And there it was.
“You know Wharton, don’t you Jane?” Robyn had said it last night, at dinner, as a waiter hovered.
Now Jane had found Lewis Wilhoite. On the Wharton School alumni roster. Lewis Delano Wilhoite, class of ’91. A photo, too.
Jane rolled the padded chair closer to the desk in the Wilhoites’ study and clicked the white mouse on their computer. Twenty-some years ago, Lewis wasn’t the pudgy accountant milquetoast Jane had imagined but a normal-looking sandy-haired guy in a preppy shirt. One of a row of mostly white-male thumbnail photos taken by a commercial photographer.
Rats. She’d half expected not to see his name. She would have easily believed it if Lewis had been some kind of impostor. But there it was, as described. Lewis Delano Wilhoite, summa cum laude. The online yearbook listed all kinds of community good works. Big Brother. Boy Scout.
When she was a little girl, Jane’s father had told her to ask the universe if she really wanted something. Eight-year-old Jane had decided that was simply another way for him to say no. Now she was asking. Let Gracie be safe.
She put her chin in her hands, elbows on the desk, thinking, looking around the little study. Maybe a third bedroom, with a desk, printer, pencil holder. One wall bookshelves. On another, an array of black-framed photographs. Lots of Robyn. A baby—Gracie?—cradled in masculine arms. Toddler Gracie clutching a stuffed rabbit, hand in hand with an unidentifiable man. Lewis? Robyn and someone in wedding attire. Lewis? Older Gracie with the same man, glasses and sandy hair. Lewis.
So far, Jane had not heard the phone ring. The computer clock slid to 10:30 A.M. She eyed her cell phone. Time to call Jake.
The Wharton website faded, and a screen saver—the family’s white cat—appeared. Jane closed her eyes, clamped down the cover. Splayed her fingers on the smooth silver of the laptop, then, with one quick motion, flapped it open again. Went to the Wharton page, clicked on the photo of Lewis Wilhoite. Blinked at it, trying to memorize it.
Then she looked up at the wedding photos on the wall. Compared. Looked at the computer again.
Fifteen years, maybe more, separated college Lewis from wedding Lewis. Of course, Jane herself looked significantly different from her college photos. Thank God. But.
She tapped one finger to her lips, considering, then shrugged. Picking up the laptop, she lifted the computer next to the wedding photo, bringing the two pictures of Lewis as close together as she could.
“What are you doing?” Robyn asked. She stood in the open doorway.
Jane jumped.
“Jane?” Melissa stood behind Robyn.
“Did he call?” Jane asked.
“Not yet,” Robyn said.
“Did you call him?” Jane asked.
“No answer,” Melissa said. “But yeah, what’re you doing?”
“Here’s the thing.” Jane turned the laptop screen so the women in the doorway could see it. “This is Lewis Wilhoite’s Wharton photo. But look. I think—I think it’s not the same Lewis who’s on the wall.”
* * *
Ignoring the elevator, Jake had raced down the back stairs at City Hall and slammed himself into his cruiser. The yellow crime scene tape was still up at Curley Park, but otherwise it was midmorning Boston as usual, buses and straggling commuters, tourists with backpacks and foot-dragging kids. Frustratingly, cadets were coming up with zero in their search of all those bystanders’ cell phone photos—so far they’d viewed a repeatedly useless collection of blurry bodies, backlit silhouettes, out-of-focus trees, and an occasional shoe. Surveillance tapes from local businesses were nonexistent, deleted, erased, or fuzzy as hell. So much for the new technology. A couple of Facebook and Twitter posts, all capital letters and italics, but nothing helpful. No leads. And still no next of kin on Bobby Land. He’d call Kiyoko Naka in Missing, see if anyone had reported a young family member who’d disappeared. Someone must be wondering where this kid was.
So far, they were nowhere on Curley Park. Not a good thing.
Boston had more than three hundred cold cases, a pitiful record for unsolved murders. Jake vowed that the number wouldn’t rise on his watch. Before he could crank the ignition, DeLuca radioed in.
“The good guys win, Harvard. Sit tight. Hewlitt’s eastbound on the Pike, headed right for downtown, looks like.”
“Or the airport,” Jake said.
“Shit,” DeLuca said.
“In which case, the good guys lose,” Jake said. “Since we have no way to stop him if he’s bolting.”
“Shit.” DeLuca’s radio clicked off.
Did Hewlitt know Bobby Land was dead? Had he participated, somehow, in that murder? Without any hard evidence, much less a warrant, they had to find out what Hewlitt was up to. He’d done a fast Google, found “Hewlitt Security” at Faneuil Hall. Had to be him, but hadn’t Angie—at the doctor’s, for crap sake—even done a web search? He’d do his own, soon as he got half a second. Hunches, intuition, and logic did not make a case.
“He’s semi-speeding.” DeLuca’s voice again. “Past Prudential. So there’s only two more exits. The Ted, and then the split. Want me to pull him over?”
“Why? Just to show him we’re on his tail? He’d recognize you.”
“Shit.” The radio static seemed to underscore D’s annoyance. “You got any better ideas?”
What DeLuca called “the split” would take Hewlitt either down Exit 24A to the twisty narrow one-way streets of the financial district where he’d be a huge pain in the ass to follow, or Exit 24C, to the south shore. Also a pain, since he’d be out of jurisdiction. But if he chose Exit 24B, he’d be headed right into Jake’s waiting arms. At HQ, Hewlitt had told DeLuca he “worked security” at Faneuil Hall. Had Angie Bartoneri confirmed even that? Could be Hewlitt was simply going to work. They’d see.
“Jake. There is a God,” D’s voice came over the radio. “He’s passed the Ted. Not using the airport tunnel, not going to the airport. One down. You set?”
“Standing by,” Jake said. “He goes to the south shore, we’re screwed.”
“Well aware,” DeLuca said.
Had to be the first time Jake participated in an undercover in a car chase without moving. He didn’t close his eyes—times like this that was too risky—but he pictured DeLuca on the road, hanging back a few car lengths, different lane, monitoring his quarry’s every move. D loved a good chase, but this one would employ no flashing lights or screaming sirens. The whole point was to remain unobtrusive. The only possible snag? Hewlitt had seen DeLuca in Franklin Alley. Hell, more than seen, DeLuca’d held a gun on him. If they made eye contact, Hewlitt might recognize him. Even so, it’d be no biggie for Hewlitt to see a cop car on the Pike. If anything, it’d just make him stay under the speed limit, probably the only driver who did.
“Bingo.” DeLuca’s voice crackled the radio into life.
Jake bolted upright. He must have fallen asleep, just for a fraction of a second. Not good. He should have brought some of Catherine Siskel’s dark roast with him.
“Bingo what?” Jake said, making sure his voice sounded normal.
“Hewlitt and his jockmobile are headed right to ya. Getting off at Government Center.” DeLuca’s voice was triumphant. “Black Isuzu Trooper, ski rack on top. And listen to this. His plate is GUILTY1.”
“No way.” Jake cranked the ignition, shifted into reverse, backed out of the spot and onto Congress Street. “You’re bullshitting me.”
“Yeah, I am,” D said.
“You’re an asshole,” Jake said.
“So I hear,” D said.