Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“But I’ve been here forever. My uncle started this travel agency in the seventies, back when folks appreciated a little guidance in their travel planning. We used to book a lot of trips to Hong Kong and Taiwan, what with Chinatown right down the street. Now everyone just goes online and gets whatever crappy deal pops up on their computer. This is a safe neighborhood, and I don’t remember any murders around here. I mean, except for that shooting across the way on Knapp Street.” He paused. “And that guy who got whacked in the warehouse.” Another pause. “And, oh, yeah, there was the time when—”

“Here we go,” said Frost.

Jane focused on the screen, where the time stamp now said 5:05 P.M. “You see anything?”

“Not yet,” said Frost.

“At that particular time, I was in Boca Raton,” Benny said. “Got my airline receipts and everything, in case you want to see them.”

Jane did not want to see them. She pulled up a chair next to Frost and sat down. Watching surveillance video was one of those mind-numbing tasks that promised hours of boredom and the occasional adrenaline jolt of eureka . According to Cassandra’s three colleagues, she had left the Crazy Ruby Films studio at around 6:00 P.M., after spending all day working on the edits of Mr. Simian . From the studio, it was only a ten-minute walk home to Utica Street. If she entered Utica from Beach Street, she would have walked right past this camera.

So where was she?

Frost sped up the video, and the minutes ticked by in double time. Cars glided past. Pedestrians moved in and out of the frame in jerky fast-forward. No one turned onto Utica Street.

“Six-thirty,” said Frost.

“So she didn’t go straight home from work.”

“Or we missed her,” said Benny, as if he were now part of the team. He was looming right behind Jane, staring over her shoulder. “She could have entered the other end of Utica, from Kneeland Street. In which case my camera wouldn’t catch her.”

That was not what Jane wanted to hear, but Benny was right; Cassandra might have entered Utica unseen by this or any camera.

Benny was breathing right on her neck, and his snuffling breaths made her think of winter viruses. She tried to ignore him and stay focused on the video. Monday night had been frigid, only sixteen degrees, and the pedestrians walking past the camera were all dressed for the cold in bulky coats and scarves and hats. If one of the passersby was Cassandra, would they even be able to identify her? As Jane leaned closer, so did Benny, spewing germs on her neck with every breath.

“Mr. Lima, could you do us a big favor?” she said.

“Yeah. Sure!”

“I noticed a coffee shop right down the street. My partner and I could really use some coffee right now.”

“Whaddya want? Lattes? Cappuccinos? They got all kinds.”

She dug a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse and handed it to him. “Black with sugar. For both of us.”

“You got it.” He pulled on a down coat that was so massive, he looked like a cumulus cloud rolling toward the door. “Happy to be of service to Boston PD!”

Don’t hurry back, she thought, as the door swung shut behind him.

On the computer screen, the video time stamp advanced to 8:10 and the parade of pedestrians slowly thinned out. By now Cassandra should have made it home, which meant she’d entered Utica Street from the other direction. Damn it, we missed her.

“Bingo,” Frost suddenly said.

Jane snapped to attention, her eyes back on the screen, where Frost had captured an image in freeze-frame.

Two figures were fused into a single silhouette, caught just as they were turning onto Utica Street. Though Jane could not see the faces, it was clear by the height and width of the shoulders that the taller one was a man. The smaller figure seemed to be leaning into him, her head resting on his shoulder. Jane stared at the two-headed figure, trying to make out any identifying features, but the faces were obscured by darkness.

“Cassandra was five foot six. If that’s her, then the man’s got to be at least six feet tall,” she said.

“This was at eight-fifteen P.M.,” said Frost. “If she left the studio at six, where’s she been? Where did she meet this guy?”

Jane focused on what was slung over one of the man’s shoulders: a backpack. She thought of what he might be carrying in that pack. Latex gloves. Surgical instruments. Everything the well-prepared killer needed to perform his bizarre postmortem ritual.

The touch of Benny’s hand on her shoulder almost made her jump out of the chair.

“Hey, it’s just me! Got your coffees.” Benny handed her a cup.

She settled back, heart thumping, and took a gulp of coffee that was so hot she burned her tongue. Slow down. Take your time.

“Is that him?” asked Benny.

Jane turned to see him staring at the screen. He, at least, they could eliminate as a suspect. No mere jacket could hide a man as big as a house. “Let’s just call him a person of interest.”

“And you saw him on my security camera! Cool.”

But this glimpse was all too brief, just a shadow of two people flitting across the screen. “Fast-forward,” said Jane. “Let’s see if we can catch him as he leaves.”

The time stamp spun forward — 9:00 P.M.;10:00.

At 11:10 P.M., Frost froze the image.

“And there you are,” said Jane softly. The man’s face was shadowed by his jacket hood, so they could not make out his features. Once again, the backpack was slung over his shoulder.

“He enters Utica Street with the victim at eight-fifteen,” said Frost. “Exits at eleven-ten. Three hours later.”

Which gave him more than enough time to kill and mutilate. What else were you doing in her apartment during those three hours? Enjoying the view? She thought of Cassandra Coyle, so serenely posed in bed, the cause of her death still unknown. A drug, a toxin? How do you talk a victim into swallowing poison? Did Cassandra know that death was being offered to her?

“He doesn’t show his face at all,” said Frost. “We can’t tell his age or his race. All we can assume is, he’s a man. Or a very big woman.”

“There’s something else we know,” said Jane.

“What?”

“This was no stranger.” Jane looked at Frost. “She brought him home with her.”

Cassandra Coyle’s funeral was a war zone.

From her seat in the sixth pew of St. Ann’s Church, Jane watched the poisonous looks fly back and forth like arrows between the enemy camps of Matthew Coyle’s ex-wife, Elaine, and his current wife, Priscilla. In the pew behind Jane, women were gossiping about the second wife, and none too quietly.

“Look at her. Pretending like she actually cared about the poor girl.”

“What on earth did Matthew ever see in her?”

“Her money, of course. What else? She’s all plastic, from her face to her credit cards.”

“Poor Elaine. Having to sit in the same church with her on such an awful day.”

Jane glanced back to see two women in their fifties, their heads bent together, united in disapproval. Like Matthew Coyle’s first wife, Elaine, they no doubt belonged to the sisterhood of wives who both feared and despised women like Priscilla, who swooped in and snatched away weak-willed husbands. That sisterhood had shown up today in full force, and some openly glared as Priscilla stood up to address the gathering of mourners. For this very public funeral, Priscilla had spared no expense, and her stepdaughter’s coffin was crafted from gleaming rosewood and adorned with a lavish spray of white gladiolus. She stopped to touch the closed coffin, a theatrical pause that made even Jane cringe, and then moved to the microphone.