I Know a Secret

Four

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 place or yours?” he asks.