“I’m going to take you to my place,” I informed her now.
“Is it safe?”
“As safe as anywhere.”
“But the cops’ll be watching.”
“Which is why I have a plan. Do you trust me, Shana?”
She smiled. “Do you trust me, little sister?”
“I’m bearing the marks to prove it.”
“Fair enough.” She rose to standing, tossing the coffee cup in the nearest garbage receptacle, then picking up the bag. “Lead on. It’s your rodeo.”
• • •
I TOOK HER TO BROOKS BROTHERS. Her first attempt at a disguise had given me the idea. Police might be suspicious if I returned to my condo with a female but not of a leading psychiatrist returning with a professionally attired gentleman. Maybe a colleague. A boyfriend. Or my own therapist. The possibilities were endless, and none of them included my recently escaped sister.
Shana was self-conscious in the store. And she couldn’t stop touching. The shirts, the ties, the suits, at one point, the faux-painted wall. She had a wide-eyed quality about her, like a country hick recently arrived in the big city.
I picked out a classic dark-gray suit, while the salesman followed in our wake, eyeing Shana’s wandering fingers anxiously, then my ravaged face and bandaged hand with growing concern. At last, I collected my sister, shoving her and the clothes into a dressing room.
“Holy shit,” she exclaimed thirty seconds later.
“It doesn’t fit?”
“Fit? Have you seen these prices?”
“Come, now, darling.” I overemphasized the word, given the hovering sales clerk. “Quality costs, but you’re worth it. Now, try it on!”
Shana emerged nearly ten minutes later. She was struggling with buttons, struggling with the tie. She looked like someone more at war with her wardrobe than at home in her clothes. But I buttoned her up, smoothed her out, then got her turned in front of the mirror.
Both of us stared. Was it the hair? Something about the lines of her face? Because God knows our father had never run around in a Brooks Brothers suit, and yet, for a second there . . . Shana might have been the one standing on the carpet, but it was Harry Day who stared back from the mirror.
I couldn’t help myself. I shivered. Shana saw it. She thinned her lips, didn’t say a word.
“We’ll take it,” I informed the salesman. “Clip the tags. He’ll wear it out.”
I added a long black wool coat to the stash, then handed my credit card to the attending salesman, who was still looking at everything but my face.
The credit card was my extra, the one I kept in my safe and not in my purse, in the event of theft. The police were most likely monitoring my other cards, given Shana had allegedly escaped with my purse. But this card should be clear. Even if the police tracked the purchase, a professional woman shopping at Brooks Brothers wasn’t too suspect, was it?
From the clothing store, I took my sister down a few blocks to a walk-in hair salon. There, a bored kid tidied up her hack job, then, per my request, added blond highlights. A TV was on in the corner of the salon. Evening news covering the morning’s prison escape, complete with flashing a photo of my sister’s bored-looking mug shot. I glanced at the hairstylist. He didn’t seem to notice the news or the photo. Or if he did, he didn’t seem to connect a gaunt woman in prison orange with the nicely attired gentleman sitting in his salon chair.
I was still grateful to hustle us both out of there. Across the street to the drugstore for one last purchase: a pair of reading glasses with thick black frames. When I perched them on the end of her nose, Shana frowned, looking like she might sneeze.
But the end result was worth it.
Shana Day had disappeared completely. Now, a successful businessman stood in her place.
“Is this how your father looked?” Shana asked me. “You know, your other dad.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He was an academic; he preferred tweed.”
My sister stared at me as if I was speaking another language. No doubt for her, I was.
“Roger,” I announced briskly, straightening the glasses on her face. “We’ll call you Roger. You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re my therapist. After this morning, no one would blame me for needing a shrink.”
My sister touched one of the marks on my face.
“I am an expert in pain,” she deadpanned.
Then she turned away, shifting restlessly under the weight of all the new clothes, fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides.
We continued down the street, me still looking over my shoulder, my sister with an expression that was once more impossible to read upon her face.
Chapter 35
SHANA’S FORMER FOSTER MOTHER, Mrs. Davies, was defiant.
“So she’s escaped. What can she do to me? Ruin my sleep, damage my reputation, make me wish I was no longer alive? She’s already done all that and more.”
“Can we come inside?” Phil persisted. “Take a look around?”
The old woman finally complied, floral housecoat whirling around her ankles as she bustled down the narrow hall. She moved with more energy today than yesterday, D.D. noted. Rage had that effect on people.
D.D. walked through Mrs. Davies’s home, while Phil conducted a quick sweep of the external perimeter. Outside there wasn’t much land, given how tightly together the Boston houses were constructed. Inside, D.D. could say the same, given how much stuff Mrs. Davies had crammed into her family’s home. Personally, D.D. thought there was barely enough room for Mrs. Davies inside the house, let alone an escaped killer.
They reconvened with Mrs. Davies in the rear of the house, finding her sitting on the sofa, stroking a black-and-gray tiger cat.
“Can you think of anyplace Shana would go?” Phil asked.
“Please. It’s been thirty years. How many people have come and gone? Not even the city is the same, post–Big Dig and all.”
D.D. and Phil exchanged glances. Fair enough.
“Mrs. Davies,” D.D. spoke up. “Yesterday you mentioned a foster girl, AnaRose Simmons, who was moved by the state after Shana’s . . . incident.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Davies’s expression softened immediately. “She was so beautiful. This pretty little thing, but so shy. Barely spoke two words, but sweet, very sweet.”
D.D. had been thinking about it all night. She liked Samuel Hayes, and his posting of items on a murderabilia site definitely bore checking out. But if they were looking for a female . . . what about a little girl returned from a loving foster home to her crack addict mom’s care due to Shana’s transgression? Such a thing certainly would’ve pissed D.D. off.
“Have you heard from AnaRose at all?”
“Oh, no. I never followed up. I told you that.”
“What about her, trying to get in contact with you, once she was of age?”
Mrs. Davies gazed at her sympathetically. “It doesn’t work like that, dear. You think it might. But the number of kids I’ve seen. Most come and go, and when they go, they’re gone. That’s what the lifestyle does to them. They don’t cling. They live only in the present, for they’ve learned the hard way, it’s all they have.”
D.D. frowned. “And AnaRose?”
“I don’t know what became of her. If anyone would, it might be Samuel. He was like a big brother to her. They might have kept in touch.”
“Speaking of Mr. Hayes—”
“Samuel?”
“We’re worried about him as well,” D.D. informed her. Across from her, Phil nodded, playing along. They hadn’t been able to locate Samuel thus far. Why not recruit Mrs. Davies to their cause?
D.D. paused. “Do you maybe have a cell phone number? A better way for us to reach him?”
“Oh. Oh yes. Just one moment.”
Mrs. Davies disapp
eared into the kitchen. D.D. tried hard not to think about that space, the piles of unwashed dishes, the rotting food, the cat hair covering the counters. A few minutes later, the older woman returned with a scrap of paper in her hands.
“I could call him if you’d like?” Mrs. Davies offered brightly.
“That would be great.”
Mrs. Davies dialed the number. Nothing like a suspect receiving a call from a known number. Mrs. Davies was making D.D. and Phil’s lives easier all the time.
Enough time had passed that D.D. was growing concerned, when:
“Samuel!” Mrs. Davies exclaimed. Her face split into a warm smile. All these years later, it was easy to see she still considered him to be like a son to her.
It almost made D.D. feel guilty.
“Have you heard the news, then?” Mrs. Davies continued. “Shana Day escaped. I have two fine detectives at my house now. They’re worried about me, Sam. And they’re worried about you, too.”
A pause, Samuel saying something back. Whatever it was, it made Mrs. Davies frown.
“Well, I don’t know. . . . I . . . Yes . . . No. Here. You talk to them. They’ll want to hear from you directly anyway.”
Without further prompting, Mrs. Davies thrust the phone into D.D.’s hand. She lifted it to her ear.
“Samuel Hayes? Detective D. D. Warren, BPD. We’re working with the task force to locate Shana Day.”
Phil nodded encouragingly. Emphasize Shana Day. They weren’t suspicious of Samuel at all. No, he wasn’t currently a lead suspect in the murder of three women, let alone under suspicion because he had possible ties to their other lead suspect, AnaRose Simmons. No, they weren’t dying to interrogate him.
“In these situations,” D.D. continued briskly, “it’s a matter of protocol to visit an escaped inmate’s known associates. In this case, that includes you. But I’ll be honest, Mr. Hayes. Given Shana’s track record, it’s not so much that we believe you’re involved with her escape, as much as we have reason to fear for your safety.”
“What?” Samuel Hayes sounded startled.
“It would be best if we met in person,” D.D. continued smoothly. “We can be at your residence ASAP. Address?”
“My safety? But, but, but . . .”
She had him right where they wanted him. Not defensive about a police visit but bewildered.
“Street address,” she prompted.
He rattled it off, tone still uncertain.
“We’ll be there just as soon as we’re done securing Mrs. Davies’s residence. Oh, and I wouldn’t go out if I were you. Keep all doors and windows locked. Trust us on this one.”
D.D. ended the call. She returned the phone to Mrs. Davies, who appeared suitably wide-eyed.
“Are you really so afraid . . . ?” the woman breathed.
“Better safe than sorry,” D.D. assured her. “Same goes for you, Mrs. Davies. Best to stay inside, and keep the house shuttered tight. If you hear any sound out of place, dial us direct.” Phil produced a card. “We’ll have a patrol car sent here immediately. Okay?”
“Okay.” But Mrs. Davies didn’t appear frightened anymore. She had that belligerent look back on her face.
“Do you want to see her again?” D.D. asked curiously.
“There are some things I’d like to say.”
“Such as?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“I am sorry,” Mrs. Davies repeated evenly. “We were the parents. It was our job to do right by her. Then, when we realized we couldn’t, we should’ve gotten her to a home or to a place where they could’ve helped her. But we didn’t. We sat on our hands, waiting for something to magically change. For that, I’m sorry.”
“Mrs. Davies . . . What Shana did, that wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that, too. That girl is the devil, and the devil will have her due. But she was still the child, and we were still the adults. That matters, Detective, don’t you think? At least, it matters to me.”
D.D. shook her head, unconvinced. Not all children were childlike. And she’d met enough youthful offenders to know that some were well beyond the reach of any well-meaning adult, let alone mental health expert or even dedicated parole officer.
Mrs. Davies assured them she would take all necessary precautions. Then Phil and D.D. conducted a slow drive around the block, eyes peeled, just in case they’d missed something, such as Shana blatantly peering around from behind a bush. Or a trail of blood leading to a neighbor’s back door.
When the neighborhood remained quiet, they continued on.
Four P.M. The sun already beginning to fade, dusk approaching.
They went in search of Samuel Hayes.
• • •
THE ADDRESS LED THEM to an apartment building in Allston, one of the most densely packed neighborhoods in Boston. D.D. followed Phil up a very narrow flight of stairs, keeping her right shoulder against the wall, reminding herself to breathe deeply—then modified that request to include breathing through her mouth, when the stench of cooked cabbage and cat urine assaulted her senses.
Upon reaching the fourth-floor unit, Phil did the knocking. He indicated for D.D. to remain behind him and slightly to the side. He had his right hand floating around his waist, not far from his holster.
So many things they didn’t know about Samuel Hayes.
Phil knocked a second time.
The door finally opened.
And they found themselves standing face-to-face with a man seated in a wheelchair.
• • •
“I HAVEN’T HAD THE HEART to tell Mrs. Davies,” Samuel Hayes was explaining ten minutes later. They sat together in his one-bedroom unit, Hayes in his wheelchair, D.D. and Phil on the lone love seat in the modest space.
“I fell off a ladder a month ago, working on a roof. Apparently bruised my spine. First few days, when I still had problems moving my legs, the doctors told me it was due to the swelling; I just needed more time to recover. But four weeks of physical therapy and home exercises later, here I am.”
“There’s no elevator in this building,” D.D. said. “How do you manage?”
“I get on the floor and belly crawl my way down four flights of stairs. The guy who drives the rehab shuttle then helps me load up. At the rehab center, they have a wheelchair waiting, which I can use while I’m there. Then, once I get home, I repeat the process of crawling up four flights of stairs. My legs may still be shit, but I’m finally getting those big guns I’ve always wanted.”
Hayes flexed his right arm, his biceps bulging noticeably.
D.D. couldn’t quite wrap her mind around it. Their top suspect was wheelchair-bound. Or at least claiming to be. He could be faking it, right? Then again, dragging yourself up and down four flights of stairs in full view of your neighbors seemed a pretty dramatic ruse.
Was this why the Rose Killer’s victims had been ambushed while they slept? After all, then Hayes could’ve dragged himself onto the bed, done his thing, dragged himself off—
Ah hell, she was reaching for straws. Samuel Hayes was not their man. But then, who was he?
“Tell us about AnaRose Simmons,” D.D. began.
Hayes blinked, clearly startled. “You mean the little girl in Mrs. Davies’s house? Shit, I haven’t thought of her in years.”
“Keep in touch?”
“Nah.” He shook his head.
“Tell us about her anyway,” D.D. prodded.
Hayes blinked, seeming to have to search his memory banks. “Pretty girl,” he said at last. “Like in that way where other people stopped and stared. Made me feel bad for her. Being a foster kid is hard enough. Being a pretty child . . .” He shook his head. “Not a good thing. But she was tough, too. You had to be, to survive being a kid in the system.”
“Sounds like you were friends.”
“We had a relationship of sorts. Including the first night she arrived, she walked into my room and announced that if I tried to touch any of her private parts, she was gonna scream. Then she walked out, like she thought I should know.”
“She have reason to think that about you?” Phil asked.
“Hell no! I don’t go around molesting little girls. Mostly . . . it made me feel sad. ’Cause clearly someone had, you know, to make her feel she had to say such a thing.”
“You two were friends.”
Hayes shrugged. “I liked her. She was a good kid. I tried to look out for her. Being a black kid in a white Irish neighborhood of Southie wasn’t easy.”
“Who picked on her?”
“Anyone, everyone. She was a fish out of water, and she knew it. But she kept her head up walking. She didn’t socialize much, though. She came home, went to her room. Probably felt safest there.”
“What did she think of Shana?”
Hayes shook his head. “Never saw them interact.”
“Really? Only two girls in the house . . . ?”
“Shana led a fast life. She didn’t even hang out much. AnaRose . . . She was a good girl. Quiet. Smart. I think she took one look at Shana and saw everything she wasn’t going to do, in order to one day lead a better life.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Ah hell . . . I dunno. Since she moved out thirty years ago.”
“State moved her out,” D.D. prodded. “Sent her back to her addict mom, after Shana cast doubt on Mr. and Mrs. Davies’s ability to control their foster children.”
Hayes squirmed uncomfortably.
“You’ve never talked to AnaRose since?”
“How? I don’t know where she went. Not like foster kids run around with phone numbers attached to their chests or forwarding addresses. We’re all temporary. We know that.”
“Think she could be a killer?” Phil asked.
“What?”
“AnaRose. Had to be a tough life. From her perspective, Shana fucks up and she pays the price. Can’t blame her for hating Shana after that.”
“Hating Shana? Please, get in line.”
“Really?” Phil switched gears. “Tell us about Shana.”