“Down that way—in the alley!” The cadet grabbed Jake’s arm, and Jake followed the kid’s pointing finger toward the narrow curved passage between the bank and the liquor store. “Some guy’s apparently hiding in a Dumpster. Down there. Or put something in the Dumpster. Something like that.” The cadet gulped for air, trying to get the words out. “A girl—I mean, a woman—told me. Anyway, what if it’s the—”
“Who told you? Where’d she come from?” Jake needed specifics. “Where is she now? This girl-woman? What’d she say?”
“Ah, I don’t know, she just said—what I said. The Dumpster. We were all taking names and addresses, see, they’re still doing that, like you wanted, and she came up to me and—” The cadet’s black plastic name tag said BRAD LONNERGAN. Lonnergan pointed again, jabbing the air. “Down there. What if it’s the guy who—”
“You kidding me? Do you see her? Find her.” This Lonnergan kid was not clear on the law enforcement concept. “Hold her. Do not let her leave. Understand? D!”
Jake signaled DeLuca with one finger. Me. You. That way. Let’s go.
They couldn’t afford to spook the crowd. All he needed, a mob following them into Franklin Alley, hooting like medieval peasants while they dragged some poor jerk from a Dumpster. Jake, checking to make sure D was behind him, snaked behind the spectators, dodging and weaving. Only one or two seemed to notice they were on the move. He and D didn’t look like cops, after all. Just two guys wearing jeans and leather jackets. Walking fast.
Jake glanced over his shoulder again. Most eyes focused on Kat McMahon, the ME now kneeling over the victim. For once, better to keep it that way. Cadets—the ones with brains—were taking names and addresses. Asking if anyone saw anything. Asking spectators with cameras and cell phones to stand by. The whole thing was already verging on out of control. And now this.
But maybe this would solve the whole damn case and they all could go home.
Ahead of them, the alley. Cracked pavement, cobblestones scattered with gravel. Framed on the right by the bank’s brand-new red brick, on the left by the pockmarked brownstone of Jodi’s Liquors and the University Inn. With its twists and turns, only the first ten feet or so of Franklin were visible from the street. Jake knew it was a dead end. If someone was in there, like Lonnergan’s “girl-woman” said, there’d be no way out except toward him and DeLuca. A bad guy who planned where he was going, or was at least familiar with this part of the city, would never have chosen this as an escape route. Unless he was panicking. Or hurt. Or trying to hide, waiting it out.
Or luring them in? Trapping them?
At the curb, Jake stopped, put up a hand, assessing. DeLuca skidded to a halt, almost slamming into Jake’s back. Broad daylight, not like anyone could surprise them. The quiet hubbub of Curley Park softened into background.
One second, two.
Jake felt for his Glock, drew it, felt the sun on his face. A seagull squawked, swooping, headed for the harbor. Lured into a dead-end alley? Windows above. Rooftops. Where was the woman who’d sent them down here? Who was she? Whose side was she on? What if—well, there were too many what-ifs to consider right now.
“You ready?” he said.
“Ready,” DeLuca said.
“On my three.” Jake began, “One.”
“Help!” A voice, from down the alley. “Help me!”
“Three,” Jake said.
* * *
A dead body, a stabbing in Curley Park. And Jane was on the way.
It wasn’t funny, not one bit of apparent murder was funny—Jane zoomed her Audi around the curve and onto Atlantic Ave.—but the fact that she, Jane Elizabeth Ryland, who two hours ago had been out of work was now on the way to cover a homicide, clearly proved the universe had a droll sense of humor.
She was simply to “gather facts,” Marsh Tyson had instructed, and phone them in to the assignment desk. If it turned out to be big breaking news, she certainly could go on camera, since she’d dolled up in a black suit, black patent heels, and Gram’s pearls for the non-job non-interview. She hadn’t done a live shot for almost a year, but she had to admit the idea of live TV felt like home.
She shifted into third, open road ahead, past the Coast Guard building. Life was strange. She’d given the Register blockbuster stories—political corruption, an adoption scandal, mortgage fraud. And what did she get? Unemployment. But now, Jane Ryland was back. Freelance, sure, but with a lovely per diem. Take that, mortgage payment.
Only one snag. When Lissa arrived in Boston this afternoon, Jane might have to work. Lissa—who, Jane always forgot, demanded to be called “Melissa” after all these years—and her fiancé were coming to pick up their flower girl, Gracie Fasullo, Daniel’s nine-year-old daughter who lived in Boston with his ex-wife and her new husband. Thanks to Daniel’s previous marriage, Melissa was becoming Gracie’s instant stepmother. The whole complicated thing sounded like the guilty-pleasure soap operas she and best friend Amy used to watch in college. In real life, what soap opera role was Jane playing? Older sister, living alone with a cat?
No, Jane decided. I’ll be the successful reporter, determined and unstoppable, who breaks big stories and needs help from no one. I’ll even call her Melissa.
“La-di-da,” she said out loud. “Bring it on.” Jane Ryland, reporting for Channel 2, she thought, trying it out. Can do.
She snapped the radio to all-news, listened through the crowd predictions for the Fourth of July concert on the Esplanade, the Chamber of Commerce estimate of tourist dollars for the summer, stories about the drunken antics of a state senator caught on a hotel surveillance camera, another runaway college girl, some kind of lobster shortage. Nothing about a stabbing.
Shortcut through the Greenway, into the glare of the noontime sun. Right turn on North Street. Definitely something going on. The red light from an ambulance flared over the cluster of onlookers, a zigzag backlit silhouette of heads and shoulders. Usually Jane would be able to see the tree-lined edge of Curley Park from this vantage point, but now the circle of grass and sculpture was blocked by the array of T-shirts and backpacks and shopping bags. A scowling cadet, too-big hat and orange webbed bandolier, was pointing oncoming traffic to turn left, away from the crime scene. So what? Jane was different. Jane was TV news. Jane was turning right.
She downshifted, touched her brakes, buzzed down her window, and leaned out, smiling. The sun hit her square in the face and glinted from the car’s side mirror as the driver behind her honked, twice, then swerved to the left.
“Jane Ryland,” she told the newbie cop. She’d done this a million times. She tried to stop herself from tossing her hair, because know what? This felt good.
“Channel 2 News,” she added. Big smile.
The cop lifted his wire-rimmed Ray-Bans, narrowed his eyes at her.
Probably recognizing me, Jane decided. Next thing, he’ll be waving me past the police lines and into the center of the action. She was back.
“Let’s see some ID,” the cop said.