the okay.
'I don't know if you're familiar with the center,' Christine asked as she started leading them slowly through the maze of tables. She had to speak louder to be heard over the ringing of phones and the buzz from the surrounding conversations. 'The Saint Francis Center started as a women and children's shelter about twenty years ago. It's grown to include this abuse hotline and also in back there's a food pantry.'
Maggie surveyed the room as they cut through, noticing that many of the volunteers were simply being quiet, apparently listening to the callers. Others used soft voices barely above a whisper. She realized the nature of the calls allowed them to set up the facility with as many phones and volunteers as there was space.
'We have a room back here,' Christine told them, pointing to a doorway in the far corner.
The room surprised Maggie. It looked like someone's cozy living room with a sofa and matching chairs, glass-topped coffee table and floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the back wall. A service butler in the corner was stocked with refreshments, and the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the room. When they entered, there was a woman pouring herself a cup, and a young man loaded a plate with miniature sandwiches and pieces of fruit. Both stopped and turned to be introduced.
'Wow! I guess we didn't need to have lunch,' Pakula said.
Apparently it didn't faze him that Christine had invited guests, but Maggie wondered what the reporter was up to.
'Agent O'Dell, Detective Pakula, this is Brenda Donovan and her son, Mark.'
There were friendly but guarded hellos all the way around with no handshakes and little eye contact. As they filled their small plates or napkins and coffee cups and settled around the glass-topped table, Maggie stayed back to observe the woman and her son, Brenda Donovan wore blue polyester slacks and a knit T-shirt with a colorful patchwork teddy bear on the front. Her white sandals were scuffed. Her hands looked scuffed too, the tint of redness possibly from handling too many chemicals or having them in water for long periods of time. Her fingernails were cut short just like her hair for easy and no-frills care. Maggie got the impression that Brenda had worked hard all her life, earning her the wrinkles around her eyes and the gray hair that had begun to take over what at one time must have been a beautiful caramel brown.
The hard ruggedness did not extend to Mark Donovan. Instead, the young man _ who Maggie guessed was perhaps not quite twenty __ looked soft and wide around the middle, the physique of a couch potato. His close- cropped hair was still damp as if they had pulled him from the shower only minutes ago. His puffy eyes suggested little sleep. But his appetite seemed healthy. He had overloaded the small plate until grapes and slices of hard salami hung over the edges. If this was some kind of confessional tell-all, which Maggie suspected, then Christine must have anticipated that food would bolster their confidence.
She caught Pakula's eye and nodded at his own full plate.
'I have a hard time saying no to free food.' And he left her to take a place in one of the easy chairs across from the sofa, where the Donovans had taken refuge, side by side.
Maggie popped the top of a Diet Pepsi and gave the other refreshments one last look, not noticing that Christine had returned beside her.
'I heard you saw Nick this morning,' she said in a low voice, keeping her back to the group across the room.
'I didn't realize he was back in Omaha. Has he given up on Boston?' Maggie asked, not letting it slip that she knew for a fact that up until last month he was still employed as a deputy prosecutor for Suffolk County. It was just one of the perks of being an FBI agent and having access to information she often didn't ask for.
'No, he's still in Boston,' Christine said as she helped herself to one of the cans of soda, but unlike Maggie filled a glass with ice. Then suddenly she blurted out, 'I don't know if you realize how badly you broke my little brother's heart.'
'Excuse me?'
She stared at Christine, stunned and trying to decide if she was joking. It wasn't that long ago, a year maybe, that Maggie had called Nick's apartment. A woman had answered, offering to take a message and explaining that Nick was in the shower. Maggie still remembered the sting, but accepted that he had decided to move on and not wait for her.
'Sorry, I probably shouldn't even be telling you.' Christine sounded sincere. 'I know he'd kill me if he knew I'd said anything, but he was pretty hurt when you dumped him.' Then she smiled just a little. 'I don't think he's ever been dumped before.'
'Dumped?' Maggie tried to keep her voice down, though she could see Pakula's head jerk in their direction. 'He dumped me.'
'That's not the way he tells it,' Christine said, but another smile told Maggie that perhaps Christine knew better. 'I suppose we should join the others.'
She didn't want to think about Nick Morrelli. This morning's surprise meeting had actually gone well for her. She hadn't found herself regretting or longing for or… anything. She hadn't really felt anything. And that was despite what Pakula had interpreted as some grudge that Nick seemed to be holding, which now made sense if he believed she had dumped him. Of course, her mind had been a million miles away, focusing on Keller and his arrival. Learning that she had been wrong about Nick and that he didn't even know why she had avoided his phone calls or why she'd allowed them to drift away shouldn't make a difference after this long.
Before Maggie could consider whether or not it mattered, Christine leaned over and added in an almost conciliatory tone, 'Don't worry. He'll get over it. He'd better. He's getting married in a month.'
CHAPTER 60
Tommy Pakula swallowed one of the miniature sandwiches and just as quickly popped another into his mouth, gulping down the rest of his coffee before the second sandwich had cleared his throat. It was a nervous habit for him to snarf down food whenever he felt control slipping from his grip, and he was feeling it with this case, big-time.
'Not bad,' he said, referring to the food and nodding at Brenda Donovan who continued to stare at him over the mug of coffee she was sipping. Her son didn't seem to notice that anyone else was in the room. At least he hadn't acknowledged anyone else after the muttered hello during the intros. Now he stuffed food into his mouth without looking up.
Christine Hamilton offered the other easy chair to O'Dell, then pulled up a hardback chair to the edge of the small little circle so that she could sit between the law enforcement officials and the Donovans. Pakula had already guessed they were the victims.
He had to give Hamilton credit. She didn't just want to make her statement, she wanted to drive it home with a tug at the heartstrings or perhaps with something she hoped would shock them. What she didn't realize was that Pakula had seen and heard it all, the worst of the worst, from a newborn crack baby left floating in the toilet of a Gas 'n Shop to a domestic dispute where a husband had used a nail gun to crucify his wife to their living-room wall.
'Every time I've talked to Detective Sassco,' Hamilton began, 'he's insisted I back up the allegations I was making, despite my journalistic right to conceal my sources. Mark and his mother are very brave to be here today, but they wanted me to reiterate that this in no way implies they are willing to file an official police report.'
Pakula watched Mark the entire time. The young man hadn't looked up from his food yet. He stopped once but only to take a sip of his Coke. Suddenly Pakula realized Hamilton was staring at him, waiting for his agreement to the terms.
'That's fine.' He nodded at Hamilton then glanced at O'Dell, but she seemed to be somewhere else, probably trying to figure out what to do with Keller.
'Brenda,' Hamilton said, 'would you like to begin?'
'When my husband first passed away… ' The woman set her coffee mug down and began wringing her hands. She had been staring at Pakula since he'd walked into the room but now her eyes were everywhere but on him.
