Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

Maura looked down at the pages. “It’s over. It is over,” she repeated, as if trying to convince herself.

No, it’s not, thought Jane, seeing the struggle on Maura’s face. It’s not over for either one of you.

Jane glanced down as her cell phone played a familiar ring tone: “Frosty the Snowman.” “Hey,” she answered. “I’m still with Maura. What’s up?”

“Sometimes a guy just gets lucky,” Frost said.

Jane snorted. “Okay, what’s her name?”

“I don’t know. But I’m starting to think our killer may not be a man.”

“I wasn’t even looking for a woman. That’s how I missed spotting her the first time I watched these surveillance videos,” said Frost. “At the time, we had no idea the two cases might be linked, so I never thought to watch these in succession. But after Maura came up with her theory, I went back to these videos again. To see if there was anyone who attended both Cassandra’s and Timothy’s memorial services.” He swiveled his laptop on his desk to face Jane. “And look what I found.”

She leaned closer to study the image caught in freeze-frame on Frost’s computer. It showed half a dozen people filing toward the camera, all of them somber-faced and dressed in wintry black.

“This is the video of Cassandra Coyle’s memorial service,” said Frost. “The camera was mounted right over the church entrance, so it captured everyone who walked in the door.” He pointed to the laptop screen. “You remember those two women, right?”

“How could I forget? Team Elaine. They were sitting right behind me, making nasty remarks about Priscilla Coyle all through the service.”

“And those three.” Frost pointed at a familiar trio walking right behind the two older women. “Cassandra’s colleagues from the film studio.”

“Can’t mistake ’em. No one else in that crowd had violet hair.”

“Now look at this young woman here, just to the left of the filmmakers. Do you remember seeing her at the service?”

Jane leaned in to study the woman’s face. She appeared to be about the same age as Cassandra, perhaps in her mid-twenties, a slim, attractive brunette with dark bangs cut in a blunt fringe. “Only vaguely. I may have seen her in the crowd, but there were two hundred people in that church. Why are you focusing on her?”

“The thing is, I didn’t. Not the first time. When I went through this video and the video from Timothy McDougal’s funeral, I was focusing on the men. I didn’t pay much attention to the women. Then I happened to freeze the frame right at this point. This is the only clear view you get of the woman’s face, peeking over Travis Chang’s shoulder. You can’t really see her again, because she ducks her head down after this shot. Keep her face in mind.” Frost minimized the image and brought up a different image. It was another freeze-frame, showing a dozen people, again dressed in dark clothes. Again with somber faces.

“Different church,” said Jane.

“Right. It’s the video from Timothy McDougal’s service. Now watch as these people walk into the church.” Frost forwarded the video frame by frame and stopped. “Look who pops up at this service too.”

Jane stared at the woman’s dark hair, the heart-shaped face. “Are you sure it’s the same woman?”

“It sure as hell looks like her. Same haircut, same face. And look closely at the plaid scarf she’s wearing. Same colors, same pattern. That’s her, all right. But it seems like she brought someone with her this time.” Frost pointed to a sandy-haired man who stood at the woman’s shoulder. They were holding hands.

“Did you see this man anywhere in the Cassandra Coyle video?”

“No. He’s only at Timothy’s funeral.”

“So we finally have a link between these two murders,” said Jane softly. She turned in astonishment to Frost. “And it’s a woman.”

Everett is getting to be a problem.

I knew this would happen. He’s the sort of man who craves deep connections, who actually likes waking up in bed with the woman he fucked the night before. It has been my experience that 90 percent of men my age don’t want to wake up with a woman. They’d rather hook up with a girl they found on Tinder, enjoy their quickie, then go their merry way. No dinner, no date, no need to rack their poor little brains for topics of conversation. We’re all like billiard balls these days, briefly bouncing up against each other and then rolling away. For the most part, that’s exactly the way I like it too. Uncomplicated and unencumbered. Come on, baby, rock my world; now get out of here.

This is not what Everett wants. He stands in my apartment doorway, holding a bottle of red wine, a tentative smile on his face. “You haven’t returned my calls the last few days,” he says. “I thought maybe if I dropped by, we might spend the evening talking. Or go out to dinner. Or just have a glass of wine.”

“I’m sorry, but my life is crazy right now. And I’m just on my way out the door.”

He looks at my coat, which I’m already buttoning, and sighs. “Of course. You’ve got places to go.”

“Actually, I have to go to work.”

“At six in the evening?”

“Don’t, Everett. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It’s just that I really felt something between us. And then suddenly you got skittish again. Did I do something? Say something wrong?”

I accept his bottle of wine, set it on the table by the door, and step out into the hallway. “I need a little breathing space right now, that’s all.” I lock the door behind me.

“I get that. You’re independent; you told me that. I like my independence too.”

Sure you do. That’s why you were standing in my doorway, eyeing me like a worshipful puppy dog. Not that it’s such a bad thing. A girl can always use a loyal hound, someone who’ll adore her and overlook her faults and keep her happy in bed. A man who’ll lend her money and fetch her bowls of chicken soup when she’s sick. A man who’ll do whatever she asks him to.

Even things he shouldn’t do.

“Oh, look at the time. I really have to get going,” I tell him. “I need to be at the Harvard Coop in half an hour.”

“What’s happening at the Coop?”

“One of my clients is doing a book-signing, and it’s my job to make sure everything runs smoothly. You’re welcome to come, but you can’t be my date. You have to act like just another one of her fans.”

“I can do that. Who’s the author?”

“Victoria Avalon.”

He gives me a blank stare, which makes me think better of him. Anyone who actually recognizes the name Victoria Avalon is, by my definition, a moron.

“She’s a reality-TV star,” I explain. “She was briefly married to Luke Jelco.” Again he gives me a blank stare. “You know, the tight end? New England Patriots?”

“Oh, football. Right. So your client wrote a book?”

“Her name’s on it anyway. In the publishing business, that’s close enough.”

“You know what? I’d love to come. It’s been a while since I went to a book-signing at the Coop. Last year I met the woman who wrote the definitive biography of Bulfinch, the architect. It was kind of sad, because only three people showed up.”

For a biography of Charles Bulfinch, three people would constitute a crowd.

“I hope to God more than three people show up tonight,” I tell him as we walk out of the building. “Or I’ll be out of a job.”

Even snooty Harvard students aren’t immune to the siren call of celebrity tits and ass. They’ve shown up in droves, filling every seat in the small performance area on the third floor of the Harvard Coop bookstore. They’re packed into the aisles of science and technology books and they even spill over onto the curving staircase. Hundreds of brainiacs, the future leaders of the free world, have come to worship at the feet of Victoria Avalon, who, and I swear this is true, once asked me: “How do you spell IQ?” The large crowd has made Victoria very happy tonight. Only last week she was yelling at me over the phone because I couldn’t get enough media coverage for her new memoir. Tonight she’s at her seductive best, beaming, wriggling, touching the arm of every fan who’s come to get her autograph. Whether men or women, they’re all enthralled. The women want to be her, and the men want to — well, we know exactly what the men want.