Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“Maybe it was an OD,” suggested Frost.

“That’s certainly high on the list. The drug and tox screen will give us that answer.” Maura stripped off her gloves. “She’ll be first on my schedule tomorrow.”

Jane followed Maura out of the bedroom. “Is there anything you want to talk about, Maura?”

“I can’t tell you more until the autopsy.”

“I don’t mean about this case.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“On the phone, you said you were in Framingham. Please tell me you didn’t go to see that woman.”

Calmly, Maura buttoned up her coat. “You make it sound like I’ve committed a crime.”

“So you were there. I thought we both agreed you should stay away from her.”

“Amalthea’s been admitted to the ICU, Jane. She had complications from her chemotherapy, and I have no idea how much longer she’ll be alive.”

“She’s using you, playing on your sympathy. Geez, Maura, you’re just going to get hurt again.”

“You know, I really don’t want to talk about this.” Without a backward glance, Maura headed down the stairs and walked out of the building. Outside, a frigid wind funneled down the street, lashing her hair and face. As she walked toward her car, she heard the building door slam shut again. Glancing back, she saw that Jane had followed her outside.

“What does she want from you?” Jane asked.

“She’s dying of cancer. What do you think she wants? Maybe a little sympathy?”

“She’s messing with your head. She knows how to get to you. Look how she twisted her son.”

“You think I’d ever be like him ?”

“Of course not! But you said it yourself once. You said you were born with the same streak of darkness that runs in the Lank family. Somehow she’ll find a way to use that to her advantage.”

Maura unlocked her Lexus. “I’ve got enough problems on my plate. I don’t need a lecture from you.”

“Okay, okay.” Jane held up both hands, a gesture of surrender. “I’m just looking out for you. You’re usually so smart. Please don’t do something stupid.”

Maura watched as Jane strode back to the crime scene. Back to the bedroom where a dead woman lay, her body frozen in rigor mortis. A woman with no eyes.

Suddenly Amalthea’s words came back to her: You’ll find another one soon.

Turning, she quickly scanned the street, surveying every doorway, every window. Was that a face watching her from the second floor? Did someone move in that alleyway? Everywhere she looked, she imagined ominous silhouettes. This was what Jane had warned her about. This was Amalthea’s power; she’d parted the curtain to reveal a nightmarish landscape where everything was painted in shadows.

Shivering, Maura climbed into her car and started the engine. Icy air blasted from the heater vent. It was time to go home.

Time to flee the darkness.

From the coffee shop where I’m sitting, I watch the two women talking just outside the window. I recognize both of them, because I’ve seen them interviewed on television and have read about them in the news, usually in connection to murder. The one with the unruly dark hair is a homicide detective, and the tall woman in the long, elegant coat is the medical examiner. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can read their body language, the cop aggressively gesticulating, the doctor trying to retreat.

Abruptly the detective turns and walks away. The doctor stands very still for a moment, as if not certain whether to pursue her. Then she shakes her head in resignation, climbs into a sleek black Lexus, and drives away.

I wonder what that was all about?

I already know what drew them here on this bitterly cold night. An hour ago, I heard it on the news: A young woman has been murdered on Utica Street. The same street where Cassandra Coyle lives.

I peer down the entrance to Utica, but there’s nothing to see except the flashing lights of police cruisers. Does Cassandra now lie dead, or is it some other unlucky woman? I haven’t seen Cassie since middle school, and I wonder if I’d even recognize her. Certainly she would not recognize the new me, the Holly who now stands straight and looks you in the eye, who no longer lurks on the periphery, envying the golden girls. The years have polished my confidence and my sense of fashion. My black hair is now cut in a sleek bob, I’ve learned to walk in stilettos, and I’m wearing a two-hundred-dollar blouse that I shrewdly bought from the 75 percent — off rack. When you work as a publicist, you learn that appearances count, so I’ve adapted.

“What’s going on out there? Do you know?” a voice asks.

The man has materialized beside me so suddenly that I flinch in surprise. Usually I’m aware of everyone in my proximity, but I was focused on the police activity outside the coffee shop and I didn’t notice his approach. Hot guy is the first thing I think when I look at him. He’s a few years older than I am, in his mid-thirties, with a lean athletic build, blue eyes, and wheat-colored hair. I deduct a few points because he’s drinking a latte, and at this time of night, real men drink espresso. I’m willing to overlook that flaw because of those gorgeous blue eyes. They aren’t focused on me right now but on the activity outside the window. On all the official vehicles that have converged on the street where Cassandra Coyle lives.

Or lived.

“All those police cars out there,” he says. “I wonder what happened.”

“Something bad.”

He points. “Look, there’s the Channel Six van.”

We both sit for a moment sipping our drinks, watching the action on the street. Now another TV news van arrives, and several other patrons in the coffee shop gravitate to the window. I feel them pressing in around me, jostling for a better view. The sight of a mere police car isn’t enough to excite most jaded Bostonians, but when the TV cameras show up, our antennae perk up, because now we know that this is more than a fender bender or a double-parked car. Something newsworthy has happened.

As if to confirm our instincts, the white van from the medical examiner’s office rolls into view. Is it here to fetch Cassandra or some other unlucky victim? The sight of that van makes my pulse suddenly kick into a gallop. Don’t let it be her, I think. Let it be someone else, someone I don’t know.

“Uh-oh, medical examiner’s van,” says Blue Eyes. “That’s not good.”

“Did anyone see what happened?” a woman asks.

“Just a lot of police showing up.”

“Anyone hear gunshots or anything?”

“You were here first,” Blue Eyes says to me. “What did you see?”

Everyone looks in my direction. “The police cars were already here when I walked in. It must have happened some time ago.”

The others stand watching, hypnotized by the flashing lights. Blue Eyes settles onto the stool right beside me and tips sugar into his inappropriate-for-the-evening latte. I wonder if he chose that seat because he wants a ringside view of the action outside or if he’s trying to be friendly. The latter would be fine with me. In fact, I’m feeling an electric tingle up my thigh as my body automatically responds to his. I haven’t come here looking for company, but it’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a man’s intimate attentions. More than a month, if you don’t count the quickie hand job last week with the valet at the Colonnade Hotel.

“So. Do you live around here?” he asks. A promising opening, though unimaginative.

“No. Do you?”

“I live in the Back Bay. I was supposed to meet friends at the Italian restaurant down the street, but I’m way too early. Thought I’d stop in for coffee.”