I Know a Secret

Thirty-eight

“The clue was there all the time, in Cassandra Coyle’s movie,” said Jane. “The movie I didn’t get a chance to watch until last night.”

“I’m still not sure what made you think the answer would be there,” said Maura, crouching beside the bodies of Susan Sullivan and her son. “I thought it was just a horror film.”

Looking down at Maura’s bent head, Jane could see a few silver strands peeking out from that sleek black hair, and she thought: We’re growing old together. We’ve both seen too much death. When will we decide we’ve had enough?

“It is just a horror film,” said Jane. “But the inspiration for the story came straight from Cassandra’s childhood. She was having flashbacks about what really happened when she was a kid. She told Bonnie Sandridge that the Staneks never did anything to her and she was ashamed that she’d helped send innocent people to prison. That shame kept her from talking about it with her friends and family. She shared the story in the one safe way she could: in a film script about a girl who goes missing. A girl like Lizzie DiPalma.”

Maura glanced up. “That’s what Mr. Simian was about?”

Jane nodded. “The group of teens don’t realize there’s a monster in their midst. And the monster is one of them. In Cassandra’s movie, the killer turns out to be a girl who wears a beaded cap, exactly like Lizzie’s. Cassandra was pointing us to Holly Devine, which turned out to be wrong. But she was right about one thing: The monster was one of them.”

Maura frowned at the body of Billy Sullivan. “He staged his own disappearance.”

“He had to disappear. Over the past few years, he’s stolen millions of dollars from his clients at Cornwell investments, money that he’s probably been socking away in the Caribbean. It’ll be months before federal investigators find out how much he actually took. They’d just shut down his office when Frost and I showed up that afternoon. We assumed Billy was another one of Stanek’s murder victims, buried in some unmarked grave. But it was Billy’s way of conveniently vanishing. He ran from his old identity — and from what he did to Lizzie DiPalma twenty years ago.”

“He would only have been eleven years old when he did it.”

“But he was already a mean little bastard, according to Lizzie’s mother. The reason the police never found her body was because they were searching in the wrong places.” Jane looked down at Billy and Susan. “Now we have a pretty good idea of where to hunt for her.”

Maura rose to her feet. “You know the drill, Jane. We have another fatal police shooting, and this isn’t even Boston PD’s jurisdiction. It’s Brookline’s.”

Jane glanced through the doorway at the Brookline PD detective who stood in the hallway, scowling as he talked into his cell phone. A turf battle was brewing, and Jane had some serious explaining to do.

“Yeah, here comes the inquiry,” sighed Jane.

“But if there’s such a thing as a good shooting, this was it. And you have a civilian witness who’ll testify that you saved her life.” Maura stripped off her gloves. “How is Holly?”

“When the ambulance took her, she was still pretty shaky from the drug, but I’m sure she’ll be fine. I think that girl would survive just about anything. She’s full of surprises, that one.”

Strange girl. According to Bonnie Sandridge, that’s what the other children had called Holly, and Holly Devine was strange. Jane thought of the girl’s eerie calmness in the face of threat and the coolly analytical way Holly looked at her, as if she were studying a different species. As if humans were alien to her.

“Was she able to tell you what happened here tonight?” asked Maura.

“I got the gist of it. I’ll find out the details tomorrow, when she’s recovered.” Jane gazed down at Susan and Billy again, lying in their mingled pools of blood. “But I think you can see the whole story right here. A nasty little monster of a son. A mother who let him get away with everything. Who even helped him cover up his crimes.”

“You always tell me there’s no love as powerful as a mother’s, Jane.”

“Yeah, and here’s the proof of how love can go off the rails.” She took a deep breath, inhaling the all-too-familiar scents of blood and violence. Tonight it was also the scent of finality, and it was deeply, disturbingly satisfying.

When Jane walked into Holly’s hospital room the next morning, she found the young woman sitting up in bed, finishing her breakfast. Her right cheek was blue and swollen, and her arms were covered in bruises, the vivid evidence of the fierce battle she’d fought last night.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Jane asked.

“I’m sore all over. Do I look horrible?”

“You look alive, which is what matters.” Jane glanced at the empty breakfast tray. “And I see you had no trouble cleaning your plate.”

“The food here is really awful,” Holly said, and added with a wry shrug, “and there isn’t enough of it.”

Laughing, Jane pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. “We need to talk about what happened.”

“I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“Last night you said that Billy admitted killing the others.”

Holly nodded. “And I was his last target. I was the one he couldn’t find.”

“You said he also confessed to killing Lizzie DiPalma.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how he did it? Where he did it?”

Holly regarded her bruised arms and said softly, “You already know he’s the one who killed her. Do the details really matter now?”

“Actually, they do, Holly. They matter to Lizzie’s mother. Mrs. DiPalma is desperate to find her daughter’s body. Did Billy give you any idea where he might have hidden it?”

Holly said nothing, just kept staring down at her bruised arms. Jane studied her, wishing she could somehow see through that skull, to crack the mystery of Holly Devine, but when Holly looked up again, Jane could read nothing in the young woman’s gaze. It was like peering into a cat’s eyes, green and beautiful and utterly enigmatic.

“I don’t remember,” Holly said. “The drug, it made everything a little hazy. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe the details will come back to you later.”

“Maybe. If I remember anything else, I’ll let you know. But right now...” Holly sighed. “I’m really tired. I’d like to sleep.”

“Then we’ll talk later.” Jane stood up. “We still need a full statement from you when you feel up to it.”

“Of course.” Holly wiped a hand across her eyes. “I can’t believe it’s finally over.”

“It is. This time it really is.”

For Holly anyway, thought Jane. If only there were an ending for Arlene DiPalma, but Billy Sullivan had taken the secret of Lizzie’s fate to the grave with him, and they might never find the girl’s body.

Jane had one more stop to make in the hospital, and after she left Holly’s room, she continued down the hallway to look in on Everett Prescott. Last night, when he was loaded aboard the ambulance, he’d been too stupefied by ketamine to mumble more than a few words. This morning, she found him awake in bed and staring out the window.

“Mr. Prescott? May I come in?”

He blinked a few times, as if coming out of a daydream, and frowned at her.

“You may not remember me. I’m Detective Rizzoli. I was there last night, after you and Ms. Devine—”

“I remember you,” he said. And added quietly: “Thank you for saving my life.”

“It was a very close call.” She pulled a chair to his bedside and sat down. “Tell me what you remember.”

“Gunshots. Then you were standing over me. You and your partner. And the ambulance ride. I’ve never ridden in an ambulance before.”

Jane smiled. “Let’s hope that’s your one and only time.”

He didn’t share her smile; instead, his gaze drifted back to the window, to a dreary view of gray skies. For a man who’d almost died, he seemed more troubled than happy about this fortunate outcome.

“I spoke to your doctor,” said Jane. “He said there shouldn’t be any long-term effects from a single dose of ketamine, but you might have flashbacks. And maybe you’ll feel a little unsteady for a day or two. But as long as you don’t use any more ketamine, the side effects will be temporary.”

“I don’t do drugs. I don’t like drugs.” He gave an ironic laugh. “Because this sort of thing happens.”

He certainly looked like a man with healthy habits. Lean, fit, and clean-cut. Last night they had run a background check on him and learned that he was a landscape architect who worked at a well-regarded Boston firm. No warrants, no criminal record, not even an unpaid parking ticket. Should there be any doubt that the shooting last night was justified, Everett Prescott would be an excellent defense witness.

“You’re being discharged today, I believe,” she said.

“Yes. The doctor said I’ll be good to go.”

“We need a detailed statement from you about what happened last night. If you can come down to Boston PD tomorrow, we’ll record it on video. Here, let me give you my card.”

“They’re both dead. Does it really matter now?”

“The truth always matters, don’t you think?”

He thought about this for a moment, and his gaze turned back to the window. “The truth,” he said softly.

“Stop in at Schroeder Plaza tomorrow, say around ten A.M.? Meanwhile, if any details come back to you, please write them down. Everything you remember.”

“There is something.” He looked at her. “Something you need to know.”