Her son, Billy.
This was not the only picture of him. Everywhere Jane looked in the room, she saw photos of Billy. There he was on the mantelpiece at graduation, a mortarboard angled jauntily on his blond hair. On the grand piano were silver-framed pictures of Billy as a toddler, as an adolescent, as a sunburned teen grinning from a sailboat. Nowhere did Jane see any photos of the boy’s father; there was only Billy, who was clearly the object of Susan’s adoration.
“I know it embarrasses him, having all these pictures of him here,” said Susan. “But I’m so proud of him. He’s the best son any mother could ask for.”
She was talking about him in the present tense, that flame of hope still burning bright.
“Is there a Mr. Sullivan?” asked Frost.
“There is,” Susan answered tersely. “As well as a second Mrs. Sullivan. Billy’s father left us when Billy was only twelve years old. We almost never hear from him, and we don’t need to hear from him. We’ve done just fine on our own. Billy’s taken very good care of me.”
“Where is your ex-husband now?”
“Living somewhere in Germany with his other family. But we don’t need to talk about him.” She paused and for an instant her composure cracked, revealing a glimpse of devastation in her eyes. “Have you found—do you know anything else?” she whispered.
“Brookline PD remains in charge of the investigation, Mrs. Sullivan,” said Jane. “His disappearance is still classified as a missing-persons case.”
“But you’re with Boston PD.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“On the phone, you told me you’re with homicide.” Susan’s voice quavered. “Does that mean you believe…”
“It just means we’re looking at all angles, considering all possibilities,” said Frost, quick to respond to the woman’s distress. “I know you’ve talked extensively to Brookline PD, and I know it’s difficult to go through this again, but maybe you’ll remember something new. Something that will help us find your son. You last saw Billy on Monday night?”
Susan nodded, her hands twisting in her lap. “We had dinner together at home. Roast chicken,” she added, smiling faintly at the memory. “Afterward, he needed to catch up on some work at his office. So he left, around eight o’clock.”
“I understand he works in finance?”
“He’s a portfolio manager at Cornwell Investments. He has some very-high-net-worth clients who demand a lot of attention, so Billy works hard to keep them happy. But don’t ask me what he actually does there.” She gave a sheepish shake of the head. “I scarcely understand anything to do with money, so Billy manages my investments, and he’s done it very well. Which is why we were able to buy this house together. I never could have afforded it without his help.”
“Your son lives here with you?”
“Yes. It’s way too much house for just me. Five bedrooms, four fireplaces.” Susan gazed up at the twelve-foot ceiling. “I’d be awfully lonely rattling around here by myself, and ever since his father left us, Billy and I have been a team. I look after him; he looks after me. It’s a perfect arrangement.”
No wonder her son never married, thought Jane. Who could possibly compete with this woman?
“Tell us about Monday evening, Mrs. Sullivan,” Frost prompted gently. “What happened after your son left the house?”
“He said he’d be working late at the office, so I went to bed around ten. The next morning, when I woke up, I realized he never came home. He didn’t answer his phone, so I knew something was wrong. I called the police, and a few hours later, they…” Susan paused. Cleared her throat. “They found his car, abandoned near the golf course. His keys were still in the ignition, and his briefcase was on the front seat. And there was blood.” Her hands were twisting again in her lap, the only visible clue to her turmoil. If and when this woman finally lost control and allowed her grief to roar out, it would be unbearable to watch, thought Jane.
“The police said there’s parking-lot surveillance video, and it shows Billy leaving his office around ten-thirty. But no one’s seen or heard from him since,” said Susan. “Not his colleagues at the office. Not his secretary. No one.” She looked at Frost with haunted eyes. “If you know what happened, you have to be honest with me. I can’t stand the silence.”
“As long as he hasn’t been found, there’s always hope, Mrs. Sullivan,” said Frost.
“Yes. Hope.” Susan took a deep breath and straightened. Back in control. “You said the Brookline police are in charge. I don’t understand where Boston PD comes in.”
“Your son’s disappearance may be linked to other cases we’re investigating in Boston,” said Jane.
“Which cases?”
“Do you remember the name Cassandra Coyle? Or Timothy McDougal?”
For a moment Susan sat very still, searching for some long-lost memory. When the revelation hit her, it was sudden, and her eyes abruptly snapped wide. “The Apple Tree.”
Jane nodded. “Both Cassandra and Timothy were recently murdered, and now your son has gone missing. We believe these cases may be—”
“Excuse me. I’m going to be sick.” Susan lurched to her feet and fled the room. They heard the slam of the bathroom door.
“Jesus,” said Frost. “I hate this.”
A clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece. Beside it was a photo of Billy and his mother, both of them grinning from a motor yacht with the words El Tesoro, Acapulco emblazoned on the stern.
“These two were so close,” said Jane. “Somehow she has to know. Deep in her heart, she must realize he’s gone.” She looked down at the coffee table, where issues of Architectural Digest were neatly splayed out, as though arranged by a stylist. It was a perfect living room in a perfect house in what had been a perfect life for Susan Sullivan. Now she was in the bathroom hugging the toilet bowl, and her son was almost certainly decomposing in a grave.
A toilet flushed. Footsteps approached in the hallway and Susan reappeared, her face grim, her shoulders bravely squared.
“I want to know how they died,” she said. “What happened to Cassandra? To Timothy?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan, but these are active investigations,” said Jane.
“You said they were murdered.”
“Yes.”
“I deserve to know more. Tell me.”
After a moment, Jane finally nodded. “Please sit down.”
Susan sank into the wingback chair. Although she was still pale, there was steel in her eyes, in her spine. “When did these murders happen?”
That much, at least, Jane could tell her. Dates were public knowledge, reported in the newspapers. “Cassandra Coyle was killed on December sixteenth, Timothy McDougal on December twenty-fourth.”
“Christmas Eve,” murmured Susan. She stared across the room at an empty chair, as if seeing her son’s ghost lingering there. “That night, Billy and I cooked a goose for dinner. We spent all day in the kitchen, laughing. Drinking wine. Then we opened presents and watched old movies until one in the morning, just the two of us…” She paused, and her gaze snapped back to Jane. “Is that man out of prison?” She didn’t have to say his name; they knew who she was talking about.
“Martin Stanek was released in October,” said Jane.
“Where was he the night my son vanished?”
“We haven’t established that yet.”
“Arrest him. Force him to talk!”
“We’re trying to locate him. And we can’t arrest him without evidence.”
“It’s not the first time he’s killed,” said Susan. “There was that little girl Lizzie. He kidnapped her, killed her. Everyone knew it, except for that stupid jury. If they’d just listened to the prosecution, that man would still be in prison. And my son—my Billy—” She turned her head, unable to look at them. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Please go.”
“Mrs. Sullivan—”
“Please.”
Reluctantly, Jane and Frost rose to their f
eet. They’d learned nothing useful here; all the visit had accomplished was to destroy any hope this woman might have clung to. It had not brought them any closer to finding Martin Stanek.
Back in their car, Jane and Frost cast one final look at the house where a woman was now alone, her life in ruins. Through the living-room window, Jane saw Susan’s silhouette, pacing back and forth, and she was glad to be out of that house, glad to be breathing air that wasn’t sodden with grief. “How did he do it?” she asked. “How did Stanek bring down a healthy six-foot man like Billy Sullivan?”
“Ketamine and booze. He used it before.”
“But this time there must have been a struggle of some kind. The lab confirmed that the blood in the car was Billy Sullivan’s, so he must have fought back.” She started the car. “Let’s take a drive to the golf course. I want to see where his BMW was found.”
Brookline PD had already searched the site and found nothing, and there was nothing to see on this gloomy afternoon either. Jane parked at the edge of the golf course and surveyed the ice-crusted lawn. Sleet ticked the windshield and slid in melting rivulets down the glass. She saw no security cameras nearby; what happened on this stretch of road had gone unseen by any witness, electronic or human, but the blood inside Billy’s BMW told a story, even though it had been only a few splashes on the dashboard.
“The killer abandons the car here, but where did he pick up the victim?” said Jane.
“If he followed the same pattern as the other two, alcohol would’ve been involved. A bar, a restaurant. It was late in the evening.”
Once again, she started the engine. “Let’s check out where he worked.”
By the time Jane pulled into the parking lot of Cornwell Investments, it was 6:00 P.M. and the other businesses on the street were already closed, but the windows were lit in the building where Bill Sullivan had worked.
“Four cars in the parking lot,” observed Jane. “Someone’s working late.”
Frost pointed to the security camera mounted in the parking lot. “That must be the camera that caught him leaving the building.”
Surveillance video was how they knew that Bill Sullivan had walked into the building at eight-fifteen on a Friday night. At ten-thirty he walked out again, climbed into his BMW, and drove away. And then what happened? Jane wondered. How did Sullivan’s bloodstained BMW end up abandoned a few miles away, at the edge of the golf course?
Jane pushed open her door. “Let’s have a chat with his colleagues.”
The front entrance was locked, and window blinds obscured their view into the ground-floor office. Jane knocked on the door and waited. Knocked again.
“I know someone’s inside,” said Frost. “I saw a guy walk past the window upstairs.”
Jane pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll give them a call, see if they’re still answering the phone.”
Before she could tap in the numbers, the door suddenly swung open. A man loomed before them, silent and poker-faced, and he eyed his visitors up and down, as if trying to decide if they were worth his attention. He was dressed in standard business attire—white oxford shirt, wool slacks, a bland blue tie—but his haircut and his commanding presence gave him away. Jane had seen that same haircut on other men in his profession.
“This business is closed for the night,” he said.
Jane looked past him, at the other people in the office. A man sat staring at a computer, his shirtsleeves rolled up as if he’d already spent hours at that desk. A woman in a skirt suit whisked past, carrying a cardboard box overflowing with file folders.
“I’m Detective Rizzoli, Boston PD,” said Jane. “Which agency do you work for? What’s going on here?”
“This is not your jurisdiction, ma’am.” The man started to close the door.
She put up a hand to stop it. “We’re investigating an abduction and possible homicide.”
“Whose?”
“Bill Sullivan.”
“Bill Sullivan no longer works here.”
The door swung shut and a deadbolt thunked into place. Jane and Frost were left staring at the CORNWELL INVESTMENTS brass plaque mounted on the door.
“This just got a lot more interesting,” said Jane.
I’M BEING WATCHED. PHIL AND Audrey whisper and shoot furtive glances my way, the sort of looks you give to someone who’s doomed with a terminal illness. Last week, Victoria Avalon fired Booksmart Media, and now she’s signed on with some glitzy New York publicity firm. Although my boss, Mark, hasn’t come right out and blamed me for losing our client, of course that’s what everyone else is thinking. Even though I did everything I could to promote that stupid memoir, which Victoria didn’t even write. Now I’m down to only eleven author-clients, I’m worried I’m about to lose my job, and the police won’t stop tailing me.
And somewhere out there, Martin Stanek is circling in for the kill.
I notice Mark approaching my desk, and I quickly swivel toward my computer to work on the pitch letter for the breathtaking new novel by Saul Gresham. The letter’s only half written, and so far all I’ve got are the usual tired superlatives. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I search for something new and fresh to say about this truly awful book, but what I really want to type is: I hate my job I hate my job I hate my job.
“Holly, is everything all right?”
I look up at Mark, who truly does look concerned. While that bitch Audrey just fakes her concern, and Phil’s sympathy is about getting into my pants, Mark really does seem to worry about me. Which is good, because maybe it means he won’t fire me after all.
“While you were gone at lunch, a Detective Rizzoli called here, wanting to speak to you.”
“I know.” I keep typing, an automatic stream of words pulled straight from every publicist’s glossary. Thrilling. Unputdownable. Pulse-pounding. “Last week she came to see me while I was visiting my dad.”
“What’s going on?”
“There’s a homicide investigation. I knew the victims.”
“There’s more than one victim?”
I stop typing and look at him. “Please, I can’t talk about it. The police asked me not to.”
“Of course. God, I’m sorry you have to go through this. It must be awful for you. Do the police know who did it?”
“Yes, but they can’t find him and they think I might not be safe. That’s why it’s been hard for me to focus lately.”
“Well, that explains everything. With all that going on in your life, no wonder things went off the rails with Victoria.”
“I’m so sorry, Mark. I tried my best to keep her happy, but right now my life is a mess.” I add, with a fetching tremble in my voice, “And I’m scared.”
“Is there anything I can do? Do you need to take a leave of absence?”
“I can’t afford to take time off. Please, I really need this job.”
“Absolutely.” He straightens and says loudly enough so that everyone in the office can hear it, “You have a job with us for as long as you need it, Holly. I promise.” He raps my desk for emphasis, and I see Audrey scowling in my direction. No, Audrey, I’m not going to be sacked, no matter how many nasty things you say behind my back. But it’s not Audrey who catches my attention; it’s Phil, who’s walking toward my desk, cradling a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers.
“What’s this?” I ask, bewildered, as he hands me the bouquet.
“What a nice idea, Phil,” says Mark, clapping him on the back. “Good of you to think about cheering up our Holly.”
“They’re not from me,” Phil admits, sounding annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it himself. “The deliveryman just dropped them off.”
Everyone watches as I peel back the cellophane and stare at a dozen yellow long-stem roses framed in baby’s breath and exuberant foliage. With trembling fingers I sift through the foliage, but I find no palm leaves anywhere in the bouquet.
“There’s a card,” says Audrey. She’s nosing around as usual, probably looking for somet
hing she can use against me. “Who’s it from?”
As the three of them crowd around my desk, I have no choice but to open the envelope in front of them. The message inside is short and all too legible.
I miss you. Everett.
Phil’s eyes narrow. “Who’s Everett?”
“He’s just a man I’ve been seeing. We’ve gone on a few dates.”
Mark grins. “Ah, I sniff romance in the air! Now, come on, folks, let’s all get back to work. Let Holly enjoy her flowers.”
As they return to their desks, all the tension drains from my body. It’s an innocent bouquet from Everett, nothing to worry about. I haven’t seen him since the night of Victoria Avalon’s book-signing, when I was so rattled that I broke off our evening together. The bottle of wine he brought me is still sitting unopened on my kitchen counter, awaiting his next visit. He’s texted me every day for the past week, wanting to see me. The man won’t give up.
Now another text message chimes on my cell phone. Of course it’s from Everett.
Did you get the flowers?
I respond: Yes, they’re lovely. Thank you!
Meet me after work for a drink?
I don’t know. Things are crazy.
I can make them better.
I look at the yellow roses on my desk and suddenly think of the first glorious night that Everett and I slept together. How we feverishly clawed at each other like animals in heat. I remember what a tireless lover he was and how he seemed to know exactly what I wanted him to do to me. Maybe that’s just what I need tonight, to lift my spirits. A hot, hunky dose of sex.
He sends another text message: Rose and Thistle Pub? 5:30?
After a moment I respond: O.K. 5:30.
See you there.
I set down the cell phone and focus again on the pitch letter I’ve been trying to write. In disgust I type: I hate my JOB!!!, then hit the delete key and send the draft into oblivion. There really is no point trying to work today. Anyway, it’s already five o’clock.