I Know a Secret

Twenty-nine

“Until we find Martin Stanek, how do we keep her safe?” asked Detective Tam.

That was the question on the mind of everyone seated around the Boston PD conference table. The investigation had broadened to include Detectives Crowe and Tam, and this morning Dr. Zucker had again joined them. They felt certain Holly was Stanek’s next target, but they didn’t know where or when he would strike.

“For someone whose life is in danger, she sure isn’t acting particularly worried,” said Crowe. “Yesterday morning, when Tam and I went to her apartment to check the building’s security, she wouldn’t even take the time to talk to us. Just told us she was late for work and walked out.”

“Here’s the good news,” said Tam. “I found out her father has a permit to carry. Plus, Mr. Devine’s a Navy veteran. Maybe we can talk her into letting him move in with her. Nothing like a daddy with a gun to keep a girl safe.”

Jane snorted. “I’d shoot myself before I’d let my dad move in with me. No, Holly’s not someone we can order around. She’s got a mind of her own, and she’s... different. I’m still trying to figure her out.”

“Different in what way?” asked Dr. Zucker. It was exactly the type of question a forensic psychologist would ask, and Jane paused, trying to come up with an answer. To explain just what it was about Holly Devine that perplexed her.

“She seems weirdly cool and collected about the situation. She won’t listen to any advice we have. Won’t leave town, won’t leave her job. That gal’s in charge, and she doesn’t let us forget it.”

“You say that with a note of admiration, Detective Rizzoli.”

Jane met Zucker’s disturbingly reptilian gaze. Felt him studying her as he always did, a scientist probing for her deepest secrets. “Yes, I do admire her for that. I believe we should all be in control of our own lives.”

“Sure does make it hard to protect her, though,” said Tam.

“I’ve already warned her how the other victims were probably approached. How their drinks were spiked with ketamine. She knows what to watch out for, and that’s the best protection of all.” Jane paused. “And she might actually make our job easy. If she’s willing to stay out there, in full view.”

“We use her as bait?” said Crowe.

“Not use her, exactly. Just take advantage of the fact she’s so damn headstrong. Even though she knows Stanek’s after her, she won’t let it disrupt her life and she insists on sticking to her usual routine. If I were her, that’s exactly what I’d do. In fact, it’s what I did do, when I was in her situation a few years ago.”

“What situation are you talking about?” said Tam. He had only recently joined the homicide unit, so he wasn’t part of the investigation four years earlier, when Jane’s hunt for the killer known as the Surgeon had suddenly twisted on her, turning her into the predator’s target.

Frost said quietly, “She’s talking about Warren Hoyt.”

“When a perp forces you to change your life, then he’s already beaten you,” said Jane. “Holly refuses to surrender. Since she’s so damn stubborn, I say we work with that. We keep her monitored, install security cameras in her building and her workplace. We wait for Stanek to make his move.”

“You think she’d wear a bracelet monitor?” asked Tam. “It’d help us keep track of her.”

“You try and get it on her.”

“Why is this young woman so resistant?” asked Zucker. “Do you have any insights, Detective Rizzoli?”

“I think it’s just her nature. Remember, Holly has a history of fighting back. She was the first child to step forward and accuse the Staneks of molesting her, and that took a lot of guts for a ten-year-old girl. Without Holly, there would have been no arrests, no trial. The abuse could have continued for years.”

“Yes, I read her interview with the psychologist,” said Zucker. “Holly was certainly the most precise and believable, while the other children’s statements were obviously contaminated.”

“What do you mean by that, Dr. Zucker?” asked Tam. “Contaminated?”

Zucker said, “The stories told by the younger ones were absurd. The five-year-old boy said tigers flew in the woods. One girl claimed that cats and babies were sacrificed to the devil and thrown into a cellar.”

Jane shrugged. “Children do embellish.”

“Or were they coached? Prodded into making statements by the prosecution? Remember, the Staneks’ trial happened during an odd time in criminal justice, when the public was convinced there were satanic cults all over the country. I attended a forensic-psychology conference in the early nineties, and I heard a so-called expert describe vast networks of these cults abusing children and even sacrificing babies. She claimed that a quarter of her patients were survivors of ritual abuse. All around the country there were criminal trials going on, just like the Apple Tree case. Unfortunately, many of those trials weren’t based on facts but on fear and superstition.”

“Why would kids come up with such weird stories if they weren’t at least partially true?” asked Tam.

“Let’s consider just one of those ritual-abuse trials, the one involving the McMartin Preschool in California. The investigation started after a schizophrenic mother claimed her child was sodomized by a teacher at the school. Police sent out letters to all the other parents, alerting them that their children might be victims too, and by the time the case got to trial, the accusations had multiplied and grown outlandish. There were charges of wild sex orgies, of children being flushed down toilets into secret rooms, of attackers flying through the air like magic. The result was that an innocent man was convicted and spent five years in prison.”

“You’re not saying Martin Stanek was innocent?” said Jane.

“I merely question how the statements of these children at the Apple Tree were obtained. How much of it was fantasy? How much of it was coached?”

“Holly Devine had real physical injuries,” Jane pointed out. “The doctor who examined her described bruises on her head, multiple scratches on her arms and face.”

“The other children had no such injuries.”

“A psychologist for the prosecution said that the children she spoke to showed emotional symptoms of abuse. Fear of the dark, bed-wetting. Night terrors. I can read you exactly what the judge said about it. He called the damage to these children profound and truly horrifying.”

“Of course he said that. The whole country was swept up in the same moral panic.”

“Moral panic didn’t make a child vanish into thin air,” said Jane. “Remember, a nine-year-old girl named Lizzie DiPalma did go missing. Her body’s never been found.”

“Martin Stanek wasn’t convicted of her murder.”

“Only because the jury refused to deliver a guilty verdict on that charge. But everyone knew he did it.”

“Do you normally trust the wisdom of the mob?” Dr. Zucker responded, his eyebrow arched. “As a forensic psychologist, it’s my role here to offer you different perspectives, to point out what you might miss. Human behavior isn’t as black and white as you might like to believe. People have complex motives, and justice is meted out by imperfect human beings. Surely something about the children’s statements must bother you.”

“The prosecutor believed them.”

“Your daughter’s about three years old, isn’t she? Imagine giving her the power to put a whole family in prison.”

“The children at Apple Tree were older than my daughter.”

“But not necessarily more accurate or truthful.”

Jane sighed. “Now you sound like Dr. Isles.”

“Ah, yes. The eternal skeptic.”

“You can be as skeptical as you want, Dr. Zucker. But the fact is, Lizzie DiPalma did go missing twenty years ago. Her hat was found on the Apple Tree school bus, which made Martin Stanek the prime suspect. Now the children who accused him of abuse are being murdered. Stanek’s looking pretty damn good as our killer.”

“Convince me. Find the evidence to tie him to these murders. Any evidence.”

“Every perp makes mistakes,” she said. “We’ll find his.”

Billy Sullivan’s mother now lived in a handsome Tudor-style home only a mile from the more modest Brookline neighborhood where Billy had grown up. This morning’s freezing rain had glazed the shrubbery with ice, and the brick walkway leading to Mrs. Sullivan’s porch looked slick enough to skate on. For a moment Frost and Jane remained in the car, watching the house and bracing themselves for the cold. And for the terrible conversation that lay ahead of them.

“She must already know that her son’s dead,” said Frost.

“But she doesn’t know the worst of it yet. And I’m sure as hell not going to tell her how he probably died.” Buried alive, like Saint Vitalis. Or had the killer been merciful and made certain that his victim was no longer breathing when he tossed the first shovelful of dirt onto the corpse? Jane did not want to think of the alternative: that Billy was still alive and conscious, trapped in a box as frozen clods thumped onto his coffin. Or bound and helpless in an open grave, choking on soil as it rained down on his face. This was where nightmares came from; it was what the job could do to her, if she let it.

“Come on. Sooner or later, we have to talk to her,” said Frost.

At the front door, Frost rang the bell and they waited, shivering, as sleet tapped the pavement and shrubs. Inside, Billy Sullivan’s mother would be terrified, anticipating bad news while desperately keeping alive some small flame of hope. Jane could always see that hope flickering in the faces of victims’ families; too often, Jane was forced to snuff out that flame.

The woman who opened the door did not invite them in but stood barring the entrance for a moment, as if reluctant to let tragedy step into her house. Pale and dry-eyed, her face as stiff as molded wax, Susan Sullivan was desperately trying to stay in control. Her blond hair was swept back and lacquered in place, and her cream-colored knit pants and pink sweater set would have looked right at home at a country-club luncheon. Today, which could very well be the worst day of her life, she had chosen to wear pearls.

“Mrs. Sullivan,” said Jane. “I’m Detective Rizzoli, Boston PD. This is Detective Frost. May we come in?”

The woman finally nodded and moved aside to let Jane and Frost step into the foyer. There was a painful silence as they removed their damp coats. Even with the threat of terrible news hanging over her, Susan did not neglect her duty as a hostess, and with brittle efficiency she hung up their coats in the closet and led them into the living room. Jane’s attention was instantly riveted by an oil painting that hung above the fieldstone fireplace. It was a portrait of a golden-haired young man, his handsome face tilted toward the light, his lips curved in a quietly amused smile.

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 feet. 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.