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“It’s just terrible.” More nodding, which led to more swinging. “The partners are going to get us all together at ten. Don’t know what they’re going to say. I mean, what else is there to say?”
As a wave of dizziness came over her, Anne fumbled around and sat down in her chair—
The instant her bottom hit the seat, something felt all wrong and she leaned to the side. Reaching under her hip, she pulled out… an eight-by-eleven envelope.
Penny was still talking, and Anne turned the thing over to see what was on the front. There was no name, no label. But the flap in the back had not only been secured with the little metal fastener thing, it had been taped shut as well.
“Anne?”
She glanced up at her office mate. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You want to come with us at ten for the assembly? All the girls and I are going together. It’s in the auditorium.”
“Okay. Sure, yes.”
“It’s a big shock, right?”
With that, Penny took off, zeroing in on another coworker who had just arrived—like she had some kind of quota to get through when it came to breaking the story, Walter Cronkite in a wig and that god-awful yellow outfit.
Glancing down at the envelope, Anne tested the tape. It was on so tightly and there was so much of it, there was no way to get a fingernail into the flap. She had to use scissors, and she was careful as she cut open the top. Putting the shears aside, she looked in.
Then she pulled out… photographs.
There were nearly a dozen color pictures, all taken at a distance—yet it was clear who the subject was. Bruce. It was Bruce… and he was somewhere in the grimy part of downtown, meeting with someone… whose appearance struck her as strange. The other man seemed to be in his early thirties, and yet his hair was ice white. His skin, too. He was so pale, it was as if he were a ghost.
The series of images showed the progression of a covert meeting, from the approach, to the greeting, to the talking. And as she looked at each one in turn, she dubbed in what might have been said. The pale man seemed to be the one doing the persuading, the cajoling, until finally he appeared angry.
Some kind of accord was struck, however. In the last image… the two shook hands, as if they had come to an agreement. Unsurprisingly, Bruce had a secret smile on his face, as if he had negotiated well and prevailed.
Turning the stack of photographs over, she shuffled through them—and found a note written on the back of one in the middle.
Market and 17th Street. Unknown subject (R). Roth at CPD contacted.
She recognized the handwriting. It was Charlie Byrnes’s. She knew this because of the paperwork he’d filled out when he’d hired Bruce as his paralegal.
Obviously, the photographs had been taken by the private investigator Charlie had hired to vet all the lies. But what exactly where they showing? And this had to be what Charlie had wanted to talk to her about at six o’clock last night. To think if she hadn’t been early for her date, she might have gotten more information.
Now, the man was dead.
“Oh, Charlie…” she whispered.
Going through the photographs one more time, she wondered… what exactly had he wanted to tell her?
And why had he gone to the police?
* * *
At the end of the workday, Anne put her coat back on, grabbed her purse, and tucked the envelope with the pictures under her arm. When she stepped out of the building, a fine spring evening embraced her gently, and she breathed in deep—only to get a whiff of pungent river mud.
Instead of heading for the bus stop, she walked west and south, striding against the tide of the other pedestrians who were heading for the open-air parking lots and the other public transport stations.
The headquarters for the Caldwell Police Department were about ten blocks over, and as she went up the steps, she felt like she needed to get some kind of ID out. Entering the building, she proceeded over to the uniformed officer at the reception desk. After signing in, she followed the directions given to her, going up one level in an elevator and hanging a left.
The homicide division’s offices were down the hall, and when she came up to the door, she raised a fist to knock—
It was opened by a man in plainclothes and the instant recognition on his face was a surprise. “Oh, hey. You’re here to see Tim Sulley, right? The woman who called from the law firm.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, I am. My name is—”
“Anne Wurster. Yeah, he told me. Tim! You got a visitor.”
“Thanks, Bud,” came the answer.
Anne entered and checked out an open area that was filled with cubicles. Most of them were vacant of detectives, but all the desks were cluttered with paperwork and telephones, and she felt right at home. In a surface sense, of course. The reality that she was downtown at the police department’s homicide division was anything but familiar and reassuring.
