“Getting confirmation now.” DeLuca was reading from the screen of his cell phone as Jake steered around the last corner, almost on two wheels. They’d made it up Huntington, past the Pru, past the projects, through the South End in record time. “Female, Caucasian, mid-forties. Cause of death, unknown. Time of death—crap.”
“What?” Jake said. It was pushing 7:30 now, but still almost daylight in Boston’s waning summer. Violet Sholto was dead. A cleaning person, some maid, according to dispatch, called to report the body. The maid was still there, living room, dispatch warned them, freaking out. Next of kin, husband Clooney Sholto, out of town somewhere. But why hadn’t Grady told them about this? Maybe their informant hadn’t known. Possible.
“They don’t know time of death either,” D said. “ME’s on the way.”
“How nice for you,” Jake said. “Give you two something to talk about.”
“We don’t talk much,” DeLuca said, leering. “She’s too busy being—” He pointed. “There it is. That house. Guess how I know.”
A ribbon of yellow crime scene tape already stretched across the manicured front lawn, draped over a row of carefully sculpted shrubs, drawn taut across the flagstone walkway and attached to a white-painted lamppost. A uniformed cop stood sentry next to one of the fluted—and too-big—white columns bracketing the broad front porch.
Not one person on the street. No onlookers. No curious neighbors. Out of respect? Or fear? No press. Matter of time, though.
Jake banged the cruiser up onto the sidewalk, flipping off the siren as he jounced the front wheels over the curb. He and DeLuca had their doors open almost before the engine stopped. Boston’s Jamaica Plain neighborhood—JP, they called it—had a surprise around every corner. A block away was the Caribbean quarter, a strip of exotic shops and restaurants that the neighborhood’s other residents, hip lawyers and do-gooders, had recently discovered. Some of JP became a gentrifying haven for millennials. Other parts were enclaves of longtime locals who barricaded shoveled-out parking spaces every winter with laundry bins and folding chairs, who ordered “coffee regular” from Dunkin’s, and who hoped their sons would be cops and their daughters married. One sliver on the west edge was the territory of Clooney Sholto and family.
On paper, apparently not believing in cliché, the Sholtos ran a plumbing supply company. Every cop knew what the Sholtos really did. Stopping them, though, was a question of making a case against them. So far, the cops, as well as the administrations of two separate district attorneys, had failed. If Violet Sholto was the dead body discovered on the second floor, Jake would not be surprised if it was murder. With any number of possible suspects and motives.
Retaliation? Revenge? A rival-gang thing? Maybe her past. Every cop understood the Sholto-O’Baron family rivalry still seethed, even with the supposedly peacemaking marriage. Anything was possible. If Sholto and his pals decided to fight back, eye for an eye, against whoever killed Clooney’s dearly departed wife, Boston would have a problem on its hands. Or could be Clooney killed her himself. Or she might be dead of natural causes, in which case they could all go home. They’d figure it out.
But why hadn’t Grady called them?
“Fancy schmancy.” DeLuca eyed the Sholto home as they neared the door.
“Lotsa money in plumbing,” Jake said. He had a thought. Stopped, turned to DeLuca. “She didn’t drown, though, did she?”
JANE RYLAND
The immutable laws of the universe were changing. That was the only explanation. This day seemed as if it would have way more than twenty-four hours. Jane felt like she was dragging herself along Beacon Street to their new destination. She and Fiola had wrapped up their meeting with the SAFE women—that was a success, at least—and plans were in the works for tomorrow’s party. Well and good. And worthwhile. But still, she’d longed to go home, see Jake, and participate in any accompanying etceteras.
“So near and yet so far,” she muttered.
“Huh?” Fiola was checking addresses on brownstones. “Fab. Right across the street,” she said. “This’ll be great. I cannot believe Tosca called you, that she actually wants to talk—right now, yet.”
“Yeah.” Jane had to admit she was intrigued. “Wonder what happened.”
“Who cares?” Fiola pushed 1584, a tiny black button in the center row of a massive silver-louvered array of intercom connections. The heavy glass and metal door clicked, its heavy steel lock vibrating and buzzing.
Jane had already pulled the door open. “It wasn’t locked,” Jane said. “At least we’re announced.”
If Jane had tried to imagine Tosca—and she guessed she had as they rode a gray-walled elevator up fifteen floors—she would have been an eccentric misfit, vulnerable and lost. Or an unsophisticated, small-town girl—Jane laughed at the cliché, because she herself had grown up in semirural Illinois—plopped fish-out-of-water into the urban bustle of metropolitan Boston.
But real-life Tosca, meeting them at her apartment’s front door, was a rock star. Maybe a nascent diva, Jane thought, scouting the opera posters on the wall. Shorter than Jane. Petite, dark, with elegant cheekbones. Somehow a presence, even in a black tank top and cutoffs. What Jane had predicted correctly was the sorrow and suspicion in her eyes, the dark circles, her pale legs and arms, the silence of this little apartment.
A goldfish, just one, swam circles in a bowl. Window to the balcony, open, striped curtains barely moving in the evening breeze. Fall is on the way, the atmosphere was saying. Change.
“Thanks for coming,” Tosca said. “I don’t like to … go outside.”
“Oh, no problem. We were pleased to get your call,” Jane said. She “didn’t like” to go outside?
“We were already here, in the neighborhood, luckily,” Fiola said, “so it was easy to—”
“Because of what happened?” Tosca interrupted, then gestured them into the room, waved them to the couch. “Sorry,” she said, picking up some books, closing and stacking them. “It’s usually only me. But the death. In The Reserve. It’s all over Facebook. About Avery. Is that why you were here? Covering that or something?”
“Is there any news about it?” Jane didn’t need to tell Tosca why they were nearby. And seeing her now, Jane knew Tosca hadn’t been at the SAFE meeting.
The girl perched on the edge of a spindly side chair, wrapped one leg around the other, crossed her arms. Making herself as small as she could. “Well, no. I mean, yes, they’re saying it’s Avery Morgan, I mean, Professor Morgan, and I—” She paused, scratched one bare forearm so hard Jane could see red welts. She stopped, looked at the red, blew out a breath. “Sorry. It’s upsetting. No one is safe, though. No one, not ever. Not anywhere.”
Jane and Fee exchanged glances. If this girl—a potential diva maybe, but emotionally raw—knew something about the death, they couldn’t ignore it simply because it wasn’t “their” story. Every story was their story. They were journalists. According to the six o’clock news Jane read online, the school wasn’t confirming anything or giving a statement yet. But this girl was corroborating for Jane what Jake had told her: The victim’s name was Avery Morgan. Professor Morgan.
“I’m so sorry for your—the loss,” Jane began. This was a tough one. Tosca had called them about their campus assault story, but still. “Did you know her?”
“Of course!” Tosca’s eyes, deepest brown, flew open. She un-pretzeled herself, leaned forward. “We all knew her. I’m a theater major.” She waved at the colorful opera posters. “Opera, you know? And Professor Morgan had rehearsals at her home and…”
Her voice trailed off, and she stared at the icy blue wall across from her, as if remembering. A tear welled in one eye, and she brushed it away, still looking at the wall. “Little shows, and practices, by the pool. We’d all sing, and—and it was in that very pool where she was…”
“She drowned?” Fiola almost whispered.
Jane shifted on the couch. The cause-of-death info hadn’t been released. This was potentially a big deal. A possible homicide. And they were TV, and TV needed pictures. If this girl had a photo of the victim, that’d be newscast gold. Jane tried to evaluate the always-difficult news-need versus personal-intrusion calculus.
All Tosca could do was say no. And throw them out. And never speak to them again. And their documentary would be ruined. And Jane would be out of a job again. But maybe not.
“Ah, um, Tosca?” Jane said. “I was wondering…”