What You See (10 page)

Both cops were staring at him, waiting for an answer. The preppy one moved closer to him, Bobby saw that, watching him edge into his space, ready to nail him, probably, if he made a move. Which, he had to admit, had crossed his mind.

But if he tried to run for it they’d probably shoot him. And he’d look guilty as hell, of something, even though he wasn’t.

Bobby took a deep, shuddering breath, the cop’s eyes on him, the jerk’s eyes on him, thinking about how this had all started because he thought he was in the right place at the right time. Now it might have been the wrong place.

“Mr. Land?” One cop came closer. The other one, the tall skinny one, had his hand right by his gun. The handcuffed guy, they’d called him Hewlitt, was staring daggers. They were all silent, waiting for Bobby. Waiting for Bobby to say something.

Why didn’t he ever learn to keep his mouth shut?

But wait a minute. He had the eye. Right? And if there was a good photo in the camera, he’d be a hero, and it’d be all he’d need to make his career. Either it was there or it wasn’t. If it wasn’t—He mentally shrugged, imagining it. He could say he’d made a mistake. He was only a kid, after all. If it was? A good photo might, just
might,
change his life. Not exactly as he’d planned. But to be famous you had to be flexible. Open to possibilities. Someone had said that, he was sure.

“Well, I guess I…” he began, though he had not quite decided what to say next.

A yell, like the roar of a—?

Bobby, startled by the sound, tripped backward, losing his balance, stumbling over his own feet, landing on his ass as all the shadows moved and both cops were yelling, as Hewlitt, bellowing like a crazy person, charged toward him. Bobby raised his arms, ready to duck, ready to run, but wait, the guy couldn’t punch him, he was in handcuffs, right?

With a sound that echoed through the cul-de-sac, Hewlitt stomped one heavy shoe on the memory card. “No pictures of me!” he shouted.

Bobby heard himself shouting too as the two cops grabbed Hewlitt’s arms and yanked him away, twisting and pivoting even as they dragged him, his brown loafers scraping on the pavement.

It didn’t matter. The memory card was useless, now tiny fragments of plastic and metal.

14

If Jane’s phone didn’t stop buzzing, she was going to crush it to tiny phone smithereens. Still crouched in the alley by the droning air conditioner, she tried to ignore her cell, the nasty little creature, the insistent piece of technology that connected her, relentlessly, to anyone who decided their life was more important than hers. She could hardly remember life before cell phones, when everyone on the planet couldn’t electronically demand attention every minute of every day. Jane had understood she was over the edge on the phone thing the day she’d walked down the back hall of the
Register,
talking, gone into the bathroom, listening, and tried to figure out how to pull her tights down while she asked her source one more question. At that exact moment, she’d realized she was addicted, hooked, inalterably chained to it.

Was it Jake calling? Checking on her? Only three minutes ago, maybe less, he’d ordered her to leave the alley. She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t.

Jake was one of the city’s top homicide cops, and this was a homicide. So where Jake was, that’s where the story would be. Here she would stay until she discovered exactly what the story was. She couldn’t hear a thing from way back there, but they had to come out sometime. She’d be ready.

The phone buzzed again. Maybe it was the assignment desk. Maybe they had updated information.

She dug out the phone, punched the button.
Private caller.
“Yes?” she whispered.

“Jane?”

Jane narrowed her eyes, trying to focus. The voice was familiar but off somehow.

“It’s Melissa.”

“Hey, Sis,” Jane whispered. “You okay? I’m right in the midst of a—”

“I might need you,” Melissa said. “Maybe. About the Gracie thing.”

Jane took the phone away from her ear, looked at it in brief bewilderment, as if looking through it to her sister.

“But you said—” Jane began.

“I
know
what I
said.
” Melissa sounded worried, her voice tight, cutting Jane off. “But I’m kind of freaking. How can I be a good mother if I can’t even handle this? Daniel’s not arriving until tonight—and … Anyway. That husband of Robyn’s. He’s—hang on a second.”

Jane lifted her eyes skyward, pleading with the universe for one tiny break. Melissa was telling her to hang on?
Hang on?

Jane peeked around the edge of the thrumming air conditioner. Saw shadows moving, the light changing, down where the turn began. Heard voices, then footsteps. Jake and DeLuca must be on the move. With Bobby. And whoever else was back there.

She had to get her camera. This story was about to break.

*   *   *

“Does your family live in Boston?”

Figures.
Brileen was asking the one question Tenley hoped to avoid. Now she’d have to decide what to tell her. Reality was too complicated. Who her mother was. Who her father was. Who her sister was. Or wasn’t.

The two girls had skirted the walkways of Curley Park, headed away toward the Purple, watching as bystanders, dismissed by the police, drifted back to wherever. Tenley had seen the first ambulance pull away, siren screaming, then another one come out of Franklin Alley. Now cars were being let through, as usual. Seemed like normal was back.

Tenley knew she had less than ten minutes more with this girl, this
Brileen.
That would be barely long enough to grab a coffee. Not enough for the story of her family.

Maybe she should change the subject. Or find out more about Brileen, because in ten minutes, she’d have to say good-bye, and that would be too bad.

“Do
you
?” Tenley asked. “Have family in Boston?”

“Sure,” Brileen said. “Doesn’t mean I like ’em.” She yanked the leather shoulder strap of a black laptop bag over her head, carried it cross-body.

“Tell me about it,” Tenley said.

She looked down as they walked, watched how her steps matched Brileen’s. Bri’s feet in chunky Maddens, all thick laces and blocky soles. Tenley’s were in black flats, which she used to love, just this morning she’d loved them. Now they looked like loser shoes. Why did everything always change?

“Hang on a second.” Brileen tilted her head toward the alley. “Hear that? See that? Somebody’s coming out,” she whispered. She flattened herself against the bank’s stone façade, gestured Tenley to do the same. “We should be careful. What if the bad guy is still—you know. Out there.”

Tenley leaned out, just a fraction so she could see around Brileen.

“Hey!” Brileen whispered. “They’ve got someone in handcuffs? See him?”

“Whoa.” Tenley edged away from the shelter of the building, wanting to get a better look. In about two minutes she was going to be late for work, which would be difficult to explain. If Dahlstrom even gave her a chance to explain.

But this was kind of like a movie. How could she leave now?

*   *   *

Jane was shooting the hell out of this, whatever this turned out to be. Jane’s job now was to get everything on video.
Shoot first,
one journalism school professor had instructed,
ask questions later.
The whole class had lost it, laughing.

But that’s exactly what she was doing.

Melissa had hung up on her—or maybe their cell phone connection had gotten dropped, Jane wasn’t sure. But when Jane had heard voices, then seen shadows, then heard feet crunching across the grit of the alley cobblestones, she’d tucked herself behind the air conditioner again—seemed like she’d spent a lot of time there—knowing the next face she saw might be Jake’s, and wondering how, exactly, she’d deal with that.

Jake would not be happy. And she did not have a good explanation for why she’d ignored his orders to leave. Not that she was obligated to do what he told her.

But it was a stranger’s face she saw first, a blustering, muttering, muscle-bound guy in a sweat-soaked oxford shirt and ripped khakis, his hands cuffed behind him, being marched out of the alley by a scowling Paul DeLuca. Was this the killer?

Jane instantly pointed her Quik-Shot, checking that the camera was recording, making sure the sound was up, feeling the heart-swelling rise of news instinct, the hope that maybe, because she’d held her ground, she was now documenting the arrest of the guy she’d mentally headlined the Curley Park Killer. It was breaking news, it was exclusive, and it was a potentially career-clinching moment.

“Get her outta here,” the man yelled. “I told you no photographs! I’m going to sue the hell out of…”

Jane let out a steadying spiral of breath.
Stay calm. Do this.
If the man didn’t want his photo taken, Channel 2’s legal people would decide whether to put it on the air. But in her book, a handcuffed man in police custody was a suspect and fair broadcast game.

She felt the warm flush of adrenaline as she panned the camera to follow DeLuca and the man out of the alley, the suspect’s voice diminishing as DeLuca led him away.

Behind DeLuca was the kid, Bobby Land. His hands, not cuffed, were jammed into his pockets, his shoulders sagged, and a smear of dirt swiped across his face. The hipster-wannabe camo hat he’d worn so jauntily was jammed into the waistband of his jeans. He’d approached Jane all confident and conspiratorial. Now he was just an angry-looking kid, stomping down the alley in grimy scuffed sneakers, the untied laces dragging on the pavement.

And behind him was Jake. Jake had one hand on Bobby’s shoulder, but didn’t look as if he had the boy in custody. In his other hand, Jake carried what looked like a clear plastic bag of … Jane couldn’t tell.

Just keep shooting,
her reporter brain instructed.
Then follow them out.

Through the viewfinder, Jane watched that plan go down the tubes. Jake stopped and turned back to look at her. She saw his face in the camera first, then looked past the viewfinder to see him in reality as well. She’d seen Jake laughing and crying, she’d seen him perplexed, amused, and concerned, and, a couple of times, irate. She wasn’t quite sure how to label his current expression.

“Jane?” As if he didn’t know who she was. Or couldn’t believe it. “Why the hell are you—”

“Hey, Detective.” She tried a conciliatory smile, all innocence and obedience. Two professional acquaintances meeting by chance. In an alley. After a murder. “Yeah, I was about to leave, just as you suggested, but then—”

“My camera is wrecked, Jane!” Bobby wrenched himself away from Jake, glowering, and took a step toward her. “Where’d you
go
? I had everything, like I told you, all the photographs of the stabbing, but then this moron—I can’t even believe it.
Broke
it. All that’s left is in that stupid plastic bag. Look!”

He pointed to the bag in Jake’s hand with one accusatory finger. Jane backed up—partly to get a better shot of the bag, partly because she wasn’t quite sure about the look on the kid’s face. He was about nineteen or twenty, hadn’t he told her he was in college? And though he obviously cultivated a kind of urban-hip streetwise vibe, he had a jittery quality, edgy as an abused pup trying to decide whether a newcomer was ally or enemy. A pup who had chosen incorrectly before.

“Wait, who broke it?” Jane asked. Had Jake smashed the kid’s camera? Why? The other perplexing thing was that Bobby had never told her he had photos of the murder. He’d only said he
might.
She pointed her Quik-Shot at Jake. “Ja—Detective Brogan?”

“
Enough.
From both of you.” Jake clamped his free hand on the kid’s right arm and yanked Bobby away from her. “Anything else you need, you get from headquarters, Ms. Ryland.”

He pivoted, leading a still-complaining Bobby toward the sunlit street.

Two hours since she’d gotten this assignment, and now Jane had about three seconds before the only thing in her viewfinder would be an empty alley. DeLuca and whoever that was in handcuffs were already at the sidewalk. She had a camera full of something, but no idea what the video meant. She had to find out. And quickly.

“Detective Brogan? Can you at least identify the man in handcuffs?” she called after them. “Is he a person of interest in the Curley Park stabbing?”

Jake had turned his back on her and was leading Bobby out of the alley. He took another step, then stopped, and Jane saw the back of his leather jacket rise, then fall. Still holding Bobby’s arm, Jake turned toward her, slowly. She saw his eyes narrow, his mouth in a taut line. She adored that mouth, knew every centimeter of it. She adored those dark eyes, and the laugh lines around them, had seen them as closely as anyone could see another human being.

“‘Person of interest’?” Jake drew out the words as he looked her up and down, making her feel as if he’d never seen her before. Sometimes he acted like a stranger. Did he think about her that way, too? “Where did you hear that phrase, Ms. Ryland? On the cops and robbers channel?”

And then her phone buzzed again.

15

Jane sat on Marsh Tyson’s black leather couch, waiting for the news director to return. Thinking about her long journey to get here. A few years ago, a college journalism student had interviewed Jane for a school project.
You’re my role model,
the girl had told her. Jane, still such a shining newbie that she’d believed that was reasonable, had answered the student thoughtfully, trying for passion and principle and optimism.

What would be the title of your autobiography?
The girl promised Jane it would be the last question. And that was a toughie. At age—what was Jane then, thirty?—the story of her life as a journalist was still unfolding. How could she label it? How could she know?

The Best Is Yet to Come.
She’d contemplated that title, but it seemed ungrateful. She’d been happy, and why dismiss what she’d already accomplished?
Just Do It
seemed derivative.
Never Give Up
? Just as clichéd. She’d felt compelled to give a good answer, an honest one. One that would give some insight into her soul. Even to herself.