Mary Burton - Cold Case Cop

Thin lips dipped into a frown as Reston stared at the glowing picture of Kit. Jealousy burned in her eyes. Reston had clearly hated Kit. “No reporter has cared a wit for Mr. Landover or all the good works he’s done since Kit Westgate came into his life. Everyone just cared about her. Why can’t your type leave him alone?”

The your type comment had Tara bristling, but she kept her cool. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions. I only need a few minutes of his time.”

“I know Kit Westgate is just a story to you, but she devastated Mr. Landover’s life. The woman was in league with the devil as far as I’m concerned. And frankly, I don’t care if we ever find out what happened to her. Drop this story.”

The show of emotion interested Tara. “You really hated her, didn’t you?”

Mrs. Reston hesitated, realizing she’d let too much of her emotions show through her stoic Boston reserve. “Leave this house before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing. And don’t ever come back here or try to speak to Mr. Landover again.”

Tara could just imagine Miriam’s and Kirkland’s expressions when word reached them that she’d been arrested for harassing Mrs. Reston. Kirkland’s dark gaze was the hardest to banish.

Tara crossed the threshold to the front stoop. She turned. “Mrs. Reston, when was the last time you actually saw Kit?”

Mrs. Reston slammed the door in her face.

For a moment, Tara stood there, staring at the polished brass knocker just inches from her nose.

It wasn’t even noon, and Kirkland, her editor and Landover’s personal assistant had warned her off this story.

Why didn’t they want the case reopened? Solving it would be a huge coup for the police and the paper. And it would bring resolution to Kit’s family.

Tara shoved the newspaper into her briefcase and started toward her car. Her body tingled like it did when she felt as if she’d hit upon a great story.

She sensed that if she kept showing her mock-up around Boston she was going to coax a few hidden facts out of someone.

Smiling, Tara started to whistle as she slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine. She turned on the radio and cranked it loud. “There’s no doubt about it. I’m on the right track.”

Monday, July 14, 10:45 a.m.

Tara was glad to leave the Beacon Hill district. She cut through side streets, winding her way north for several miles until she reached the north end.

This part of town always brought her blood pressure down. She loved the narrow, winding streets and the four-story brick apartment houses. No one here had a yard, and during summer evenings neighbors often set up chairs on the sidewalk to chat. The taverns had a homey feel to them. The shops were practical, not pretentious. The food was hearty and not gourmet. This was where the working class people lived.

She checked her notes to confirm Marco Borelli’s address. Marco had been Kit’s chauffeur—the one man besides her husband who’d spent the most time with her. There’d been reports that the two had often talked quietly to each other, and some rumors suggested they had been having an affair. However, nothing was ever proven.

Tara wove down a collection of side streets into a poorer section of town. She parked in front of an apartment house that looked in need of renovation.

She got out of the car and climbed the stairs to the front door. Close up, she could see that the black paint was peeling and the threshold was rotting. Mortar between the bricks was chipped, and there was a strong smell of garbage. She tried the front door and discovered it was locked.

Frustrated, she glanced to the call buttons on the left side of the door. It was doubtful Borelli would let her in, so she pushed several at once, hoping one of the residents upstairs would buzz her in. In a clear voice, she said into the intercom, “Pizza.”

To her relief, the lock clicked open and she quickly entered the building.

Tara climbed the steps to the third floor. Her nose wrinkled at the blending smells of cabbage and trash. The hardwood floors on the steps were scarred and the banister was shaky enough to give way with the slightest amount of pressure. When she reached the third floor, she found apartment three-A and knocked.

No answer. She knocked again. “Mr. Borelli, are you home?”

Tara pressed her ear to the door and heard the faint sound of a TV game show. Someone was in there. She knocked again. “Mr. Borelli?”

Frustrated, she pulled a business card from her purse and wrote a quick note for him to call her. She tucked it in his doorjamb.

Tara was about to leave when Borelli’s door snapped open. Her card fluttered to the floor.

A man stood in the doorway, his wide, muscled shoulders filling the door. He had coal-black hair slicked back off his face, a wide jaw and a muscular build accentuated by a tight black T-shirt. Diamond studs adorned each earlobe and a gold chain hung around his neck.

In the pictures she had of Borelli, he was always in the background behind Kit, and was always conservatively dressed in a dark suit. He was part chauffeur and part bodyguard. “Mr. Borelli?” Tara asked.

He frowned. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

“I’m Tara Mackey. I have a few questions for you about Kit Westgate.”

His scowl made his thick brow look heavier. “I don’t talk to cops.”

“I’m not a cop. I work for the Boston Globe. I’m a reporter.”

His expression darkened, and she suspected he liked cops better than reporters. “I’m done talking with reporters, too. You all are a bunch of bloodsuckers, if you ask me. You vultures just about hounded me to death a year ago.” He reached inside his apartment, grabbed a bag of garbage and then shouldered past her to the waste chute. His thick aftershave trailed after him.

“I am a fair reporter.”

He snorted. “Right. Between the cops and the reporters, my life was hell. I ain’t going back to that.”

She peered into his apartment. The small room was furnished with a sofa and a TV. Her gaze skimmed past a half-eaten pizza on the lone coffee table, and over the floor littered with empty beer cans.

Her nose wrinkled. “Did you have a party?”

Borelli muttered an oath. “None of your business.”

“Hey, I’m not here to cause you trouble. You were cleared by the cops of any wrongdoing in Kit’s disappearance. You were in New York the day the Landovers married and she vanished.”

He yanked the chute open and dumped the trash down. He released the door, and it banged against the wall. “That’s right. I was hundreds of miles away.”

“So it shouldn’t be a big deal for you to answer a couple of questions. Five minutes of your time is all I ask.”

He folded his arms over his chest. On his biceps there was a tattoo of a coiled snake holding a broken heart. “You’re gonna twist my words like those other reporters did.”

“I won’t. I just want to hear your side of the story.” And then, without waiting for a no answer, she said, “You used to live on the Landover estate, didn’t you?”

He glanced at his buffed nails. “Yeah, I had a guest cottage near the garage.”

“You must have had a sense of how Landover’s relationship was going with Kit. Do you think he could have killed her?”

Borelli’s face hardened. “Sure, he could have killed her. The guy had a temper, and I saw him slap Kit in the face once.”

“You tell the cops?”

“I sure did.” He leaned toward her, his tall frame towering over her. “Kit was afraid of Pierce. And I think she’d have backed out of the marriage if she could have. But she was afraid to.”

“She told you she was afraid?”