57

“N-e-f-f?” Jake said the letters out loud, indicating DeLuca should be writing them in his notebook. Jake used one hand to drive, the other to hold his cell phone. “First name, Holly? H-o-l-l-y?”

DeLuca nodded, writing. “Got it.”

“Is there an address on the application? A local address?” Jake pulled up to a stop sign, listening to the rental company clerk. It had taken three phone calls—one to the Registry of Motor Vehicles, one to the Budget Rental Car main headquarters, one to their local office—to track down the name of the person who’d rented the white car parked in the post office parking lot. The first ticket had been issued today at 9:35 A.M. for violation of the thirty-minute meter. Several more orange tickets had piled up on top of that one. But one was all Jake needed. Sunday, he knew, the meters were not in effect. What if the victim had parked there Sunday? And didn’t pick up her car—because she was dead?

“55423 Harborside Drive.” With a glance, he confirmed DeLuca was getting it. That address was less than a mile away, in a sprawling yuppie complex near the harbor. Lots of newcomers, postgrads with financial district jobs. Dogs. Hot tubs. “Apartment forty-three. Phone number?”

Jake hung up, then punched his lights and siren as DeLuca wrote the numbers he’d rattled off.

“Call her,” Jake said. “Maybe she’s, I don’t know. Shacking up with someone. Shopping at Downtown Crossing. Having lunch at Quincy Market. Left her car at the P.O. because a ticket is cheaper than a Boston parking lot.”

“We’ll soon find out,” DeLuca said. He thumbed cell phone buttons as their car powered through a red light, made the turn onto Hanover Street. “It’s ringing. No answer yet.”

“Voice mail?” Jake asked. Half a mile to go.

“Nope,” DeLuca said. “Nothing.”

*   *   *

Jane stuffed the legitimate-looking mail into her tote bag and tossed the junk into the wastebasket. Tuck, fingers flying over the keyboard, hardly acknowledged her. Jane grabbed her coat from the hook, wrapped it closed. “See you—”

“Hey, roomie.” Tuck gestured to the floor. A stray envelope. “You dropped one.”

Jane picked it up, the postmark from four days ago, noticing it had been forwarded to her from Channel 11. Nice of them. No return address. And not the same awkward handwriting as the creepy letters. Those had stopped, thank goodness.

Almost without thinking, she ripped it open.

“Jane? What’s wrong?” Tuck turned, one hand still on her keyboard, and stared at her, frowning. “You made a weird noise.”

“I did?” Jane looked back at the envelope. What she’d pulled from inside. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

“Yeah, like you’d seen a ghost or something.”

“Yeah.” Jane blinked at the snapshots she held in her hands. It was a ghost. A person who was now dead. Kenna W— Well, not Kenna Wilkes. But it was the woman in the red coat. With Owen Lassiter. A recent photo of the two of them. And another, and another, and another. And then, what looked like a … a picture of a shrine to Lassiter. A whole wall of photographs of him, decorated with Lassiter balloons on ribbons and Lassiter buttons. Photos of rallies, wide shots of speeches, the exterior of his headquarters. Moira. At the bottom of the pile, a current photo of what looked—from the posters on the wall—like Lassiter’s own office, the candidate smiling behind a massive desk.

“I guess that’s kind of right,” Jane said. She wouldn’t have recognized her own voice. “A ghost.”

By the time she got back to Alex’s office, her brain was working again.

*   *   *

“Boston Police Department, official business,” Jake called through the door marked number 43. He’d knocked several times. No answer.

DeLuca was shaking his head as he walked up the hall. “No one at the front desk,” he reported. “There’s a phone, looks like a house phone. But no one picked up.”

“No one answered the manager’s door, or the doors on either side,” Jake said. “No one’s answering Holly Neff’s door, either.”

DeLuca patted his pockets, took out a wallet, extracted a thin piece of plastic from between two bills. “In about three seconds I can get us in there,” he said. “Take a look around.”

“In your dreams,” Jake said. “Let’s see if we can find the super.”

“I’m serious,” DeLuca persisted. “Exigent circumstances, right, Harvard? The law says if we think there’s something—”

“I’m familiar with exigent circumstances.” Jake gestured his partner toward the elevator at the end of the hall. “You know as well as I do, it’s a probable cause thing. Problem is, we don’t genuinely believe Holly Neff may be bleeding to death inside that apartment. That’s because we genuinely know she’s already dead. And inside the morgue.”

“But what if, uh, uh, the guy who killed her is in there?” DeLuca stopped, beseeching Jake with outstretched palms. “What if he took her keys, ya know? How about that? We know she didn’t have them on her when she was found. What if he snagged them, and he’s inside right now. Maybe he dragged his next victim there, and if we don’t get inside, he might—”

“Good try, my man. But no way,” Jake said. “We gotta get a warrant to go into that apartment. Or whatever we find would get thrown—”

A rumble sounded within the walls, and a ping of the aluminum elevator. The doors swished open. And a menagerie emerged. Jake recognized two corgis, a pug, and one of those yappy poodledoodles, each with a Halloween jack-o’-lantern decoration on its collar. His own Diva would have eaten them each in one golden retriever–sized chomp. Holding the ends of all their leashes, one of those women-who-look-like-their-dogs. Bug eyes, button nose, a halo of curls, pumpkin dangly earrings. She wore a denim jacket over a denim work shirt over a denim miniskirt. Sneakers.

“May I help you?” she said. “I’m the manager of this building. Live here, too. Barbara Bellafiore.” Each dog yanked her in a different direction, but she looked at Jake, then DeLuca. Chose Jake. “Puppies, no! You’re cops, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake said. “Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD. This is my partner, Paul DeLuca.” Jake pulled out his BlackBerry. Clicked to the photo he’d taken that morning, the sketch of the Fort Point victim. “Do you recognize this person? Does she live here?”

A snuffling pug fell in love with DeLuca’s shoes. The corgis sniffed each other. The woman stared at Jake’s BlackBerry screen.

“Holly Neff, apartment forty-three, one of my month-to-months,” Barbara said. “Puppies, no no no!”

“You sure?” Jake and DeLuca asked her at the same time. DeLuca shrugged, gestured with a palm. All yours.

“Oh yes,” Barbara said. “I think she’s a…” She stopped, shrugging.

“A what?” Jake said. “Has she been home this weekend?”

Barbara let the dogs drag her a few steps down the hall. The corgis, yapping, seemed to be tracking some invisible prey. Jake and DeLuca followed, DeLuca making a surreptitious cuckoo gesture. They stopped at apartment 43.

Barbara looped the leashes over one wrist, pulled a jangling collection of keys from a pocket of her denim jacket. “Easy way to find out,” she said.

She banged on the door with what looked like a brass whistle on the key ring. Waited a beat. No answer. She sorted through the keys, then brandished one. “All righty then.”

“No, ma’am, don’t do that.” Jake took a step forward. This could ruin everything. He almost wanted to close his eyes. “We can’t—just tell us whether—”

But she had already swung open the apartment door.