The Night Before(72)

Rosie’s cheeks started to burn. She had not told them about Laura’s breakup in New York. Shit. What if they asked? Would she have to tell them he was her therapist? That he was married and had children, and now—dead?

But Conway, mercifully, pushed ahead. “Did she say where he lived, what he did for work, anything more specific?”

“Only what I’ve told you—that he said his name was Jonathan Fields. That he worked for a hedge fund. Lived in Branston. Drove a black BMW. That all fits, right? With Jonathan Fielding? His company phone on Laura’s records—Klayburn Capital—is a hedge fund. And the car—you said you got a license plate number?”

“In Massachusetts,” Pearson said now. “A BMW. He doesn’t have an address here in Branston. But the company said he was living here now to open a new office.”

“So he lied to her—that’s something, right? He was lying. And if she found out…” Rosie paused then and looked at their faces. Conway’s was blank, but Pearson …

“You’re afraid she might have turned violent. That’s what this has been about all along,” she said. “Because of what happened eleven years ago.”

Rosie looked away then. Still, she defended her sister the way she always had, and the way she always would.

“Laura didn’t kill that boy. It was a homeless man with mental health problems. He lived in those woods for years. He used to chase us, dress up like a vampire. They found him in the car.…”

Conway then: “We’re not here to rehash that crime, Mrs. Ferro.”

Rosie stopped talking, though she didn’t believe him. Not entirely. That crime would never go away. She thought about the notes—more things she hadn’t shared with them. Maybe it was time. Gabe had them, didn’t he? She’d given them to him at the diner? So many questions, but her mind was shutting down.

“The night of the date, she took your car. The minivan, which you later found on Richmond Street with two parking tickets. One at seven forty-five p.m. and one at ten a.m. Correct?” Conway asked.

Rosie nodded.

“And then you went to the harbor with photos of possible men from findlove.com—men you found doing a search that you thought was similar to what Laura might have done?”

“Yes. Married men. Thirty-five to forty. Divorced and no kids. Then we ruled out men who were balding, under five-six, overweight, et cetera.”

“And you took those photos to the harbor to see if anyone recognized him or your sister?”

“Yes.”

Conway paused. He tilted his head and leaned forward like he just had a thought.

“Why the harbor? Why not Richmond Street where the car was parked?”

Rosie looked at him curiously. She’d already been over this with them.

“Because of her phone—her phone died and when we called the carrier, they said it last sent out a signal by the harbor. If her phone was there, then she was there.”

Pearson picked up some papers and flipped through them until she found what she was looking for. She handed it to Conway, who looked it over, then passed it to Rosie.

“The records they gave us show the last signal on Richmond Street. Inside the Irish pub. Whom did you speak with at the carrier?” Conway asked.

Rosie stared at the paper and the information that could not be refuted.

“I don’t know—it was Gabe. Gabe Wallace—he’s an old friend of ours. He came over that morning to help us because he works in IT and because he’s very close with my sister. Is it possible the phone went offline but then came back on briefly? Maybe that’s what Gabe’s contact saw—the first time it went offline but not the last?”

Conway shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Then he looked at Pearson. “Can you have them check again?”

Pearson got up and left the room.

“She might have found a charger at the harbor, right? But not for long—just enough to send out another signal before it died again. That’s possible, right?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just see what they say.”

“I’ll call Gabe,” Rosie said, picking up her phone. She dialed his number, but the call went straight to voicemail. She hung up and sent him a text to call her. She said it was urgent.

“This Gabe—was he ever romantically involved with your sister?” Conway asked then.

Rosie was indignant, though it was an obvious question. “No. Never. She was like a little sister to him.”

Conway had another question on the heels of the first. “You said he works in IT?”

“Yes. He does home and office installations. Troubleshooting, that sort of thing. But also some forensic work for law firms. He works for my husband’s firm sometimes, for the divorce lawyers, mostly. That’s why he did the search for those men—he does that for clients trying to find cheating spouses. He knew how to create the fake account so we could find other women this man had been with.”

“And it worked,” Conway said. “You found women Rittle had lured into bed.”

“Yes, we did. Our mistake was looking at the wrong bar—but wait!” Rosie suddenly had an idea. “If we show the photograph of Jonathan Fielding to people at the bar where her phone actually died—the Irish pub, right?—maybe someone saw them together! Where is his picture…?”