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I almost jump out of my seat at the sight of Cole Wright and Suzanne Bonanno standing together in a checkout line. I realize that I’ve never actually seen an image of Suzanne and Cole together. I stare intently at the screen, searching their faces and body language for clues. One thing I can see clearly is the tennis bracelet on Suzanne’s wrist. I hope the jury sees it too.
A buzz runs through the room, followed by gasps and whispers throughout the gallery. The judge bangs his gavel. “Order!”
Bastinelli ignores the disturbance. “Ms. Farrow, can you decipher for us the digital code at the bottom of this image?”
“Of course. The first part is the store location. In this case, the Seabrook location. Then the date, June seventh. Then the time code, nineteen thirty-two, which is seven thirty-two p.m.”
The night Suzanne Bonanno disappeared!
Bastinelli unfreezes the video. The bustle in the front of the store comes to life. At register 2, Cole is in front, with Suzanne just a step behind him. Nothing odd or strained about their expressions. Just two normal shoppers, except that he’s a famous football player and she’s a professional cheerleader.
The checkout clerk’s hand reaches over to pick up an item Suzanne is touching—a blue package with a gold and black label. Bastinelli freezes that image.
“Ms. Farrow, were you able to determine what that item is?”
“I was. It’s a set of blue polyester bedsheets.”
“Were you able to trace the vendor?”
“Yes. It was Formosa Industries in Taiwan.”
Bam! Connection made.
I hope the jury is connecting the dots too. Suzanne and Cole were together that night. Suzanne bought sheets. She disappeared later that night. Then she ended up buried in those sheets.
That cannot all be mere coincidence.
The screen is black now, but the images are burned into my brain. The last known images of Suzanne Bonanno alive.
Right now, those images don’t look great for Cole Wright.
CHAPTER
111
Concord, New Hampshire
It’s been another long day in court, and now Hugh Bastinelli sits across from Jennifer Pope as she pours two fingers of single-malt scotch from a bottle on a small side table.
The attorney general hands him the glass and pours one for herself. She swirls the liquid in it slowly. “How are your feet holding up, Hugh?”
Bastinelli shakes his head. Trying a case requires long hours of standing before the court. “Nobody told me being a prosecutor would be so hard on my arches.”
Pope laughs. “Yeah. Try doing it in heels.” She lifts her glass. “To justice.”
Bastinelli returns the toast. “To justice.” He takes a sip and feels the warmth in the back of his throat. Pope’s office is dark and cozy, lit only by a pair of antique banker’s lamps on her desk. Nobody has smoked in here for decades, but the carpet and leather furniture still retain an essence of last century’s tobacco, lightened slightly by the scent of Pope’s perfume.
“Are the protesters still going strong outside the courthouse?” Pope asks.
“They never seem to stop,” says Bastinelli. “They must work in shifts.” Bastinelli cradles his scotch in both hands. He stares across the desk, almost fearful about this first sit-down with his boss since the trial started. “How are we doing, Jen?”
Pope takes another sip. “It would be a lot easier if we had a bullet hole and a gun.”
“Asmokinggun,” says Bastinelli.
“Seriously, though,” says Pope. “You’re doing a great job with the hand we’ve been dealt. But Tess Hardy is tough. We knew she would be. If there’s a crack, she’ll find it.”
“Right. Then she’ll make it wider.”