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“What was the man doing?”
“My boyfriend watched the guy. He seemed to be spying on the couple in the other car.”
“You believe the other car was Alison Lane’s father’s car?”
“I’m not totally sure of it. But there aren’t too many BMWs at Lovers’ Lane. My boyfriend had commented about the car. So we’re watching and the guy is lurking and then we lost sight of him. But I was creeped out, so we got outta there.”
“Why didn’t you come forward sooner?” Ziggy questions like a skilled prosecutor, yet he must have been only ten or so at the time of the interview.
“’Cause I was married to someone else at the time. We’ve since gotten divorced.”
Poppy feels a hand squeezing her insides. How could the police—her office—miss this witness? Or were they not looking? Purposefully not looking.
Look in your own house.
Ziggy continues: “Could you identify the man if you saw him now?”
“No. He was tall, kinda lanky, but I didn’t get a look at his face.”
“Was there anything you saw that would help identify him? His age or race? The type of car he was in?”
“No,” the witness says. But then she says something that nearly causes Poppy to veer off the road:
“When we were leaving Lovers’ Lane, we saw this old-time motorcycle parked out of the way. No owner in sight.”
“What do you mean by ‘old-time motorcycle’?”
“It was like one of those ones with a sidecar, like old war movies where there’re two people who can ride at the same time.”
Poppy feels nauseous, she thinks she may throw up. But it’s coming together.
Dash.
32
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
Shane O’Leary threads through the mourners like a zombie. The wake at their estate is packed with black suits and black dresses and black hearts on this black night. It’s not a traditional Catholic vigil. Anthony’s casket isn’t there. No priest blathering on. They’re lapsed Catholics, after all. A server offers him hors d’oeuvres from a silver tray and he declines.
He sees Gina in the far corner of the grand room near the Steinway. He flashes to an image of Gina and Anthony sitting on the piano bench, her showing him how to play something. It’s too much, he can’t do this.
Someone stops, says something, and he nods. It’s like he’s out of his body. He needs a drink. He slips into the hallway and past Brian, his hulk of a brother, who stands at the foot of the spiral staircase. Security at a wake—what a sacrilege. But it’s for the best. In his business, some are bound to view this as an opportunity. A chink in the armor. If he can’t protect his own son…
Upstairs, he heads into his private study. It’s the only room Anthony wasn’t allowed in. The only room O’Leary won’t be slammed in the heart by memories of his little boy.
He doesn’t turn on the light. He just heads over to the bar cart and pours himself a Macallan—expensive stuff that someone gave him as a gift. And he falls into the leather chair.
He eyes his big, expensive desk. Gina found it at some auction house. He couldn’t believe how much she paid for it. And he’s never told her about having a gun holster mounted under it.
He chokes back a sob, knowing that Anthony used one of O’Leary’s own guns. He was usually so careful. This was normally the only place in the house he kept firearms. He left a Glock in the bedside table one time, after they’d fed that Sabatino soldier to the fish and feared retaliation, and Anthony must’ve found it. One goddamned time.
There’s a tap on the door.
“Go away,” O’Leary calls out.
“Boss, you have a moment?” Chaz’s voice comes from behind the door.
The door opens a crack, Chaz pokes his head in. He has dark circles under his eyes that match the suit. “Sorry to bother you, boss. Gina asked if I’d check on you.”