Nineteen students attended the cocktail party and Thibodeau had followed up on every interview. Good detectives suffer from at least a touch of OCD, and he clearly had a serious case of it, doggedly tracing the current whereabouts of everyone who’d been inside Prof. Creighton’s residence the week before her murder. He’d discovered that two students were now deceased, one from a brain hemorrhage, the other from a climbing accident in Switzerland. After graduation, most had left the state of Maine and scattered to cities around the world. Only one currently lived in the Boston area: Anthony Yilmaz, a financial adviser at Tang and Viceroy Investments, someone who would probably be worth talking to. Most of the students had gone on to impressive careers: doctor, attorney, financial consultant. None had been in trouble with the law and none of their fingerprints had turned up at any other crime scenes.
Finally, Jane turned to the file on James Creighton. Other than an OUI at age nineteen and a charge of vandalism as a juvenile, the man had no criminal record and no history of violence, but he and his ex-wife had been locked in a bitter custody battle for three-year-old Lily. Eloise had recently been offered a position at a university in Oregon, which meant moving the child three thousand miles away from her father. Communications between the opposing lawyers had grown more and more rancorous.
He told me I’d be sorry if I took her away from him, Eloise said in her affidavit. I considered that a threat. Which is why I don’t think his visitation rights should continue.
And this was why Tremblay zeroed in on James as the killer. The man had a motive, he had access, and he had no alibi. Traces of his blood were found in the hallway near his ex-wife’s body. He was clearly the number one suspect but he never tried to flee the state of Maine. Even though the murder poisoned his reputation, even though his neighbors shunned him and police continually tramped through his backyard, searching for Lily’s remains, he did not flee his home—not at first. Then parents at the high school complained that their children’s music teacher could be a murderer; he lost his position and was forced to cycle through a string of dead-end jobs, none of which lasted long. When the police keep dredging up your past, keep pursuing and harassing you, who would hire you?
Her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller’s name on her phone. Revere Police Dept.
“Detective Rizzoli,” she answered.
“This is Detective Saldana, Revere PD.”
“Hey. What can I do for you?”
“You can start by talking to your mother, Angela.”
Jane sighed. “Now what’s she done?”
“Look, I understand it all started off as well-intentioned, all her calls about Tricia Talley. Who, by the way, turns out to be alive and well. It was just a typical teenage blowup with her parents.”
“I’m sorry about those calls. When my mom gets an idea in her head, she runs with it. And runs.” And runs.
“That was fine. That was just neighborhood watch sort of stuff, and we appreciate her keeping us informed. But this is going too far. She’s gotta stop calling us about her neighbors.”
“Is this the couple across the street?”
“Yes.”
“She told me the man carries a concealed weapon. I haven’t had a chance to check on his CCW permit, but—”
“Don’t bother. Just tell her to stop calling about them.”
“Have they complained?”
“They’re well aware of her interest in them.”
“Is this, like, an impending restraining order?”
“She has to stop drawing attention to them. It’s important, so have that talk with her. I’d appreciate it.”
Jane paused, puzzled by what was being left out. She said, quietly: “You want to tell me what’s going on with those neighbors?”
“Not at this time.”
“When, then?”
“I’ll let you know,” Det. Saldana said and hung up.
My daughter has laid down the law: Stay away from the Greens. It’s not as if I’ve trespassed or in any way harassed those people, but apparently they’ve complained to Det. Saldana at Revere PD and he told Jane, and she warns me that a restraining order is not out of the question, although I think she’s exaggerating. Somehow I have turned into the bad guy, all because I’m trying to keep my neighborhood safe. Because I saw something and I said something.
But nobody cares what a mature woman has to say, so my opinion gets ignored, the way women my age are always ignored. Even when we’re right.