Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“She must already know that her son’s dead,” said Frost.

“But she doesn’t know the worst of it yet. And I’m sure as hell not going to tell her how he probably died.” Buried alive, like Saint Vitalis . Or had the killer been merciful and made certain that his victim was no longer breathing when he tossed the first shovelful of dirt onto the corpse? Jane did not want to think of the alternative: that Billy was still alive and conscious, trapped in a box as frozen clods thumped onto his coffin. Or bound and helpless in an open grave, choking on soil as it rained down on his face. This was where nightmares came from; it was what the job could do to her, if she let it.

“Come on. Sooner or later, we have to talk to her,” said Frost.

At the front door, Frost rang the bell and they waited, shivering, as sleet tapped the pavement and shrubs. Inside, Billy Sullivan’s mother would be terrified, anticipating bad news while desperately keeping alive some small flame of hope. Jane could always see that hope flickering in the faces of victims’ families; too often, Jane was forced to snuff out that flame.

The woman who opened the door did not invite them in but stood barring the entrance for a moment, as if reluctant to let tragedy step into her house. Pale and dry-eyed, her face as stiff as molded wax, Susan Sullivan was desperately trying to stay in control. Her blond hair was swept back and lacquered in place, and her cream-colored knit pants and pink sweater set would have looked right at home at a country-club luncheon. Today, which could very well be the worst day of her life, she had chosen to wear pearls.

“Mrs. Sullivan,” said Jane. “I’m Detective Rizzoli, Boston PD. This is Detective Frost. May we come in?”

The woman finally nodded and moved aside to let Jane and Frost step into the foyer. There was a painful silence as they removed their damp coats. Even with the threat of terrible news hanging over her, Susan did not neglect her duty as a hostess, and with brittle efficiency she hung up their coats in the closet and led them into the living room. Jane’s attention was instantly riveted by an oil painting that hung above the fieldstone fireplace. It was a portrait of a golden-haired young man, his handsome face tilted toward the light, his lips curved in a quietly amused smile.

Her son, Billy.

This was not the only picture of him. Everywhere Jane looked in the room, she saw photos of Billy. There he was on the mantelpiece at graduation, a mortarboard angled jauntily on his blond hair. On the grand piano were silver-framed pictures of Billy as a toddler, as an adolescent, as a sunburned teen grinning from a sailboat. Nowhere did Jane see any photos of the boy’s father; there was only Billy, who was clearly the object of Susan’s adoration.

“I know it embarrasses him, having all these pictures of him here,” said Susan. “But I’m so proud of him. He’s the best son any mother could ask for.”

She was talking about him in the present tense, that flame of hope still burning bright.

“Is there a Mr. Sullivan?” asked Frost.

“There is,” Susan answered tersely. “As well as a second Mrs . Sullivan. Billy’s father left us when Billy was only twelve years old. We almost never hear from him, and we don’t need to hear from him. We’ve done just fine on our own. Billy’s taken very good care of me.”

“Where is your ex-husband now?”

“Living somewhere in Germany with his other family. But we don’t need to talk about him.” She paused and for an instant her composure cracked, revealing a glimpse of devastation in her eyes. “Have you found — do you know anything else?” she whispered.

“Brookline PD remains in charge of the investigation, Mrs. Sullivan,” said Jane. “His disappearance is still classified as a missing-persons case.”

“But you’re with Boston PD.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“On the phone, you told me you’re with homicide.” Susan’s voice quavered. “Does that mean you believe...”

“It just means we’re looking at all angles, considering all possibilities,” said Frost, quick to respond to the woman’s distress. “I know you’ve talked extensively to Brookline PD, and I know it’s difficult to go through this again, but maybe you’ll remember something new. Something that will help us find your son. You last saw Billy on Monday night?”

Susan nodded, her hands twisting in her lap. “We had dinner together at home. Roast chicken,” she added, smiling faintly at the memory. “Afterward, he needed to catch up on some work at his office. So he left, around eight o’clock.”

“I understand he works in finance?”

“He’s a portfolio manager at Cornwell Investments. He has some very-high-net-worth clients who demand a lot of attention, so Billy works hard to keep them happy. But don’t ask me what he actually does there.” She gave a sheepish shake of the head. “I scarcely understand anything to do with money, so Billy manages my investments, and he’s done it very well. Which is why we were able to buy this house together. I never could have afforded it without his help.”

“Your son lives here with you?”

“Yes. It’s way too much house for just me. Five bedrooms, four fireplaces.” Susan gazed up at the twelve-foot ceiling. “I’d be awfully lonely rattling around here by myself, and ever since his father left us, Billy and I have been a team. I look after him; he looks after me. It’s a perfect arrangement.”

No wonder her son never married, thought Jane. Who could possibly compete with this woman?

“Tell us about Monday evening, Mrs. Sullivan,” Frost prompted gently. “What happened after your son left the house?”

“He said he’d be working late at the office, so I went to bed around ten. The next morning, when I woke up, I realized he never came home. He didn’t answer his phone, so I knew something was wrong. I called the police, and a few hours later, they...” Susan paused. Cleared her throat. “They found his car, abandoned near the golf course. His keys were still in the ignition, and his briefcase was on the front seat. And there was blood.” Her hands were twisting again in her lap, the only visible clue to her turmoil. If and when this woman finally lost control and allowed her grief to roar out, it would be unbearable to watch, thought Jane.

“The police said there’s parking-lot surveillance video, and it shows Billy leaving his office around ten-thirty. But no one’s seen or heard from him since,” said Susan. “Not his colleagues at the office. Not his secretary. No one.” She looked at Frost with haunted eyes. “If you know what happened, you have to be honest with me. I can’t stand the silence.”

“As long as he hasn’t been found, there’s always hope, Mrs. Sullivan,” said Frost.

“Yes. Hope.” Susan took a deep breath and straightened. Back in control. “You said the Brookline police are in charge. I don’t understand where Boston PD comes in.”

“Your son’s disappearance may be linked to other cases we’re investigating in Boston,” said Jane.

“Which cases?”

“Do you remember the name Cassandra Coyle? Or Timothy McDougal?”

For a moment Susan sat very still, searching for some long-lost memory. When the revelation hit her, it was sudden, and her eyes abruptly snapped wide. “The Apple Tree.”

Jane nodded. “Both Cassandra and Timothy were recently murdered, and now your son has gone missing. We believe these cases may be—”

“Excuse me. I’m going to be sick.” Susan lurched to her feet and fled the room. They heard the slam of the bathroom door.

“Jesus,” said Frost. “I hate this.”

A clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece. Beside it was a photo of Billy and his mother, both of them grinning from a motor yacht with the words El Tesoro, Acapulco emblazoned on the stern.