...And Never Let HerGo

Greenhill and Seventeenth where Tom’s estranged wife and children lived. They knew he drove a 1993 black Jeep Grand Cherokee and they watched for it.
    In the meantime, they went back to Anne Marie’s apartmenthouse. Mark Daniels talked with her landlady, Theresa Oliver. She explained that she kept the apartments secure from the street. “To get to the second or third floor,” she said, “you have to go through that clear storm door first, and it has a dead-bolt lock. Anyone would need a key.”
    Mrs. Oliver told Daniels that a woman named Connie Blake lived in the apartment directly below Anne Marie’s. “But she’s at the shore—and won’t be home until tonight.”
    A S the investigators passed Kay Capano’s house for the sixth or seventh time, Bob Donovan spotted Tom coming out of the garage area. They walked up to him, and this time, Tom was far more agitated than he had been the night before. He responded to their questions in short sentences, telling them that he was upset with himself for having said so much when they had wakened him hours before. He felt that he had betrayed Anne Marie’s privacy by telling the police about their affair, but he had been groggy from taking several Excedrin PMs, and now he was sorry.
    They asked to see his house and Tom agreed—but not happily. He followed them as they drove to his house. It was not a formal search; it was only a walk-through, but he seemed to resent the idea of detectives peering into his rooms and wouldn’t give them permission to open drawers or look into his closets. It was, perhaps, an indication that they hadn’t believed what he had told them earlier in the morning, and Tom was not accustomed to having his words questioned, particularly not when it came to police matters.
    Tom’s house was immaculate. “It was very clean, very orderly. We were looking for Anne Marie Fahey,” Bob Donovan recalled. “But she wasn’t there.”
    Nor was there any sign that she had been there. Tom led the detectives through the house and into the double garage beneath the dining room–great room area. They saw the pretty bedrooms he had decorated for his daughters, the lavish master bedroom, the kitchen, dining area, living room. All the furnishings were apparently brand new. But there was no indication that Anne Marie Fahey had even been in any of these rooms or that anything untoward might have happened here.
    It was still Sunday, June 30—a day that seemed to be forty-eight hours long. Tomorrow, Anne Marie might walk into the governor’s office at 7:30 A.M., rested, relaxed, and with a new sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose from a weekend in the sun. That was Tom Capano’s prediction.
    The detectives hoped that he was right, but like all good cops, Bob Donovan had a feeling in his gut that told him otherwise.

Chapter Twenty-two
    K ATHLEEN F AHEY -H OSEY had gone home to check on her babies, but she was back at Anne Marie’s apartment at seven-thirty that Sunday morning. Neither she nor Mike Scanlan had slept during the wee hours after the detectives had left to go to Tom Capano’s house. She met Mike now on the front porch of 1718 Washington Street. Besides her worry about her sister, Kathleen had another burden on her mind. Mike hadn’t seen the letters from Tom, and Kathleen knew she had to tell him what she had found. If she didn’t, somebody else was going to bring it up. There was no other way; Anne Marie would just have to straighten things out with Mike when she came home.
    “Mike,” Kathleen said, “we need to talk.”
    She told him about the letters and warned him that it appeared that Anne Marie had been somehow involved with Tom Capano—and it seemed to have been more than just a friendship. Her words hung suspended in the air between them for a long moment as Mike tried to assimilate what they might mean. Finally, he tapped Kathleen on the arm and said, “Let’s go up.”
    If her relationship with Tom Capano was too much to take in, the most important thing, still, was to find Anne Marie. Shafts of early morning sun sliced through the windows now, but nothing had changed in her apartment. They had hoped against hope that there might at least be a message on her answering machine—some clue to where she might be.
    For many years now, the orphaned Fahey siblings had formed a tight circle. If one of them was in trouble or in danger, they all were. Already they were mobilizing, prepared to do whatever they had