Kat took off a leather glove, clicked open her ME briefcase, took out a manila file.
“I read that,” Jake said.
“Not this one.” Kat opened the file.
Two minutes left. “So?”
“So,” Kat said. “Yes, Mr. Brannigan had a heart attack. But-not in his car.”
Jake blinked, mentally reviewing the scene. The man in the driver’s seat he later learned was Brannigan, hands at his sides, head plonked on the steering wheel, seat belt on.
“Why do you think that?”
“I was there when Crime Scene opened the car door. You were off with-wherever you went.”
“Yeah, and?” He’d gone to check on Jane. But that couldn’t matter.
“When Crime Scene tried to open the car door, it opened.”
“So?” Ticktock. Get to the point.
“So nothing. We figured maybe he hadn’t locked it yet. But Jake, there were no keys. Not in the car, not anywhere.”
“Yeah yeah, I know that. D and I discussed it on scene. Maybe he went to the car to get something. Maybe he left it unlocked.”
Kat shrugged. “Could be. But Jake. Where are the keys now? Where was he going? Went to the car to get something to take where?”
Jake stared at her. He’d been so focused on Jane that he’d-
“What’s more, I found mud and slush on the inside surfaces of his shoes. I mean…” Kat lifted one booted foot. Pointed to her instep with a pale manicured fingernail. “Right along here, and on both feet. And up the insides of his pants legs. The inside only. If you’re walking, any wetness is going to accumulate on your whole foot, evenly distributed. So now, imagine how Brannigan’s condition, the pattern of moisture on his pants and shoes, could have happened. See what I mean?”
She paused, waiting for him to answer.
Jake was going to be late to the meeting, but it wouldn’t matter, because Kat’s findings meant he’d screwed this one up. Royally. And it would only get worse from here on. The Jane thing. Exactly what they’d feared-the distraction-looked like it finally made him blow a case. If he’d stayed at the scene on Margolin Street, like he should have, he’d have focused on this. Figured it out. Instead he’d blown it.
“Jake?”
“Yeah. Kat. I hear you.” He tilted one foot sideways, touching his instep to the ground. He tried doing it with his other foot at the same time. Couldn’t. His knees knocked together, and he wouldn’t have been able to stay upright to walk. He’d need-Shit. “The only way that could happen is if someone was holding Brannigan up. Supporting him. “Maybe he wasn’t even dead.”
“Yeah. It’s possible he wasn’t. Look.”
Kat grabbed one of Jake’s arms, draped it over her shoulder. They stood face to face. He, a good five inches taller, smelled vanilla and a whiff of roses in her faint perfume. “Now imagine someone else on your other side. Supporting you. Half-dragging you. Down a path or some such, to your car. To an observer, it might present as if you’re drunk. But you’re-woozy. Dying. What would happen to your feet?”
“This looks cozy.” DeLuca’s voice preceded him, coming through the revolving door before he did. “Should I give you two some privacy?”
“Damn, you caught us,” Kat said. She stuck out her tongue at D. “But perfect timing, actually. Let Jake put his other arm around your shoulders. Then you can help me drag Jake to his car.”
“Huh?” DeLuca took a step back. “What the hell?”
“Let’s just say we’re screwed.” Jake looked at his watch. “And we’re late for our meeting with the Supe. Shit. I should have gone to law school.”
50
“Hector Underhill, please. Skim milk, please.” Jane held her cell phone tight to her ear, talking to the Register’s receptionist and the barista behind the Lavazza counter at the same time. The turnpike rest stop smelled like fried everything with bleach on top. Glaring fluorescents colored it floor to ceiling in unnatural blue-white. Tuck headed for the twenty-four-hour mini-mart, insisting she needed to stock up on Swedish fish and corn nuts. Disgusting. Jane was sticking with lattes. Especially this morning, running on empty. Three hours of sleep. Four, max. “Yes, please, extra-large. Yes, I’ll hold.”
The Register’s annoying hold “entertainment” played a recording of the morning’s headlines. “MBTA officials fear rate hikes as deficits mount” and “City Hall bigwigs charged with computer fraud in growing scandal.” Wonder who’d scored the City Hall story? Some lucky duck certain to stay employed. Someone who wasn’t banished.
“Also this morning, the Register reports police have made an arrest in the Sunday afternoon murder of a still-unidentified Callaberry Street resident. The woman was found dead in her kitchen on…”
“Ma’am?” The barista held out a steaming paper cup. Her fingernails were polished purple, and her black T-shirt was XS when it should have been M. “Ma’am?”
“One second,” Jane mouthed. She held up a finger, pointed to her phone, wincing. She hated to be rude, but she needed to hear. “So sorry.”
“Boston Police confirm the arrest of one Cur-,” the recording continued.
“Ma’am? You’ll need to take your drink, ma’am.” The barista’s voice grew louder, more insistent. Jane heard an elaborately weary sigh from the woman behind her in line.
“In other news,” the recorded voice went on, “the Boston Celtics…”
A human voice interrupted. “Hector Underhill is on another call right now, would you like to leave a message? Or hold?”
“Thanks. I’ll hold.” Jamming the cell phone between her cheek and shoulder, Jane accepted the almost too-hot-to-hold latte, defeated. She grabbed two napkins, wrapping the brown paper layers around the steaming cup. Maybe the newsstand past the McDonald’s still had this morning’s paper? Still, reading it would only increase her depression. The police made an arrest in Callaberry. She’d missed the whole thing.
Shit.
She headed for the newsstand, phone clamped to her ear, waiting for Hec, stewing. This sucked. It blew her scoop on the Brianna Tillson reveal, since the moment they got to court the cops would provide the name of the victim. All would be public.
So much for that.
But. On the other hand.
Jane stopped. Stood up straight, realizing her new reality. A good reality. A flame-haired woman toting a matching puppy and trailing two flame-haired kids bumped her, jostling her latte.
“Sorry, honey.” The woman gestured at her entourage in explanation. “Kids, you know?”
“Soda!” one child whined.
“Bafroom!” said the other.
Jane moved out of their way, slurping up the foam that had sloshed through the opening in the plastic lid. The hold recording began the news cycle again. Maybe this time she’d at least get the name of the suspect. See if it was someone she’d interviewed that day. Where the heck was Hec? She smiled. She must be even more tired than she thought.
Thing was. She took another sip. If they’d arrested the bad guy, then whoever was warning her to stay away from the story-that was over now. Wasn’t it? The bad guy-whoever they’d arrested and she could find out by reading the paper-was surely the one who’d threatened her.
She nodded, agreeing with herself. That meant the murder suspect wouldn’t be phoning her again, or tailgating her in a black pickup truck this morning, or breaking into her apartment. Yay, Jake.
But wait. Why hadn’t Jake told her about the arrest? Okay, easy one. Maybe, when he was reassuring her that she was under surveillance, the arrest hadn’t happened yet. She reached the newsstand. Wonder who’d written the story? If Hec ever came to the phone, he could give her the scoop.