What You See (29 page)

“Did you never look at the Wharton photos, Robyn?” Jane asked. “Was there anything about his past that seemed off or out of whack? Did his history ever seem to change?”

“I don’t know.” Robyn paused, tilted her head as if reflecting. “I mean, I accepted what he told me, there was no reason to check on anything, you know? We never looked up
my
college photos, either, come to think of it.” She peered at the computer screen and reached forward to click the mouse, zooming in on the photo. Clicked it even closer.

“Huh,” she said. “And now I’m going over everything he ever said, everything he ever told me.” She stared at the screen again, the photo now blown up to an extreme tight shot. “And now, looking closer? At everything? In a different way? I have to wonder. I do. What if none of it is true?”

“The only explanation is that Lewis Wilhoite lied about his own background,” Melissa interrupted, shaking her head. “And that means—and I’m sorry to say this, Robyn, but there’s a little girl involved—it means we have no idea who we’re dealing with.”

“
My
little girl,” Robyn’s voice twisted into a wail.

“And Daniel’s,” Melissa said. “And mine.” She pointed to the computer. “Jane, did you look him up anywhere else?”

“Not yet. But that’s a job for the police now, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Melissa said.

Jane eyed the landline on the desk. “I’ll call—”

“No. No police.” Robyn crossed her arms over her chest, her Rapunzel hair curling over them. Jane saw Melissa meet her gaze, then take a step toward her.

“Robyn—” she said.

“No!” Robyn faced Melissa as if there were no one else in the room. “Lewis specifically said no police!”

She grabbed the phone from the desk, waved the handset at them in one all-encompassing accusatory arc.

“And who knows what he’ll do now. Right? Right? Or even where they are! Oh, my God. It was all made up. All that flat tire and garage and Twizzlers and I just believed it, it was so Lewis, but I never thought—but I see it now. I
do
! He’ll hide her forever. He’d never hurt her, ever, but he’ll, he’ll, change her hair, and change
her
name, just like he must have changed
his
name!”

“Robyn,” Jane began, wondering how to stop her from spiraling into hysteria. “I think we’ll be better off if we contact the police.”

But Robyn was crying now, ignoring Jane, full-on sobs racking her body, her shoulders shaking with the effort. Her breath came in gulps. “Because I
am
a fool, I’m so incredibly gullible, and I was so unhappy after Danny and I split up.” She looked at Melissa, then touched the phone pad, tracing the numbers with one finger, caressing, as if remembering something, a long-ago call, or a lost connection. “I never should have married him.”

Jane heard the anguish in the woman’s voice, felt her escalating grief, and knew she was powerless to help her. Crusading Jane, big-shot reporter, investigator extraordinaire. Well, she’d investigated, all right. And discovered the lie that made this family fall apart. It was better to know, she supposed. But the question was: What did they do now?

“It’s ten forty-five.” Robyn’s quavering voice was now barely a whisper. “Gracie’s gone.”

*   *   *

The greenroom was supposed to be private. And it was. Mostly. If you sat on the couch or in the big chair, like most people did, you only heard murmurs from the adjacent Chief of Staff’s office. But Tenley stood, her ear pressed to the door. If you got into the spot she and Lanna discovered through a series of increasingly successful experiments, you could hear just about every word that was said. Usually, it was pretty boring stuff, political arguments or street cleaning. She’d heard her mother swear, which she used to think was pretty funny. And she learned her mom was always in charge, even telling the mayor what to do.
No wonder she and Dad had fought sometimes,
now she thought about it. Dad was the dad, but Mom had the power. Or thought she did.

Tenley’s eyes welled. Guess Mom didn’t have enough power to stop what happened to Dad. Or to Lanna.

Maybe that’s why she seemed mad all the time.

Tenley tuned out, thinking about Dad, and Mom, and Lanna, and herself, and her life, and how a lot of things sucked. A man’s voice, kind of yelling, brought her back. Her mother’s voice was still unintelligible.

Who was her mom talking to, anyway? She listened as hard as she could.

“You have a subpoena for the video,” the man’s voice said, kind of angry. Video? “Don’t leave town,” she heard him say.

Tenley leaned against the dark green wall and stared up at the checkerboard of white acoustical tiles on the ceiling. That’s what the cops on TV told people when they were in trouble. Like if they were a suspect.

Like in a crime.

So that was weird.

42

“Don’t move.” DeLuca’s commanding voice cut through the radio static, louder than the city bus wheezing by on Congress Street, louder than the kid on the sidewalk wailing his little-kid complaint as a frowning parent yanked at his hand. Surprised, Jake shifted his cruiser into Park, clicked the handset to reply.

“DeLuca? You talking to me?”

“I’m right behind this guy now,” DeLuca said. “He’s stopped at the light, headed for North Street. Stand by, Harvard—Hewlitt’s coming right to you. Five mins, maybe four. Copy?”

“Copy.”

Jake buzzed his window up. He’d stuck his head out into the briny summer breeze freshening off the harbor, trying to stay awake. Hewlitt would be here in less than five minutes. No time to hit the Dunkin’ on the corner. Jake was running on fumes, relying on adrenaline instead of caffeine. This whole thing had started almost exactly twenty-four hours ago.

The Isuzu. Jake saw it turning right onto Union Street.

“Duck!” DeLuca ordered. “He’s coming right at you. If he sees you, we’re screwed.”

Jake snaked himself down behind the steering wheel, unclicking his seat belt, his T-shirt catching on the nubby upholstery. Raking his chest against the plastic wheel, he scooted down until his chin hit the rounded bottom. This was gonna hurt, but he wouldn’t be like this for long. Reaching up with his right hand, he tried to angle the rearview mirror so it faced in the general direction of the—
got it.

The black car pulled forward at one of the meters, stopped, and in one motion eased into the white-lined spot. Jake watched the mirror image, grateful his cruiser was unmarked. If his back held out, this’d work.

“Got ’im?” DeLuca’s voice was a whisper.

“Got him,” Jake said.

“I’ll park at Area A,” D said.

The neighborhood police station up the block would be the perfect hiding place for DeLuca’s cruiser, lined up with other marked cars.

Squinting now as the noonday sun bounced off his side mirror and into his eyes, Jake realized that Hewlitt hadn’t gotten out of his van. He remained sitting in the front seat. On his phone? Jake couldn’t tell.

“He’s still in the car,” Jake said to the radio. “What’s he waiting for? Or who?”

“You’ll soon find out,” DeLuca said. “That’s why you’re Boston’s finest.”

Jake didn’t feel so fine. His back already ached, his knees were bent in an impossible way, and the glare of the sun interfered with his line of sight. Ducking had initially seemed a good idea, a way to protect Jake’s identity in a crucial moment, but for the long haul, there’d have to be a plan B.

An uncomfortable stakeout was an unavoidable part of the job. He’d sat in this unmarked cruiser in front of a suspect’s home for hours, eating red Swedish fish, wondering how much coffee his body could hold without a bathroom break. He’d huddled in dark corners of vacant buildings in the dead of Boston winters, and nursed phony cocktails in the impossible lighting of hotel bars. Watching for the library wallet bandit, he’d stationed himself by the copier at the Boston Public Library for so long an irate reader reported him for “hogging” it.

Stakeouts were not supposed to be fun. If Jake got the bad guy, it all would be worth it.

The dark shadow of City Hall edged across the front seat as time ticked by, a giant sundial reminding Jake of how long he’d been hiding. Hewlitt had returned to the scene of the crime. Or perhaps simply to his place of business. Getting the scoop on Hewlitt’s CV was on Angie Bartoneri’s list of assignments, Jake thought again. Was she actively trying to sabotage him? For dumping her? Incompetence or petulance. No place for either in Jake’s life.

He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. Hewlitt’s silhouette was a statue. There were too many damn places Hewlitt could go, and he could choose faster than Jake could follow him. Jake could only watch, best he could, then notify D and leap out of the car to follow as soon as Hewlitt was under way. Fifty-fifty, he thought.
Fifty-freaking-fifty.

To stay awake, Jake ran down his to-do list. Check with Evidence and Kiyoko Naka in Missing Persons. He needed to nail down Catherine Siskel and those security cameras, and get hold of Ward Dahlstrom, the man supposedly in charge of surveillance. From what they’d explained, the city’s traffic cams could be looking at this same scene right now.

Jake stared at the mirror, then reached for his radio. “D,” he said.

“Copy.”

“Can you take over for a couple minutes?” Jake slid across the front seat, never taking his eyes off the mirror, and reached for the handle of the passenger-side door. The one nearest the entrance to City Hall.

“Got your six,” DeLuca said.

“That mean yes?” Jake watched the mirror. Still nothing.

“You’re breaking up,” D lied. “Gotcha. I’m under way. Corner of Sudbury and Congress. I see him. Front seat.”

“Great.” Jake said. Still nothing. “Over to you. Radio me when he’s on the move.”

“Why?” DeLuca said. “Too much coffee? You hitting the head?”

“Nope,” Jake said. “I have an idea.”

*   *   *

A harsh jangle from the black desk phone cut across the Wilhoites’ study. Jane felt her heart beat faster. “Is that him?”

Robyn let out a yelp.

The phone rang again.

“For God’s sake, answer it,” Melissa ordered.

“He’s always called my cell before.” Robyn seemed verging on tears, all nerve endings, exposed and raw, holding her silent cell. “Lewis can be so—manipulative, you know?”

“Answer it,” Jane said. “Manipulative”? Another word Robyn hadn’t used before, like “careless,” and “jealous,” and “nutcase.” “It might not be Lewis. It might be someone with information about Gracie.”

When the phone rang a third time, Melissa took a step closer, reaching out as if to snatch the phone herself. Robyn stepped away from them, one pace, then another. Clutching her cell phone to her chest.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“Afraid?” Melissa’s voice went up, incredulous. “Afraid?”

“Robyn.” Jane kept her voice calm. Being part of the story was unnervingly different. “We’re all afraid. But answer the phone.”

The room went silent as Robyn picked up the landline handset.

“Hello?” Her voice quavered, barely audible.

Jane and Melissa leaned toward her, eyes narrowing. Jane tried to gauge Robyn’s reactions as interminable seconds ticked by. Then a full minute.

“Jane.” Robyn, wide-eyed, handed her the phone. “It’s Lewis. He told me what he wants. Now he wants to talk to you. Tell you in person.”

“Thank God,” Melissa said.

Jane grabbed the handset from Robyn, put it to her ear. Said, “Lewis? It’s Jane” almost before she had it in place. Waited.

Nothing.

She tried again. Nothing. “Lewis? It’s Jane Ryland,” she said, louder. She pressed the receiver closer to her ear. Maybe there was a bad connection, or she’d been put on hold? She turned to Robyn. “Was the call breaking up? Could you hear him?” And then into the phone. “Lewis?”

Nothing.

“Robyn?”

“Isn’t he talking?” Robyn asked. “He asked for you. See? I told you he was manipulative. Did he hang up? Or—did
you
disconnect somehow? Oh, no, Jane, did you cut him off?”

“Of course she didn’t,” Melissa said. “Did you?”

Of course she hadn’t. Jane put the handset back to her ear; she could hear that the line was open, so she was connected to someone, somewhere.

“The line is still open,” she said, “but there’s no one there.”

“I can’t believe it.” Robyn plopped down in the desk chair and dropped her head into her outstretched arms, a mass of blond hair and trembling chenille.

“Can you hear
anything
?” Melissa took three quick steps to stand next to Jane, holding out her hand. “Give me that. Let me see.”

Jane looked at the phone again, baffled. She held it up to her sister.

In green letters, the display showed
CALL ENDED
.

43

She knew this guy somehow. Tenley raised her eyes over her computer monitor, surreptitiously examining him as he came into the surveillance room. Where had she seen him? He was pretty cute, in jeans and a battered leather jacket, kind of cool in an older-guy kind of way. Not someone who worked at City Hall, she was pretty sure.

She checked him out again, couldn’t resist. He looked intense, eyes darting from desk to desk, scanning, like he was looking for something. Or someone. Ward Dahlstrom, maybe? Usually he’d be here to make sure no one sneaked out early for lunch, hovering and bossy like they were little kids.
The less the scope of someone’s power, the more they’ll try to inflict it on you,
her dad used to say.

Dad.
She let out a jaggedy sigh. She’d wanted to go
home,
Mom did, too, but her mother had hugged her, hard, asked her to be brave and not to say a word to anyone about her father. They had to wait, Mom said. So Tenley
would
wait, and try to be brave. And she wouldn’t say a word, not one. Like, who was even gonna ask? If her mother could do it, she could do it. They were the only two left.

It was hard to concentrate, though. Sorrow and confusion had pretty much blotted out everything else. It was difficult to decide what was important.