“Don’t move.” DeLuca’s commanding voice cut through the radio static, louder than the city bus wheezing by on Congress Street, louder than the kid on the sidewalk wailing his little-kid complaint as a frowning parent yanked at his hand. Surprised, Jake shifted his cruiser into Park, clicked the handset to reply.
“DeLuca? You talking to me?”
“I’m right behind this guy now,” DeLuca said. “He’s stopped at the light, headed for North Street. Stand by, Harvard—Hewlitt’s coming right to you. Five mins, maybe four. Copy?”
“Copy.”
Jake buzzed his window up. He’d stuck his head out into the briny summer breeze freshening off the harbor, trying to stay awake. Hewlitt would be here in less than five minutes. No time to hit the Dunkin’ on the corner. Jake was running on fumes, relying on adrenaline instead of caffeine. This whole thing had started almost exactly twenty-four hours ago.
The Isuzu. Jake saw it turning right onto Union Street.
“Duck!” DeLuca ordered. “He’s coming right at you. If he sees you, we’re screwed.”
Jake snaked himself down behind the steering wheel, unclicking his seat belt, his T-shirt catching on the nubby upholstery. Raking his chest against the plastic wheel, he scooted down until his chin hit the rounded bottom. This was gonna hurt, but he wouldn’t be like this for long. Reaching up with his right hand, he tried to angle the rearview mirror so it faced in the general direction of the—got it.
The black car pulled forward at one of the meters, stopped, and in one motion eased into the white-lined spot. Jake watched the mirror image, grateful his cruiser was unmarked. If his back held out, this’d work.
“Got ’im?” DeLuca’s voice was a whisper.
“Got him,” Jake said.
“I’ll park at Area A,” D said.
The neighborhood police station up the block would be the perfect hiding place for DeLuca’s cruiser, lined up with other marked cars.
Squinting now as the noonday sun bounced off his side mirror and into his eyes, Jake realized that Hewlitt hadn’t gotten out of his van. He remained sitting in the front seat. On his phone? Jake couldn’t tell.
“He’s still in the car,” Jake said to the radio. “What’s he waiting for? Or who?”
“You’ll soon find out,” DeLuca said. “That’s why you’re Boston’s finest.”
Jake didn’t feel so fine. His back already ached, his knees were bent in an impossible way, and the glare of the sun interfered with his line of sight. Ducking had initially seemed a good idea, a way to protect Jake’s identity in a crucial moment, but for the long haul, there’d have to be a plan B.
An uncomfortable stakeout was an unavoidable part of the job. He’d sat in this unmarked cruiser in front of a suspect’s home for hours, eating red Swedish fish, wondering how much coffee his body could hold without a bathroom break. He’d huddled in dark corners of vacant buildings in the dead of Boston winters, and nursed phony cocktails in the impossible lighting of hotel bars. Watching for the library wallet bandit, he’d stationed himself by the copier at the Boston Public Library for so long an irate reader reported him for “hogging” it.
Stakeouts were not supposed to be fun. If Jake got the bad guy, it all would be worth it.
The dark shadow of City Hall edged across the front seat as time ticked by, a giant sundial reminding Jake of how long he’d been hiding. Hewlitt had returned to the scene of the crime. Or perhaps simply to his place of business. Getting the scoop on Hewlitt’s CV was on Angie Bartoneri’s list of assignments, Jake thought again. Was she actively trying to sabotage him? For dumping her? Incompetence or petulance. No place for either in Jake’s life.
He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. Hewlitt’s silhouette was a statue. There were too many damn places Hewlitt could go, and he could choose faster than Jake could follow him. Jake could only watch, best he could, then notify D and leap out of the car to follow as soon as Hewlitt was under way. Fifty-fifty, he thought. Fifty-freaking-fifty.
To stay awake, Jake ran down his to-do list. Check with Evidence and Kiyoko Naka in Missing Persons. He needed to nail down Catherine Siskel and those security cameras, and get hold of Ward Dahlstrom, the man supposedly in charge of surveillance. From what they’d explained, the city’s traffic cams could be looking at this same scene right now.
Jake stared at the mirror, then reached for his radio. “D,” he said.
“Copy.”
“Can you take over for a couple minutes?” Jake slid across the front seat, never taking his eyes off the mirror, and reached for the handle of the passenger-side door. The one nearest the entrance to City Hall.
“Got your six,” DeLuca said.
“That mean yes?” Jake watched the mirror. Still nothing.
“You’re breaking up,” D lied. “Gotcha. I’m under way. Corner of Sudbury and Congress. I see him. Front seat.”
“Great.” Jake said. Still nothing. “Over to you. Radio me when he’s on the move.”
“Why?” DeLuca said. “Too much coffee? You hitting the head?”
“Nope,” Jake said. “I have an idea.”
* * *
A harsh jangle from the black desk phone cut across the Wilhoites’ study. Jane felt her heart beat faster. “Is that him?”
Robyn let out a yelp.
The phone rang again.
“For God’s sake, answer it,” Melissa ordered.
“He’s always called my cell before.” Robyn seemed verging on tears, all nerve endings, exposed and raw, holding her silent cell. “Lewis can be so—manipulative, you know?”
“Answer it,” Jane said. “Manipulative”? Another word Robyn hadn’t used before, like “careless,” and “jealous,” and “nutcase.” “It might not be Lewis. It might be someone with information about Gracie.”
When the phone rang a third time, Melissa took a step closer, reaching out as if to snatch the phone herself. Robyn stepped away from them, one pace, then another. Clutching her cell phone to her chest.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“Afraid?” Melissa’s voice went up, incredulous. “Afraid?”
“Robyn.” Jane kept her voice calm. Being part of the story was unnervingly different. “We’re all afraid. But answer the phone.”
The room went silent as Robyn picked up the landline handset.
“Hello?” Her voice quavered, barely audible.
Jane and Melissa leaned toward her, eyes narrowing. Jane tried to gauge Robyn’s reactions as interminable seconds ticked by. Then a full minute.
“Jane.” Robyn, wide-eyed, handed her the phone. “It’s Lewis. He told me what he wants. Now he wants to talk to you. Tell you in person.”
“Thank God,” Melissa said.
Jane grabbed the handset from Robyn, put it to her ear. Said, “Lewis? It’s Jane” almost before she had it in place. Waited.
Nothing.
She tried again. Nothing. “Lewis? It’s Jane Ryland,” she said, louder. She pressed the receiver closer to her ear. Maybe there was a bad connection, or she’d been put on hold? She turned to Robyn. “Was the call breaking up? Could you hear him?” And then into the phone. “Lewis?”
Nothing.
“Robyn?”
“Isn’t he talking?” Robyn asked. “He asked for you. See? I told you he was manipulative. Did he hang up? Or—did you disconnect somehow? Oh, no, Jane, did you cut him off?”
“Of course she didn’t,” Melissa said. “Did you?”
Of course she hadn’t. Jane put the handset back to her ear; she could hear that the line was open, so she was connected to someone, somewhere.
“The line is still open,” she said, “but there’s no one there.”
“I can’t believe it.” Robyn plopped down in the desk chair and dropped her head into her outstretched arms, a mass of blond hair and trembling chenille.
“Can you hear anything?” Melissa took three quick steps to stand next to Jane, holding out her hand. “Give me that. Let me see.”
Jane looked at the phone again, baffled. She held it up to her sister.
In green letters, the display showed CALL ENDED.