Free The Secret Friend by Chris Mooney Page A

again?’ Darby asked.
    ‘My mother gave me this for my birthday.’ Coop rubbed a hand over his wet hair and looked at the pictures hanging on the wall. ‘I’m glad to see you’re not taking your work home with you.’
    Bryson came back on the line. ‘That was Jonathan Hale. He wants to talk about what happened last night.’
    ‘What did you tell him?’
    ‘I told him you and I would meet and discuss the matter with him at his home at two. He lives in Weston. I’m at the station right now. You want me to swing by and pick you up?’
    Darby gave Bryson her address. She hung up and filled Coop in on Malcolm Fletcher.
    Coop sat in the leather chair by the window, squinting in the sunlight. ‘I think it would be wise if I stayed with you for a bit,’ he said.
    Darby felt relieved. She didn’t want him to go home. Not yet.
    ‘I’ll swing by my house and pick up some stuff,’ Coop said.
    ‘Are you going to wear any more of those ridiculous T-shirts?’
    ‘It’s either that or I sleep in the nude.’
    A snapshot of him slipping into his jeans flashed through her mind. Her face reddened.
    ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Don’t fight me on this.’
    ‘You can take my car.’ Darby opened her desk drawer and removed the spare set of house and car keys. She tossed them and stood. ‘I’m not going to cook for you.’
    ‘What about backrubs?’
    ‘Keep dreaming.’
    ‘Not a problem,’ Coop said.

19
    Weston is Boston’s suburban version of Nantucket, an exclusive enclave of predominantly rich whites who live in jaw-dropping multimillion-dollar mansions surrounded by acres of beautifully manicured lawns and woods. The town’s poorest residents live in million-dollar shacks in order to take advantage of the school system, the best in the state of Massachusetts. Almost every high-school graduate is guaranteed acceptance into a top-tier Ivy college.
    Jonathan Hale lived at the end of a private road. His mansion, a sprawling mass of modern architecture, sat on top of a hill. Workers sitting on John Deere lawnmowers equipped with ploughs were clearing snow from the long driveways.
    A limo was parked in front of a garage, its bay door open, the interior lights on. Darby spotted a vintage Porsche, a convertible BMW and a car that looked like a Bentley.
    ‘What do you think?’ Tim Bryson asked as he pulled his old diesel Mercedes up to the front gate.
    ‘Seems awfully cold,’ Darby said.
    ‘I was referring to the house.’
    ‘I know.’
    Bryson rolled down the window and pressed the intercom button.
    A crackle of static, then a woman’s voice said, ‘Hello?’
    ‘This is Detective Bryson. I’m here to see Mr Hale.’
    ‘One moment, please.’
    Standing inside the foyer, dressed in a pin-striped suit without a tie, was a tall man with a thick head of grey hair and a strong, handsome face pale with grief – Jonathan Hale. Darby recognized him immediately from the press conferences on TV.
    Hale looked and carried himself like an old blue blood, only the image wasn’t accurate. He had dropped out of Harvard during his sophomore year to build computers out of his parents’ garage in Medford. Eight years later, he sold his mail-order computer company to a competitor and used the proceeds to buy residential property in Boston’s highly desirable Back Bay.
    With the income generated from his rental properties, he created a successful start-up business that developed financial software for investment firms. During the height of the dot-com craze, Hale sold the company for a staggering amount of money which he invested in commercial real-estate opportunities in Massachusetts. The man was Boston’s version of Donald Trump, minus the bad hair, trophy wife and megalomaniac desire for self-promotion. According to the papers, Hale, who had never remarried following the death of his wife, was a huge contributor to a number of Catholic charities.
    Bryson did the introductions.
    ‘Maria is preparing lunch,’ Hale said. His