“Who keeps calling you?” Jake had been tempted to go lights-and-siren to get the hell out of Kenmore. His growing annoyance—with the traffic, with the unhelpful attitude of Edward Tarrant, and with the possible murder of Avery Morgan—was intensified by the insistent tuba notes of DeLuca’s Jaws ringtone.
Whoever was calling his partner was relentless. Jake tried to ignore it, tune it out and focus on his own life. He finally made the turn onto Charlesgate Road, heading for HQ and his desk, more coffee, and possibly a moment to connect with Jane. He and D had a load of stuff to do. Track down the students in the video. See who knew who. Follow up the leads in Avery Morgan’s personnel file. Handle the authorities in California, who should be calling him back.
If Avery was an informant, it would color this whole investigation. But he couldn’t confirm that without info from the West Coast. And no way he would pull an all-nighter over this. Detectives were real people, with real lives and real schedules. The BPD resisted paying overtime. So, all good. It was either Jane’s condo, wine, and, eventually, sleep. Or his own place, some kind of dinner, sleep.
“No one ‘keeps’ calling me.” DeLuca clicked off his phone. “I have a life outside of work. Like you do, right, Romeo?”
Before Jake could answer, the tuba rumbled again from DeLuca’s pocket.
“I rest my case,” Jake said.
D gave him the finger, talked into the phone. “DeLuca.”
Then silence.
More silence.
“D?” Jake said.
“Hang on,” D told him. And to the phone, “You sure?”
“D?” Jake said again.
“On it,” D said. He hung up, took a deep breath.
Jake knew it. All those phone calls? All those conversations? No one? Bull. Something was up with DeLuca, big-time. And he was about to hear it.
“D?” Jake stopped at the light on Mass Ave, watched the shopping-bag-toting tourist parade saunter by. Jane, wine, whatever, sleep.
“Lights-and-siren, bro,” DeLuca said. “And turn right. Now.”
EDWARD TARRANT
No wonder he hadn’t been able to reach Reg Buchholz. No wonder he hadn’t been able to reach his wife. Edward Tarrant flew down the Mass Turnpike, weaving his SL past the morons who insisted on clogging the left lane and making driving impossible for everyone. Green numbers on the dashboard’s digital clock taunted him, valuable time ticking by. Buchholz was treating him like a peon. A lackey. Not with the respect due a colleague and goddamned son-in-law.
Edward had tried to call them, warn them, let them know about the Avery debacle, and that he was handling it. Certainly that was his responsibility. He’d assumed they simply hadn’t gotten his messages, or hell, were drinking at some vineyard, or touring cathedrals. But now he knew Buchholz hadn’t responded, and his wife hadn’t responded, because instead of calling him back, they’d decided to return to Boston. Without telling him. Until they reached New York.
Edward downshifted, the motion punctuating his memories, and veered across three lanes to the airport exit. Manderley had left a message before she left—early, naturally—saying President Buchholz and Mrs. Tarrant were flying back from France. And they’d arrive at Terminal C, 8:23 P.M.
All he needed. All.
Moreover, he was supposed to pick them up? At the airport? Had they never heard of a taxi?
He rolled down a window, left the AC on, tried to adjust his attitude, adopt the role of attentive son-in-law. Husband. Responsible college administrator. Power broker.
Yes. He nodded, agreeing with himself. It would be better to have President Buchholz on campus. Better to have him publicly handle the Avery situation. Better to keep himself, Edward Tarrant, behind the scenes making sure everything worked.
“Make it work,” he said out loud. His words floated out the open window, dissipating into the fumes and exhaust.
He’d shaken off the parasitic Sasha Vogelby. Why that woman insisted on sticking to him, burr on tweed, he’d never understand. I know you’re upset, he’d told her, trying not to look at his watch. Go home, have a glass of wine. And then, good Lord, she’d asked him to come share it. It was all he could do not to laugh. He’d peeled her away, figuratively, insisting they’d talk tomorrow. She’d have to take Avery’s classes this fall, he told her.
“Oh, of course,” she’d agreed, theatrical palm to her chest, ever the drama. “It’ll all be in her honor. We’ll do tragic deaths—Bohème, maybe. Or Tosca.”
He hated how she talked, he thought while changing lanes again. Like everything was theater, like she was the star.
With her finally out of the picture, he’d used his cell to leave a terse “Contact me” message for Trey Welliver. The know-it-all cops—“real cops,” he said out loud—had not been savvy enough to ask who’d been behind the camera for the party video. Now he could tell Trey that the shit was about to hit, maybe get ahead of the story.
The pretzel of Logan Airport exits appeared, and Edward, almost not speeding, tried to decipher the constantly changing signs and get to the correct terminal, wondering how he could save his reputation.
The damn video put the whole thing at stake. Certainly, if it got out, if the media latched onto it, it’d go viral in a sickening instant. College kids drinking—drunk—and semi-carousing with their now-dead professor was not the content you wanted in the headlines. That, though, he could possibly handle. Address, diffuse, dismiss. Let schools without sin cast the first stone, he’d say. And point to Adams Bay’s stellar record of conduct.
Trey Welliver was never shown, though anyone who’d been there could place him—with that whiny Isabel girl—at the party. That he could handle.
Edward wasn’t shown either. But there was the land mine. The students could simply reveal he’d been there. As well as how “friendly” he and Avery were. That would not be so easy to address or dismiss.
He pressed the metal button at the parking lot entrance gate, waited as a striped barrier arm lifted to let him in.
But hell. They were kids. Drunken kids. Maybe that was an ironic plus. Who’d believe them?
He trolled for a parking place, arguing with himself. Brinn, for one, would believe them. And that would be plenty. That nugget of toxicity could not be glossed over, erased, redeemed, or Band-Aided. If his relationship went public, that would be disaster. Disaster in every way.
He found a spot, noted the letter and number. Luckily no one could hear his thoughts, he realized. Someone would certainly wonder why he hadn’t been grieving Avery’s death, and focusing on how the hell she died. But reality was, she was dead, he hadn’t killed her, and now it was his own life he needed to protect.
WILLOW GALT
Stop, she ordered her frantic brain. You’re losing it, Willow. She used every cell of her resolve to pull it together.
She huddled in the chair by the window, feet tucked underneath her and arms wrapped around herself. She’d paid in cash, gotten the room key to this no-brand hotel, some random place the cabdriver had brought her. Locked the door behind her. And tried to figure out what to do.
One thing for sure. She had to keep Tom out of it.
She closed her eyes, wishing she could sleep. Forever, maybe. But all she could think about was that man she’d bumped into this afternoon on the sidewalk in Kenmore Square. It was no accident he was there. Of that she was certain.
He’d been waiting for her, again, as she left Java Jim’s. Waiting for her. Why else would he have been there?
She’d run from him, not even glancing behind her. Leaped into a cab. I must look like a crazy person, she’d thought. I need to call Tom.
She’d seen that man before. She had. But where? And in which of her lives? As actress Daniella Ladd? Or as housewife Willow Galt?
She’d closed her eyes in the back of the cab, in fear and fatigue and terror, and tried to remember. She’d seen him. Recently. Where? She’d replayed her day.
Putting the scrapbook in her tote bag, leaving with Tom, crossing the street to the library, inside the library, the shopping, the tea, and then busy Kenmore Square, crossing the street to the—Wait!
Yes. On the way to the library. At the zebra-striped crosswalk. He’d gestured her to go first, pretending not to give her the eye. She’d ignored him then, because she was used to being looked at, even as Willow, and besides, she’d been on a mission. But maybe it wasn’t random that he was there. Maybe he’d been sent by Roger Hayden. Sent to follow her.
Later she’d bumped into him—or him into her?—outside Java Jim’s. And then she’d seen him again five minutes later. He’d asked where she was headed.
They knew who she was. They knew who Tom was. And they’d never leave them alone.
The killer had made a horrifying error. Certainly—more than certainly—the victim was meant to be her, Willow. Maybe to punish Tom for his whistle-blowing? So that meant she—inadvertently, but just as certainly as if she had done it herself—had caused the death of Avery Morgan.
She’d asked Olive, flat out—no need to hide her fears, “Do you think they killed Avery by mistake? Thinking it was me?”
Willow would never forget that pause, that moment when her handler clearly considered it.
“I don’t … think so,” she’d replied.
“Is Roger Hayden still in custody?” Willow had asked that, too. “Or did he tell all to the US Attorney? Like we did?”
What if he was in witness protection, too? If he was, she’d never recognize him!
Her mind flew back to the man she’d seen three times today. Could that have been Roger? No, she assured herself. No way. The man was taller, older, broader. She’d gotten a good look at him, though, and if she ever saw him again, she’d know.
She burrowed down into the pillows of the chair. Neon glowed outside, the hotel sign making hot slashes on her bare legs. Olive had bought plane tickets for her, but Willow was hiding instead of flying. She couldn’t just run away. Couldn’t leave Tom.
If she told him about this? He’d say she was silly, and ignore her warning. Then, soon, it would be too late, and it wouldn’t matter that she was right. Because they’d both be dead.
Because of her, their new life was ruined. They’d arrived here scarcely three months ago, to start their new life. He’d become Tom and she Willow and so they forever would be. Now forever was over. She’d have Olive contact him, and they’d have to start again—again. All because she’d called the police when Avery drowned.
But what else could she do?
She slid the anti-anxiety meds from her pocket. Looked at them, two pale yellow dots raised on her open palm. She tossed them into her mouth, swallowed a shoot of water from her plastic bottle. Maybe another one? Yes. She swallowed again. She still had time before Tom would worry about her. She would relax, maybe nap. And then she, somehow, would figure out what to do.
She closed her eyes. And thought of something else.
A sound escaped her throat, a tiny note of fear. Her eyes flew open.
Maybe Roger Hayden wasn’t the problem.
Maybe Tom was not in danger.
Maybe Avery’s killer had hit the correct target. But noticed Willow watching, witnessing through her bedroom window. And realized she’d seen. Whatever she’d seen.
What if the man in the crosswalk, the one outside the library, was someone Avery’s killer sent to shut her up?
That had to be true. That’s what made sense.
Which meant her new identity was no protection.
The one in danger was Willow Galt.