What You See

59

Elbows on her desk, Catherine Siskel stared at the phone receiver in her hand. The light on her phone console blinked green, the dial tone humming, expectant. Detective Brogan hadn’t called her back. He was homicide, she’d discovered. And that’s who she needed. But there was one more option. Not a very pleasant one, but pleasant was over for the foreseeable future.

So far she’d lived her life solving problems for others. Now it was time to solve her own problems, and her daughter’s. The dial tone changed to the hurry-up signal, harsh and insistent. Catherine hung up. Thinking it through one more time. Making sure.

Even though shafts of late-afternoon sunlight persevered through the barely opened blinds, it felt like the walls of her office were closing in. Tenley sat in the corner of the couch, her legs storked underneath, her dear little eyes still red from her tears, as quiet as Catherine had ever seen her. Brileen, in the guest chair facing the desk, clasped her hands in her lap, staring at nothing.

Catherine needed that damn thumb drive. With the pictures of Tenley.

What if it had been in her dead husband’s pocket? If Greg had died to get it, what if he still had it? Which meant the police had it now.

Catherine eyed the white business card again, decided, and dialed.

It didn’t even ring once.

“Naka,” the voice said.

Catherine paused. This was the moment her job ended and her life changed. She’d lied to the police. On purpose. But at least she had her life, and Tenley did, too.

“This is Catherine Siskel,” she said. “Detective Brogan told me to call you. It’s about my missing husband, Greg Siskel.”

Tenley uncurled herself from the corner of the couch, wary, listening.

“I think I know where my husband is,” Catherine said.

Catherine heard Naka clearing her throat.

“I see,” Naka said. “So he’s not missing?”

Tenley stood up, came to the desk.

“He’s the victim in the Curley Park incident. So I suppose he’s in the”-she looked at Tenley, about to say a word she’d kill to spare her daughter from hearing-“morgue.”

Tenley came closer, nestled into her mother’s shoulder, her head fitting just under Catherine’s chin. Brileen wrapped her arms across her own chest and stared at the floor.

“I see,” the voice came back. “Why do you think that, Mrs. Siskel?”

“Because-” Catherine gulped. She actually gulped, she’d never thought that was something people really did. And then she found her words. “Because it’s all on tape.”

“No, it isn’t.” Tenley stepped away from her, frowning. “Mom, I told you-”

“That’s right,” Catherine answered Sergeant Naka. She held up a palm to stop Tenley’s protest, added a wan smile. Wait, honey. “I’ve seen the tape of it. I’ve called Detective Brogan to tell him the same thing. Now I need to see my husband.”

Catherine heard a long breath on the other end of the line, the sound of a thin spool of air coming through the phone. She imagined this Naka, assimilating it all. Considering protocol. Planning her next move.

“I see,” the police officer’s voice came back. “In fact, that’s where I am right now. At the morgue. We’re compiling the missing person dossier, in fact. Getting a photo for identification. Inventorying the possessions. Someone will have to come do a formal identification, I’m afraid, Mrs. Siskel.”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Catherine said. She hugged Tenley closer to her. “But you said-possessions. Was there a phone? A wallet? And might I ask, did you find a thumb drive?”

Another pause. Tenley took a step closer. Brileen stood, putting the tips of her fingers on Catherine’s desk. The three women waited.

Catherine took a chance. Pushed the button for speakerphone. Heard the staticky buzz that meant the next words could be heard by all in the room. All three had a stake in this. They should all hear it at the same time.

Silence.

“Sergeant Naka?” Catherine leaned toward the speaker. “Did you hear my question?”

“Yes.” The voice crackled through the tiny holes of the black metal speaker. “No, there’s no phone, and no wallet. But yes, there’s a thumb drive. It was hidden in his shoe.”

“Jane!” Robyn stood, holding out her arms, sobbing, as Jane opened the door, Jake close behind her. The supply room looked like a padded cell of towels and sheets, identically folded piles of white linens stacked on metal shelves, almost floor to ceiling. The place smelled faintly of bleach and summery fabric softener. A long rectangular table occupied the middle of the room. Robyn had been seated on a beige folding chair, its back against the table. She was flanked by two uniformed cops.

One of them, a surprisingly attractive woman with a French twist under her billed cap, not quite gently returned Robyn to her seat. The other was DeLuca. Though he leaned against one row of shelving, one leg crossed over the other-a study in nonchalance-he seemed to be in charge.

“Clearly you’re free to leave, Mrs. Wilhoite,” DeLuca said. Jane had never heard his voice like that, saying one thing and clearly meaning the opposite. “At any time. But if you stay, we’d love to have you keep your seat.”

“Tell them, Jane.” Robyn’s voice, entreating, needy, insistent, reached out and encircled Jane, almost pulling her closer. Robyn’s lipstick was gone, her hair wild, a single trail of black mascara jagging dramatically down one check. Her pale yellow blouse floated over black capri pants, her toenails painted pale blue. She still looked gorgeous, Jane thought. Even after she’d just shot her husband. And she was a complete liar.

In the elevator on the way up, Jane told Jake what she’d discovered at the front desk. “Which changes things, right?” As the elevator doors opened on the third floor, she added, “Does Robyn think Lewis is dead? Are you going to tell her he’s not?”

“Let’s see how that plays out,” Jake had told her.

Jane felt a pang of hesitation, her reporter instinct balancing both sides of the story even while she was also part of it. “Don’t you have to give her the chance to ask for a lawyer?”

“Not as long as she insists she’s the victim,” Jake had said. “Anyway, Judge Ryland, I did give her that option. And she said she wanted you.”

Now here they were, face-to-face. Robyn had called Jane to be her lifeline.

“Mrs. Wilhoite? You said you wanted to talk to Ms. Ryland.” Jake directed his words to Robyn, using his cop voice. “Here she is.”

Uh-oh, Jane thought. We were all at dinner together. Was Robyn savvy enough to use that against them? To wonder why Jake was suddenly calling her “Ms. Ryland”? DeLuca knew about them, of course. But the female cop… Exactly why this was a problem. She hoped they didn’t have to cross that bridge.

“Tell them, Jane,” Robyn gestured, entreating, with both hands. “Tell them how worried I was, that Gracie wasn’t home from school, that Lewis had called in sick for her, how I didn’t know that. Tell them!”

“So you were shocked when Gracie and Lewis weren’t where you thought they’d be,” Jane said, nodding, encouraging her to tell the story. Hoping she didn’t mention dinner.

“Exactly! Can you imagine? You were there, you heard it all.”

“I heard you,” Jane said. The Rubik’s Cube that was Robyn began to change colors, clicking into place a different way. Jane had heard Robyn, only Robyn. Never Lewis.

“And tell them how upset and frustrated I was when they had the idiotic flat tire, and they had to stay in the garage, that horrible garage, and-”

“What garage was that?” Jake asked.

“What?”

“Just wondering what garage was open that time of night, which place your husband would have called for a flat tire.”

“I don’t know! Why would I know? How would I know? He didn’t tell me. You heard him, Jane.”

“I heard you,” Jane said. The cube clicked again. “Not Lewis.”

Robyn raked both hands through her hair, making her wild curls even wilder. “But tell them, Jane, about what you found in the computer. About who Lewis really was? Or wasn’t?”

Click. It had been awfully easy for Jane to find that “fake” identity. Jane had never heard about Wharton from Lewis. Only from Robyn. What if Robyn simply found another Lewis Wilhoite? And facilitated Jane’s finding him? To pretend he had stolen an identity? Click.

“So you were shocked when they wound up in this hotel?” Jane went on, ignoring Robyn’s last question. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, of course!” Robyn leaned forward, beseeching, convincing. “You were there, Jane, when Lewis called! To finally say where he was, to tell me to let you come reclaim my darling Gracie-”

She stopped. The white-walled room went still.

“What, Mrs. Wilhoite?” Jake’s voice was even, calm, hard as onyx. Jane knew exactly what was coming.

Robyn’s eyes searched the room floor to ceiling, then side to side, a frantic sparrow searching for a way out. Then she sat up straight, shoulders squared, back not touching the curved metal of the chair.

“Where is she?” she demanded. “What have you done with her?”

“Yeah, interesting you brought that up.” DeLuca looked at his watch, as if he’d been calculating the time. “Wondered when you’d ask about her.”

“She’s fine,” Jake said. “She’s with her father. Daniel Fasullo.”

Robyn rolled her eyes. “I want to go,” she said. “So tell them, Jane, tell them-”

“But why did you come here, Robyn?” Jane almost felt like crying. Her voice wasn’t quite working. She was tired and stressed, yes, but this story was such a wretched one. “You said Lewis would give Gracie only to me. Why didn’t you just let that happen and let it all be over?”

“He called again, while you were gone,” Robyn said. “Told me he’d changed his mind, that I had to come. He demanded I come. He insisted that he and I had to talk it out, face-to-face. He sounded horrible, ugly, I know how he gets. I tried to call you but-”

“But?” Jane said. She felt one eyebrow go up.

“I kept getting the wrong number, I don’t know,” Robyn said dismissively. “You know phones.”

“So it was a surprise to you that Lewis chose this particular hotel?” Jake had pretty much stayed out of it so far. Now he took a step forward, his right arm almost touching Jane’s left. Jane didn’t move. Letting him play the card. “Mrs. Wilhoite? A surprise?”

“Yes, of course. Tell them, Jane. You were there. You heard the call.”

Jane kept her expression even. No wonder Jake closed cases. He was methodically reeling Robyn in. But Jane had thought of asking about the room reservation. He owed her one.

“I heard you,” Jane said again. She mentally replayed their conversations, the phone calls, one after the other. Remembering. “Not Lewis.”

“Well, whatever!” Robyn waved her off. “And then I got here, and went to his room. And he was completely out of it, drunk, I think, and crazy and demanding and-”

“Was Gracie there?” Jake asked.

“Yes. No. When?” Robyn shifted in her chair, then seemed to gather herself. She clasped her hands in her lap, the picture of maternal virtue. “No, when I arrived she was-I don’t know. Wherever Lewis hid her!”

“I see,” Jane said. Jane thought of Gracie at the palm trees, Gracie not expecting her. Gracie aimless and bored. She’d been sent away. On purpose. By who?

“And then what?” Jake asked.

“And then Lewis, or whatever his name really is, pulled out a gun and tried to shoot me! What do you think?” Her voice tightened, rising pitch by pitch as she talked. “So I kicked him and grabbed the gun-he’s such a fool-and he came at me and I had to shoot him. He would have killed me! What else was I supposed to do? You know it! You know it! I was defending myself and my daughter. Jane, you know this! He was going to take her!”