Just One Look
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t know anything about any of that.”
“You think it’s all just a big coincidence?”
“No, I guess not,” Jimmy said. “Maybe they were scared of what would happen if the truth came out. You remember what it was like those first few months—everyone wanting blood. They could have gone to jail, maybe worse.”
Grace shook her head. “And what about you, Jimmy?”
“What about me?”
“Why did you keep this secret all these years?”
He said nothing.
“If what you just told me is true, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were the one attacked. Why didn’t you just tell the police what happened?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “This was bigger than me. Gordon MacKenzie was part of it, too. He came out the hero, remember? If the world ever learned that he fired that first shot, what do you think would have happened to him?”
“Are you saying you lied all these years to protect Gordon MacKenzie?”
He didn’t reply.
“Why, Jimmy? Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you run away?”
His eyes started shifting. “Look, I told you everything I know. I’m going home now.”
Grace moved closer. “You did steal that song, didn’t you?”
“What? No.”
But she saw it now. “That was why you felt responsible. You stole that song. If you hadn’t, none of this would have happened.”
He just kept shaking his head. “That’s not it.”
“That’s why you ran away. It wasn’t just that you were stoned. You stole the song that made you. That was where it all started. You heard Allaw play in Manchester. You liked their song. You stole it.”
He shook his head, but there was nothing behind it. “There were similarities. . . .”
And another thought struck her with a deep, hard pang: “How far would you go to keep your secret, Jimmy?”
He looked at her.
“ ‘Pale Ink’ became even bigger after the stampede. That album ended up selling millions. Who has that money?”
He shook his head. “You’re wrong, Grace.”
“Did you already know I was married to Jack Lawson?”
“What? Of course not.”
“Is that why you came by my house that night? Were you trying to figure out what I knew?”
He kept shaking his head, tears on his cheeks. “That’s not true. I never meant to hurt anyone.”
“Who killed Geri Duncan?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Was she going to talk? Is that what happened? And then, fifteen years later, someone goes after Sheila Lambert aka Jillian Dodd, but her husband gets in the way. Was she going to talk, Jimmy? Did she know you were back?”
“I have to go.”
She stepped in his path. “You can’t run away again. There’s been too much of that.”
“I know,” he said, his voice a plea. “I know that better than anyone.”
He pushed past her and ran outside. Grace was tempted to yell, “Stop! Grab him!” but she doubted the whistling guard would be able to do much. Jimmy was already outside, almost out of sight. She limped after him.
Gunshots—three of them—shattered the night. There was the squeal of tires. The receptionist dropped her magazine and picked up the phone. The security guard stopped whistling and sprinted toward the door. Grace hurried behind him.
When Grace got outside, she saw a car shoot down the exit ramp and disappear into the night. Grace had not seen who was in the car. But she thought she knew. The security guard bent down over the body. Two doctors ran out, nearly knocking Grace down. But it was too late.
Fifteen years after the stampede began, the Boston Massacre claimed its most elusive victim.
chapter 52
Maybe, Grace thought, we are not supposed to know the entire truth. And maybe the truth does not matter.
There were plenty of questions in the end. Grace thought that she would never know all the answers. Too many of the players were dead now.
Jimmy X, real name James Xavier Farmington, died from three gunshot wounds to the chest.
Wade Larue’s body was found near the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City less than twenty-four hours after his release. He’d been shot in the head at point-blank range. There was only one significant clue: A reporter for the New York Daily News managed to follow Wade Larue after he left the press conference at the Crowne Plaza. According to the reporter, Larue got into a black sedan with a man fitting Cram’s description. That was the last time anyone saw Larue alive.
No arrests have been made, but the answer seemed clear.
Grace tried to understand what Carl Vespa had done. Fifteen years had passed, and his son was still dead. Weird to put it that way, but maybe it was apropos. For Vespa, nothing had changed. Time had not been enough.
Captain Perlmutter would try to make a case against him. But Vespa was pretty good about covering his tracks.
Both Perlmutter and Duncan came to the hospital after Jimmy was killed. Grace told them everything. There was nothing to hide anymore. Perlmutter mentioned almost in passing that the words Shane Alworth had been scratched into the concrete floor.
“So what does that mean?” Grace asked.
“We’re checking the physical evidence, but maybe your husband wasn’t alone in that basement.”
It made sense, Grace guessed. Fifteen years later they were all coming back. Everyone in that photograph.
At four in the morning Grace was back in her hospital bed. Her room was dark when the door opened. A silhouette slid in quietly. He thought that she was asleep. For a moment Grace didn’t say anything. She waited until he was in the chair again, just like fifteen years ago, before she said, “Hello, Carl.”
“How are you feeling?” Vespa asked.
“Did you kill Jimmy X?”
There was a long pause. The shadow did not move. “What happened that night,” he said at last. “It was his fault.”
“It’s hard to know.”
Vespa’s face was no more than a shadow. “You see too many shades of gray.”
Grace tried to sit up, but her rib cage would not cooperate. “How did you find out about Jimmy?”
“From Wade Larue,” he said.
“You killed him too.”
“Do you want to make accusations, Grace, or do you want to know the truth?”
She wanted to ask if that was all he wanted, the truth, but she knew the answer. The truth would never be enough. Vengeance and justice would never be enough.