Tess Gerritsen - Last to Die

She considered that last piece of information for a moment. Thought about the meeting that she and Jane had held in Anna’s office about these three children, and whether there was a connection among them. Anna had told them it was merely a coincidence, and not worth pursuing. Yet on the day Anna died, she had been studying the files of those same three children.

The room was so quiet Maura could hear her own heartbeat. The silence magnified the sound of approaching footsteps, and she turned as four figures emerged from the shadows and walked into the glow of the lamp.

“We need to talk to you,” said Julian. Beside him stood three companions. The three. Will and Teddy and Claire, the trio whose tragedies seemed to have no end to them.

Although it was approaching eleven P.M., and these children should all be in bed, Sansone regarded them with the same respect he’d give any adult. “What do you have on your mind, Julian?” he asked.

“The Jackals had a meeting this morning, about Dr. Welliver,” the boy said. “And these three members have since uncovered a lead. But we need your help to pursue it.”

Maura sighed. “Julian, I know you want to be helpful, but it’s late. Mr. Sansone and I have things to—”

“We want to see our files,” Claire cut in. “We want to know everything the police know about us and our parents. All the reports.”

“I don’t have that information, Claire.”

“But you can get it, right? Or Detective Rizzoli can.”

“These are ongoing investigations. Which means that information isn’t meant for the public.”

“We’re not the public,” said Claire. “This is about us, about our lives, and we have a right to know.”

“Yes, you do have a right to know, when you get older. But these are official documents, and there are details that you might not understand.”

“Because we’re too young to handle the truth? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That thirteen-year-olds can’t possibly deal with it. It’s like you have no idea who we are, or what we’ve been through.”

“I do know, Claire,” Maura said quietly. “I understand.”

“Understand what? She got shot in the head? That’s what you know about me, but you have no idea what that really means. Waking up in a hospital, not remembering how you got there. Not knowing your mom and dad are dead. Feeling like you’ll never again be able to read a whole book or sleep through the night or even hold on to a single damn thought.” She pressed her hand to her head. “When they blasted this hole in my skull, they blew up my life, too. I’ll never be like everyone else. I’ll always be the weirdo. So don’t tell me you know me, or anything about me.”

The boys, stunned by that outburst, stared at her in astonishment. Perhaps even admiration.

“I’m sorry,” said Maura. “You’re absolutely right, Claire, I don’t know.” She looked at Will and Teddy. “Just like I don’t know what your lives have been like, not really. I cut open bodies and see what’s inside, but that’s all I can do. You three, well, you’ll just have to tell me what the files can’t. About your lives and who you are.”

“Like Claire says, we’re the weirdos,” said Will, and Teddy gave a sad nod of agreement. “We’re the ones no one wants to be around. It’s like everyone can sense we’re bad luck, and they don’t want anything to do with us, in case it rubs off.” Will’s head drooped. “And they end up dead, like Dr. Welliver.”

“There’s no proof that Dr. Welliver’s death was anything but a suicide.”

“Maybe,” said Will, “but our files were on her desk the day she died. It’s like she opened them and got cursed.”

“Maura,” said Julian, “we want to help the investigation. We have information.”

“The Jackals are a fine group, Julian. But there are professionals at work investigating everything that’s happened.”

“This one’s only for pros, is that it?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“What if we found something the professionals didn’t?” He looked at Claire. “Show them.”

Only then did Maura notice that Claire was holding a book. “This is my family album,” said Claire, handing the volume to Maura.

Maura opened the book to a photograph of a young man and woman standing before the Roman Colosseum, both blond, both stunningly attractive. “Your parents?” she asked.

“Yeah. My dad worked at the embassy. He was a political officer.”

“They were a handsome couple, Claire.”

“But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” Claire flipped the album to the last page of photos. “It’s this picture, the cocktail party. That’s my dad there, talking to that guy. And you see this woman standing off to the side here, in the green dress? Do you know who she is?”

“Who?”

“That’s my mother,” said Will.

Maura turned to him in surprise. “Are you sure? It could be someone who looks like her.”

“It is my mother. I recognize the dress. She always wore it to parties. It was green, with a gold belt, and she told me it was the most expensive dress she’d ever bought, but that quality always pays for itself. That was her motto, what she used to say to me all the time.” Will’s voice faded and his shoulders slumped as he said softly: “That’s my mom.”

Maura looked at the caption: JULY 4. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, USA! “There’s no year. We don’t know when this picture was taken.”

“The point is,” said Julian, “They were together , at the same party. And you know who else was there?”

“Him,” said Claire. She pointed to the blond man photographed in conversation with Erskine Ward. Captured in profile, he was taller than Ward, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. In a room filled with people drinking wine, he was the only one holding a can of beer.

“It’s my father,” said Teddy.

“ There’s the connection,” said Julian. “It still doesn’t tell us why they were killed, or why someone wants to hurt their children all these years later. But this is the evidence you were looking for. Claire’s dad. Teddy’s dad. Will’s mom. They knew each other.”

THE SCANNED IMAGE GLOWED on Frost’s computer screen, a photo of guests dressed in party clothes, some seated, some standing, most with a drink in hand. The central figures in the tableau were Erskine Ward and Nicholas Clock, who stood facing each other, but with their faces partly turned to the camera, as though someone had just called out: “Smile, gentlemen!” Will’s mother, Olivia, stood in the periphery beside another woman, but her gaze was turned toward Erskine Ward. Jane scanned the other faces, searching for the spouses of these three, but did not spot them amid the well-heeled and clearly well-lubricated gathering.

“That,” said Frost, pointing to Olivia, “is the expression of a woman who has the hots for Ward.”

“That’s what you see in her face?”

“Not that anyone ever looks at me like that.”

“It could be just the look of an old friend. Someone who knows him well.”

“Then it’s funny we can’t find anything else to tie Olivia and Erskine together. If they knew each other that well.”

Jane leaned back in her chair and stretched the kinks from her neck. It was nearly midnight, and everyone else in the homicide unit had left the building for the night. So should we, she thought, but these scanned photos, which Maura emailed to Boston PD, had kept Jane and Frost at their desks for the last hour. Maura had sent eight photos from the Ward family album, images of barbecues and blacktie parties, of gatherings indoors and outdoors. In none of the other photos had Jane spotted either Olivia Yablonski or Nicholas Clock; this was the only image where the two appeared along with Erskine Ward. A Fourth of July party, year unspecified, in a room with at least a dozen other people visible in the shot.