“Can you talk?”
Jake heard the tension in Jane’s voice. If she was up now, calling his cell phone at just after six, it was important. He hoped she’d gotten some sleep, at least. He sure as hell hadn’t, dozing all night in an uncomfortable chair, waiting for maybe-tattooed guy to show his arm or wake up. The man might be a killer, and Jake still had no idea who he was.
“Sure, I can talk,” he said. “Are you okay, Jane? Where are you?”
“Home,” she said. “Trying to get dressed. You’re on speaker. And yeah, I’m okay. But—”
“Gracie? And Wilhoite? They home?” That awkward dinner at the Taverna seemed decades ago. He needed food. Jake frowned. He had to check on Bobby Land, too, hadn’t heard from upstairs for three hours now. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the Curley Park murder. Was he any closer to the solution?
His frown deepened as Jane spun out the story. Gracie had never been at school? And now Jane was telling him Wilhoite was not answering his phone.
“Does Robyn think—” He stopped. Better not to put words in someone’s mouth. “What does Robyn think?”
“Who knows?” Jane said. “I’m getting it all by way of Melissa. She wanted me to call you and find out what to do. She can contact you, right? I gave her your number.”
“Jane?” Damn. His call-waiting had clicked in, interfering with what Jane was saying. He’d been trying not to picture her getting dressed, since that wasn’t the point, but she’d mentioned it, and after that it was hard to resist. He’d rather think of her getting undressed, rather see it in person. Now someone was interrupting. Maybe word on Land? Or maybe D with the video? Jake could happily stay awake long enough to see that. “Hang on,” he said.
“Jake?”
“One second.” He clicked away to the new call. “Brogan.”
“Detective Brogan?”
“Yes?” A familiar voice, but he couldn’t quite—
“It’s Angie Bartoneri,” she said. “How quickly they forget. Anyway, Detective. I have a call you might want to take. I called Missing, but they insisted I give it to you. Transferring now.”
“Who?” Jake started to ask for details, then realized, after the click and change in tone, that Angie had already transferred the caller. Always a game with her. “This is Detective Brogan,” he said.
“My name is Catherine Siskel,” the voice said. “And I’d like to report a missing person.”
* * *
“Jake? Jake?” Jane, one arm in her black T-shirt and the other one out, glared at the phone, annoyed. Stupid speakerphone was incredibly unreliable. She pushed the other arm through the short sleeve. Taking two quick steps, she punched the phone to regular talk. So much for multi-tasking. And she needed coffee. “Jake?” she said into the phone. “You there?”
Nothing. Jane grimaced, yanked down her T, wondered if she should hang up and try again. She hadn’t accomplished a thing with this phone call. Robyn was counting on her. Or at least Melissa was. Where the hell was Gracie? This was a job for the police, no question. She’d hang up, call Jake again, get her cop on the case. She clicked the reset, ready to start over.
“Hello?” The connection sounded funny. Maybe she was still on hold. “Jake?”
“Jane?” Not Jake.
She tucked the phone between her check and shoulder, zipped up her black jeans. She could throw on a scarf and blazer if she needed to look presentable, or stick with the simple jeans and T if she was only going to be at Robyn’s. Impossible to predict what the day would bring.
“This is Marsh Tyson,” the voice said. “At Channel 2?”
“Hi, Marsh.” Jane frowned, getting her bearings. It was six thirty in the morning. This was not a social call. “What’s—”
“Glad you’re up,” he said. “Listen. Our sources at the cop shop say there was some kind of assault near the police station late yesterday. Headquarters, by the Ruggles T stop, you know where that is?”
Of course she did. “Yes, I—”
“Apparently, this is somehow connected to the Curley Park stabbing. So says our source.”
“Your source?” This was a new one. When her boss told her something was based on a source, was she supposed to ask who it was? Or take him at his word and go from there? That was the thing about journalism, especially these days. Always a new ethical dilemma, without any new rules to resolve it.
“Trust me on this, Jane. The identity of the source—it’s a nurse, okay? But you’ll find the info for yourself, right? You’ll dig, fill in the blanks, get confirmation. So, Jane? How about another freelance gig? You covered Curley Park, you know the players. You shot the video. I assume your—sister was she, or niece?—is not really missing, or we’d have heard about it by now. So, what say you? Your personal life calmed down enough to sign on?”
Jane paused, staring at the toes of her black flats, trying to assess who she was and what was important. Telling the truth was always the best option. Right now, however, she didn’t know what the truth was. Had her life calmed down?
“It has and it hasn’t, Mr. Tyson,” she said. “Calmed down.”
“Marsh.”
“Marsh. My sister’s fiancé’s daughter—” She stopped midsentence. Too much information. But Melissa and Robyn—and the police—could handle the possibly missing Gracie. They didn’t need Jane in person, right now, at least. If they did, she’d be available. Plus, she needed the money. Quitting her newspaper job had been a glorious and unregretted moment of honor and principle. But that did not pay the rent. Or make car payments. And she didn’t even want to think about health insurance. She was unemployed, for the second time in two years, depressingly, and with her savings evaporating, that was not good. Melissa had Jake’s number. Jane could stay fully involved with them and handle the freelance gig. Let the juggling continue.
“Anyway. Sure,” she said, not feeling sure at all. “What’s the plan? Want me to come into the station, or meet a photog somewhere? And do you have any info on the victim? Name, next of kin? Why do they think he’s connected to Curley Park? Is he—it’s a he, right?—in the hospital?”
“That’s the thing, Jane. No, he’s not in the hospital. Not as of half an hour ago. He’s probably on the way to the morgue. And no next of kin, that’s why we called you. Call the cops. See what happened. Find the victim’s family.”
Shoot. Exactly why she didn’t miss television. She’d done vulture patrol duty way too many times. She did not want to be in a position—not ever again, thank you—to tell a grieving family they’d lost someone. But she could at least look into this, see what developed. The police would have to inform the family of their loss, anyway. Police. Jake. Where had he gone?
“Okay,” she said. “Can do.” She’d tell Melissa where she was, keep them all looped in. It’d work. “Can you tell me the victim’s name? Age? Anything?”
Jane listened to the sound of rustling paper on Marsh’s end of the line. Weird to be in television again. Wondered if she’d remember how to do it. She smiled. Not weird. It was her job. Getting the answers, making them public. Kind of like Jake, but without the badge and gun. It’s your calling, honey, her mother had told her.
Channel 2 better have kept all her video from Curley Park. Soon as she could, she’d look at every frame. Be interesting if the victim was in it. More than interesting.
“Jane?”
“I’m here.” She went to her closet, selected a muted gray-and-black scarf from the too-full hooks, used one hand to twirl it around her neck. Add a blazer, she’d be good for TV, if need be.
“According to the source, the dead guy’s name is Land,” Marsh said. “Bobby Land.”