Chris Mooney - The Secret Friend

Bryson came back on the line. 'That was Jonathan Hale. He wants to talk about what happened last night.'

'What did you tell him?'

'I told him you and I would meet and discuss the matter with him at his home at two. He lives in Weston. I'm at the station right now. You want me to swing by and pick you up?'

Darby gave Bryson her address. She hung up and filled Coop in on Malcolm Fletcher.

Coop sat in the leather chair by the window, squinting in the sunlight. 'I think it would be wise if I stayed with you for a bit,' he said.

Darby felt relieved. She didn't want him to go home. Not yet.

'I'll swing by my house and pick up some stuff,' Coop said.

'Are you going to wear any more of those ridiculous T-shirts?'

'It's either that or I sleep in the nude.'

A snapshot of him slipping into his jeans flashed through her mind. Her face reddened.

'Please,' he said. 'Don't fight me on this.'

'You can take my car.' Darby opened her desk drawer and removed the spare set of house and car keys. She tossed them and stood. 'I'm not going to cook for you.'

'What about backrubs?'

'Keep dreaming.'

'Not a problem,' Coop said.

Weston is Boston's suburban version of Nantucket, an exclusive enclave of predominantly rich whites who live in jaw-dropping multimillion-dollar mansions surrounded by acres of beautifully manicured lawns and woods. The town's poorest residents live in million-dollar shacks in order to take advantage of the school system, the best in the state of Massachusetts. Almost every high-school graduate is guaranteed acceptance into a top-tier Ivy college.

Jonathan Hale lived at the end of a private road. His mansion, a sprawling mass of modern architecture, sat on top of a hill. Workers sitting on John Deere lawnmowers equipped with ploughs were clearing snow from the long driveways.

A limo was parked in front of a garage, its bay door open, the interior lights on. Darby spotted a vintage Porsche, a convertible BMW and a car that looked like a Bentley.

'What do you think?' Tim Bryson asked as he pulled his old diesel Mercedes up to the front gate.

'Seems awfully cold,' Darby said.

'I was referring to the house.'

'I know.'

Bryson rolled down the window and pressed the intercom button.

A crackle of static, then a woman's voice said, 'Hello?'

'This is Detective Bryson. I'm here to see Mr Hale.'

'One moment, please.'

Standing inside the foyer, dressed in a pin-striped suit without a tie, was a tall man with a thick head of grey hair and a strong, handsome face pale with grief – Jonathan Hale. Darby recognized him immediately from the press conferences on TV.

Hale looked and carried himself like an old blue blood, only the image wasn't accurate. He had dropped out of Harvard during his sophomore year to build computers out of his parents' garage in Medford. Eight years later, he sold his mail-order computer company to a competitor and used the proceeds to buy residential property in Boston's highly desirable Back Bay.

With the income generated from his rental properties, he created a successful start-up business that developed financial software for investment firms. During the height of the dot-com craze, Hale sold the company for a staggering amount of money which he invested in commercial real-estate opportunities in Massachusetts. The man was Boston's version of Donald Trump, minus the bad hair, trophy wife and megalomaniac desire for self-promotion. According to the papers, Hale, who had never remarried following the death of his wife, was a huge contributor to a number of Catholic charities.

Bryson did the introductions.

'Maria is preparing lunch,' Hale said. His voice was raspy, tired, the words slightly slurred. 'Would either of you like something to eat or drink?'

'That's very kind of you, but we don't want to take up your time,' Bryson said. 'Is there a place where we can talk privately?'

Hale suggested his office.

Darby trailed behind the men, taking in the home with its vaulted ceilings and artful lighting. Japanese antiques were prominently displayed on walls and stands. Inside a restaurant-sized kitchen, an older Hispanic woman was busy working at the stove.

Jonathan Hale slowed his pace and looked over his shoulder at Darby. 'McCormick… You're the one who caught that killer that was all over the news.'

'Traveler,' Darby said.

'It's Dr McCormick now, isn't it?'

'Keeping tabs on me, Mr Hale?'

'It's rather difficult not to, young lady. You've become somewhat of a media sensation.'

Unfortunately, he was right. The Traveler case, the focus of national TV programmes like Dateline and 60 Minutes, now lived in perpetuity on cable shows such as Forensic Files, Court TV and A amp;E's Notorious. Darby had never given an interview but, because of her connection to Traveler, her name was constantly mentioned in the pieces along with pictures taken by photographers hiding in bushes or their cars. Her movements were even the focus of the 'Inside Track', a gossip column published by the Boston Herald.

Hale's office was spacious and bright, with bookcases and leather armchairs straight out of the Harvard Club. A fire was going. The warm room smelled of woodsmoke and cigars. Hale waited until they were seated.

'I talked with Mr Marsh this morning,' Hale said, stubbing out his cigar. 'He gave me the description of this man. Do you know who he is?'

Bryson took the lead. Darby wanted to take a back seat and observe.

'We don't,' Bryson said. 'What about you? Do you know this man?'

Hale appeared puzzled. 'Are you suggesting that I know the man who broke into my daughter's house?'

'It's just a routine question, Mr Hale.'

'No. I don't know who he is.'

'Have you ever seen a man matching the description?'

'No.' Hale picked up a highball glass containing what appeared to be bourbon. 'What was he doing there?'

'We're investigating several leads. Have you -'

'Detective Bryson, when I spoke to you this morning, you said it appears someone broke into my daughter's home. Did this person break into Emma's home or not?'

'We found no sign of forced entry on the door. We're wondering if the man had a key. How many people besides yourself have access to your daughter's place?'

'I have a key, as does Mr Marsh.'

'Have you made any other copies?'

'No.'

'Have you given your keys to anyone?'

'No, I haven't. I don't want anyone inside Emma's place.'

'Then why did you give Mr Marsh a key?'

'He has keys to every unit. He's the building's security administrator. He needs a key in case there's a problem.'

'Does Mr Marsh know Emma's alarm code?'

'I would assume so. He has access to the building's security system. The computer lists the alarm code for each unit. Emma's alarm has been turned off since her… abduction. I had it turned off, at your request, when you had people coming in and out.'

'Why haven't you turned it back on?'

'To be honest, I haven't really thought about it.' Hale finished his drink. 'Pardon me for saying this, detective, but I have the feeling this is turning into some sort of interrogation.'

'I apologize,' Bryson said. 'I'm trying to understand, as I'm sure you are, what this person was doing inside your daughter's home.'

Hale shifted his attention to Darby. 'I understand you spoke with this person.'

Darby nodded.

Hale waited for her to speak. When she didn't, he said, 'Are you going to tell me what he said? Or are you going to keep me in the dark?'

Tim Bryson answered the question. 'It's part of our investigation.'

Hale's gaze never left Darby. 'Why did you want access to my daughter's home, Dr McCormick?'