“You got it.” He pulled on a down coat that was so massive, he looked like a cumulus cloud rolling toward the door. “Happy to be of service to Boston PD!”
Don’t hurry back, she thought, as the door swung shut behind him.
On the computer screen, the video time stamp advanced to 8:10 and the parade of pedestrians slowly thinned out. By now Cassandra should have made it home, which meant she’d entered Utica Street from the other direction. Damn it, we missed her.
“Bingo,” Frost suddenly said.
Jane snapped to attention, her eyes back on the screen, where Frost had captured an image in freeze-frame.
Two figures were fused into a single silhouette, caught just as they were turning onto Utica Street. Though Jane could not see the faces, it was clear by the height and width of the shoulders that the taller one was a man. The smaller figure seemed to be leaning into him, her head resting on his shoulder. Jane stared at the two-headed figure, trying to make out any identifying features, but the faces were obscured by darkness.
“Cassandra was five foot six. If that’s her, then the man’s got to be at least six feet tall,” she said.
“This was at eight-fifteen P.M.,” said Frost. “If she left the studio at six, where’s she been? Where did she meet this guy?”
Jane focused on what was slung over one of the man’s shoulders: a backpack. She thought of what he might be carrying in that pack. Latex gloves. Surgical instruments. Everything the well-prepared killer needed to perform his bizarre postmortem ritual.
The touch of Benny’s hand on her shoulder almost made her jump out of the chair.
“Hey, it’s just me! Got your coffees.” Benny handed her a cup.
She settled back, heart thumping, and took a gulp of coffee that was so hot she burned her tongue. Slow down. Take your time.
“Is that him?” asked Benny.
Jane turned to see him staring at the screen. He, at least, they could eliminate as a suspect. No mere jacket could hide a man as big as a house. “Let’s just call him a person of interest.”
“And you saw him on my security camera! Cool.”
But this glimpse was all too brief, just a shadow of two people flitting across the screen. “Fast-forward,” said Jane. “Let’s see if we can catch him as he leaves.”
The time stamp spun forward—9:00 P.M.;10:00.
At 11:10 P.M., Frost froze the image.
“And there you are,” said Jane softly. The man’s face was shadowed by his jacket hood, so they could not make out his features. Once again, the backpack was slung over his shoulder.
“He enters Utica Street with the victim at eight-fifteen,” said Frost. “Exits at eleven-ten. Three hours later.”
Which gave him more than enough time to kill and mutilate. What else were you doing in her apartment during those three hours? Enjoying the view? She thought of Cassandra Coyle, so serenely posed in bed, the cause of her death still unknown. A drug, a toxin? How do you talk a victim into swallowing poison? Did Cassandra know that death was being offered to her?
“He doesn’t show his face at all,” said Frost. “We can’t tell his age or his race. All we can assume is, he’s a man. Or a very big woman.”
“There’s something else we know,” said Jane.
“What?”
“This was no stranger.” Jane looked at Frost. “She brought him home with her.”
CASSANDRA COYLE’S FUNERAL WAS A war zone.
From her seat in the sixth pew of St. Ann’s Church, Jane watched the poisonous looks fly back and forth like arrows between the enemy camps of Matthew Coyle’s ex-wife, Elaine, and his current wife, Priscilla. In the pew behind Jane, women were gossiping about the second wife, and none too quietly.
“Look at her. Pretending like she actually cared about the poor girl.”
“What on earth did Matthew ever see in her?”
“Her money, of course. What else? She’s all plastic, from her face to her credit cards.”
“Poor Elaine. Having to sit in the same church with her on such an awful day.”
Jane glanced back to see two women in their fifties, their heads bent together, united in disapproval. Like Matthew Coyle’s first wife, Elaine, they no doubt belonged to the sisterhood of wives who both feared and despised women like Priscilla, who swooped in and snatched away weak-willed husbands. That sisterhood had shown up today in full force, and some openly glared as Priscilla stood up to address the gathering of mourners. For this very public funeral, Priscilla had spared no expense, and her stepdaughter’s coffin was crafted from gleaming rosewood and adorned with a lavish spray of white gladiolus. She stopped to touch the closed coffin, a theatrical pause that made even Jane cringe, and then moved to the microphone.
“Most of you have probably heard that Matthew can’t be here with us today,” said Priscilla. “I know he wants to be, but he’s in the hospital, recovering from the shock of losing his wonderful daughter. So I must be the one to speak for both of us. We have lost—the world has lost—a beautiful and talented young woman. And our hearts are broken.”
A snort erupted behind Jane, loud enough to be heard across the aisle, where Frost was sitting among the Team Priscilla mourners. She saw Frost give a disbelieving shake of the head and she wondered about the comments he was hearing from Priscilla’s allies, who now aimed dark looks at the woman who’d just snorted.
“I first met Cassie when she was only six years old. She was a shy and skinny girl, all legs and long hair,” continued Priscilla. If she’d heard the undercurrent of disapproval in the room, she steadfastly ignored it. She also avoided looking at the front pew, where her rival, Elaine, was sitting.
“Even though we were still new to each other, Cassie wrapped her little arms around me and gave me a hug. And she said, ‘Now I have another mommy.’ That’s the moment I knew we were going to be a real family.”
“Bullshit,” muttered the woman behind Jane.
A young woman lay dead in her coffin, her father was gravely ill in the hospital, and this was how the Coyle family grieved, with resentment and rage. Jane had seen it before, at other victims’ funerals. Murder strikes without warning, and it leaves no chance to settle feuds or say goodbyes. It leaves conversations forever unfinished, and here was the result: a family that would always be split by loss.
Priscilla sat down and a familiar trio stood up to speak next. Cassandra’s filmmaker colleagues had managed to clean up reasonably well, with both men now dressed in dark suits and ties. While Amber was somberly garbed in a black dress, her gold nose ring glinted startlingly bright under the altar lights. They looked like three dazed explorers who’d somehow wandered into the gathering and weren’t quite sure how to blend in.
Amber was obviously too upset to say a word, and Ben simply stared down at his Reeboks. It was Travis Chang who spoke for all of them as he nervously blinked in the spotlight.
“We were the Four Musketeers, and Cassie was our D’Artagnan,” said Travis. “She was a fighter, a leader. A storyteller who could spin gold out of childhood trauma. That was our Cassandra. The four of us met in a filmmaking class in NYU, where we learned that the most powerful stories emerge from the most painful episodes of our lives. We were in the process of bringing one of those stories to film, when we lost her.” Travis’s voice broke. As he paused to recover, Amber took his hand and Ben dropped his head even lower.
“If what we learned in that film class is true,” said Travis, “if pain is what brings forth the best stories, then one hell of a story is coming out of this. Losing her is more pain than the three of us know what to do with. But we swear we’ll finish what you started, Cass. This movie is your story and your baby. We won’t let you down.”
They left the podium and returned to their pew.
For a moment no one stood up to speak.
In the prolonged hush, the sudden creak of the pew seemed all the louder as Elaine Coyle rose to her feet. Today Cassandra’s mother looked far more formidable tha
n she had four days ago, when Jane and Frost had interviewed her and the shock of her daughter’s death had left her barely able to speak above a whisper. Now she moved with grim resolve to the podium and stood for a moment, surveying the audience. Unlike Priscilla, whose face had been nipped and tucked into a sleek but plastic version of eternal youth, Elaine wore her age without apology, and she was all the more impressive because of it. Her upswept hair was streaked with gray and her face was etched by the passage of fifty-eight years, but she radiated strength.
And bitterness.
“My daughter didn’t suffer fools gladly,” she said. “She chose as her friends only people she believed in, and she returned their loyalty a thousandfold.” She looked at the three young filmmakers. “Thank you, Travis and Ben and Amber, for being my daughter’s friends. You know the obstacles that Cassie overcame. When the going got tough, you stood by her. Unlike some people who have no sense of loyalty. Who walk away from their responsibilities at the first whiff of temptation.” Elaine’s gaze shifted to Priscilla, and her eyes hardened.
Behind Jane, the Team Elaine women gave murmurs of approval.
“If Cassie were here, she’d tell you what real love is. She’d tell you it means not walking away from a child who’s only six years old. You can’t make up for that betrayal by throwing money and gifts at her. The child always knows. The child never forgets.”
“God, can’t somebody stop this?” a man whispered.
Priscilla stood up and walked out of the church.
It was the minister who gently took control of the situation. He stepped up to the podium, and the live microphone caught their murmurs.
“Shall we move on to the next speaker, my dear?”
“No. I still have something to say,” Elaine insisted.
“But perhaps there’s a better time for this? Please, let me help you back to your seat.”
“No, I—” Elaine suddenly wobbled. Her face went white and she reached out to clutch the podium.
“Help! Can someone help me?” the minister pleaded as he tried to catch her beneath the arms. He was still holding on as Elaine’s legs slid out from under her and she crumpled to the floor.
—
ELAINE SAT IN THE MINISTER’S office, sipping a cup of heavily sugared tea. Her color was back, and so was her steeliness; she’d refused the ambulance and decisively shut down any talk of a visit to the emergency room. Instead, she sat grim-faced and rigid as the minister scurried to refill the teapot with hot water. Behind her loomed a bookcase filled with volumes about compassion and faith and charity, none of which could be read in Elaine’s eyes.
“It’s been a week now,” said Elaine, looking at Jane and Frost. “And you still have no idea who killed my daughter?”
“We’re following every lead, ma’am,” said Jane.
“What have you found out?”
“Well, we’ve learned that you have a very complicated family.” And there’s nothing like seeing it in all its brutal glory. Jane pulled up a chair and sat down so she was eye-to-eye with Elaine. “I have to say, you were pretty rough on Priscilla.”
“She deserves it. What else can you say about a woman who steals your husband?”
“I’d say the husband had something to do with it.”
“Oh, they both did. Do you know how it happened?”
I’m not sure I want to know.
“Matthew was her CPA. Did her taxes, kept track of all her various accounts. He knew how much she was worth. He knew she could give him the good life. When he started flying out of town on business trips, I had no idea that he was jetting off with her. There I was, at home with poor little Cassie, and it was an awful time for us to be left alone. A little girl had just been kidnapped in the neighborhood, and all the families were rattled, but did he give a damn? No. He was too busy chasing after that rich piece of ass.”
The minister froze, steaming kettle poised over the teapot. Red-faced, he turned away.
Elaine looked at Jane. “You’ve spoken to her. I bet she gave you a completely different version of the story.”
“She told us that your marriage was already in trouble,” said Jane.
“Of course she’d say that. Home-wreckers always do.”
Jane sighed. “We’re not family counselors, ma’am. We’re just trying to find your daughter’s killer. Do you think Cassie’s death might have something to do with the various conflicts in your family?”
“I know they hated each other.”
“Your daughter hated Priscilla?”
“Another woman swoops in and steals your daddy. Try to imagine how that would feel. Wouldn’t you hate her?”
It wasn’t at all hard to imagine. Jane thought of her own father, who’d had a brief fling with a woman they now referred to as the Bimbo. She thought of how that affair had broken Angela’s heart. Now that Frank’s fling had ended and he had returned home, could those broken pieces ever really be put back together?
“If you’re looking for a suspect who hated my daughter,” said Elaine, “you should take a good long look at Priscilla.”
“Is there anyone else we should be focused on?” said Frost. “A lot of people attended the funeral service today. Did you recognize most of them?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because sometimes a killer will insinuate himself into the investigation. He’ll attend the funeral to see the effects on a victim’s family. He’ll ask a lot of questions to find out if the police are on the right track.”
The minister stared at Frost. “You think the killer might have been here? In my church?”
“It’s always a possibility, sir. That’s why we placed the surveillance camera at the entrance, to record the faces of everyone who walked in. If the killer was here, he could be on video.” Frost looked at Elaine. “Did you see anyone who seemed out of place? Who didn’t belong?”
“Aside from Priscilla’s awful crowd?” Elaine shook her head. “I know most of the people. Cassie’s classmates. A few old friends from Brookline, where she grew up. So many people loved her and came to pay their respects.” She stared down at her cold tea with a frown of distaste. “Thank God I didn’t have to see him.”
“Who?”
“Matthew. I hear he’s in a coma and his prognosis isn’t good.” She set down her teacup with a triumphant clack. “If he does die, that’s one funeral I won’t be attending.”
—
“THERE’S NOTHING AS WONDERFUL AS a big happy family, hey, Frost?” said Jane as they drove back to Boston PD, Jane at the wheel. “Her daughter’s been murdered, her ex-husband is on life support, and she can’t stop ragging on about the evil second wife. I thought Priscilla was a piece of work, but this lady?”
“Yeah, she’s epic. How do you stay bitter at an ex for so long? I mean, it’s been, what? Nineteen years since their divorce.”
Jane pulled to a stop at a red light and looked at Frost, who had suffered through his own painful divorce, yet he’d never seemed bitter about it. Now he was back to watching movies and eating pizza with his ex-wife. If anyone lacked the gene for holding a grudge, it was Frost, whose legendary congeniality only served to make Jane look bad. The problem with being congenial was that people walked all over you. Growing up with two brothers had taught Jane that a swift kick to the shin generally worked faster than saying pretty please.
“You’re not even a little bit mad at Alice?” she asked.
“Why are we back to talking about Alice?”
“Seeing as we’re on the topic of angry exes.”
“Well, I am mad,” he admitted. “A little.”
“A little?”
“But what good does it do to walk around angry all your life? It’s not healthy. You’ve got to forgive and move on, like your mom did. She bounced back, right?”
“Yeah. The trouble is, my dad bounced back too. Straight back into her life.”
“Isn’t that a good thing, having them together again?”
?
??Come to the Rizzoli Christmas Eve dinner. You can see for yourself how well it’s working out between them.”
“Is that like a threat or an invitation?”
“My mom keeps asking when you’re coming to dinner again. You’re like the nice son she never had, and she’ll always have a soft spot for you, after you changed her flat tire. You might as well come, because there’s gonna be so much food. I’m talking crazy amounts of food.”
“Geez, I would come, but I’ve got plans Christmas Eve.”
“Don’t tell me.” She looked at him. “Alice?”
“Yeah.”
Jane sighed. “Okay. I guess you can bring her.”
“You see? That’s why I can’t bring Alice to dinner. She’s really sensitive about your attitude toward her.”
“I have an attitude because of what she did to you. I hate seeing you get hurt. And if she does it again, I’m gonna come over and kick her butt.”
“And that’s why I’m not bringing her to dinner. But tell your mom hi for me, okay? She’s a nice lady.”
Jane pulled into the Boston PD parking lot and shut off the engine. “Wish I could find an excuse not to show up. The way things are going between Mom and Dad, it’s not gonna be a fun night.”
“Well, you’ve got no choice. They’re your family, and it’s Christmas Eve.”
“Yeah.” Jane snorted. “Ho ho ho.”
“SO WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH the girl who got her eyeballs scooped out?”
Jane frowned across the dining table at her brother Frankie, who was carving a generous slice off the roast leg of lamb. Their mother had spent all day in the kitchen, laboring over the meal that was now spread out in full glory on the Rizzoli family table. The leg of lamb was studded with garlic cloves and roasted to a perfect medium rare. Surrounding it were bowls of crisp rosemary potatoes, green beans with almonds, three different salads, and homemade dinner rolls. Angela sat at the end of the table, her face shiny with sweat from the kitchen, waiting for her family to compliment the magnificent feast she’d laid out for them.