beep, I said, “Hi, it’s Geller calling, just wanted to update you on a couple of things and I got my days mixed up, thought it was Monday. I’ll call back tomorrow.”
There. It was on the record that I was in Boston at this early hour, all in a cooperative tone. Because time of death is imprecise, it would make a decent alibi if I needed one.
Shana came out of the bathroom, her eyes glassy with tears. They had been so clear Friday night, the whites as bright as moonlit snow. Now red trails of blood shot through them. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she said.
“You have to.”
“I don’t want to be around you anymore.”
“It won’t take long. It’s just a man and woman have a better chance of getting close to a public figure than a lone male. Once we’re done, I’ll take you home.”
“I’ll take a cab.”
“Fine.”
“I wish I had other clothes,” she said. “Even though there’s no blood I can see, I know there must be some. I smell it on myself.”
“You’re going to be okay.”
She glared at me. “I know you’re used to this, Jonah, but I’m not. I’ve never seen anything even remotely like it.”
“I never said I was used to it. Seeing other men die didn’t prepare me any better for what happened this morning.”
“But you stayed so calm.”
“It doesn’t mean I didn’t want to throw my guts up.”
“We thought you would protect David, my father and I,” she said. “The tough ex-soldier. The martial artist. The killer. All you did was lead them to him and use his body as a shield to save your life.”
“And yours.”
“Yes,” she said. “And mine.”
Marc McConnell and his wife worshipped every Sunday at the Arlington Street Church, at the corner of Boylston, a five-minute drive east of the hotel. It was built from what looked like sandstone and the architect had held nothing back. Above the tall columned portico in front, a tower rose in layers like an Italian cake to a bell tower, atop which was a tall pointed spire. Services began at eleven and ran about an hour, according to the church website. As with the aborted museum trip the day before, I wanted to get McConnell on the way in, not the way out. Give him less time to think, put on more pressure to talk.
I knew he wouldn’t be among the first to show. Public figures prefer to arrive after most others so they can stop and shake a few hands, pat a few backs, wink, point and grin their way in. Shana and I got there at ten-thirty, then began strolling around and taking pictures of each other, never in the same spot but never very far from the corner where cars were pulling up and letting people out before going off to park. Most were well dressed, white, late forties to early sixties. Clothing affluent but not showy. Everything from shoes to hats and handbags seemed sturdy, sensible, meant to last.
“Are you sure he’s coming here?” Shana asked.
“It’s more hope than certainty.”
“I don’t know how long I can keep this up. I feel like my legs are going to give out.”
I took her arm and leaned in close enough to give some support, not so close that she’d pull away.
“Whatever you think of me,” I said, “don’t quit now. Help me get my friend back.”
“I’ll try.”
“Tell me about the church.”
“What?”
“You know all about Boston’s buildings. Tell me something about it. Get your mind off David.”
“All right. It was built just over a hundred and fifty years ago,” Shana said. “The first public building in the Back Bay. The Tiffany windows inside are amazing, no matter what religion you are.”
“What else?”
“I–I can’t think of anything.”
“What will you do after you finish your master’s?”
“I don’t know. Apply to some of the ABCs, I guess.”
“The what?”
“Agencies, boards and commissions. There are a lot of places, public and private sector, where I can help make sure great buildings in Boston are maintained. And treasured.”
“You know, I’ve driven a ton since I got here,” I said. “To Brookline and back too many times. Somerville twice. Roxbury, the art institute, Wellington Hill. I can picture the roads and intersections and a few buildings. I normally get the hang of new cities quickly and when I first got here, I was paying attention, looking at the map and the GPS screen, working out where things are in relation to each other. But since Jenn’s been gone, I haven’t been seeing things the same way. It’s all a landscape to me now, scrolling by on a screen outside the car window. All I can think of is her, what shape she’s in.”
“You really love her, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
“Are you an item?”
“No,” I said. “She’s gay and I’m Jewish.”
Shana actually cracked a smile at that. I felt some of the tension go out of her body, which was perfect timing because seconds later McConnell’s Secret Service car pulled up to the curb.
We had to get close to him without spooking him, his wife or the two bruisers in suits, shades and earpieces who got out of the car first and opened one rear door each. I got out the camera. We had our story ready.
We weren’t the only ones who wanted to get close to Marc and Lesley. Other churchgoers greeted them with waves, smiles and handshakes. It took them a good two minutes to get from the curb to where we stood.
“Congressman,” I said.
He looked at me like a quarterback checking off his down-field reads: Did he know me? Should he? Had I given funds or other support?
“My wife is too shy to ask,” I said, “but could I take a picture of you with her? She worked on your first campaign when she was a student.”
“Did you?” he said, smiling broadly at Shana. He was a good-looking man, easily six-two, narrow-waisted but with broad shoulders. His face was likeable too, with a solid jaw line and that thick tamed hair the people loved. “Thanks for your support. Who did you work under?”
We had looked it up before leaving the hotel. “Arnie Sussman,” Shana said.
“It was a great campaign,” he said, “wasn’t it?”
“A turning point for me, sir.”
I said, “Let’s not waste his time, honey, get in there.”
Mrs. McConnell had moved off to talk to friends, shake a few hands and buss some cheeks, carefully so as not to leave traces of the heavy makeup she wore. My guess was her natural complexion would be the same waxy shade I’d seen on patients in Stayner’s waiting room.
When Shana stood next to McConnell, he stooped a little to minimize the difference in height. I took a shot, then examined the swing-out viewer and frowned. “Sir, you might have been blinking-here, what do you think? Should we take one more?”
I thumbed the review screen one frame back and came to stand next to him with the camera. He raised himself back to his full height and took in the picture of David Fine’s bloodied head and neck. To his credit, or not, the studied, serious face never changed. He didn’t even blink. He leaned in closer to me and said, “What is this?”
“The right question is who, sir, and it is Dr. David Fine, who worked under Dr. Charles Stayner. He was going to assist in your wife’s surgery tomorrow night at Halladay’s.”
“Who the hell are you?” he whispered.
“An investigator.”
“For who?”
“David’s parents. They hired me to find him and I did. And ten minutes later someone killed him. Note the
