The Other Woman (11 page)

Another call came in, then another. The phone woman kept answering, looking more and more annoyed. Another group of somebodies talked as they waited at the elevator, comparing pieces of paper, voices bouncing off the marble walls.

The woman behind the desk stood up. She was smiling, patting her hair, adjusting that sweater. But she was looking past Holly, beyond her shoulder. The people at the elevator stopped talking, every one of them, and turned the same direction. So Holly had to turn, too.

And there was Owen Lassiter. Striding through the revolving door and into the lobby. The bustle of the evening swirled into the building with him, the clatter of traffic, the wind, sirens peeling down Causeway Street. His hair was blown, cheeks ruddy, white shirt so white. She could almost feel the force field around him. Two men in suits trotted to keep up, one of them, a youngish man not far behind, carrying a stack of papers.

Holly’s hand went to her heart. Owen Lassiter.
I needed to find him, but he found me!
She tried to remember to breathe.

“Mrs. Wilkes.” The candidate was talking to the woman at the desk. He took her hand in both of his. “Welcome, Kenna. Rory told me you’d be here.”

Holly thought she saw Mrs. Wilkes blush.
Huh.

The phone rang, but the Wilkes person ignored it, she was so locked in to Lassiter’s greeting. When he let go of her, finally, she didn’t seem to know where to put her hands.

Then Owen Lassiter himself turned to her. To her! He held out his hand, smiling at her, drawing her in with those eyes. “And who do we have here?”

Holly almost blushed, seeing him. He would never recognize her.

Not until she wanted him to.

“I’m Hannah,” she said. “I’m so delighted to see you.” See you
again,
she was careful
not
to say.

She could almost feel the camera in her bag.

Perfect.

When things worked, they just worked.

17

“Is it the Bridge Killer? Is it? Oh, Detective Brogan, I’m not sure I can do this now.”

“Take your time, Mrs. Darden,” Jake reassured the woman on the couch. The low-slung coffee table between them could not have held one more doily-covered plate of cookies or little muffins. “Let me know when you feel up to continuing.”

Jake sat in the striped wing chair, pretending to read over his notes, while Sellica Darden’s mother composed herself. Leota Darden had made it through about five minutes of Jake’s questions, poised and polite, even offering Jake tea, answering carefully.

She’d been too distraught to talk last night, so they agreed he’d return first thing this morning. He hoped that wasn’t a mistake.

Wearing a flinty gray silk dress that ended below her knees and what his mom called sensible shoes, Mrs. Darden had shooed all but one of her other Saturday morning callers down the hall. The woman now sitting beside Mrs. Darden, pinched face and bright red fingernails, gave Jake a dark look. He’d seen it in many other living rooms. It meant,
Get out, cop.

He wished he could. But this was part of the deal. Death. Trying to explain it. Trying to understand it. Intruding on grief. Sitting in people’s living rooms, bringing up exactly what grieving families didn’t want to hear.

The scent of flowers, heavy-headed dark red roses and masses of carnations, mixed with the fragrance of brewing coffee and burning candles. A black-framed photo of a sleekly stylish young woman wearing a white turtleneck and ropes of pearls was displayed on the mantelpiece, a single white lily in a slim crystal vase beside it.

The ME’s photos of Sellica that Jake had studied last night were not so attractive. He hoped her mother would never see those.

He had started with the easy questions.

Yes, Mrs. Darden told him, her Sellica kept in touch. Yes, she knew what her daughter did for a living. No, she hadn’t mentioned being afraid of anyone.

He’d ignore her question about the Bridge Killer. But that’s what was haunting him, too.

What’s more, the newspaper sure as hell isn’t ignoring it. Tuck’s story this morning was total bullshit, speculation and psychobabble. The “Bridge Killer” cases aren’t exactly the same—and that proves they’re connected? That girl never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

“Did Sellica ever mention trouble of any kind?” Jake asked. “Anyone who threatened her? Bothered her? Followed her?”

But Mrs. Darden was deflating, collapsing, fingers to her forehead. “It is, isn’t it. The Bridge Killer.”

“I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Darden.” So much for ignoring it. “But I don’t think there’s a Bridge Killer. And that’s why I need to—”

The other woman sniffed. “Ridiculous. Of course there is. I read the newspapers. You people couldn’t stop him, and now—” She stopped, giving her head a fretful shake. She clutched at Mrs. Darden’s arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, Leezey. Honey. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m all right, Neesha.” Leota Darden patted her friend’s hand, then rearranged herself on the couch. “It all started when she talked to that reporter. I told her she shouldn’t talk to her. I said to her, ‘Sellica—’”

“Jane Ryland, you mean, right? Did you ever meet her?” Jake had to interrupt. Jane had never admitted Sellica was her source. But never said she wasn’t. And if Jane’s story had something to do with Sellica’s murder somehow … Jake’s thumbs flew over his BlackBerry as he continued his questions, looking up at her as he typed. “Mrs. Darden? Did you ever meet Arthur Vick?”

“I most certainly did not,” she said. Her back stiffened. “That man—”

“Ruined Sellica’s life.” Neesha finished the sentence. She turned to Mrs. Darden. “Well, he did, honey. You know he did. But she’s in a better place now.”

With that, Leota Darden lost it. She collapsed onto her friend’s shoulder in a flood of sobbing. Neesha glared at him again.

Can’t you go?
she mouthed.

Probably should have questioned her alone. Too late now.

“I’m sorry, no, I can’t,” he said. This sucked. But he had no choice. “Take your time, though. It’s okay, ma’am.”

Jake scanned his BlackBerry screen, letting the women comfort each other, trying to give them some privacy. He scrolled his Google search results into view. Arthur Vick, owner of the Beacon Markets grocery stores, megabucks, big political donor, wife in hiding post-scandal, she was some kind of artist apparently, million-dollar judgment, yadda yadda, Wrong-Guy Ryland.
Poor Jane.
But it wasn’t so much Jane who was the key. It was Arthur Vick.

“See if L and C”—Jake’s shorthand for
Longfellow
and
Charlestown
—“connect with A Vick.” Jake banged out a reminder e-mail to himself, and hit Send. Maybe the other victims worked at grocery stores. He’d have the guys do a photo array at Beacon Markets. Maybe Arthur Vick used his employee files to track down his victims.
Possible.

Maybe Arthur Vick’s grocery stores were not the only place the victims worked for him.

“Detective? I’m so sorry.” Leota Darden dabbed her reddened eyes with a shredding tissue. “I know you’re doing your job. I’m better now, thank you.”

“Tea?” Neesha stood, edging between the couch and coffee table. “I’ll go get you tea.”

She did not offer any to Jake.

“Arthur Vick,” Jake said as Neesha left the room. “We were talking about Arthur Vick. Did Sellica mention anyone who was missing? Someone she knew from her—work?”

“You’re thinking of the other Bridge Killer victims? You think they did what she did? No, Sellica never mentioned anything like that. Poor things.” Mrs. Darden leaned back against the softly flowered cushions, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she sat up straight, planted her hands on her hips.

“Detective Brogan. Arthur Vick promised my Sellica she could be in his grocery store commercials. She counted on it, with those other girls, thought it was a way out of the life. All she wanted was what he promised her. He promised her! Then he turned on her. Dragged her into court. And she, she…”

“She fought back by talking to Jane Ryland. Correct?”

One white candle hissed as it sputtered out, a wisp of smoke rising toward the ceiling. Jake leaned forward, needing to hear what would come next.

“Sellica was ordered by a judge not to tell,” Mrs. Darden whispered. “But she did. She did tell. Now she’s dead. Now Arthur Vick is even richer.”

*   *   *

“Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are…”

Matt tuned out the staticky voice coming from the plane’s public address system. His fingers worried the iPhone in his hand. The flight attendant had caught him using it during takeoff, almost confiscated it. Now he had to wait till the damn plane landed till he could call. He’d already programmed in the number.

Resting his forehead against the window, he peered at the whitecaps on Boston Harbor. He could feel the plane descending.
Almost there
. One hand curled around his phone.
Almost time
. He had to be here in person. He’d call first, because he was curious, then get up close and personal. See her. If it was her. And find out what the hell she was doing in Boston.

Do not ever,
do not ever,
ask about your father.
He could hear his mother’s voice, words interrupted by puffs on those cigarettes. Picture her, so beautiful and so sad, sitting across from him at their kitchen table, one of her hands, thin and drawn, covering his smaller one.
Do not look for him, do not go to him, do not ask me about him.

It had been one of her rituals, almost like their grace before meals. His sister Sarah—he called her Cissy—had been too young to understand. But he remembered enough to miss his dad. Couldn’t understand why he was gone. Why his mother felt so bitter about him. Why she’d tried to erase him from their family.

And then, while he was in grad school, she’d erased herself. Cissy always blamed their father. Hated their father. Before their mother killed herself, hate was what she taught them.

Do not look for him, do not go to him, do not ask me about him.
But how could Matt resist? It was his father. And eventually, he learned everything he could about him. Then that day in B-school, he had stupidly revealed all of it.

The rumble of the landing gear jolted Matt from his memories. He slugged down the last of his second Bloody Mary, wincing at the pepper, then hid the two little empty bottles in the seat pocket in front of him. Even the drinks hadn’t helped him calm down. Eyeing the overhead rack where he’d stashed his coat, he calculated how quickly he could yank off his seat belt. He had to get out. He had to know.

If she was in Boston, there had to be a reason. And it could not be a good one.

18

Sitting in her car, just outside the gated entrance of the Lassiters’ asphalt expanse of a driveway, Jane adjusted the rearview mirror and leaned across the steering wheel, checking her lipstick. Then reality hit. This interview was for a newspaper, not TV. Didn’t really matter what she looked like.

This is easier, right?
No lights, no cameras, no wires or microphones or cranky photographers. Those days were over. All because of Sellica Darden. Jane blew out a breath, her memories crashing into one another. Forgetting about lipstick, she stared out the windshield, unseeing. Sellica’s funeral was later this afternoon.

Why did she feel so guilty about Sellica’s death?

A lone car trundled by on the street behind her.
PRIVATE DRIVE
, the sign down the block warned. The Lassiters’ white-columned Georgian stood almost at the end of the cul-de-sac.

If she attended Sellica’s funeral, out of respect, would it telegraph that she’d been Jane’s source?

It would. Wouldn’t it?

First things first. Moira. Five minutes till her one o’clock interview.

Maybe she should go inside, whip out Archive Gus’s photos and say:
Mrs. Lassiter? Do you know this woman in the red coat? She was photographed near your husband at this rally, and this one, and this one. Does this concern you at all?

Jane laughed out loud, imagining it. Played out the whole impossible scene, making dramatic faces in her rearview. “Well, yes, Mrs. Lassiter. The reason I ask is that from my research, it appears your husband may be—”

She scratched her head, pretending to consider. How would she put that?
Having an affair? Being unfaithful? Seeing another woman?

She’d also have to ask if the affair was why Moira was suddenly off the radar. “So, Mrs. Lassiter, is that why you’ve been hiding? And oh, by the way, who else knows about the affair?”

Obviously there was no tactful way to bring this up. Plus, Alex would kill her.

Mrs. Lassiter opened one side of the double front door herself, before Jane even touched the brass lion’s-head knocker. Wearing a white jewel-necked sweater, white cardigan tied around her neck, and sleek black pants, she was a silver blond lady of the manor, framed by the white-trimmed moldings and the still-green ivy twining up an arched trellis.

Jane knew from her research Moira Lassiter was an ex-ballerina, small company, but still. That took training, and devotion, and self-restraint. Single-mindedness. And a solid sense of her own body. She’d reportedly met Owen at a—

“Jane? So nice to see you again.” Moira Lassiter reached out a graceful hand, then stepped back into her entryway, ushering Jane in. No hovering servants or housekeepers. A well-kept but low-key foyer, with a not-quite-extravagant display of all-white chrysanthemums in front of a gilt-edged mirror, polished black and white tiles on the floor. Not ostentatious. Confident. Established.

Moira herself took Jane’s coat, draping it over the back of a cream-on-white wing chair beside an arch in the entryway.

“We have tea in the living room.” She pushed the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows, revealing a triple-strand pearl bracelet and tanned arms. Her fingernails were polished but pale. “I’m glad you could see me this morning on such short notice.”

Jane followed her through the archway.
I’ll let her make the first move
. “Of course, Mrs. Lassiter. I’m so happy you decided to chat.”