The Other Woman (21 page)

“Yeah,” Rory said.

Jane Ryland. Reporter
. Kenna tucked that name away.

“Anyway, I fell asleep? We should have been home hours ago.”

“Well, you were so peaceful, and frankly I was a little tired myself, so we pulled over at a rest stop, Kenna got us some coffee, and I worked on some campaign stuff, lost track of time, I guess till the caffeine kicked in. All we need, the next senator from Massachusetts in a car accident because his driver fell asleep. Right? So we’re running a little behind, timewise.”

“Moira will think—,” the governor began.

She sure will,
Kenna thought.

“No, she won’t,” Rory interrupted. “If she picked up my message, it only confirms you’re in Springfield. If she didn’t get the message, she’d check your schedule and find out you were in Springfield. And after—what happened, it was too late to call and tell her about your, uh, change of plans. It’s not like there’s anything she could do.”

“She might have seen it on the news, Rory. She’ll be a basket case, worrying. Why’d you let me fall asleep before calling her?”

“Governor, listen. You know she doesn’t stay up for the news anymore. She’ll sleep blissfully until tomorrow—when you’ll surprise her by arriving so early. She’ll be delighted. What does it matter if you were sleeping in a hotel in Springfield or in a car on the Mass Pike?”

Owen patted his pockets. “I’m going to call her now. Tell her what’s going on.”

“Sure, do that,” Rory said. “But you’ll scare the hell out of her when the phone rings and wakes her up.”

Owen stopped his search. “I suppose that’s true.”

Rory drove a few moments, then yawned. Hugely. He put one hand over his face, and gave his head a quick shake.

Owen put a hand on his arm. “Want me to drive?”

“Lord no, you’re more tired than I am.” Rory yawned again. “I’ll be fine.”

“Dammit, Rory, this is dangerous. Silly. We’re scheduled to be out of town, so let’s find the next reasonable place and catch some sleep. You’re exhausted. I’m exhausted. Here’s a Worcester exit. There’s got to be a, whatever. Hotel. Motel. Mrs. Wilkes? What say you? You’re certainly having an adventure.”

Kenna yawned, eyes wide over the prayerlike hands that covered her mouth. “Whatever you say, Governor.” She lowered her hands. “I must admit, the idea of bed is very, very tempting.”

*   *   *

Maybe Arthur Vick killed Sellica, Amaryllis Roldan, and “Longfellow” merely as practice. As a setup. All to get ready for his real goal—to kill his wife.

To get her to stop talking.

Jake managed a straight face as he watched Patti Vick—Patricia Auriello Vick, age fifty-three, born Charlestown, Massachusetts, housewife, married to A. Vick for thirty-three years, no living children, no registered pets, according to Sergeant Nguyen in the Records Department—tuck into her second supersized single malt. It was the only thing that interrupted her blow-by-blow recitation of the years of “blissful” marriage to the “self-made” “wonderfully generous” guy who was her “first love” and “best friend.”

DeLuca hadn’t been cool with the “let’s chat with Pat” program as they knocked on the Vicks’ front door, warning, “It’s so late, she’ll probably shoot first and we won’t be alive to ask questions later.” Mrs. Vick had at first gone pale, asking if there was anything wrong. After they assured her they were only night-shift detectives who needed to ask her a couple questions, Patti “with an
i
” had acted as if the late-night arrival of two cops on her almost-suburban doorstep was exactly what she’d been waiting for. “I never sleep,” she told them. Now, here the two of them were, facing a tracksuit-wearing fireplug on a triple-wide sectional. Listening to Patti Vick tell all.

Not that she was saying anything relevant. But Jake took another sip of his second water on the rocks. The enough-rope theory. Let them talk. Sometimes they talked too much.

And, Jake reminded himself, he believed—because Jane had sworn it under oath on the witness stand—this woman’s husband had been paying Sellica Darden for sex. And a few days ago, probably killed her. And probably killed Amaryllis Roldan before that.

Mrs. Vick was living in some kind of dreamworld. Or she was a pretty good liar. Or a drunk. Or all three. He’d let her talk.

“Interesting,” DeLuca was saying. Not that Patti-with-an-
i
needed encouragement.

It did seem that she worshipped at the altar of Arthur. After Jake’s initial foray into Sellica Darden territory—which Patti had dismissed as “all lies and televisional sensational stuff” from “that horrible girl on Channel Eleven,” Mrs. Vick’s commentary about her husband had been all positive. He could do no wrong. Anything she ever wanted, she got. Yes, he was busy, but there were rewards. Now she was showing off the huge and incomprehensible oil-painted canvases hanging frame-to-frame on the living room’s too-crowded walls.

“All mine,” she said, jabbing her chest with a manicured finger. Her husband let her “do her art.” She was an insomniac, she revealed. But he let her “have an atelier” so she could “find herself.”

“Yes, I know, there’s a bit too much of myself to ‘find’ these days.” Patti poked one dark red fingernail into an ample thigh. “But that’s what happens when your husband owns a grocery store, right? Artie always told me, even in high school, he liked that I was big-boned. ‘Not some little fairy girl,’ he’d say. ‘You’re my real woman.’ He’d say.”

DeLuca took a dramatic sip of water, waving the floor to Jake.

“You ever hear the name Amaryllis Roldan?” Jake said. Might as well get this wrapped up. They could always come back.

Patti’s eyes went up, searching from one corner of the ceiling to the other, then back. “Ah, no. Why? Who’s that?”

“Who chooses the women in your husband’s commercials?”

“Aren’t they great?” Patti perked up. “We’re here for twenty-four and, if you need it, more.”

“Ma’am?” Jake prodded her. The wife of a murder suspect singing TV jingles in the middle of the night. What they don’t teach you at the academy. “The women?”

“Oh, my goodness, no idea. That’s all business stuff. At Artie’s office.”

“So, finally.” DeLuca looked at his watch, then at Jake. “Your husband has a habit of working this late, ma’am?”

“Even on Saturday nights?” Jake put in.

Sunday morning, really. When “Longfellow” and Roldan had been killed.

“Oh, yes, he—” Patti stopped, then looked at Jake, wary, like,
wait a minute
. She took a sip, then wagged one finger at him, midswallow. “Oh, I know what you’re
real-ly
asking, Detectives. Is that why you’re still here? Well, I can answer that one, easy peasy. The nights those poor girls were killed, my Arthur was most certainly not working late. In fact, he was with me.”

35

“Do I know where your husband is?” Jane’s eyebrows went up, trying to figure out exactly what to say to Moira Lassiter.
I mean, why not call him and ask him, you know?
The nightstand clock taunted her. She had expected this to be the call from Trevor, dictating the campaign’s statement. What was taking him so long? She had to write her story. But she couldn’t dump Moira. And why didn’t Moira know where her own husband was? “Mrs. Lassiter? I mean, I saw him at the event, of course, earlier this evening. Here in Springfield. Did you try to call him?”

Jane had a thought. “Oh, I get it. You’re worried about the rally situation. Did you see something about it on TV? It’s all fine. Nobody hurt, everyone accounted for.”
As far as I know
. Jane checked the clock again, semi-panic setting in. “I’m actually still waiting for a statement from the campaign. I could call you directly, if you like, when I find out more. After I file my story.”

“The ‘situation’? At the rally?” Mrs. Lassiter’s voice lost its usual confidence. “What situation? I’ve been asleep since nine. Is something wrong? I tried to call, of course, but Owen didn’t answer his—”

Jane’s call-waiting beeped in. It
had
to be Trevor. She had to make her deadline.

“Mrs. Lassiter, I’m incredibly sorry. Nothing’s wrong. Hold on one second, though, okay?” Jane clicked the button. “This is Jane.”

“Jane? Trevor. Sorry to take so long, but—”

“Listen, Trevor, ah, do you know where—?” Jane paused, thinking of Moira on the other line. She could simply have Moira talk to Trevor. On the other hand, wouldn’t Trevor wonder why Moira was calling
her
? And what if Trevor were in on whatever was happening? If anything was happening. No. She had to keep everyone and everything separate until she figured out whose side everyone was on. “Never mind. Do you have the statement?”

“Yup, I’ll read it to you. Ready? ‘We are deeply—’”

“Trevor? Hang on. One second. I’ve got to … ah, hang on.” She didn’t wait for a reply. Clicked back to Moira.

“Mrs. Lassiter? Please forgive me, I’m on a crushing deadline. Governor Lassiter is fine, I last saw him with his entourage—”
And the other woman you’re wondering about,
which she didn’t say. “Now Tre— Someone from the campaign is calling me with a statement. I’m completely sure it’s fine. Do you want me to ask them to have the governor call you?”

“But what happened?” Moira Lassiter pleaded.

“The lights went out. During the rally. They’re back on now.” Jane was talking as fast as she could. She couldn’t afford to lose Moira. But she couldn’t miss her deadline. “It was briefly, you know, surprising. But nothing big. Really. Listen, let me promise to call you back, in the morning. Hang on, okay?” She clicked. “Trevor? One second.”

Back to Moira. “I’ll call you in the morning. Don’t worry. But—why don’t you just call your husband?”

She heard Moira sigh. “I’ll try his number again. But this isn’t the first time. You need to know that. It’s not the first time I’ve not known where he is. Call me tonight, Jane. Tonight.”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Lassiter. I really—”

“I’ll wait for your call.” And she hung up.

Jane held out both arms, head back, briefly pleading with the universe for a tiny break. “Trevor, I’m ready,” she said. She scooted up against the bed’s wooden headboard, arranged a pillow behind her, adjusted her laptop, and clicked open a new page. Jane Ryland, newspaper reporter.
Take this, Channel 11
. “Okay, go.”

The next time the phone rang, Jane jerked awake so quickly, her head hit the slats of the headboard.

“Huh?” she said. The sky was pinkish outside her window.… Oh, Springfield. The hotel. The rally. She’d sent her story, just in time, she remembered that. Alex loved it, and then— The phone rang again. Her laptop was still on, but flashing a silent slide show of Jane’s photos of her mom and the Emmys and a funny shot of a pigeon eating a piece of pepperoni. She grabbed for the phone, still bleary and half-confused.

“This is Jane.” She squinted at the digital clock. Her eyes were stinging—her contacts were going to be impossible to get out. Hotel. No contact lens solution.
Five
A.M.
?

“Jane? This is Moira Lassiter. I was waiting for your call.”

Jane clapped a palm to her forehead. Trying to force her brain into gear.

“Oh, my goodness, Mrs. Lassiter.” She licked her lips, wished for some water. “I must have fallen asleep after I sent the story. I’m so—”

“What are you keeping from me, Jane?” the woman interrupted. “Are you in on this cover-up, too, now? The hotel told me Owen—and his ‘staff,’ as they so carefully put it—left there hours ago. If he were coming home, he’d already be here with me. But it’s now five in the morning. Owen is not at the hotel in Springfield. He’s not answering his cell. And he is most assuredly not home.”

“I’m not keeping anything, Mrs. Lassiter. Of course not. As I said, I meant to call you, but I must have…” Jane took a deep breath, trying to adjust to the bitterness in Moira’s voice, her own lack of sleep, and the impossibility of figuring out what was going on. She tried for diplomacy. “When you called the governor’s staff, what did they tell you?”

“Call who, Jane? That Maitland person, who only knows the truth as he creates it? Sheila King, who informed you so erroneously that I was ‘taking some downtime?’ Which of his minions would you suggest I trust to tell me the truth?”

“Well, I—” It was on the tip of Jane’s tongue to cut to the chase. To outright ask,
Do you know the name Kenna Wilkes?
But it seemed precipitous, to name a name that would forever, no matter what, true or not, taint the woman’s reputation, and the candidate’s, and Moira Lassiter’s. But Jane could barely get in an “uh-huh” as Mrs. Lassiter kept talking. The woman couldn’t possibly be drinking at five in the morning. Could she? Isn’t this what Martha Mitchell had done back in Watergate days, drunk-dialing reporters, ratting out her Attorney General husband? But that wasn’t about another woman.

“They’re all covering for him,” Moira was saying. “No point in my calling any of them. ‘Yes, Mrs. Lassiter, I’ll check, Mrs. Lassiter.’ It’s like calling a bunch of bobblehead dolls. All bobbling to whatever Owen and Rory tell them. So, Jane. Did you see anyone suspicious? Did you see the other woman?”

36

“Detective Brogan? Brought you a coffee. Don’t get used to it.”

Jake looked up from his computer. Paperwork almost done. His Sunday-morning habit, alone time in the Homicide office, catching up. He was tired from last night’s interview with Patti Vick.
She
may not need sleep, but
he
did. He needed answers more.

“Hey, Pam. Back from your honeymoon, huh?”

The homicide squad’s part-time clerk put a steaming paper cup on his desk, then held up her left hand, waggling her ring finger. “I’m now officially Pamela O’Flynn Augusto,” she said. “Back from Maui, extra blond, extra tan, and extra ready to help you keep the peace.”

“That’s some handle,” Jake said. A red light flashed on his desk telephone. From out in the reception area, he heard Pam’s phone ring. An inside ring.

The supe?
“Pam, can you handle that for me? I’m in a meeting or something. Unless it’s the supe. You know the drill.”