I smiled. “How about you put together a few more study groups? It’s going to be a long semester, and this class is out of my wheelhouse, but it’s far too late to drop it and pick up another elective.”
“Done—with one exception.”
“A counteroffer?” I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping that would add more warmth. “I’m listening.”
“You go out with my boy Ashe.”
I should have known.
I’d fallen right into that one.
My head leaned back, the air slapping against my open neck, and I slowly turned to Ashe. His grin was warm. His eyes were a heat that moved through me as fast as a shower would cover my skin.
A few more study sessions would help me tremendously, but spending time alone with him would get me in serious trouble.
I felt all three sets of eyes on me while I focused on Dylan’s and answered, “I don’t date.”
“You don’t drink,” Dylan replied, his brows furrowed to the point of a wrinkle. “And you don’t date. What do you do, Pearl?”
“I study.” As I took a breath, there was a quiver in the back of my throat—a reminder that I was nothing like the students I went to school with.
High school had been much of the same. I’d accepted that a long time ago, but moments like this made it hard—moments when the differences were voiced and I had to acknowledge them.
I turned my stare to Ashe, the disappointment so present in his eyes. “And that’s what I have to go do now. Good night, guys.”
I rushed down the sidewalk, feeling his gaze on me with every step until I turned at the cross street, where the freezing air found its way back to my skin.
Eight
After
Ashe
A few hours after my conversation with the captain, her words still fresh in my head, I stood in Lisa Mitchell’s living room, scanning the remaining photos on her mantel. In each of the shots, along with the ones I’d already looked at in her bedroom and office, she was facing the camera, and so were the other people she posed with. None of the other women were staring at her, like the ones she had of her and Simpson.
After a bit more digging, I learned that she and Simpson had met over ten years ago at a charity event. It appeared that the women had traveled together multiple times and worn matching pajamas when celebrating a friend’s bachelorette party. Simpson had even shared photos of Mitchell on Facebook when it was her birthday, and Mitchell had done the same with Simpson. And during their entire friendship, Simpson had been married. Keith, an estate attorney, ran in similar circles as Mitchell and attended the same college—although a few years apart—and only three streets separated their brownstones.
But something nagged at me, and it was the lack of evidence. A side-eye glare in a couple of photos and a hunch from the captain weren’t enough.
I needed proof.
There was only one place I was going to find that in this house.
I rushed back up the stairs to Mitchell’s bedroom and entered her massive walk-in closet. Standing in the doorway, I observed the four walls of clothing. An area in the corner housed all her furs. The large island built into the center had clear drawers, showing her rows of jewelry and watches.
She had been a successful woman. Her business was one of the highest-earning marketing companies in New England, and the initial reports I’d pulled showed she didn’t have much debt.
Money clearly wasn’t an issue. She already had status.
The only thing missing—from what I could tell—had been love.
Is love what got Lisa Mitchell murdered?
She had attended a fundraiser the night she was killed. The Boston Globe had been present and snapped a photograph of her in a long gold gown, a black fur coat over it. Both were on hangers, dangling on a hook on the right side of the closet, waiting for the housekeeper to get them cleaned. When Mitchell had been shot, she had been wearing a silk negligee and robe, telling me that she’d had time to come home and change.
I slipped on a pair of exam gloves and ran my hands over the dress. I could feel the silky material through the nitrile, making it easy to check for pockets or any foreign objects. When I detected nothing out of the ordinary, I moved the dress and began the same process on the coat. This was much heavier than the gown, the hairs of the fur so smooth. I found nothing on the outside and unzipped the jacket, locating a breast pocket. My hand dropped to the bottom, where I felt a light brush of a sharp corner. Had I not extended my fingers all the way down, I wouldn’t have found it.
I slowly pulled out the tiny, wrinkled piece of paper, unfolding each side.
You look stunning tonight.
My limo is parked out back. Meet me in ten.
I reached into the pocket of my suit and pulled out an evidence bag, dropping the note inside, before I took out my phone and called the forensic analyst who was assigned to this case.
“Harvey,” he answered.
“It’s Flynn. Any updates on the cell phone and laptop for the Mitchell case? I’m going to need access to her voice mails and e-mails as soon as possible.”
“Hey, Flynn. We should have that by this afternoon.”
“That’s just what I wanted to hear.” I held the clear bag on the palm of my hand, viewing each of the letters, the black ink that had been used to write it. “I’ll be by in about thirty minutes with a new piece of evidence. I’m going to need you to pull fingerprints and a handwriting analysis, and I need a rush on both.”
“I’ll do the best I can, buddy.”
I was shoving my phone back into my jacket just as it started to ring. I checked the screen to see who was calling and held it against my face. “Flynn.”
“Where are you?” my police sergeant asked.
I started making my way down the stairs to the first floor. “Mitchell’s house, collecting more evidence. Why? What’s up?”
“A woman was found dead in the elevator of a residential building on Commonwealth Avenue, just north of Allston Street.”
“Name?”
“Jane Doe. Around thirty years of age, auburn hair, lean build. No wallet was found, and neither were any identifying marks. We don’t know if she was working or visiting, but we know she wasn’t a resident. The team arrived about twenty minutes ago. I need you to head over now.”
“I’m on my way.”
I returned the phone to my pocket as I went out through Mitchell’s front door, getting into the driver’s seat of the department’s vehicle that I’d parked out front. I still needed to collect a sample of Keith Simpson’s handwriting and drop off the evidence bag to Harvey.
But first, I needed to put my eyes on Jane Doe.
Nine
Before
Ashe
When they’re fast on their feet, they want to be chased.
Dylan’s words hadn’t left my head. And even though Pearl had claimed she didn’t date, I believed she just hadn’t found someone worth being with.
I was determined to be that person.
But first, I had to spend more time with her. My initial plan had been to see her at the study group Dylan had set up, but they had decided to meet at the library instead. When Dylan and I had gone to the bar on Wednesday, the bartender had told me Pearl was off for the evening. It only took a few smiles to charm her into telling me that Pearl was in a play and it was opening night.