The Charity (44 page)

“With all due respect, Sheriff, I am finding this just a little hard to believe.” Commissioner Donald Davenport looked at the documents spread out along his desktop. The police commissioner was an athletic man in his mid-fifties who still liked his hair in a buzz cut and wore suits tailored to a uniform’s perfection. His shirt was an expensive cotton weave and tie was striped silk. A long-time friend of the mayor of Boston, many people felt he received the coveted position of Police Commissioner of Boston Area Precincts on the merits of friendship alone. However, his nearly six years of stellar work proved even his most vocal opponents wrong. Still Michael hoped he would get what looked like fair treatment from this man.

“I can appreciate that, sir. But if what I’m saying to you is completely wrong, no harm would be done by reopening the case. If I’m right, then that’s the only prudent course of action.” Michael sat back in his chair. This meeting had lasted far longer than he anticipated. The elegant brass clock on the mahogany credenza chimed three times, indicating that two hours had passed. Commissioner Davenport was the fifth person he had spoken with that day. No one else was confident enough or possessed enough power to make the call to reopen the case by themselves. The request got booted up the ladder. The answer would come from the commissioner.

“Let’s just summarize what you’ve told me,” Commissioner Davenport said as he perused the documents and photographs before him. “You initially identified the suspect after several unusual occurrences forced her to confess to the murder of Gus Adams and disappear. A friend of yours, Mrs. Lavielle, allowed you to tap her phone and set up surveillance. When the suspect called to check on her horses, Mrs. Lavielle traced the number to Concord, New Hampshire and recorded the conversation. Being just over one hour’s drive from Boston, you assumed that this fugitive, one Jessica Wyeth, was in town again.”

Michael grew impatient at the hundredth reiteration of the facts even though he knew it was a standard interrogation practice used by police to catch the interview subject in inconsistencies. He had to keep sharp. Forcing patience into his demeanor he replied, “I want to use all available methods to help in tracking her down. Having a co-operative relationship with the local police will help tremendously.” He held his tongue not to say that this way, two armies of eyes would be looking for the needle in the haystack.

“Reopening a seven-year-old murder case when the prime suspect was thought to have been dead is not an easy task. Your research on the case, the photographs and detailed background sketches on both Jessica Wyeth and Tess White, are compelling. The photographs alone are enough to prove that there is sufficient evidence that they are one and the same person. The background profiles support your conclusion just in the event that anyone could doubt their own eyes.”

“Yes. Exactly. I do not want to relinquish my position as the lead investigative officer in this matter and make that a stipulated condition of bringing forth new evidence. Professional courtesy from cross-jurisdictional lines should allow that
all
information would flow through me. That way, I will know everything about the case at any given time and still maintain communication and control over the officers that do not directly report to me.” Michael knew that in the politically astute climate of Boston, he had to be very careful about whom he spoke with and how. “Frankly, Commissioner, I don’t want any cowboys taking this story to the press before I am good and ready. This is the kind of sensational case that could make a career. We have to be very careful how we handle this.”

“Very well,” Commissioner Davenport reviewed the documents one last time. He replaced the photographs on the desk, took off his glasses and leaned across the desk when he spoke, all actions calculated to give off the greatest impression of power. “You can count on having all police files at your disposal. We will issue an APB with the most recent photographs and background you have here. All officers will be briefed at their roll calls in the morning. The notification will also span to the surrounding states, especially in light of the traced phone call. You will have immediate notification of any and all information on the suspect. Please let it be clear that this enforcement body will not supply you with designated officers, detectives or inspectors to help you with your investigation. On that front, you are on your own until you develop substantive leads. After an evaluation of the new evidence of her whereabouts, we may assign you support, subject to our approval only.”

Michael sat back and listened to the conditions. It was not all that he wanted, but it would do. “And what about prosecution?”

“I’m sure the AG’s office will concur with our opinion to reopen. In fact, if I recall correctly, the attorney general himself, Owen Shea, was on the investigative team of the murder when he was a junior detective. He’ll be intrigued with what you have to say. The papers dubbed this Wyeth woman the Murdering Heiress, so I’m sure he’ll have no difficulty in reopening this case. Rumor has it he may make a run for the Governor’s seat next year. The publicity would help him out of his office on Ashburton Place and move up to a bigger one on Beacon Hill.”

Michael’s jaw clenched as he recalled the address on the package Electra mailed out. “Shea? I think I remember the name from some of the documents I reviewed. Don’t you think he’ll dislike the implication that because of a screw up on a case he was assigned to, a murderer got away?”

The commissioner shook his head. “Not likely. He was a rookie and the lead detective, Terrance Coogan, had all of the responsibility.”

“Well, what about Coogan? Won’t he kick up some dust at this decision to reopen?”

“Coogan’s dead. We just buried him last week. In that light, no, I don’t think he’ll give you any trouble.”

“Dead? How?”

“Line of duty. It was a hard death.” The commissioner allowed his eyes to drop, mouth firming to a straight line.

Michael took in all that was said and unsaid about Coogan. The timing of Coogan’s death was not lost on him. “Fine. Here’s the number where I can be reached. With that plus the cruiser radios, you shouldn’t have any trouble reaching me.” He stood up to leave, and the commissioner came out from behind his desk to show him the door. He took the extended hand and shook it firmly. “Thank you, Commissioner. I know this was not an easy call, but you’ve done the right thing.”

Michael stood outside on the steps of the great gray building and looked over the skyline of Boston. He had mixed feelings about his course of action. If something did not go as planned, the consequences would be dire for all those concerned. At least now he had a chance of finding her himself.

“Okay, Jessica. Just one more mistake from you is all that I’ll need.” He spoke the words half aloud as he descended down to the dirty street below.

Shea rubbed his eyes, gritty with fatigue. He looked over all the documents in the files and the photocopies of bank records he received from the archives, feeling sure he had enough evidence to indict the operator of Unity Green Trust, namely Magnus Connaught. An airtight case against Connaught still eluded him. Where the hell was Jessica?

He was exposed. The men that attacked him at the Wyeth’s attorney’s office recognized him. Going back to his house or to his office would mean certain death for anyone there. There seemed to be no way to get back to the office safely. Unless—

He hated himself for doing it, but he called in several bomb threats against the attorney general’s office and staff and other tenants in his building. Using different phones, he provided just enough information to make the threats sound believable and imminent. With the beefed up security in and around the building that was after several complete sweeps for explosives, he felt secure enough to go back. The security to get into the lobby was incredible. Everyone passed through two types of scanners. Specially trained dogs sniffed bags after they were X-rayed. Video cameras unabashedly stared at and recorded everyone’s face. No one complained about the inconvenience. After all, two explosives were, in fact, found in the AG’s office two years ago. They were right outside of Shea’s office.

Pleading nerves, he requested a different office on a lower floor, facing the street. He purchased a pair of cheap, miniature binoculars and began to keep his own surveillance. All pedestrian and automotive traffic was kept a safe distance from the building with a series of wooden barricades and police cruisers, making it more difficult for him to see. Every person on the street, men and women, was scrutinized.

He peered out the window for nearly two days straight before he saw her. Dressed in jeans, sneakers, and bulky jacket she tried to hide her face with a baseball cap drawn down low over her brow and dark, round sunglasses. A long black ponytail poked out of the back of the hat and trailed down her back. The woman had a style about her that was eye-catching. Even trying to hide herself, Jessica Wyeth was too good-looking to remain unnoticed by a trained eye looking for her.

He grabbed the pre-packed satchel and dashed out the door. The elevator doors opened just as he entered the hallway. He jumped in and immediately cursed himself. It was approaching four-thirty, and the elevator slowly filled with people leaving early to fit in some Christmas shopping after work. At every floor, the doors politely chimed as they parted for another passenger. In maddening repetition, the doors buzzed their impatience as they were held open for a dawdling friend. Shea tried to calm himself and was not successful. Each electronic chime and buzz acted as a dentist’s drill on his raw nerves.

The last thing he needed was to look like a lunatic on the run once he got to the street. The small army of jumpy security staff would haul him in with a blink of an eye. The street was thick with people rushing home or trying to hustle to the department stores a few blocks up or to Faneuil Hall. Walking immediately to the spot where he saw her, he cursed to himself. She was gone. The best alternative was just to stay outside. If she was here once, she would return. Forgetting about his own safety, he began to slowly walk the sidewalks around the building. If she would risk getting that close to his building, then he would meet her on her terms.

It was almost an hour before he felt a hand grab his arm.

“Just pretend we’re old friends,” the voice low and laced with urgency.

He turned and gave his companion a restrained but genial greeting. “It’s been too long. What’s new...?” The smile stuck on his face as the condition of his friend registered. The round dark glasses barely hid the purple and red patches of skin on her swollen face. “Let’s go.” He helped her into a cab and asked to be brought to the Back Bay. There, after one more cab ride, Shea led Jessica to a car he had hidden away in the bowels of Allston, and they sped off.

“This your car?” Jessica looked around nervously.

“Pretty much.”

“Did you arrange for it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Completely? With cash and another name?”

Shea could detect a small quaver in her voice. Fear? He could not blame her. “Yes. Why?”

“Did you trust Granger with any information about this car or where we’re going at all?” She was insistent.

“Granger? No. Nothing. Why? What’s going on?” He looked over at his passenger several times. Her condition was making it hard to concentrate on the road.

“Because he’s the bastard who did this to me.” The left side of her face and eye had ripened into a near blur of painful colors. Her eye and lips were swollen to a degree that could not be hidden behind sunglasses or pulled up collars.

“Jesus H. Christ! Granger did that! I don’t believe it.”

“Stop the car! I’m getting out!” She scrambled with the door latch.

“Wait! Don’t be stupid. Okay, okay! I believe you. He had nothing do to with this car or where we’re going. Even the name I used to get the car is one he doesn’t know about. We’re safe.” He reached over and tried to hold her back by placing his right arm around her stomach. The pressure caused her to flinch. “Jessica, Christ! What in God’s name happened to you?”

She relented and put her head back against the headrest. “It’s a long story. Where have you been?”

He smiled. “That’s a long story, too. You look exhausted. When did that happen?”

“Last night.”

“Let’s fill each other in after you’ve had a chance to rest. Deal?”

“Deal.”

They drove an hour and a half through Boston traffic then farther north in silence; Jessica used the time to doze. She awoke when the car was finally guided onto a dirt road and up a small drive. A small well-kept house was perched on an outcropping of rock. Frozen marshes leading to the open ocean reflecting the blue sky of a winter’s twilight could be seen through the trees. Several other houses stood like quiet sentinels; windows boarded up for the winter months, keeping a blind guard of the view. The house they approached, like the others, was a summer camp shuttered for the winter, the only difference its slightly more substantial appearance. Shea fumbled with a set of keys, and they stepped inside. It was sparsely but comfortably furnished with a series of mismatched chairs and tables. From the front doorway, two wood stoves could be seen, one in the kitchen, the other in the living room. He immediately brought her ice wrapped in a kitchen towel and helped place it on her face.