28

“She’s his wife. She’s not gonna tell the truth if it’s gonna get her husband nailed for murder.” Jake yanked open his cruiser door and stepped into the Beacon Market parking lot.

“True dat.” DeLuca tossed his coffee cup in a trash can, then followed Jake toward the entrance of the store’s Brighton location.

Nighttime, spotlights, metal shopping carts scattered like tumbleweeds across the yellow-stenciled pavement. Not many cars at this time on a Saturday night. But Arthur Vick’s grocery stores were always open. “We’re here for twenty-four and, if you need it, more,” his chorus of store clerks sang in those annoying ads.

“But she says her husband was with her on the nights of both murders,” DeLuca continued. “Plus Sellica’s. That’s Patricia Vick’s story. And she’s stickin’ to it.”

“They always stick to it.” Jake shrugged. “Until we prove they’re lying. Then it’s adios, hubby, nice to know ya.”

The glass double doors swished open. Tinkling buy-me-now Muzak and a wind chill factor of forty hit them as they entered. Glaring fluorescents, buzzing, made it instant daytime. That stale meat smell. Vegetables. A guy with a mop pretending to do the stain-streaked flooring.

“See why Vick’s such a moneybags,” DeLuca muttered. “Low overhead.”

“He gonna be here? Or who?” Jake looked around. Glad he got most of his food from the pizza place near his apartment. Jane loves pizza. He shook off the thought. She’d be fine. Especially if Vick was on his way here. “What’d he tell you?”

“He said eight P.M. Here. That’s now.”

Jake waved toward the counter. “After you. But I don’t see Vick.”

“Maybe this lovely young lady will know.” DeLuca cocked a thumb at a clerk with almost-orange hair. She was leaning against a cash register, black-rimmed eyes staring at the empty aisles.

“Miss?” Jake flipped his badge wallet open, closed it, put it away. “I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston Police. This is my associate, Officer DeLuca. And you are?”

She touched the name tag on her electric blue smock. “Olive.”

“Olive. In a grocery store.” DeLuca smiled at her. “You get that a lot?”

“Don’t mind him, miss,” Jake said. Good cop. “We’re looking for Mr. Vick. Have you seen him tonight?”

“Is this about the change machine?” the girl said. Almost a whine. A silver ring pierced her lower lip. “It’s broken, that’s all. Sometimes it doesn’t work right. I only know because—”

“Miss?” Jake interrupted. He could hear DeLuca trying not to laugh. “It’s not about the change machine, okay? It’s about Sellica Darden.”

Jake saw the girl’s face go wary. She even took a step back, away from them. DeLuca cleared his throat softly. Jake shot him a glance. I get it.

“So you know her.” Jake scratched an ear. Casual, casual. “How? She work here, with you? How about Amaryllis Roldan?”

Olive looked between them, back and forth. Settled on Jake. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Don’t know what, Olive? Don’t know if you know her? Or don’t know whether she worked here?”

“Nothing,” Olive said. “I don’t know anything.”

“I think that’s unlikely, Miss—? What’s your last name?” Jake took out a notebook and clicked open his ballpoint. “And I’ll need your current address.”

“How long’ve you worked here, Olive?” DeLuca took a step forward, getting in her space, one hand on the counter. “You like your job? You think you’re gonna keep it by covering up for your boss?”

“Am I under arrest?” The girl’s eyes went hard.

“You got some experience with that, miss? Being arrested?” DeLuca was doing bad cop. “Easy for me to find out.”

“Don’t mind him,” Jake said. Good cop. “Listen, Olive, you need to answer our questions. Truthfully. About Sellica. About Amaryllis. You can talk to us here, or down at the station.”

“Or she can tell you to get the hell out of here.”

The door had opened behind Olive. Arthur Vick held on to the knob with one hand, his other propped against the doorjamb. Tie loose, French cuffs hanging, one lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. His shirt pocket was monogrammed with an elaborate AV.

Guilty, Jake thought. Of something. Vick looked just like his TV ads. Only—guiltier.

“You hear me, Officers? Think I didn’t hear everything you said? You’re out of line, you two.” Vick waved a flat palm, dismissing. His gold wedding band caught the light. “Miss Parisella, you can go. You’re done here. You don’t have to say a word to them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vick,” she said. She half lifted a partition in the counter and started to duck underneath it.

“Not so fast, Miss Parisella.” Jake raised a hand. The girl stopped, still bent over, and backed out from under the counter.

She looked at Jake, daggers. Then at Vick, pleading. She kept one hand on the semiraised partition. Half in, half out.

“Arthur Vick? I’m Detective Jake Brogan. And this is my associate, Paul DeLuca. We had an appointment, I believe?” Jerk thought he was Mr. Big. Jake would let him have it, both barrels. What was true didn’t actually matter at this juncture. “I assume you’d be eager to have your staff help us catch a serial killer. Before he strikes again. Before he kills another one of your employees. Like Miss Parisella here.”

Olive gasped. She dropped the partition. It clunked into place and she jumped at the echoing sound, putting both hands to her mouth. Now Jake could see only her eyes.

This girl was terrified.