Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“These two were so close,” said Jane. “Somehow she has to know. Deep in her heart, she must realize he’s gone.” She looked down at the coffee table, where issues of Architectural Digest were neatly splayed out, as though arranged by a stylist. It was a perfect living room in a perfect house in what had been a perfect life for Susan Sullivan. Now she was in the bathroom hugging the toilet bowl, and her son was almost certainly decomposing in a grave.

A toilet flushed. Footsteps approached in the hallway and Susan reappeared, her face grim, her shoulders bravely squared.

“I want to know how they died,” she said. “What happened to Cassandra? To Timothy?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan, but these are active investigations,” said Jane.

“You said they were murdered.”

“Yes.”

“I deserve to know more. Tell me.”

After a moment, Jane finally nodded. “Please sit down.”

Susan sank into the wingback chair. Although she was still pale, there was steel in her eyes, in her spine. “When did these murders happen?”

That much, at least, Jane could tell her. Dates were public knowledge, reported in the newspapers. “Cassandra Coyle was killed on December sixteenth, Timothy McDougal on December twenty-fourth.”

“Christmas Eve,” murmured Susan. She stared across the room at an empty chair, as if seeing her son’s ghost lingering there. “That night, Billy and I cooked a goose for dinner. We spent all day in the kitchen, laughing. Drinking wine. Then we opened presents and watched old movies until one in the morning, just the two of us...” She paused, and her gaze snapped back to Jane. “Is that man out of prison?” She didn’t have to say his name; they knew who she was talking about.

“Martin Stanek was released in October,” said Jane.

“Where was he the night my son vanished?”

“We haven’t established that yet.”

“Arrest him. Force him to talk!”

“We’re trying to locate him. And we can’t arrest him without evidence.”

“It’s not the first time he’s killed,” said Susan. “There was that little girl Lizzie. He kidnapped her, killed her. Everyone knew it, except for that stupid jury. If they’d just listened to the prosecution, that man would still be in prison. And my son — my Billy—” She turned her head, unable to look at them. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Please go.”

“Mrs. Sullivan—”

“Please.”

Reluctantly, Jane and Frost rose to their feet. They’d learned nothing useful here; all the visit had accomplished was to destroy any hope this woman might have clung to. It had not brought them any closer to finding Martin Stanek.

Back in their car, Jane and Frost cast one final look at the house where a woman was now alone, her life in ruins. Through the living-room window, Jane saw Susan’s silhouette, pacing back and forth, and she was glad to be out of that house, glad to be breathing air that wasn’t sodden with grief. “How did he do it?” she asked. “How did Stanek bring down a healthy six-foot man like Billy Sullivan?”

“Ketamine and booze. He used it before.”

“But this time there must have been a struggle of some kind. The lab confirmed that the blood in the car was Billy Sullivan’s, so he must have fought back.” She started the car. “Let’s take a drive to the golf course. I want to see where his BMW was found.”

Brookline PD had already searched the site and found nothing, and there was nothing to see on this gloomy afternoon either. Jane parked at the edge of the golf course and surveyed the ice-crusted lawn. Sleet ticked the windshield and slid in melting rivulets down the glass. She saw no security cameras nearby; what happened on this stretch of road had gone unseen by any witness, electronic or human, but the blood inside Billy’s BMW told a story, even though it had been only a few splashes on the dashboard.

“The killer abandons the car here, but where did he pick up the victim?” said Jane.

“If he followed the same pattern as the other two, alcohol would’ve been involved. A bar, a restaurant. It was late in the evening.”

Once again, she started the engine. “Let’s check out where he worked.”

By the time Jane pulled into the parking lot of Cornwell Investments, it was 6:00 P.M. and the other businesses on the street were already closed, but the windows were lit in the building where Bill Sullivan had worked.

“Four cars in the parking lot,” observed Jane. “Someone’s working late.”

Frost pointed to the security camera mounted in the parking lot. “That must be the camera that caught him leaving the building.”

Surveillance video was how they knew that Bill Sullivan had walked into the building at eight-fifteen on a Friday night. At ten-thirty he walked out again, climbed into his BMW, and drove away. And then what happened? Jane wondered. How did Sullivan’s bloodstained BMW end up abandoned a few miles away, at the edge of the golf course?

Jane pushed open her door. “Let’s have a chat with his colleagues.”

The front entrance was locked, and window blinds obscured their view into the ground-floor office. Jane knocked on the door and waited. Knocked again.

“I know someone’s inside,” said Frost. “I saw a guy walk past the window upstairs.”

Jane pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll give them a call, see if they’re still answering the phone.”

Before she could tap in the numbers, the door suddenly swung open. A man loomed before them, silent and poker-faced, and he eyed his visitors up and down, as if trying to decide if they were worth his attention. He was dressed in standard business attire — white oxford shirt, wool slacks, a bland blue tie — but his haircut and his commanding presence gave him away. Jane had seen that same haircut on other men in his profession.

“This business is closed for the night,” he said.

Jane looked past him, at the other people in the office. A man sat staring at a computer, his shirtsleeves rolled up as if he’d already spent hours at that desk. A woman in a skirt suit whisked past, carrying a cardboard box overflowing with file folders.

“I’m Detective Rizzoli, Boston PD,” said Jane. “Which agency do you work for? What’s going on here?”

“This is not your jurisdiction, ma’am.” The man started to close the door.

She put up a hand to stop it. “We’re investigating an abduction and possible homicide.”

“Whose?”

“Bill Sullivan.”

“Bill Sullivan no longer works here.”

The door swung shut and a deadbolt thunked into place. Jane and Frost were left staring at the CORNWELL INVESTMENTS brass plaque mounted on the door.

“This just got a lot more interesting,” said Jane.

I’m being watched. Phil and Audrey whisper and shoot furtive glances my way, the sort of looks you give to someone who’s doomed with a terminal illness. Last week, Victoria Avalon fired Booksmart Media, and now she’s signed on with some glitzy New York publicity firm. Although my boss, Mark, hasn’t come right out and blamed me for losing our client, of course that’s what everyone else is thinking. Even though I did everything I could to promote that stupid memoir, which Victoria didn’t even write. Now I’m down to only eleven author-clients, I’m worried I’m about to lose my job, and the police won’t stop tailing me.

And somewhere out there, Martin Stanek is circling in for the kill.

I notice Mark approaching my desk, and I quickly swivel toward my computer to work on the pitch letter for the breathtaking new novel by Saul Gresham . The letter’s only half written, and so far all I’ve got are the usual tired superlatives. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I search for something new and fresh to say about this truly awful book, but what I really want to type is: I hate my job I hate my job I hate my job.