.

“No, not you, Alex. Some driver. Never mind. Anyway, we need to talk. I saw the red-coat girl yesterday.” She confirmed she had the walk light, still talking into her cell phone.

“I’m on the way to the paper now. Almost to the T station. Yes, I went to see Gable. She said yes.”

Jane put her head down, listening with half an ear to Alex’s instructions. Causeway Street was a wind tunnel, the chill blasting across the river. The white cables of the new bridge, spiking up like the rigging of some huge sailing ship, glared in the noontime sun. Poor Jake, she thought. He sees that bridge, he thinks about murder, not colonial schooners. The subway station was a block or two away, just past the—

“Hey, Alex? Listen, I’m right by Lassiter headquarters. I connected with a great possible source yesterday, a guy in the campaign, who says he can maybe hook me up with Moira. Okay if I stop by there first? See if he’s there? Great. See ya.”

She pushed through the revolving front doors of Lassiter headquarters into the spotlit lobby of a political photo gallery. Lassiter with a president. Arm in arm with at least three senators. Lassiter, hand on a bible, sworn in as Governor of Massachusetts. Moira beside him, elegant even with her Hillary headband and ’90s shoulder pads. A FedEx guy in shorts and a backward baseball cap wheeled an overloaded cart of packages behind her, retrieving a few that slipped over the edges, and hurried through as the elevator doors were closing.

Place is a zoo. Blaring Sousa music. Messages squawking intermittently over a PA system. Two metal tables covered in patriotic bunting, heaped with multicolored campaign brochures. TIME TO TRUST, one said. ENERGY FOR ENERGY. Jane stashed a few into her tote bag. She’d post them on her “half” of the bulletin board, if Tuck’s morbid photos didn’t take up all the room.

Now to find Trevor. But the reception desk was empty. A green notebook, obviously a sign-in sheet, lay open in plain view. A can of Diet Coke, lipstick-ringed straw inserted, sat abandoned next to an elaborate telephone console. Lights flashed as phones rang, unanswered. Someone sure wasn’t doing their job. No wonder the campaign was in disarray.

Jane reached into her tote bag for her phone to call Trevor. But it was already buzzing with a text.

“Call me, roomie,” it said. Roomie? Tuck? What does he want, another shelf? Ah, sure she would call. Later. She found the white business card Trevor had given her and dialed him instead.

*   *   *

“There’s no Bridge Killer, Supe. I’m telling you, there isn’t.” Jake placed a manila file folder of his printed-out canvass notes onto his boss’s desk, then plopped into the ratty padded seat of the chair beside it. Boston Police HQ was new on the outside, limestone and double-tall glass, but they’d moved in all the old furniture from downtown. Even the superintendent’s office, prime territory, looked furnished from law enforcement yard sales.

“There’s however many bridges in Boston, and the Charles River runs from Beacon Hill out to Newton,” Jake continued. “The harbor. Fort Point Channel. Water and bridges, hard to have a murder here that’s not near one or the other. Or both. But they’re not connected. You know? Sir?”

Superintendent Francis Rivera had opened the file, looked at it briefly, tossed it back at Jake. “So what I’m hearing is, you’re nowhere,” Rivera said. “And your partner DeLuca is nowhere. Correct, Detective?”

Jake started to answer.

“I’m not interested in files of nothing, Brogan. You’re a murder cop, right? You’re supposed to be about answers. That’s why I called you in here. Answers.”

“Yes, sir.” Jake knew Rivera’s bad-cop mode was SOP. The supe was a good guy, up from the ranks, born in Roxbury, football, debate team, West Point, Desert Storm, Boston’s second black superintendent. Knew his stuff. “Let me run this by you. Remember the ME findings. Doctor A says the Longfellow victim was well taken care of. Good teeth. No tats. No piercings. Professionally colored hair. Manicure. No bruises, nothing. No defensive wounds. Nothing. I’d put her—college kid. Maybe older. Sir.”

“So? And that means?” The supe laced his fingers behind his head, waiting.

“The Charlestown, not so much,” Jake said. “Bruises. Big-time. That ankle tattoo. Another on her thigh. She’s older. Like, thirty-something. Missing some back teeth. And Dr. A says—” He paused, scanning through his BlackBerry notes.

“You’re killing me with that thing,” Rivera said. He pretend-scratched his sleek-shaved head, dramatically dubious. “You got something against paper?”

“Easier for me, Supe,” Jake said. “Anyway—”

“You think hookers?”

“I suppose. Seems kind of—” Jake made a skeptical face, shrugging. “—made-for-TV movie, you know? But like I was saying—” He clicked his BlackBerry, scrolling through his notes. “—ninety-three homicides last year in Boston. Eighty-one so far this year. It’s a big city. People get killed. Sometimes two in a row. It makes sense there’d be two in a week and a half. Mathematically, there’d have to be.”

“All closed,” Rivera said, raising one finger. He tilted back in the worn leather of his big chair, stared at the ceiling. “By murder cops who did their jobs. Bad guys put away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Except for these two. IDs unknown. And you’re saying there’s no connection.”

“Yes, sir. No, sir.”

“Tattoo parlors? Beauty salons? Colleges?” Rivera was looking at Jake again. “Anybody missing a student? A client?”

“Nothing yet. We’re on it, though. DeLuca’s out there now.”

The superintendent reached into his wastebasket, picked out a folded copy of the Register, the same issue Jake had seen this morning on so many Beacon Hill coffee tables. With a quick sidearm throw, Rivera tossed it across his desk.

Jake, startled, caught it with both hands.

“What the hell is this, Brogan? Who’s talking? Look at that headline. ‘Police Deny Bridge Killer’? The more we deny something, the truer it seems.”

“Hold on, Supe.” Jake put the newspaper back on his boss’s desk. Was this why he’d been called in? “That’s not me. That’s your guy, Laney Driscoll, in the press office. I told you, that Tuck kid was lurking at the Charlestown location. Trying to take photos. A bottom feeder. But none of what’s in the paper is coming from me.”

“What if it turns out there is a Bridge Killer?” Rivera, on his feet now, all six-five, was talking right over him. “Then what do you think ‘my’ Officer Driscoll is supposed to say?”

“But—”

“But, hell. You have no idea. We have two dead girls. No identifications. No suspects. The damn newspaper is scaring the shit out of people, saying we’re covering up a serial killer. What’s more, we got nothing proving there isn’t one. And you, Detective Brogan, are giving me that nothing. Am I wrong?”

A quick knock, then the office door opened. Behind it, a lanky brunette Jake didn’t recognize, wearing the orange webbed shoulder strap of a police cadet. “Superintendent Rivera? Sir? Cadet—”

“What is it, Kurtz? Detective Jake Brogan, this is Cadet Jan Kurtz. From intake.”

“Sir,” Kurtz said again. “They told me Detective Brogan was here. There’s another body, sir.”

Jake looked at his boss. Rivera was back in his chair, rubbing both hands across his wide forehead. Jake had a dozen questions he needed to ask. He was almost afraid to.

Instead, Rivera fired, “Bridge? Water? Woman?” His voice sounded dark with certainty.

“North Street, yes, sir.”

Jake stood, his mind racing. The newspaper headlines taunted him.

“ID?” Jake had to ask, though he knew the answer. He knew, like the others, there would be no identification. And when Cadet Kurtz said no, as she certainly would, he’d be facing an impossible possibility. That maybe there was a serial killer seeking out single women, or students, or hookers, or whoever they damn were, stealing their purses and wallets and anything that had their names, and murdering them. And Jake would be screwed.

“Yes,” Kurtz said. “We have ID.”