Jake. It had to be Jake. Jane almost fell out of bed, grabbing the phone. Six A.M. The emptiness of the space beside her had kept her touching only the edge of sleep all night, every sound she heard or imagined she heard startling her hyper-awake, hearing the rattle of his key in the door, willing it, waiting, disappointed. And that second note. Another three-word note. She needed to tell Jake. And McCusker. But what could either of them do?
“Hello?” She willed herself into clarity, propped on her elbow. No answer. No answer? The note. The blue-or-black car with the light on.
Coda slept, oblivious, in her spot by Jane’s left foot. Where was Jake? If he weren’t a cop, she’d be worried. She was worried anyway. She touched Gramma Brogan’s diamond, hoping it’d telegraph, somehow, if something was wrong. Jake had to be fine. But where was he? She’d texted, but he hadn’t answered.
“Hello?” Silence. A million horribles slithered through her mind. “Hello?” And then the phone connection clicked into life.
“I thought you were the one with the cop shop source, sister.”
Fiola. Not Jake. Not a bad guy. But cop shop?
“What’s wrong?” Now Jane’s heart actually leaped, she felt it, and her hand flew to her chest to hold it in place. Coda blinked, resettled herself. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, ‘wrong’ depends on who you are.”
Jane heard the tone in Fee’s voice, wry and amused.
“Your friend Detective Jake Brogan—”
“Fee.” Jane had to interrupt, fear twisting her voice. “What about him?”
“—made an arrest for the Avery Morgan murder. Last night. So say my sources.” Fee was clearly proud of herself.
“He did? Last night?” Jane stood, went to the window overlooking the courtyard. If she twisted the right way, she could see a sliver of street. The blue-or-black car was gone.
“It’s not public yet,” Fee went on. “So we can’t use it. Yet. But apparently it’s all teacher-student intrigue, secret assignations, unrequited lust, and jealousy. He killed her Monday afternoon between two and four, so says the source. Got to love it.”
“Who’d Jake arrest? When? Where? Why?”
“You forgot ‘how many,’ Miss Journalism School,” Fee said. “And the answer to that is ‘one.’ One kid, a senior, guy named Theodore Welliver. They call him Trey.”
A kid. A college kid. Jane knew where Jake had been earlier that night—the Spotted Owl. And she’d seen him and DeLuca with a “kid.” Jake was probably still processing the guy. He couldn’t have texted her about it—that would have been way out of bounds. Though he had texted “developments.”
Could she have videotaped the actual arrest? She knew exactly how to find out.
“Photo?” Jane asked.
“Looking,” Fee said.
“Because, Fee? Last night at the Spotted Owl, did you see…” No, Fee hadn’t seen Jake, Jane realized. Because first of all, Fee had been in the bathroom, and besides, she’d never met Jake.
And Jane hadn’t told Fee about seeing Jake, because she might assume Jane had divulged where they’d be. Which she hadn’t, though no one would believe that. Another example of why the cop/reporter relationship was dangerous.
It took Jane thirty seconds to get rid of Fee—ignoring the producer’s efforts to get more deets but promising to come in to the station—so she could call Isabel. Yes, it was too early. No, that wouldn’t stop her.
She could hear Isabel breathing on the other end of the line as Jane told her all she knew. Which was not much except for the kid’s name.
“So?” Jane wrapped up. This was a story, a big one. This was where breaking news kicked in, no matter what other assignments a reporter had. Jane had to tap any source she could. “Whatever you say is confidential. But do you know him? Anything about him?”
Silence.
“Isabel?”
“Can you come over?” Isabel said.
Great. “Sure. Like, now? Is it too early?” Jane yanked off her T-shirt as she juggled the phone and headed toward the shower, trying to move as quickly as possible. She’d decided to tell McCusker about the new note. But this came first.
“It’s fine,” Isabel said. “See you soon.”
“I’ll hop in the shower,” Jane went on, undressing as she went, “throw on jeans, and come over, a-sap. Thirty minutes. But, so, you know him? This—”
She stopped, naked now, in the middle of the still-dark hallway, Coda’s cold nose nudging her ankle. “Isabel?”
Dial tone. Had Isabel hung up? Maybe she’d thought the conversation was over.
It took less than thirty to get to her apartment. The glass front door to Isabel’s building was unlocked, as it had been the other time Jane was there. In the dingy marble lobby, its walls covered with taped-up notices for guitar lessons and tutoring and lost laptops, Jane jabbed the elevator button, impatient. No creepy Sholto guys, or any guys, had been skulking around her condo, and there was no parking ticket on the car she’d left illegally on-street all night. No way was she going back outside last night, not after getting that note.
Had someone waited for her, but been confused by her disguise? She should have called Jake about it, but she’d expected him home any minute. Then fallen asleep. Kind of asleep.
The elevator doors opened. Two texting girls in cutoffs came out, ignoring Jane. In a minute she was at fifteen, at Isabel’s door. Which was open. Less than an inch. But open.
“Isabel?” Jane stepped inside, one step, easing the door open across the pile of the pale blue carpet.
“Isabel?” she called out, her curiosity edged with a wisp of uncertainty. “You okay?”
“No.” Isabel’s voice, from deep inside. “I’m not.”