The Secret Friend

40

Tina Sanders was ravaged by osteoporosis. Protruding from her back and hidden underneath the red fabric of a ratty down coat was the classic dowager's hump. The woman was hunched forward, her bony, gnarled fingers clutching the rubber grips of her walker. Her hair, tied up in rollers, was partially hidden underneath a blue silk scarf.

'Did you find Jenny?'

'Let's talk in the conference room,' Darby said.

Tina Sanders shuffled across the floor in her walker and black orthopaedic shoes. Darby held open the door. She had already left messages on Tim Bryson's cell and office voicemails asking him to call her immediately.

Darby helped the woman into a chair. Cigarette smoke was baked in her clothes and hair.

Hand shaking, Tina Sanders reached inside her purse. She came back with a folded piece of paper and placed it on the table.

The glossy 81/2?11 sheet contained a picture of a blonde woman with feathered hair – the same picture Darby had seen tacked to the rotted wall inside Sinclair.

'Where did you get this, Miss Sanders?'

'He left it in my mailbox.'

'Who left it in your mailbox?'

'The detective,' Tina Sanders said. 'He told me to come down here and find you. He said you knew what happened to Jenny.'

'What was this man's name?'

'I don't know. What's going on with Jenny? Did you find her body?'

'You'll have to forgive me, Miss Sanders, but I'm confused. Bear with me a moment.' Darby opened her notebook. 'First tell me how you got this photograph.'

The old woman struggled with her impatience. 'I got a call this morning. It was a man saying he was a detective from Boston. He said Darby McCormick from the Boston Crime Lab found out what happened to my daughter. I asked him what it was, and he told me to go out to my mailbox. That's where I found the picture. When I came back to the phone, he wasn't there, got disconnected or something. That's what happened. Now tell me about Jenny. What did you find?'

'Where do you live, Miss Sanders?'

'Belham Heights.'

Darby grew up in Belham and knew the Heights section well – triple-deckers with views of clotheslines fastened to porches and postage-stamp sized backyards separated by sagging chain-link fences.

'And this is your daughter in the picture.'

'I said that, what, six times now?' Tina Sanders removed a pack of Virginia Slim cigarettes from her purse.

'I'm sorry, Miss Sanders, but you can't smoke in here.'

'I just want to hold this.' She had turned the cigarette pack over; tucked underneath the cellophane was a gold crucifix. 'I've been praying for this moment for twenty-six years,' she said, voice breaking. 'I can't believe it's finally happening.'

'Tell me what happened to your daughter,' Darby said. 'Start at the beginning and take your time.'