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page.’
    ‘The woman owned a lot of jewellery. It’s possible she owned a similar locket. I remember seeing a lot of necklaces that looked the same.’
    ‘This necklace is unique. Hale gave it to his daughter for Christmas a few years ago, when she was sixteen.’
    ‘Why would her killer go back to her penthouse for a necklace after she had been abducted? It doesn’t make any sense.’
    ‘Did your team take pictures?’
    ‘Tons of them,’ Bryson said.
    ‘They’re not included in the file you gave me.’
    ‘They’re back at the station.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘ID has them. I never asked for copies since the whole thing was a monumental waste of time.’
    Darby checked her watch. It was after seven. ID was closed. Coop was at the lab but he couldn’t access the ID office. It was a separate department.
    ‘I’ll call Hale and see where he stored Emma’s things,’ she said.
    ‘She’s been in the ground for, what, five months? You think he’s held on to her jewellery?’
    ‘There’s one way to find out.’ Darby found Hale’s numbers listed in the file. ‘I’ll call you if I find out anything. Thanks for your help, Tim.’
    Darby hung up and dialled Jonathan Hale’s home number. Hopefully the man would allow her to view his daughter’s belongings, all of which had been released back into his possession. Hale didn’t have a high opinion of BPD. The man had openly criticized the department in the press.
    A woman with broken English answered the phone. Mr Hale wasn’t home, she said. She wouldn’t elaborate.
    Darby explained who she was and why she was calling, and then asked for a number where he could be reached. The woman didn’t have a number – she was just the housekeeper, she said – but offered to take a message. Darby left her numbers.
    Darby tapped the phone against her leg, wanting to do something. The matter, she knew, could wait. There was no urgency.
    Emma Hale had lived in the Back Bay – a quick ride on the T, which was still running. Darby wondered if the young woman’s belongings were stored inside the building, maybe even in her home. A building like that probably had someone who worked the front desk.
    Darby didn’t want to wait, wasn’t good at waiting. She needed to know. She stuffed Emma Hale’s murder book into her backpack and grabbed her coat.

10
    Emma Hale’s building had a concierge who, in addition to tending to the needs of the thirteen owners, also acted as security guard. The man’s name was Jimmy Marsh. He sat behind an ornate front counter with two crystal vases on each end holding lilies. Soft, decorative lighting offset the glare of the six security monitors.
    Darby introduced herself and then asked about Emma Hale’s penthouse.
    ‘Mr Hale hasn’t cleaned it out yet,’ Marsh said. He saw the look of surprise on her face and added, ‘Some people grieve differently, you know?’
    ‘So everything’s still upstairs.’
    ‘I can’t say for sure. Nobody is allowed up there. After Emma’s body was found, Mr Hale asked me to change the locks.’ Marsh sighed and rubbed a liver-spotted hand over his bald head. He was a big man, thick and hard with fat, with a crooked nose that had been broken one too many times. ‘Emma was such a beautiful girl, beautiful and charming,’ he said. ‘Every Sunday morning she’d go out for coffee and bring me back a blueberry muffin from the place I love right around the corner. I’d offer to pay her, but she always said no. That’s the kind of girl she was.’
    ‘Sounds like you two were close.’
    ‘I wouldn’t say that. She was a good kid, and I kept an eye on her. I promised her dad. Mr Hale owns this building – he owns half the buildings here in the Back Bay. He’s a very powerful man.’
    So I keep hearing, Darby thought. ‘Do you work here full time, Mr Marsh?’
    ‘Yeah, me and this other guy, Porny – Dwight Pornell is his name. Dwight generally takes the night shifts, but his old lady had a baby, and