I Know a Secret

  Time to flee the darkness.

  FROM THE COFFEE SHOP WHERE I’m sitting, I watch the two women talking just outside the window. I recognize both of them, because I’ve seen them interviewed on television and have read about them in the news, usually in connection to murder. The one with the unruly dark hair is a homicide detective, and the tall woman in the long, elegant coat is the medical examiner. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can read their body language, the cop aggressively gesticulating, the doctor trying to retreat.

  Abruptly the detective turns and walks away. The doctor stands very still for a moment, as if not certain whether to pursue her. Then she shakes her head in resignation, climbs into a sleek black Lexus, and drives away.

  I wonder what that was all about?

  I already know what drew them here on this bitterly cold night. An hour ago, I heard it on the news: A young woman has been murdered on Utica Street. The same street where Cassandra Coyle lives.

  I peer down the entrance to Utica, but there’s nothing to see except the flashing lights of police cruisers. Does Cassandra now lie dead, or is it some other unlucky woman? I haven’t seen Cassie since middle school, and I wonder if I’d even recognize her. Certainly she would not recognize the new me, the Holly who now stands straight and looks you in the eye, who no longer lurks on the periphery, envying the golden girls. The years have polished my confidence and my sense of fashion. My black hair is now cut in a sleek bob, I’ve learned to walk in stilettos, and I’m wearing a two-hundred-dollar blouse that I shrewdly bought from the 75 percent–off rack. When you work as a publicist, you learn that appearances count, so I’ve adapted.

  “What’s going on out there? Do you know?” a voice asks.

  The man has materialized beside me so suddenly that I flinch in surprise. Usually I’m aware of everyone in my proximity, but I was focused on the police activity outside the coffee shop and I didn’t notice his approach. Hot guy is the first thing I think when I look at him. He’s a few years older than I am, in his mid-thirties, with a lean athletic build, blue eyes, and wheat-colored hair. I deduct a few points because he’s drinking a latte, and at this time of night, real men drink espresso. I’m willing to overlook that flaw because of those gorgeous blue eyes. They aren’t focused on me right now but on the activity outside the window. On all the official vehicles that have converged on the street where Cassandra Coyle lives.

  Or lived.

  “All those police cars out there,” he says. “I wonder what happened.”

  “Something bad.”

  He points. “Look, there’s the Channel Six van.”

  We both sit for a moment sipping our drinks, watching the action on the street. Now another TV news van arrives, and several other patrons in the coffee shop gravitate to the window. I feel them pressing in around me, jostling for a better view. The sight of a mere police car isn’t enough to excite most jaded Bostonians, but when the TV cameras show up, our antennae perk up, because now we know that this is more than a fender bender or a double-parked car. Something newsworthy has happened.

  As if to confirm our instincts, the white van from the medical examiner’s office rolls into view. Is it here to fetch Cassandra or some other unlucky victim? The sight of that van makes my pulse suddenly kick into a gallop. Don’t let it be her, I think. Let it be someone else, someone I don’t know.

  “Uh-oh, medical examiner’s van,” says Blue Eyes. “That’s not good.”

  “Did anyone see what happened?” a woman asks.

  “Just a lot of police showing up.”

  “Anyone hear gunshots or anything?”

  “You were here first,” Blue Eyes says to me. “What did you see?”

  Everyone looks in my direction. “The police cars were already here when I walked in. It must have happened some time ago.”

  The others stand watching, hypnotized by the flashing lights. Blue Eyes settles onto the stool right beside me and tips sugar into his inappropriate-for-the-evening latte. I wonder if he chose that seat because he wants a ringside view of the action outside or if he’s trying to be friendly. The latter would be fine with me. In fact, I’m feeling an electric tingle up my thigh as my body automatically responds to his. I haven’t come here looking for company, but it’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a man’s intimate attentions. More than a month, if you don’t count the quickie hand job last week with the valet at the Colonnade Hotel.

  “So. Do you live around here?” he asks. A promising opening, though unimaginative.

  “No. Do you?”

  “I live in the Back Bay. I was supposed to meet friends at the Italian restaurant down the street, but I’m way too early. Thought I’d stop in for coffee.”

  “I live in the North End. I was here to meet friends too, but they canceled at the last minute.” How easily the lie slips off my lips, and he has no reason to doubt me. Most people automatically assume that you’re telling the truth, which makes life so much easier for people like me. I hold out my hand to shake his, a gesture that men find unnerving when a woman does it, but I want to set the parameters early. I want to make it clear that this is a meeting of equals.

  We sit for a moment companionably sipping our coffees, watching the action. Police investigations are, for the most part, unexciting to watch. All you see are vehicles coming and going and people in uniforms walking in and out of buildings. You don’t get a view of what’s going on inside; you can only surmise, based on which personnel shows up, what the situation might be. There’s a calmness, even boredom, on all the cops’ faces. Whatever happened on Utica Street took place some hours ago, and investigators are simply assembling the pieces of the puzzle.

  With nothing very interesting to watch, the other customers in the coffee shop drift away, leaving Blue Eyes and me alone at the window counter.

  “I guess we’ll have to check the news to see what happened,” he says.

  “It’s a murder.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw a homicide detective out there a few minutes ago.”

  “Did he come over and introduce himself?”

  “It’s a she. I don’t remember her name, but I’ve seen her on TV. The fact she’s a woman interests me. It makes me wonder why she chose that sort of job.”

  He eyes me more closely. “Do you, uh, follow this sort of thing? Murders?”

  “No, I’m just good at remembering faces. But I’m lousy at remembering names.”

  “While we’re on that subject of names, mine is Everett.” He smiles, and charming laugh lines crease his eyes. “Now you’re free to forget it.”

  “What if I don’t want to forget it?”

  “I hope that means you think I’m memorable.”

  I consider what might happen between us. Looking into his eyes, I suddenly know exactly what I want to happen: We go to his place in the Back Bay. We chase our coffees with a few glasses of wine. And then we rut all night like hot bunnies. What a shame he’s supposed to meet his friends for dinner in the neighborhood. I’m not at all interested in meeting his friends, and I’m not going to waste any time waiting by the phone for him to call me, so I guess this is hello and goodbye. Some things aren’t meant to happen, even if you want them to.

  I drain my coffee cup and rise from my seat. “It was good to meet you, Everett.”

  “Ah. You remembered my name.”

  “Hope you have a nice dinner with your friends.”

  “What if I don’t want to have dinner with them?”

  “Isn’t that why you’re in the neighborhood?”

  “Plans can change. I can call my friends and tell them I suddenly need to be somewhere else.”

  “And where might that be?”

  He stands up too, and we’re now eye-to-eye. That tingle in my leg spreads to my pelvis in warm, delicious waves, and all at once I forget about Cassandra and what her death might mean. My attention is only on this man and what’s about to happen between us.

  “My pl
ace or yours?” he asks.

  AMBER VOORHEES HAD VIOLET-STREAKED BLOND hair and polished black fingernails, but it was the nose ring that most unsettled Jane. As Amber sobbed, threads of snot hung from that gold hoop, and she kept dabbing at it delicately with tissue to catch the drips. Her colleagues Travis Chang and Ben Farney weren’t crying, but they seemed just as shocked and devastated by the news of Cassandra Coyle’s death. All three filmmakers wore T-shirts and hoodies and ripped jeans, the uniform of young hipsters, and none of them looked as if they’d combed their hair in days. Judging by the locker-room smell of the studio, they hadn’t showered in days either. Every horizontal surface in the room was covered by pizza boxes, empty cans of Red Bull, and scattered pages from their film script. On the video monitor, a scene from their work-in-progress was playing: a blond teenager, sobbing and stumbling through dark woods, fleeing from some relentless and shadowy killer.

  Travis abruptly turned to the computer and paused the video. The image of the killer froze onscreen, an ominous shadow framed between trees. “Fuck,” he groaned. “I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this.”

  Amber wrapped her arms around Travis, and the young man gave a sob. Now Ben joined the hug and the three filmmakers clung to one another for a moment, their three-way embrace backlit by the glow from the computer monitor.

  Jane glanced at Frost and saw him blink away a brief sheen of tears. Grief was contagious, and Frost had no immunity to it, even after years of delivering bad news and watching the recipients crumble. Cops were like terrorists. They tossed devastating bombs into the lives of victims’ friends and families, and then they stood around to watch the damage they’d done.

  Travis was first to pull away from the hug. He crossed to a sagging sofa, sank onto the cushions, and dropped his head in his hands. “God, just yesterday she was here. She was sitting right here.”

  “I knew there was a reason she stopped answering my texts,” said Amber, sniffling into her tissue. “When she went silent, I figured it was ’cause she was stressing out over her dad.”

  “When did she stop answering texts?” Jane asked. “Can you check your phone?”

  Amber hunted around under the scattered script pages and finally uncovered her cell phone. She scrolled back through her messages. “I texted her last night, around two A.M. She didn’t answer.”

  “Would you expect her to, at two A.M.?”

  “Yeah, actually. At this stage of the project.”

  “We’ve been pulling all-nighters,” said Ben. He too dropped onto the sofa and rubbed his face. “We were up till three, editing the film. None of us even bothered to go home, just crashed right here.” He nodded at the sleeping bags wadded up in the corner.

  “All three of you spent the night here?”

  Ben nodded again. “We’re under the gun because of deadlines. Cassie would’ve been working with us too, except she needed to pull herself together before she met her dad. Something she was definitely not looking forward to.”

  “What time did she leave here yesterday?” Jane asked.

  “Around six, maybe?” Ben asked his colleagues, who both nodded.

  “The pizzas had just been delivered,” said Amber. “Cassie didn’t stay to eat. Said she was going to get something on her own, so the three of us kept working.” She wiped a hand across her eyes, leaving a thick smear of mascara on her cheek. “I can’t believe that’s the last time we’ll ever see her. When she walked out the door, she was talking about the party we’d have for picture lock.”

  “Picture lock?” asked Frost.

  “That’s when all the edits are done,” said Ben. “Basically, it’s the finished movie but without sound effects or music. We’re almost there, maybe another week or two.”

  “Plus another twenty grand,” muttered Travis. He raised his head and his black hair stood up in greasy tufts. “Shit. I don’t know how we’ll raise it without Cassie.”

  Jane frowned at him. “Was Cassandra supposed to deliver that money?”

  The three young filmmakers looked at one another, as if unsure who should answer the question.

  “She was gonna ask her dad at lunch today,” said Amber. “That’s why she was stressing out. She hated having to beg him for money. Especially over lunch at the Four Seasons.”

  Jane surveyed the room, taking in the stained carpet, the ratty sofa, and the bundled-up sleeping bags. These filmmakers were well into their twenties, but they seemed far younger, just three movie-obsessed kids who were still living like dorm rats.

  “Do you folks actually make a living as filmmakers?” she asked.

  “A living?” Travis shrugged, as if the question were irrelevant. “We make movies, and that’s the point. We’re living the dream.”

  “Using money from Cassandra’s father.”

  “It’s not a gift. He’s investing in his daughter’s career. This movie could put her on the map as a filmmaker, and the story meant a lot to her personally.”

  Jane glanced down at the script lying on the desk. “Mr. Simian?”

  “Don’t be fooled by the title, or the fact it’s a horror flick. This is a serious project about a girl who goes missing. It’s based on a true event from her childhood and it’s gonna find a way bigger audience than our first film.”

  “Would that first movie be I See You?” said Frost.

  Travis shot a surprised look at Frost. “You saw it?”

  “We saw the poster for it. The one hanging in Cassandra’s apartment.”

  “Is that…” Amber swallowed. “Is that where you found her?”

  “It’s where her father found her.”

  Amber shuddered and hugged herself, as if suddenly chilled. “How did it happen?” she murmured. “Did someone break in?”

  Jane didn’t answer the question but asked one of her own: “Where have you all been in the last twenty-four hours?”

  The three filmmakers exchanged glances to gauge who should speak first.

  Travis answered, his words measured and deliberate. “We’ve been right here, in this building. All three of us. All night and all day.”

  The other two nodded in agreement.

  “Look, I know why you’re asking us these questions, Detective,” said Travis. “It’s your job to ask them. But we’ve known Cassie since we were all students at NYU. When you make a movie together, it’s this—this incredible bonding experience like nothing else. We eat and sleep and work together. Yeah, we argue sometimes, but then we make up, because we’re family.” He pointed at the computer screen, where the image of the killer was still freeze-framed. “We were gonna break out with this film. Prove to the world that we don’t need to kiss some studio executive’s ass to make a great movie.”

  “Can you tell us what your various roles were in making Mr. Simian?” asked Frost, dutifully jotting everything down in his tattered notebook.

  “I’m the director,” said Travis.

  “I’m DP,” said Benjamin. “Also known as the cinematographer.”

  “Producer,” said Amber. “I hire and fire, do payroll, keep it all running like a well-oiled machine.” She paused and said with a sigh, “Actually, I do pretty much everything.”

  “And what was Cassandra’s role?”

  “She wrote the script. And she’s executive producer, which you could say is the most important job of all,” said Travis. “Financing the production.”

  “With her father’s money.”

  “Yeah, but we just need a little more. One more check, that’s all she was going to ask him for.”

  A check that they would probably never see.

  Amber sank onto the sofa next to Ben, and all three of them sat in silence. The room itself seemed to smell of stale food and failure.

  Jane looked up at the movie poster hanging on the wall behind the sofa. It was the same poster that she’d seen in Cassandra’s apartment. I See You. “That movie,” she said, pointing to the image of the monstrous red eye peering from the blackness. “
Tell me about it.”

  “It was our first feature film,” said Travis. He added morosely, “And I hope it’s not our last.”

  “Did all four of you work on it?”

  “Yeah. It started as our film school project at NYU. We learned a lot, making that one.” He gave a rueful shake of the head. “We also made a lot of mistakes.”

  “How’d it do in theaters?” asked Frost.

  The silence was painful. And telling.

  “We never got a distribution deal,” Travis admitted.

  “So no one saw it?”

  “Oh, it was shown at quite a few horror-film festivals. Like this one.” Travis displayed the SCREAMFEST FILM FESTIVAL T-shirt he was wearing under his hoodie. “It’s also available on DVD and video on demand. In fact, we hear it’s become something of a cult classic, which is, like, the best thing that can happen to a horror flick.”

  “Did it make any money?” asked Jane.

  “That’s really not the point.”

  “So the point would be?”

  “We now have fans. People who know about our work! In the indie-film business, sometimes all it takes is word of mouth to build the audience for your next project.”

  “So it didn’t make money.”

  Travis sighed and looked down at the filthy carpet. “No,” he admitted.

  Jane’s gaze lifted back to the monstrous eye in the movie poster. “What happens in that movie? What’s it about?”

  “It’s about a girl who witnesses a murder, but the police can’t find any body or evidence, so they don’t believe her. That’s because the murder hasn’t happened yet. She’s telepathically linked to the killer, and she can see what he’s about to do.”

  Jane and Frost glanced at each other. Too bad we don’t have that advantage. We’d solve this case in no time flat.

  “And I’m guessing the killer eventually comes after her,” Jane said.

  “Of course,” said Ben. “That’s, like, straight out of Horror 101. Eventually, the killer must come after the heroine.”

  “Does anyone in that movie get mutilated?”