The Other Woman (23 page)

Jane knew a good story when she saw one. But she was still so—what was the word?—skittish. What if she was wrong? Her chest tightened at
wrong
.

She’d reassured Mrs. Lassiter that she was on the lookout, understood her concern, and would talk to her when she got back to Boston. Seemed like Moira bought it. That gave Jane time to think about Kenna Wilkes before she—

Wait
. Maybe Kenna was still here. It was only nine thirty in the morning.

She picked up the phone, punched zero.

“Front desk. Good morning, Miss Ryland. What can we do for you?”

That still creeped her out, how they could tell who was calling.

“Is Gina on this morning?” Jane asked.

“One moment, please.”

Good.

“This is Gina. Good morning, Miss Ryland. I trust you enjoyed your stay.”

Her voice was guarded, formal. Jane followed suit.

“Yes, lovely. I’ll be checking out momentarily, if you could prepare my bill. May I ask, did—‘my friend’ check out, too?”

Jane heard some keyboard clicking.

“Yes, ma’am, that appears to be correct. Around ten last night.”

A moment of silence.

“They all checked in together,” Gina continued, whispering. “The big guy. The other guy. And your friend. They all checked out together, too.”

*   *   *

“We should drop Mrs. Wilkes off at that lovely home in Deverton first.” Owen Lassiter, rested and chatty, sat in the front seat of the SUV. Kenna occupied her usual spot in the back. Watching. Listening. Taking it all in.

They were two exits away from Boston, midmorning Sunday, after coffee and baskets of pastries in the dining room of the Worcester Sheraton. He’d shaken fifty hands during breakfast, Kenna calculated. Signed autographs, gotten fawned over by hotel workers and guests. He’d introduced her and Rory as “campaign staff.”

“When’s little Jimmy getting back from his grandparents?” Owen asked her.

Kenna wondered if he’d called Moira. Didn’t matter. There was the truth-truth, and there was
her
truth. Poor Moira would never be quite certain which was which.

“Governor, that’s so kind of you. But your home is closer, isn’t it, than mine? Jimmy’s fine, still at his Gran’s. Please don’t worry about me.” She prattled ahead. “And I know Mrs. Lassiter will be happy to see you. Finally. After all the commotion.”

Rory gave a thumbs-up, agreeing. “We’re taking you straight home, Governor. You told Moira ten thirty. We don’t want to keep her waiting. We don’t want her to worry, right?”

Kenna fingered her newest acquisition, a sleek pink plastic bottle of shampoo from the Worcester Sheraton.
You never know
. She fluffed her hair and slid on her tortoiseshell sunglasses, very Jackie O.

Moira stood at the front door, waiting. Kenna could see her silhouette behind the glass, framed by white crown molding and curling ivy. As they pulled into the curve of the driveway, Mrs. Lassiter stepped outside. That icy blond hair, somehow coiffed perfectly even on a Sunday morning. White turtleneck, some kind of fuzzy white vest. Fuzzy boots. The woman looked like frosting on a cake. Like meringue. Like money. She held a mug.

She raised it, saluting their arrival, as the SUV stopped. But she didn’t move from the porch. Didn’t come out to meet her husband, not even halfway.

“Thanks, Rory. Thanks, Kenna. You’re both good sports,” Owen said. “Ror, you’ll call me about the rest of the day. And any update on the developments in the lights thing.”

Rory started to say something, but the governor stopped him with a palm.

“Check it out. I don’t like it. And then we’re clear till tomorrow, right? Monday morning meeting, then—”

“It’s all good, Governor,” Rory said. “Go in. The election’s coming. It’ll be your last day off for a while.”

“If we win.”

“We’ll win.”

The governor clicked open his door, and Rory popped the hatchback where the overnight bags were stowed.

Kenna hopped out, came around behind the car. Why not? No reason for her to sit in the backseat after Owen was gone, right? She smoothed her jeans over her rear, then gave a little stretch, making sure her black turtleneck came just a bit untucked.
Oh, such a long car ride.

She waved at Moira, breezy and casual. And closed her door. She glanced over to see what Moira and her husband were doing. Moira was gesturing at her. Kenna put a hand up to her cheek, as if to hide her face. Why not.

“All set?” Rory asked, turning on the ignition.

“Oh, yeah,” Kenna said. “Set and match.”

39

“Score one for the new kid,” Alex told her, making a mark in the air. “Fifth floor loves it.”

At work on a Sunday. He was taking his job seriously, Jane figured. Or maybe it was easier for him to hang out here in his office than at home. Maybe he was using work as an excuse. Or an escape.

Today he was weekend casual in a black T-shirt under a cashmere-looking zipper-neck black sweater. His usual jeans.
Hot Alex,
Jane thought. He was, indeed. Especially now that he was praising her story.

“Oh, terrific. Thanks,” Jane said, taking a seat on his couch. She was tired, but never too tired for pats on the back. Soon she’d be home. “Remember, I’ve got those other photos of Kenna Wilkes. When I get to my desk, I’ll download ’em. Send ’em to you.”

“Great,” Alex said. “But right now you need to— Well, wait. Let me confirm. Your pictures are definitely of the same woman who’s in Gus’s archive photos, right?”

“Yes, no question.” Jane nodded. “Kenna Wilkes is her name. I’m pretty sure … well, yeah, it has to be. You know? She was there, at the rally, the woman in the photo. That’s what my source at the hotel said her name was. And my source also confirmed Kenna Wilkes checked out the same time the governor checked out. Question is, who the heck is she? I Googled, and ZabaSearched, got pretty much nothing. Did you?”

“Well, not me, I didn’t have time to do it myself. But I told Tuck to look into it.” Alex moved his wireless silver mouse across his desk. Jane couldn’t see what was on the computer screen. At least she was learning not to take his multitasking personally. Workaholic or not, why was he here on a Sunday? She glanced at the third finger, left hand. Still no ring. But he didn’t seem unhappy. No way, of course, to ask what was going on in his personal life. She rewound to what he’d just said.

“You told Tuck?” Jane tried to follow his reasoning. “To check on Kenna Wilkes? How come?”

Alex stopped his mouse and looked up at her, surprised. “On the phone yesterday, you told me the name Amaryllis Roldan. And later, Kenna Wilkes. Since I knew you’d talked to Jake, I thought they were both connected to the Bridge Killer stuff. So I asked Tuck to run them by her sources.”

Jane thought back. “No, Alex. I was at the rally, remember? And I told you, Wilkes was the other woman.”

“Yeah, I know. But I thought you meant the other woman in the bridge killings. See? Roldan, a victim. And Wilkes the other victim. I figured that was what you were telling me.”

“Yikes. And we’re supposed to be in the communications biz.” Jane shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She is who she is. If Tuck comes up with something for my story, great.”

She yawned, the last of her adrenaline departing. She needed coffee. Food. Sleep. How many hours had she slept? Like, four? “Now, if Kenna Wilkes gets murdered by the Bridge Killer, that’d be the ultimate worlds-collide. Anything new on that? I gotta admit, Arthur Vick isn’t my favorite person on the planet right now.”

Alex slapped his laptop closed.

Gave her his full attention,
thank you so much.

“Nothing new I know of. Tuck’s out now. Talking to—” He paused. “Whatever she does. Anyway, Jane. She’ll handle the Bridge Killer. Unless you’ve decided to give us more on Sellica?”

“Alex—”

“Kidding
.
Anyway. You’ve got other fish to fry.”

“Fish?”

“Remember I told you the Gable people called? They’re saying the interview with her has to be today. So head over to Beacon Hill. Ellie Gable will be waiting for you.”

Jane slumped back into the flat cushions of Alex’s couch. “You know I’m happy to,” Jane said. “I really am. But look at me. I’m a mess. I’ve been wearing this same outfit for two days.”

“You look great,” Alex said. “As always.”

“I drove all the way to Springfield,” Jane went on, ignoring the had-to-be-manipulative compliment. “I stayed up till whenever writing the story. Then drove all the way back. I’m wiped. My brain is fried. There’s no way that Gable can—?”

“Your six-month tryout is now five months and three weeks,” Alex said. “Happy anniversary. And here’s your present. The Gable interview’s not till five. So, go home, take a nap. Then show up at Gable’s and get us the scoop.”

*   *   *

“Kenna? Ah, nope.” DeLuca’s voice crackled over the phone, sounding confused. “No, Harvard, the victim’s name’s not Kenna. Listen, you at your desk? I’ll be there in ten.”

He hung up without waiting for Jake to reply.

Jake closed his eyes briefly. Whew. Tuck had almost sucker-punched him, for sure. She’d gotten some tip, one of dozens probably, decided to try it out on him. Who knew how that girl’s brain worked. She wanted there to be a Bridge Killer so desperately, she’d do anything to keep it in the headlines. And keep her name on the front page. It was as much about her career as it was about the truth.

He crumpled Pam’s “says urgent” note off the pad, wrote the name Kenna Wilkes on a clean page. He’d get someone to check it. So far, the name wasn’t anything that would blow up his life.
Damn, Tuck.

Jake took a swig of coffee, lukewarm. He put his feet on the desk, pulled his computer onto his lap, opened the folder marked
PERSONAL
, then the file he’d labeled
BRIDGE
.

Stared at the screen.

Longfellow was first. The first no-ID body. The one that started this whole Bridge Killer deal. Now DeLuca said they’d gotten a possible name for her. She’d shown no signs of trauma, no tattoos. Cause of death, drowning, according to Dr. Archambault. No shoes. Did that mean anything? No connection with Arthur Vick. So far. Maybe the name would help make the connection. But if she was connected with Vick, that’d be a horse of another color. They’d have to bear down on him. Three for three. That was no coincidence.

Three for three would mean there was a Bridge Killer, and his name was Arthur Vick. Jake scratched his head with both hands, squinching up his eyes. Why would Vick kill—?

Jake thought about Patti Vick, sitting in her suburban living room. Talking about her “best friend.” She’d be rethinking that assessment if they nailed him for this. Wonder if she’d stand by him, all that “good wife” stuff.

He clicked to his next page of notes.

Charlestown, victim two, Amaryllis Roldan. A week later, another Sunday. They’d gotten her ID from the tattoo guy. She’d had bruises, face and back. Cause of death, drowning, again. Sellica’s mother said she’d never heard of Roldan, but Vick certainly had. And that pitiful Beacon Market clerk Olive Parisella.

Sellica Darden. Body three. Not a Sunday. No ID on her, but Sellica Darden had gotten her fifteen minutes of fame. She didn’t need ID. Did the killer know that? Or not? Jake sighed. Cause of death, drowning. But the roofies in her system were outliers. Date rape drug. Who had been her date?

If the killings weren’t connected, maybe no other women were in danger.

If they
were
connected—well, still, whoever it was might be done.

Or not.

He buzzed his intercom. “Hey, Pam? I’ve got a name I need you to run.”

“Ready, boss.”

“Kenna Wilkes.” He spelled it.

“Loud and clear,” Pam said. “Gimme a few.”

Jake stared at his computer screen, unseeing.

It was Sunday again.

Three dead bodies. And though it was his job to find answers, there were none.

40

Holly walked out of the post office, minus the package, Matt noted. Wonder what she’d mailed? She popped in her earbuds again, pulled off her cap, and messed around with her hair. She yanked the cap back on. Then readjusted her earbuds.

Geez. Get on with it.

He waited for her to get back in her car so he could follow her. His plan seemed eminently reasonable. He’d see if she went anywhere interesting or useful. Lassiter HQ, for instance. If so, play it by ear from there.

If she simply went home, also useful. Because in that case, he’d leave. He knew where she lived, right? He could go back to his hotel, catch a nap, shower, and come back in the morning. See where she went. It wasn’t like she was gonna leave Boston overnight.

Shit.
Instead of turning right to get to her car, still parked in that spot by the fence, she was coming his way. He ducked, as if he were looking for something on the floor. He reached for the glove compartment, flipped it open, fingered out a map, unfolded it in front of his face. Sitting up, he sneaked a look around it.

Holly stood by the water, one ankle raised on the waist-high railing between her and the canal below. He saw her head bend to her knee, bob a couple times. Then she switched legs. Head to knee again. Stretching?
Duh
. She was going running.

Matt peered over the map, watching Holly put her slim body through a series of stretches and curls. Almost as if she were dancing for him, showing off in her skintight running suit, moving to the music he imagined must be on her iPod. She raised each leg, one after the other, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, lowering her head to her knee. She leaned back against the metal-railed fence, arms straight, arching her body toward him; then she turned and arched the other way. She turned her back to him.…
Is she teasing? Does she know I’m here? She can’t
— Then she touched her toes, palms flat to the ground. She put her hand on one heel, then stretched her leg out, in full splits, standing right there, not twenty feet from him, no idea he was watching this performance.

Matt could almost hear her music. Almost forgot to hold up the map. Holly’s head lolled back as she stretched her neck, eyes closed; then she rolled her head from side to side. She was drinking it in, enjoying it. She must be. The sun on the water, the seagulls, her body.