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“Help me get out of here.”
“And why would I do that?”
“’Cause I think you’re working on another book, and I can help you finish it.”
“Sorry. I already have a collaborator.”
“I’m gonna give you another one. I got a PI in Boston working on evidence to get some of my convictions thrown out. Cut someyears off my time. Maybe spring me altogether. You work with him, get me some relief, and I’ll give you what you need.”
From his time at theGlobefollowing cops around for years, Garrett knows every PI from Charlestown to Fenway Park, good and bad. “Who is it?” he asks. “Who do you have working for you?”
“Seymour Washington,” says DeMarco.
That’s the last name Garrett wants to hear.
CHAPTER
36
Seabrook, New Hampshire
Felicia Bonanno’s double-wide looks even smaller than it did the first time I was here. I can smell Lestoil and Pledge, evidence that she tidied up when I called to say I was coming. I wanted to get here early, before she heard the news about Amber. I’m not about to tell her anything that the guy who confessed said, not until I get some kind of confirmation from Garrett.
Felicia puts a basket of muffins on the coffee table, then sits down across from me with two mugs—tea for her, black coffee for me.
“Felicia, have the police called you this morning?”
“No.” Then she goes white. She puts down her mug, her hand trembling. “Why? Did they find something? About Suzanne?”
I lean over and rest my hand on her knee. “Felicia, there was a shooting last night in Boston. A murder. The woman who was killed was Amber Keenan.”
“Suzanne’s friend?” Felicia says, clearly shocked. “I never met Amber. Only talked to her that once on the phone. But I knowshe and Suzanne were good friends. They looked out for each other. Do they know who did it?”
“There were two shooters last night. The police are still looking for them.”
Suddenly, she stands up. “Brea, come. I want to show you something.” She reaches for my hand. I put down my coffee and follow her down the narrow hallway to the back of the trailer.
We stop in front of a closed door. Felicia reaches up and runs her hand along the top of the molding. She pulls down a key, puts it in the lock, and turns it. Then she opens the door and flicks on the light.
It’s a bedroom, carpeted in blue. The window shade is drawn. The walls are decorated with Patriots cheerleader posters. Over a small desk hangs a bulletin board covered with faded snapshots and newspaper clippings. Pinned in the middle is a publicity shot of Cole Wright in his Patriots uniform, helmet under his arm.
“This is her room,” says Felicia. “Just how it was.”
A small flat-screen TV sits on a wooden dresser, a DVD player alongside it. Felicia powers it up, then opens the top dresser drawer and pulls out a stack of thin plastic cases. “The police took all these, but they brought them back.”
She inserts a silver DVD in the player.
The TV flickers, then lights up. I’m looking at a scene of Patriots cheerleaders performing a routine in an empty stadium. It must be a practice session, but the ladies are in full uniform—red, white, and blue spangled shorts and tops. And they’re going full out. Kicking, dancing, strutting, beaming. The camera starts at one end of the line and pans across. These girls are clearly athletes. They also look like specimens from a glamour lab, all variations on a physical theme: Long legs. Toned bellies. Bright smiles. Thick, bouncy hair.
Felicia presses a button to freeze the frame. Then she gently taps the screen. “There she is. My baby.”
Just twenty-two. I stare at her beautiful face. I’ve seen pictures of Suzanne Bonanno, but nothing like this. In the middle of her practice, she’s radiant. Almost supernatural.
Suzanne is one of the tallest girls, positioned at the center of the formation. She appears to know exactly where the camera is, because she’s looking right into it, her eyes bright and sparkling. It’s like she’s looking atme.
Felicia hits play and lets the video run another few seconds. She freezes it again. “And that’s Amber.”
It takes a second for me to recognize the woman with the long blond hair as the bartender I talked to yesterday. The one who’s now on a slab in a Boston morgue.