I shut down the computer and gather up my notes on Saul Gresham’s stupid novel. I’ll work on this at home, where I won’t have to put up with Audrey’s catty remarks and Phil’s moon-eyed stares. I open my purse and reach inside, just to assure myself that the gun is still there. A lady’s pistol, my father called it when he handed it to me that night in the kitchen, small enough to not weigh you down but powerful enough to do the job without much kickback. The gun feels cool and alien but also reassuring. My little helper.
I sling the purse over my shoulder and walk out of the office, prepared to deal with whatever—or whoever—comes my way.
—
EVERETT IS NOWHERE TO BE seen in the Rose and Thistle. I choose a table in the corner and sip a glass of cabernet sauvignon as I survey the room. It’s a cozy and clubby space, all dark wood and brass fixtures. I’ve never been to Ireland, but this is what I imagine their old country pubs must look like, with a fire crackling in the hearth and the Guinness golden harp hanging over the mantelpiece. But in this pub, the patrons are young and hip, a business crowd in oxford shirts and silk ties, and even the women wear pin-striped suits. After a long day of hammering out deals, they’ve come here to unwind, and already the pub is getting crowded and raucous.
I check my watch: 6:00 P.M. Everett has still not shown up.
At first all I notice is a faint tingle on my face, as if a breeze has brushed against it. I know that research has proven people can’t really sense when someone is staring at them, but when I turn to see what triggered the sensation, I immediately spot the woman standing at the bar, eyeing me. In her late forties, with handsome streaks of silver in her auburn hair, she looks like an older, redheaded version of me, but with two extra decades’ worth of confidence. Our gazes lock and a smile crooks up the right side of her mouth. She turns and says something to the bartender.
If Everett doesn’t show up, there are certainly other tempting prospects in this pub.
I pull out my cell phone to check for new messages. Nothing from Everett. I’m tapping out a text to him when a glass of red wine suddenly appears on my table.
The waitress says, “It’s the same wine you ordered earlier. Compliments of the lady at the bar.”
I glance at the bar, and the auburn-haired woman smiles at me. I feel as if I’ve seen her before, but I can’t remember where or when. Do we know each other, or does she just have one of those faces, those smiles, that invite a sense of familiarity? The glass of cabernet sits before me, as dark as ink in that firelit pub. I think of how many hands it took to deliver this wine to my table, from the farmer to the harvester, the vintner and the bottler. Then there’s the bartender who poured it, the waitress who set it down before me, plus countless unseen others. When you think about it, a glass of wine is like the work of elves, and you can’t possibly know if one of those elves wants to harm you.
My cell phone chimes with a text message from Everett.
Arghhh, sorry! Last-minute meeting with client. Can’t make it tonight. Call you tomorrow?
I don’t bother to answer him. Instead, I pick up the glass and give it a swirl. I’ve already tasted this cabernet, so I know it’s pedestrian and not worth a second pouring, but it’s not the wine I’m contemplating; it’s what my next move should be. Should I invite her to my table and let the game begin?
“WHAT THE HELL DOES SHE think she’s doing?” said Jane.
Through Jane’s earpiece, Tam’s voice was almost lost in the background noise of the pub. “She’s not drinking the wine. She’s just sitting there, swirling it.”
“We warned her. We told her his victims were drugged.” She looked at Frost, seated beside her in the car. “Is this chick trying to get herself killed?”
“Okay, hold on,” said Tam. “There’s a woman moving toward her table. She’s saying something to Holly.”
Jane stared out her car window at the Rose and Thistle across the street. Half an hour earlier, Tam had reported that Holly was sitting alone in the pub, a development that sent both Jane and Frost scrambling to the scene. Not only had Holly refused to alter her daily routine, now she seemed to be actively courting disaster. Holly Devine hadn’t struck Jane as a foolhardy woman, yet there she was, accepting drinks from strangers.
“The woman sat down at Holly’s table,” Tam informed her. “White female, middle-aged. Tall and thin.”
“Has Holly tasted the wine yet?”
“No. They’re just talking. Maybe they know each other. I can’t be sure.”
“Tam should move in,” said Frost. “Get her out of that place.”
“No. Let’s see what happens next.”
“What if she drinks the wine?”
“We’re right here to keep an eye on her.” Jane stared at the pub. “Maybe that’s why she’s doing it. She’s trying to bring the killer to us. Either she’s really stupid or she’s really, really smart. I’m betting on smart.”
“Now we’ve got a problem,” came Tam’s voice over the earpiece.
“What’s happening?” snapped Jane.
“She took a sip.”
“And the other woman? What’s she doing?”
“Still sitting there. Nothing weird yet. They’re just talking.”
Jane glanced at the time on her cell phone. How quickly did ketamine work? Would they be able to tell if Holly was affected? Five minutes passed. Ten.
“Oh, shit. They’re both getting up. They’re leaving,” said Tam.
“We’re parked right in front. We’ll catch them as they walk out.”
“They’re not going out the front door! They’re heading to the back exit. I’m in pursuit….”
“That’s it,” said Frost. “We gotta go in.”
Almost simultaneously, Jane and Frost shoved open their doors and sprinted across the street. Jane was first through the front door and she plunged into the packed room, elbowing aside patrons as she shoved her way toward the rear exit. A glass shattered on the floor and she heard a what the fuck, lady? yelled in her direction, but she and Frost kept pushing forward, past three women waiting for the restroom, and slammed through the rear exit door.
An alley. Dark. Where was Holly?
From the far end of the alley came a woman’s shouts.
They darted toward the sound, dodging crates and trash, and emerged on the street, where Tam had already pinned a woman against the wall. Nearby stood Holly, watching in bewilderment as Tam snapped handcuffs onto the woman.
“What the hell are you doing?” the woman protested.
“Boston PD,” said Tam. “Stop resisting!”
“You can’t arrest me! I didn’t do anything!”
Tam glanced over his shoulder at Jane and Frost. “She tried to run.”
“Of course I ran! I didn’t know who the fuck you were, coming at us in the alley.”
As Tam held the woman against the building, Jane did a pat-down and found no weapons.
Someone yelled from the sidewalk, “That was police brutality!”
“Smile, cops! You’re on Candid Camera!”
Jane glanced around at the crowd that was rapidly coalescing around them. Everyone had a cell phone out, recording the arrest. Keep cool, she thought. Just do your job and don’t let them rattle you.
“State your name,” Jane ordered the woman.
“Who wants to know?”
“Detective Rizzoli, Boston PD.”
Frost picked up the woman’s purse, which had dropped on the sidewalk, and pulled out the wallet. “Her driver’s license says she’s Bonnie B. Sandridge, age forty-nine. Address is two twenty-three Bogandale Road.” He looked up. “That’s in West Roxbury.”
“Sandridge?” Jane frowned. “You’re the journalist.”
“You know this woman?” Tam asked.
“Yeah. I spoke to her a few days ago. Her name turned up on Martin Stanek’s phone log. She claims she’s a journalist writing about the Apple Tree trial.”
Tam turned the woman around to face them. The
struggle had left a bloody scrape on her chin, and mascara was smeared down her cheek.
“Yes, I really am a journalist,” said the woman. “And, trust me, I’m going to write about this arrest!”
“What’s your relationship to Martin Stanek?” said Jane.
The woman glared at her. “Is that what this is all about? Instead of tackling me, you could have asked politely.”
“Answer the question.”
“I already told you. I’ve been interviewing him for my book.”
“The book you claim to be writing.”
“Talk to my literary agent. She’ll confirm it. I’m a journalist and I’m just doing my job.”
“And I’m just doing mine.” Jane looked at Tam. “Bring her in. I want every word she says recorded on video.”
“Why’s she being arrested? What’d she do?” someone yelled from the crowd.
“I’m a writer! I didn’t do anything wrong!” Bonnie yelled back. “Except try to tell the truth about our corrupt criminal-justice system!”
“This video’s going up on YouTube, lady. In case you need it for the lawsuit!”
Tam led away the defiant prisoner. Among the crowd of eager citizen-journalists stood Holly, who also had her phone out and was filming the events like everyone else.
Jane grabbed Holly by the arm and pulled her aside. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Did I do something wrong?” Holly protested.
“You went to a bar, after I warned you what could happen.”
“I was there to meet a friend.”
“That woman?”
“No, a guy I’m dating. But at the last minute he canceled on me.”
“So you sat there and accepted a drink from someone you don’t know.”
“She looked okay to me.”
“They said that about Ted Bundy too.”
“She’s just a woman. What’s a woman going to do to me?”
“I told you, Martin Stanek is not working alone. He has a partner helping him, and it might be this woman.”
“Well, now you’ve got her, right? And you can thank me for helping you catch her.”
“You’re going home, Holly.” Jane pulled out her cell phone. “In fact, I’m gonna make sure you go home.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling an officer to drive you.”
“That’s embarrassing. I’m not getting into a police car.”
“What if she put something in your drink? You need to be driven home.”
“No.” Holly pulled away. “I feel perfectly fine. Look, there’s a T station right over there. You’ve got your suspect; now I’m going home.” She turned and walked away.
“Hey!” yelled Jane.
Holly just kept walking. Without a single backward glance, she headed down the steps and vanished into the subway station.
—
UNDER THE BRIGHT LIGHTS OF the Boston PD interview room, Bonnie Barton Sandridge looked even more disheveled than she had on the street. Her scraped chin was scabbed over and the streak of mascara was smeared like a bruise across her cheek. Jane and Frost sat facing her across the table, where all her belongings were laid out: A wallet with sixty-seven dollars in cash, three credit cards, and a driver’s license. An Android cell phone. A key ring with three keys. Some wadded-up Kleenex. And, most interesting of all, a small spiral notebook, half its pages filled with detailed notes. Slowly, Jane flipped through the pages and stopped at the most recent entry.
She looked up at Bonnie. “Why were you stalking Holly Devine?”
“I wasn’t stalking her.”
Jane held up Bonnie’s notebook. “You have her workplace address written in here.”
“Booksmart Media is a business. Their address is public information.”
“It’s no accident that you just happened to show up at the pub where she was sitting. You followed her there from her job, didn’t you?”
“Maybe I did. I’ve been trying to interview her for weeks, but she’s a hard gal to pin down. Tonight was the first time I got close enough to say boo.”
“So you bought her a glass of wine. Then tried to sneak her out the rear exit.”
“Holly’s the one who insisted we leave the back way. She said people have been following her, and she wanted to shake them off. And that glass of wine I sent her was just to break the ice. To get her to talk to me.”
“About the Apple Tree?”
“The book I’m writing is about ritual-abuse trials. I plan to devote a whole chapter to the Apple Tree.”
“The Apple Tree was twenty years ago. That case is old and dead, isn’t it?”
“For some people, it’s very much alive.”
“Like Martin Stanek?”
“Is it any surprise that he’s still obsessed by it? That trial tore apart his family. It destroyed his life.”
“Funny how you don’t mention the children’s lives that were ruined.”
“You just assume he’s guilty. Did it ever occur to you that the Staneks might have been innocent?”
“The jury didn’t think so.”
“I’ve spent hours interviewing Martin. I’ve combed through the trial transcripts and read the accusations against him. They were absurd. In fact, one of the kids who accused him twenty years ago wanted to retract what she said. She was ready to sign a sworn affidavit that none of it was true.”
“Wait. You spoke to one of the kids?”
“Yes. Cassandra Coyle.”
“How did you find her? Did you stalk her too?”
“No, she found me. The children’s names were sealed by the court, so I didn’t know their identities. Last September, Cassandra got in touch with me after she read my articles on ritual-abuse trials. She knew I’d written about the McMartin case in Los Angeles and the Faith Chapel case in San Diego, and she urged me to write about the Apple Tree trial.”
“Why?”
“Because she’d been having flashbacks. Remembering details that made her realize Martin Stanek was innocent. I began to look into the case, and it didn’t take me long to conclude the trial was a farce, just as Cassandra thought. I don’t believe the Staneks committed any crimes.”
“Then who abducted Lizzie DiPalma?”
“That’s the burning question, isn’t it? Who really took that girl? The kidnapping set the stage for everything that followed. The hysteria, the satanic-abuse charges. That sham of a trial. Lizzie DiPalma’s disappearance terrified the community, and they were ready to believe anything, even tigers flying through the air. That’s what my book is about, Detective. How otherwise-reasonable people can be turned into a seething and dangerous mob.” Her face had flushed a deep red. She released a breath and sank back in the chair.
“You seem pretty upset about this, Ms. Sandridge,” observed Frost.
“I am. You should be too. We should all be upset when an innocent man spends half his life in prison.”
“Upset enough to help him plan his revenge?” said Jane.
Bonnie frowned. “What?”
“A number of children claimed that the Staneks abused them. Three of those children are now dead and one is missing. Did you help Martin Stanek track them down?”
“I didn’t even know their names.”
“You knew Holly Devine’s name.”
“Only because Cassandra told me. She said Holly was the very first child to accuse the Staneks. Holly started it all, and I wanted to find out why.”
“You do know that glass of wine you sent to her will be analyzed? And when it comes back positive for ketamine, you’ll be pretty much screwed.”
“What? No, you’ve got it all wrong! I’m just trying to expose the truth about American justice. About a time when hysteria sent people to jail for crimes that never even happened.”
“Lizzie DiPalma’s abduction certainly happened.”
“But Martin didn’t do it. Which means the real killer is still out there. That should worry you.” Bonnie glanced u
p at the clock on the wall. “You’ve had me here long enough. Unless I’m under arrest, I’d like to go home.”
“Not until you answer this question,” said Jane. Leaning forward, she stared Bonnie straight in the eyes. “Where is Martin Stanek?”
Bonnie was silent.
“Do you really want to protect this man? After what he’s done?”
“He hasn’t done anything.”
“No?” Jane opened the folder she’d brought into the room, pulled out an autopsy photo, and slapped it on the table in front of Bonnie. The woman flinched at the image of Cassandra Coyle’s corpse.
“I knew she’d been murdered, but I didn’t know about…” Bonnie looked at Cassandra’s empty eye sockets and shuddered. “Martin didn’t do that.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Why would he kill the woman who was trying so hard to exonerate him? She was ready to swear the abuse never happened, that she was coached by the prosecutor into telling those crazy stories. No, Martin wanted her alive.”
“Or so he told you. Maybe you’re just the world’s biggest patsy. Maybe he used you to track down his victims. You find them, he kills them.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, but there was now a note of doubt in her voice. Clearly this was a possibility that Bonnie hadn’t considered: that Martin Stanek, the man she believed to be a tragic victim of injustice, had reeled her into acting as an accomplice.
“Martin never blamed the children,” said Bonnie. “He knew they were only pawns in a bigger game.”
“Then who does he blame?”
Bonnie’s face hardened. “Who else but the adults? The ones who let it happen, who made it happen. That prosecutor, Erica Shay, used the trial as a springboard for her career, and, sure enough, she went on to bigger and better things. You should talk to her. You’ll find out she never gave a damn about the truth. Only the scorecard.”
“I’d rather talk to Martin Stanek, so I’m going to ask you again. Where is he?”
“He doesn’t trust the police. He believes you all want him dead.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s scared! He had no one else to turn to.”
“He’s at your house, isn’t he?”
Bonnie’s face tightened in panic. “Please don’t hurt him. Promise not to hurt him!”