The Other Woman (30 page)

The gilt-edged mirror above the table, polished and reflecting the sparkling crystal chandelier overhead, also reflected Kenna’s own smile. And, Kenna noted, Moira’s clearly growing discomfort.

Moira opened a sleek silver pen, clicking the cap to the end, and sat in a white velvet side chair. She pulled the glossy photographs from the envelope and arranged them on her lap.

“I could never keep my house this perfect.” Kenna took a few steps into the foyer. She couldn’t resist pushing it. “My little Jimmy is four now. Do you have children? It’s the best. I can’t imagine life without my son.”

Moira’s pen clattered to the cream and white tiled floor, rolling to a stop against a white-lacquered pot bursting with white chrysanthemums.

“Oh, let me get that for you,” Kenna said. She hurried across the entryway, then stopped, picking up the pen. It probably cost as much as her rent once had, Kenna calculated. It was about time for her luck to change. And she was going to be the one to change it.

She handed Moira the pen, flashing her best smile. “Almost election day, isn’t it exciting?”

“Very.” Moira didn’t look at her as she answered, but with a final flourish of a signature, stacked the photos into an even pile and slipped them back into the envelope. “There you are, Miss…”

“Kenna.”

“Kenna.” Moira stood, brushing down her slacks, then took a step toward the front door. “Could you ask Mr. Maitland to call me, please?”

“Certainly, ma’am,” she said.
Not a chance.
They arrived at the front door, but Kenna turned for another look at the opulently upscale surroundings. No wonder this woman was … Well, it was only a matter of days, now, until it all changed. If all went as planned. Which Kenna was increasingly certain it would.

Kenna paused, relishing Moira’s attempt to keep her composure. She patted the package of photographs. “Thank you so much for this. I’m sure Mr. Maitland will call you right away,” she said. Big smile. “You take care now. And I’ll be sure to tell the governor you said hello!”

50

“That’s impossible. Impossible.” Jane watched the drawing gradually emerge on Alex’s computer screen. Tuck had e-mailed it to Alex from the news conference—still under way—but Jane didn’t need to see the whole thing. “I know who that is, Alex. I know her.”

“What are you talking about? You know victim four?” He hit Print, and the paper popped from the printer.

Jane grabbed it before it landed in the bin. Stared at the face in the police sketch.

“And you know her, too, Alex. Look, look, look.” She flapped the picture at him, her heart racing with certainty. “It’s Kenna Wilkes. You know. Kenna
Wilkes
!”

Jane stabbed at the paper so hard, her fingernail tore the page.

Alex took it from her, lifting his glasses to his forehead, examining it. “You think?”

“Are you kidding me? Positively. She’s the woman in the red coat. Lassiter’s girl. Kenna Wilkes. The one I talked to Saturday at the—” Jane clapped both hands to her head, slowly lowering herself to Alex’s couch.

Jane ticked off the points on her fingers, thinking faster than her words could keep up. “I mean, we have the archive photos of her. We have lots of photos of her. I got another one that day at the Esplanade, too. With Lassiter! Then, like I said, I just talked to her at the Springfield rally. And her picture from there—with Lassiter!—is still in my camera, too. So that proves she was connected to the campaign for, like, weeks now. Unbelievable.”

Alex’s eyes were still on the photo. “Let’s stay calm for a moment. Consider all the possibilities. She might have been, you know, a Lassiter supporter, a fan. A political junkie, who happened to be in a few of the photos. Like I told you on day one.”

“No, no, that’s what I’m trying to tell
you.
That’s why I ran up here as soon as I could get away from the stupid news conference—”

“Tuck,” Alex said. He reached for the phone on his desk. “Gotta call her. She’ll need to—we’ll need to add this to her coverage of the—”

“No!” Jane leaped to her feet, planting her fists on her waist.
Tuck?
“This is mine, Alex. If anyone’s going to break this story, it’s got to be me.”

Alex raised both palms, gesturing Jane back to her seat on the couch. “There’s enough story for everyone, Jane, okay? If you’re right about this. We need to think it through.”

“If I’m right?”
Jane instantly wished her voice hadn’t gone up so high. She willed it back down, willed herself to stay calm. Alex hadn’t meant anything. He was only being careful; that was his job. “I mean, yeah, okay. But listen, listen, that’s why I came in here in the first place. Why I needed to talk with you. According to the voter registration office, there’s no Kenna Wilkes registered to vote in Massachusetts.”

“But couldn’t she be—?”

“There’s more. I went to Rory Maitland’s office at Lassiter headquarters this morning. Trying to find out about Lassiter’s first wife, Katharine, what Gable told me, remember? But then—well, short version. Kenna Wilkes works at the campaign office. For sure. Absolutely. No question.”

Alex leaned back against his desk, staring at her. “She works there? Did you see her?”

“No. And that’s exactly the point.” Jane felt her own eyes get bigger as the realization dawned. Her mind began to juggle what lay ahead of them, and who she’d have to call, and who she’d have to tell, and what this would mean for—
Jake
. She’d have to let him know she recognized the victim. Wouldn’t she? She yanked herself back to the moment. Kenna Wilkes.

“That’s how I got up to Maitland’s office. She was supposed to be at the front desk this morning, like a receptionist, and she wasn’t there. And people were confused about where she was.”

“And you think she was absent because she was—”

Jane nodded slowly. “Yes. Because she was dead.”

*   *   *

Standing on the fringe of the press conference, Matt listened to some black cop talking about the “progress” they’d made in a different murder. Apparently some victim they thought was murder turned out to be a suicide. The cops seemed pretty happy about that.

“Kylie Howarth, that’s
K-y-l-i-e,
” the big guy was saying. “And her next of kin have confirmed…”

The wind off the harbor was picking up, making it harder to hear. The reporters edged up to the podium, scribbling in notebooks they held close to their faces. A couple of squawking seagulls swooped in, perching atop the metal posts studding the railing along the water.

Freaky to be standing here, knowing he was the guy the cops were looking for, waiting to hear if the cops knew it. He’d heard on TV, breaking news, something about them finding another body. That the cops were holding a news conference by the post office. Now he could find out what they knew. If anything.

They hadn’t brought up Holly yet, the discovery of her body. He surveyed the place, wondering if they’d checked all the cars in the parking lot. Holly’s was there, over by the wall. He had the keys. Should he come back later, move the car? What if someone saw him? There were probably surveillance cameras everywhere. Were there?

“At this point,” the cop continued, “we’re considering the Howarth case closed. Not connected to any of the other recent deaths in the city of Boston.”

Other recent deaths?
That
what this was about?

“So now there’s
three
bridge killings?” some reporter yelled. A slinky brunette took a step closer to the podium, holding a microphone, her cameraman beside her. “Sellica Darden, Amaryllis Roldan, and
our
sources say there’s now a new victim. Is that correct?”

A lackey in a pullover tried to step to the microphone, but the big cheese waved him away. “There’s no Bridge Killer, Miss Wu. As we’ve repeatedly told you. The other cases are under investigation, and—”

“
Our
sources also say there’s a new victim, can you confirm that?” Another reporter pushed to the front. “That hardly means the city is any safer.”

Whatever,
Matt thought. Soon as this was over, he’d find Jane Ryland again. He had something even bigger for her.

“Guys? Superintendent Rivera has another statement for you.” The PR flack stretched toward the bank of microphones, leaning in front of his boss. “Hold your questions until he’s finished. Otherwise, we’re done here, and I’ll return your calls as soon as I can manage the time. But it probably won’t be before your deadlines. You catch my drift? Are you ready for the statement?”

Here we go.
Matt’s eyes suddenly burned; hot sweat broke out across the back of his neck and behind his knees. Thirsty.
Thirsty.
He flipped up the plastic top of his water bottle, took a swig.

“What’s this about? You know anything?” A guy with a tape recorder on a shoulder strap muttered at him, adjusting dials on his equipment.

“Uh, no,” Matt said. “You?”

“Nope.” The guy shrugged. “All I know is, some new victim. It was all over TV. Guess we’re gonna hear.”

“At approximately oh-five-thirty this morning,” Rivera said, “three joggers along the Fort Point footpath discovered the body of a young white female, approximately twenty-five years old, that’s two-five, in the waters by the Fort Point overpass. As of now, we have no identification, but—”

“So it’s true? Another Bridge Killer victim?” The brunette reporter again. “You think you’re burying the lead here? That makes three victims! And you’re still telling us there’s no serial killer targeting unidentified young women and dumping them in the water near bridges?”

Serial killer?
Matt’s mind raced. That’s what they’d been saying on the TV. If the cops thought Holly was a victim of a serial killer, he was home free. Right? Whenever the other killings happened, he sure hadn’t been in Boston.

A window of hope began to open. An escape route. The beginnings of a smile pulled at his mouth, the first time he felt happy since he’d seen Holly’s photo in the online
Register
.

He might win this round. All he had to do to reclaim his birthright was figure out how to keep Jane Ryland quiet. And thanks to this news conference, he might have been handed the perfect way to do it.

51

“He’s in there, Jake. He’s yelling for a lawyer. But he’s guilty as sin.” Paul DeLuca flipped on the lights, illuminating the dingy interior of room 3, fourth floor of the Nashua Street Jail. Behind the one-way glass, Jake saw a fidgeting train wreck of a man sitting at a long metal table. The suspect took a slug of Mountain Dew from a can, one scrawny leg jiggling, eyes darting ceaselessly from ceiling to floor to window and back. His other leg was shackled to a circular eye-bolt in the floor.

“That guy’s in great shape,” Jake said. “Cranked up?”

“Bad thing to be a junkie,” DeLuca said.

“Worse to be a murderer.” Jake flipped open the red-coded file of documents his partner handed him, scanning photos and arrest records. “You’d think it’d be a problem being a tattoo guy by day and a druggie at night. Think it would make your hands shake, you know? So he did Amaryllis Roldan? Her tattoo?”

“His specialty was the Celtic vines, so says his junkie pal. The one who ratted him out for Roldan when he realized they were both facing twenty-five to life for distribution. Whoever talked first got the deal.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Jake said. “Supe know?”

“Yup. Laney Driscoll even told him about it, but he didn’t want to mention it at the news conference. Not till it’s signed and sealed. Your pal Tuck has it, though. God knows how she finds this stuff out. She was here when I got here.”

“He confess?”

“In a manner of speaking,” DeLuca said. “He insisted he didn’t kill Amaryllis Roldan. Problem was, we hadn’t accused him of anything yet.”

“Gotcha.” Jake closed the file.

“That’s exactly what I said to him,” DeLuca said.

So this was the guy who’d killed the girl Jake had once called Charlestown, “the punk Ophelia,” left her under the bridge battered and bruised, left her to drown. But this guy hadn’t killed Kylie Howarth, of course. Kylie’d done that herself.

Jake watched the suspect yank at the collar of his white T-shirt, then fiddle with the snaps on the front of his orange jail-issue jumpsuit.

“How long’s he been in here? In custody?”

“That’s the first thing I asked, too.” DeLuca tapped the file. “Since last Thursday.”

“So he’s got a perfect alibi for Sellica. And for yesterday.”

“Yeah,” DeLuca said. “You’re looking at an asshole who’s probably not going to see the light of day for a while. He killed Amaryllis Roldan. But if there’s a Bridge Killer, it’s not him.”

*   *   *

“All I have to do is call and say, ‘May I speak to Kenna Wilkes, please?’” Jane pointed to the phone on Alex’s desk. “I bet they’ll put me off. Transfer me to Sheila King’s office. They must have seen the sketch the cops are handing out, it’s got to be on TV already. They’ll have to make a statement. I mean, the Bridge Killer’s fourth victim works for the man who’s running for Senate. And might be his lover! It’s like—the headline of all headlines. Beyond amazing.”

Jane couldn’t sit still on Alex’s couch one more second. She paced to his closed office door, then back to his desk, arms flailing. “She’s gorgeous. She’s dead. And we can prove she had a … a…” She looked at Alex, needing a word.

“Relationship?” Alex said. He rolled a pencil between two palms. “I have to call Tay Reidy. The publisher has got to be in on this. And the lawyer. And maybe the police.”

“We need to interview Moira.” Jane rooted through her tote bag. She needed to make a list. “We need a reaction from Eleanor Gable.
Damn
. May I use that pencil?”

Alex swiveled his chair, handing her his pencil with a flourish. “You know, Jane, I’ve got to say. The fifth floor is really pleased with you. I am, too. The way you’ve thrown yourself into this. Team player.” Alex raised an eyebrow, inquiring. “Are you okay with it? Transitioning from your old life?”

Jane blinked, surprised at the personal question. “Well, sure, I’m…” She paused, thinking for a beat, considering precisely what it was she was sure about. “Thanks, Alex. Yes, I’m—feeling like a reporter again.”