14

Sellica Darden’s murder could mean only one thing.

Maybe two. And they were both disasters.

He needed to talk to Jane.

Jake drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the police department’s undercover Jeep and watched through the windshield. The streetlights, most of them working, barely made a dent in the late afternoon gloom of Hampstead Street. Struggling chrysanthemums made a last stand in the cared-for houses. In others, forgotten bicycles sprawled on crabgrass or frost-heaved driveways. The trees, municipal afterthoughts, had already lost most of their leaves.

At Leota Darden’s house, one of two porch lights allowed Jake to see the faces of those arriving to pay their respects. Surprising that Leota’s daughter had used her real last name. Surprising they hadn’t moved out of town after the Arthur Vick mess. Wonder if the neighbors came to visit after that hit the fan.

Jake watched as the afternoon turned into evening.

Maybe there are three possibilities.

More people arrived at the Dardens’ triple-decker: a man in a Celtics cap and a woman teetering on ridiculous heels, holding hands.

Three possibilities. And all disasters.

Jake slid back the front seat in a futile attempt to get comfortable. The radios glowed, pinpoint lights flashing, their squawk turned down.

Sellica’s body had been found by water, by a bridge. Possibility one, damn it, meant he was 100 percent wrong. There was, in fact, a Bridge Killer. Sellica was his third victim. Which meant some maniac was stalking random women—random?—and killing them. Getting away with it. Holy Christ, a serial killer on the loose in Boston.

But serial killers had patterns. Processes. Habits. Their killings had similarities. And Sellica was an outlier. At least, not the same. He’d spent hours at the crime scene. Looking for something. Anything. Looking for similarities to Charlestown and Longfellow. Hoping there weren’t any. Hoping there were.

Knowing that cops aren’t supposed to hope. They observe. Connect. And find answers.

Sellica’s body lay at the ME’s office, autopsy still under way, but Dr. A’s prelim had found roofies. Maybe it had nothing to do with her job, but why would someone give a hooker a knockout drug? Had some john flipped out? Or was there another reason? Charlestown and Longfellow, tox screens there showed no drugs. Different. Sellica was different.

No bruises—so, yeah, that was the same as Longfellow. But not like Charlestown.

The same. And different.

Possibility two, he was right. No serial. Maybe there were three killers. Three separate incidents. That would be a huge piece of crap to solve.

Possibility three was why Jake had to talk to Jane. Possibility three meant Charlestown and Longfellow were killed by the same person. Fine, he was wrong, there was a Bridge Killer. Which sucked. But possibility three meant Sellica was a separate deal altogether.

Maybe she’d finally hit a john who’d gone too far, doused her with roofies, freaked, pushed her into the water and booked. Or—and here was the biggie. Or, Arthur Vick had decided it was time for a big payback.

A payback bigger than a million dollars.

That’s why Jake had to talk to Jane.

This isn’t across the boundaries we set, because this isn’t personal. This is part of the investigation. Maybe Jane is also a target? I’d want to call her, even if she wasn’t …

He grabbed his phone, then stopped. The call would be on his cell log. And the supe, clearly unhappy with him, must suspect he was the department leak. His shoulders sagged. Jane would be safe for now. No one was getting killed tonight. And the supe was waiting for an update. If he solved the damn case, no one else would get hurt.

Jake opened the Jeep’s front door and stepped into the October evening. Time to visit the victim’s mother. Maybe she’d know something.

Someone sure did.