What You See (6 page)

Now she was getting away.

He watched her head toward the crime scene tape, saw the curve of her black suit jacket, her shoulder bag banging against her back, the way she ran over the cobblestones in those high heels. How did women do that?

He snapped off some photos of her. Stalling.

Come on, Bobby.

It was now or never, and he didn’t have time for never. This was his career, his life, his one chance to grab the big time. The brass ring, his father used to say, whatever that meant.

Do it.

“Jane Ryland?” he called out, not too loud, just enough to get her attention.

She stopped, turned to him. Some of her hair had come out of her ponytail, and her black bag slid from her shoulder. She hoisted it back up.

“Yes?”

She looked like she was trying to be polite, he didn’t blame her, some strange kid comes up to her, what’s she supposed to think? He’d better get to the point.

“I’m, uh, Bobby Land? I’m, like, a photographer?” He paused, better make this sound as cool as possible. He handed her a card with his phone number. Smart that he’d just put “Photos by Bobby. Freelance photographer.”

Jane narrowed her eyes at him, taking the card, then reached into an outside pocket of her tote bag. Awesome, she had the Quik-Shot, so she was up for getting video. But she wasn’t here when the guy got stabbed. She might have locators, background stuff, aftermath, but she couldn’t have the real thing.

She fiddled with her camera, flapped open the viewfinder, didn’t point it at him.

“Were you here when it happened, Mr.—”

“Land,” he said.

“Land. A photographer, huh?” She smiled at him for the first time. Suddenly she was all friendly. “When did you arrive? Did you get any pictures of what happened?”

He could tell, even though she was trying to be cool, that she was hoping he had something. He could also tell she was freaking a little, looking at the EMTs and the ambulance. He had to reel her in, convince her he had the goods. Even though he wasn’t quite sure it was true. But he’d gotten pictures, action shots, of something, and more than she had, for sure.

“I was right here when it happened.” That was true. “And I was shooting.” Also true.

“Terrific. Great. Listen, can you do me a huge favor? Can you stand by a second, Mr. Land?” She reached out, as if to touch him, but didn’t actually do it. “I’ve got to get shots of them putting the victim into the ambulance. You know the deal for TV. If it doesn’t happen on video, it didn’t happen, right?”

She smiled at him again, like she understood they were colleagues, like she understood he knew about getting video, and what was important, and what pictures could make or break someone’s career. Or life.

“Sure, go for it,” he said.

She lifted her camera, pointed it at the EMTs. They hoisted the guy onto the wheeled stretcher thing, then yanked up the yellow tubing of the metal legs even higher, bringing it to waist level. Everyone went silent, so silent he could hear the creak of the metal as the stretcher clicked into place.

He knew they couldn’t talk while she was shooting, their voices would be recorded by the Quik-Shot’s sensitive microphone. He put a finger to his lips, signaling to her that he knew how this shit worked. But she wasn’t looking at him. That was okay. He could wait. He’d told her he had pictures. TV people lived for pictures.

He had her.

9

Tenley clicked the mouse to highlight the red Record arrow on the upper right of her screen. In a fraction of a second, it flashed to green, then a series of numbers appeared beside it. First the date stamp—month, day, and year—and then, in bigger numbers, a flashing countdown. Well, more like a count-
up.
The computers were programmed to retrieve and preserve the last twenty seconds of video, so the system was now in the process of recording digitized pictures, starting with what occurred twenty seconds ago. Pulling back the past. As if Tenley had the power to stop time, then start it again.

She couldn’t help but wish she had that power with Lanna. She watched the clock tick off the time of the video cache. It recovered
three
seconds of the past,
four
seconds. If she could retrieve the past, knowing what she knew now, would she have told on her sister? Would she have broken that trust? But knowing what she knew now didn’t matter. The past was over.
Nine, ten …

“Miss Siskel?” Of course it was Ward Dahlstrom, hovering over her like a cloud of imminent criticism, but she guessed this was his job. They’d all been instructed to avoid “the twenty,” since whatever was digitized and downloaded
existed.
No longer a fleeting unrecorded moment in time but a legally obtainable piece of reality. “Might there be something you’d like to tell me? I saw you hit the twenty. Is there something I should know?”

Tenley knew if you pushed Cancel before the counter hit twenty, the entire recording would disappear.
Thirteen, fourteen …

The twenty-second cache was the compromise the city’s big shots made with the civil liberties people, her mother had explained to her, after they got all pissed off, claiming the city’s surveillance system was an invasion of privacy. As a result, though, every time a twenty was recorded, it had to be reported, entered into a video log, and never erased. Before the compromise, the city had digitized and stored everything, easy enough to do, but soon the lawyers for every driver who’d been accused of running a red light demanded the video as some kind of proof of their clients’ innocence. She remembered her parents discussing it—“an evidentiary can of worms,” her mother complained.

Fifteen.
“Well, see that ambulance?” Tenley said. “And I think those are EMTs, see? I was thinking that if something happened down there, it might help someone if we—”

Sixteen.

“Help the police?” Dahlstrom did not look happy. “Why?”

Fine, she was only a peon and she was trying to help and Dr. Maddux had encouraged her to be more responsible. Assertive. Not afraid of people. So here she’d done that, done exactly that, and now her boss was frowning.

“In case…” she began, watching the count-up, knowing that in a few seconds, the past would be captured. This time, at least. There were no do-overs in life, her father always tried to tell her, as if she didn’t know that. But. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was her moment to make it happen.

Dahlstrom reached out his right hand and clicked her mouse. She saw his hand had a bruise on the top of it, right in the center. She’d Purell the mouse, Purell everything, after he left. She wished she could Purell the air. He clicked on the green light just as it reached nineteen. The light went red. White letters popped up.

Cache TERMINATED.

“Can of worms,” he said.

*   *   *

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be…” Jake aimed his Miranda warning at the poor schlub on the paramedics’ portable gurney. Had he even heard it? They’d hoisted the guy—passive, drooling, and shuddering for breath—onto the thin flat mattress, then cuffed his left leg to the manacle bracket welded to the foot of the cot. The EMTs pulled three black straps across his trembling body and fastened the shoulder-to-waist webbing on each side.

Jake finished the rights as one paramedic checked the plastic strap couplings. The patient—victim?—wore running shoes, cheap, the soles worn and blackened. Both knees of his jeans were ripped, showing lacerations and scratches on his legs, scratches that would certainly correlate to the crumbling bricks of the walk beside the Curley statue.

“How is he?” Jake began. “You see his ID? I didn’t want to look too hard.”

“Good call. Possible internal injuries. Could have hurt.” The older one hung the stethoscope back around his neck, shaking his head. “Heartbeat weak, pulse ox iffy. He’s unconscious, and more than banged up, Jake. We’ll get him to Mass General, check it out. Call you if we find ID. Okay, gang, let’s get him inside.”

They flapped open the rear doors of the orange-striped ambulance. The driver had pulled his vehicle nose-first into the alley’s entrance. He’d have to make a tough U-ey to get out.

Jake and D had holstered their weapons, and D stood watch near Calvin Hewlitt, still cuffed, now silently watching.

“Sir?” Jake took a step closer to the gurney, smelled beer and sweat and fear. The patient—suspect?—had his eyes closed. Jake saw an ugly red welt on the right side of his neck. “Sir?”

Nothing. The guy’s skin was pale, splotched with red. Could be drugs, or alcohol, or poverty, or panic. Why did people do what they did? But Jake didn’t need a motive to convict this man. With any luck there’d also be bystander photos and surveillance videos of him in the act.
So talk or not, buddy,
Jake thought.
We got you.

Jake stood, signaled to the paramedic.
Take him.
“Let’s get him outta here.”

The guy was going nowhere but the hospital, where he might recover, at least, and where, under armed guard, he’d get a doctor’s attention. They’d find ID. With a clean bill of health, or cleanish, at least, his next stop would be the Suffolk County lockup. Match the fingerprints on the knife—if there were any—with this guy’s? One and done. Shortest perp apprehension time ever. Even the hottest-shot defense attorney would have a tough time with that one. Case closed.

“Officers?” Calvin Hewlitt, still cuffed, had watched the whole thing, silent. “Might I remind you I exist?”

Shit.
Problem was, although the mute suspect was most certainly—well, probably—the stabber, Jake had no way to determine whether this Hewlitt was the hero he claimed to be, or was involved in some way.

A witness? A good Samaritan? A partner in crime? Who was who in this deal? Sure seemed like—but “seemed” didn’t matter.

“Just doing our jobs. Sir.” Jake tried to balance the proper police procedure with the potential outcomes. Getting sued for false arrest always loomed. Police brutality, although there clearly wasn’t any, would be a pain to handle. On the other hand, if this Hewlitt was part of the crime and Jake let him go, some theoretical lawsuit would be the least of Jake’s problems. Plus, either he or D would have to ride with the injured guy in the ambulance. Even strapped down and cuffed, no telling what might happen. Or what he might decide to say.

“We have to bring you downtown, sir.” Jake nodded at D, cocked his head toward the alley entrance.

“You’re taking me out there, in front of everyone, in freaking handcuffs?” Hewlitt’s face got even redder, the cords in his neck tightening, showing taut above his collar. “You don’t think that’s prejudicial? There’ll be a raft of TV cameras, hell knows what else. I’m warning you, Officers—”

D opened his mouth to protest, Jake raised a palm to stop him. Guy might have a point.

“If my picture gets on television in these handcuffs?” Hewlitt tried to gesture, failed. “I’ll own the damn police department. And I’ll own
you
.”

*   *   *

Bobby Land, totally psyched about his new name, had caught a flash of orange as the second ambulance made the sharp right into Franklin Alley, the same alley where the leather-jacketed cops had gone. An ambulance? With a suspect on the loose? Had to be connected. And where there was a connection, there was a good picture.

“Jane? I mean, Ms. Ryland?” Bobby touched her shoulder, just for an instant, didn’t want to spook her.

The reporter turned around, took the viewfinder from her right eye, pointed the camera at him, then at the pavement. He could tell she was deciding what to do. His life hung in the balance. Well, not really, but this chance meeting felt momentous. His chest tightened. If she ignored him, he’d push harder.

“Hang on, okay?” she said. She’d already turned back to the crowd, aiming her little camera at City Hall.

Good.
Bobby watched her back, saw her inching closer to the action, camera aimed steady, even in those high heels. He could tell she was kinda nervous about him, she’d retreated a little before, keeping her distance from him, but he couldn’t worry about that. She’d understand soon enough. And accept him.

But he couldn’t delay much longer. Whatever was going on in that alley was already under way. News would not wait for anyone, even Jane Ryland. Taking a chance,
seizing the moment,
like his professor always said, he took a few quick steps, got close enough to tap her on the shoulder again. He had the eye, and this was his chance to prove it to her. This would make his career.

10

Jane recoiled at the touch on her shoulder.

She’d told that annoying kid to wait. What was up with him? “Hang
on
,” she called over her shoulder.

The ambulance with the ME riding along pulled away. Maybe this kid—Bobby? Robby?—actually had witnessed what happened, maybe gotten photographs of it, as he’d said. She reminded herself to be wary. Someone at a story often tried to latch on to her, to any reporter, something about the lure of fame or celebrity, as if being near a person who was “on TV” had some cachet. Everyone had an agenda, even if it was only proximity. Why did everyone hate TV but lust after celebrity?

But if he had actual crime pictures, that’d be big. And Jane needed big. She needed exclusive. She needed something that would clinch her a job at Channel 2.

It bugged her, though, that the groupie vibe coming from this kid was getting louder and louder. Reporters thrived on news tips, but sometimes tipsters got too invested, deciding they were part of the team. And once under way, an escalating fantasy relationship was tough to untangle. Jane still had people calling her years after they’d contributed to a story. Maybe it was the power of revealing a secret, of being the one in the know. The power of
telling.
But what if this kid knew something? Couldn’t hurt to find out.

“Sorry,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I think it’s going down in Franklin Alley.”
Bobby
, she remembered. Land. Like the camera. “I saw two cops, plainclothes, heading down there. And now an ambulance. It’s, like, around the corner, so you can’t see, but maybe you should—”