67

“Unacceptable. Unacceptable!”

Henry Rothmann practically frothed at the mouth. In interrogation room C, Styrofoam cups littered the yellowing burn-pocked table and Arthur Vick did not look like a happy camper. His lawyer, tie askew and once-slick hair now tufted above each ear, was also a member of the unhappy camp.

Jake knew the news he was about to deliver would make them even more unhappy.

“Mr. Vick? Your wife is here,” Jake said. He nodded at Rothmann. “I’m afraid we’ll have to get your statement before we allow you to see her, however.”

“Unacceptable! You arrested my client at approximately one P.M. today. It is now ten P.M. You—absurdly—charged him with murder. According to case law, Commonwealth versus Rosario, my client must be arraigned before a judge or magistrate, without unnecessary delay, and clearly this is—”

“Ah, yes,” DeLuca said. He leaned against the wall, dramatically dismayed. “Thing is—”

Jake shot him a look. “Mr. Rothmann, you are, of course, correct. However, by the time we all arrived here at headquarters, and we contacted the magistrate, it was well past closing time for the court. As a result, your client is scheduled to be arraigned in Suffolk Superior Court at nine tomorrow morning. That, I’m afraid, is the best I can do.”

“That’s—” Rothmann flapped his yellow legal pad at Jake. “Preposterous. And a clear violation of the speedy trial decision.”

“Feel free to explain that to the judge,” Jake said. “Tomorrow. As for your client, we’ve got him on motive, means, and opportunity. He knew the victim, he had access to the drugs that incapacitated her before her death, he had proximity to the location of the deceased.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” Arthur Vick’s voice growled, rising from deep in his throat. His shirt had come untucked. His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot. A splotch of coffee stained his once-pristine sweater. “This is bull. Complete bull. I never did anything.”

“I’m so interested to hear your story, Mr. Vick, all you know about Sellica Darden,” Jake said. How the mighty hath fallen. He flipped open a folding chair and sat down, facing the defendant. “You’re facing life without parole, you know. In Cedar Junction. Maximum security. Where your clothes will still be monogrammed. But with DOC. Department of Correction. In case your lawyer has not informed you.”

“And your colleagues will not be pretty girls,” DeLuca put in. “Though they may think you are kinda cute.”

Rothmann planted himself in front of his client. “Not a word, Arthur,” he said. “Do not. Open. Your mouth.”

Jake smiled, pleasant, infinitely patient. “Your call. No problem. I’ll go see what Mrs. Vick has to tell us.”

*   *   *

Jane could hear her own breathing. The muck of the soft ground under her boots, the tips of her fingers cold even through her gloves. Matthew. Matt. The guy from the news conference was Katharine Lassiter’s son. Owen Lassiter’s son.

Why was that a secret?

She snapped off the flashlight, tucked it under her arm, and crouched low to the ground, flapping her coat underneath her to keep it from dragging in the mud. Stared at the headstone. She reached out, touched the letters. So not only had Owen Lassiter been married once before, but he also had kids. They’d be Moira Lassiter’s stepchildren. Certainly standard practice these days—everyone had stepkids. Why were they out of the picture?

And why did Matt—was he Matt Lassiter?—show up at the police news conference? He’d said he had a story for her. And then—he’d been with Kenna Wilkes.

“So now you know.”

Startled at the voice, Jane stood, too quickly, wobbled off balance, falling against the pink marble. Crying out, she tried to catch herself, one rubber boot sliding in the slick grass, one hand clutching at the air, the flashlight dropping from under her arm.

No use. Her ankle wrenched under her weight. She landed, hard, on the ground, splotches of cold dampness instantly soaking through her wool coat. Breaking her fall with one hand, her wrist slammed the hard stone of the next grave.

She looked up to see—Matt?

Matt was making no move to help her. He stood, looking down at her, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “And since you know, that’s a problem,” he said. “Even my father doesn’t know. That I’m here. Who I am. And he’s not going to know. Until I tell him. Not you.”

“Matt?” She smiled, trying not to act as terrified as she was. Lassiter doesn’t know he has a son? Wait—“doesn’t know—that I’m here,” Matt had said. So Lassiter knew Matt existed, just not that he was in Boston.

Why does that matter to him? What in hell is this guy doing at the cemetery? How does he know I’m here? He must have—followed me?

She eyed her car. Time to get out of here. Fast. “What a surprise. Guess I lost my footing there.”

Matt stared at her, silent.

Not good. Not good. She was down, and small. He was up, and big. And not talking. She leaned forward, planting her glove in the wet grass, trying to clamber to her feet. She could see well enough. Her flashlight was right over there.

Her car. With her phone. Over there.

She heaved herself to her feet—but Matt was already moving forward, fast, pushing her back. Both hands, strong, angry, pushing her, and she fell back again. Cold cold cold and hard. It hurts, my head, oh, no … tears came and a jag of lightning in her head, and—

“Why are you—?” But her voice wasn’t there, she needed help, this wasn’t good, he is Lassiter’s son and now he … why would he—? The news conference. Holly Neff? The woman in the photo. His girlfriend, Jake had said. But maybe that was wrong. What if Matt killed Holly Neff?

Her phone was ringing, in her car. She had to, had to, had to get up … or—

“Matt.” Her voice struggled to be heard. But he was coming at her again, his face hard and angry and focused and not seeing her, not seeing her … she had to get him to—she shifted, gritting everything, raising herself on one elbow. She felt something crawl across her hand, her hair was cold, her head splitting, she had to think.

He was Lassiter’s son. And Matt was angry she knew that. Why? Maybe because of Holly’s death? Would he figure Jane suspected him, since he’d approached her at the news conference? But the cops had never said Holly’s name. He couldn’t know she knew it. So the best thing—would be to pretend she had no idea about Holly. Change the subject. Take away his fear.

“Matt!” Her voice was so loud now, so strident, so shrill, it hurt her own ears. Her head was throbbing, it hurts so much. She struggled for calm, needing to reach him, distract him, misdirect him. Talk fast. Convince him. Otherwise, she would be his next victim. And no one knows where I am.

“Yes, you’re so right,” she told him. “But, listen, Matt, I already knew who you were. That’s why I’m here, confirming it. It’s not a secret, it’s wonderful! And, listen, Matt. I’ve already told your father. Less than an hour ago. Kenna heard me. She was there for the whole thing. I told your father—‘your son is in Boston.’ So he already knows. He knows!”