The Other Woman (33 page)

But Jane had already closed her notebook. She could see straight again. And she was seeing a good story. She needed her camera.

“Just a sec, Trevor. I need to ask you something.”

Yanking it from her tote bag, she clicked through the photos, searching for the best one of the woman in the red coat—okay, she wasn’t in the red coat in these pictures, but whatever. Maybe her name wasn’t Kenna Wilkes. But she was connected to the campaign. She’d been at all those campaign events.

Now she was dead. That was a story, no matter what her name was. What’s more, someone in Lassiter headquarters must know it.

And might already be working to cover it up.

Jane flashed through the photographs as fast as the camera would change shots—
the Esplanade, I haven’t looked at that one recently
—until she hit the Springfield rally and the picture of the woman falling into Lassiter’s arms.
Whoa.
That snap was going to make a knockout front page.

“See this woman, Trevor?” She held up the camera, angling it to keep the little square screen out of the sun’s glare. “Do you know who she is?”

*   *   *

“Whatcha got, Humpt—I mean, Darrell?” Jake waved the detective over, watching Vick take a step or two backward toward the studio’s sliding glass windows. He saw DeLuca straighten, sidle closer to the suspect.

“We’d like to see what you think you found, Detectives.” Rothmann moved toward Jake. “We’re allowed to examine whatever you remove.”

“Like hell you—,” DeLuca muttered.

“Mr. Rothmann?” Jake interrupted his partner, even though he agreed with him. “We allowed you to be here during the search. We didn’t have to, as you are well aware. But under no circumstances are you allowed to ‘examine’ what we collect. You’ve got plenty of experience with this. You were given a copy of the warrant. You’ll be able to see the evidence at the appropriate time. Which is—not now. Are we clear on that?”

Jake took the Baggie from the detective, turned his back on Rothmann, and peered through the clear ziplock bag, smoothing it over the brown plastic container inside. A medicine bottle, white screw top, with a typed prescription label from the CVS pharmacy indicating the contents were for
PATRICIA A. VICK. FLUNITRAZEPAM. TAKE 2 PRN FOR SLEEP.

“We’re done, Henry.” Arthur Vick grabbed a leather jacket from the back of a paint-speckled chair. “I’m out of here.”

“Not so fast.” Jake gave back the Baggie, nodding in salute to the officer. He kept his voice low. “Make sure this is listed properly on the return, then let’s get it to the lab A-sap. The rest of us will finish up here.”

“Will do, Detective.” Humpty took the evidence bag and headed out the door. Jake saw him give a behind-the-back thumbs-up to DeLuca.

“As for you, Mr. Vick?”

“As for me, what?” Vick pulled a plaid muffler from one of the jacket sleeves, looping it around his neck. He shoved his arms into the jacket and gestured a hand at the lawyer. “You coming?”

“
You’re
coming, Mr. Vick. Downtown.” Jake reached under his jacket and unclicked his handcuffs from the carrier. “Whether your attorney comes along is up to you. But, Arthur Vick? You’re under arrest for the murder of Sellica Darden.”

56

Trevor Kiernan had insisted he didn’t recognize the woman in the photo on Jane’s camera. Which was either the truth, or the beginning of the big lie. Now Jane had another plan. She had to talk to Alex, of course, but he’d been on the phone, so she headed for her desk at the
Register,
hoping Tuck wasn’t there. She needed some alone time.

No Tuck.
Score one for Jane
. She sat down, flipped open her laptop, punched up the Deverton assessor’s office. Affluent communities had property info online, thank goodness, so what Jane needed to confirm would be a few clicks away. While her computer was thinking, Jane dug out her notebook and found the page with Kenna Wilkes’s address.

“You avoiding bill collectors or something, roomie? You’ve got mail.”

Tuck stood at the cubicle entrance, one arm around a stack of brown envelopes and magazines.

“Hey, Tuck.”
So much for alone time.
“Mail?”

Tuck plopped the pile of mail on their desk, a few stray envelopes sliding onto the floor. “Yeah, it’s like e-mail, but it comes on paper. Through the U.S. Postal Service. Goes to the mailroom. Where you’re supposed to pick it up. Unless your cubemate is nice enough to get it for you. Which she is. Once.”

Jane scooted her laptop to one side and rolled her chair back, giving Tuck some space. “Mailroom?” She shrugged, thinking back. She picked up a few of the envelopes, examining them.
Junk
. “No one told me about the mailroom.”

“Now they have,” Tuck said. She dragged a rolling chair from an adjacent cubicle. Swiveled it backward and straddled it, one cowboy boot on either side of the seat, her short jeans skirt climbing up her thighs. Today she wore a Bruins cap, her ponytail swinging behind. “So, you must be psyched.”

“Psyched?”

“Yeah, roomie. About your pal Arthur Vick.”

“Oh, yeah, they’re searching his wife’s studio. Pretty interesting.”
May he rot in hell,
she didn’t say. Jane picked up another stack of mail. Junk, junk, junk. No wonder no one had told her about the mailroom, she didn’t need to know. No one used mail anymore. She looked up. “What? Did they find something?”

“So you don’t know? That they arrested him for Sellica’s murder?”

Jane dropped her head into one hand, propping it up with one elbow on the desk. She turned to Tuck, disbelieving. “Are you—?”

“Horse’s mouth,” Tuck said. She wiggled her fingers toward the desktop computer. “Can I get in here, roomie? I need to write the story about the studio, the proximity to the crime scenes, and Arthur Vick’s connection to three of the victims. The cops found roofies there, too. But that’s off the record. Bummer. But bye-bye, Arthur, don’t you think?”

An e-mail popped up on Jane’s computer. From Alex. Jane read the subject line:
NOW
.

“Ah, Tuck, listen, I’ve got to go talk to Alex.” She flapped her computer closed.
Alex can wait thirty more seconds
. “They found roofies? In Vick’s studio?”

“So says my source. Remember, the ME found them in Sellica’s tox screen?” Tuck nodded, lofting one leg over the chair back and taking Jane’s place at the desk. “Mrs. Vick had them as sleeping pills, apparently. They’re saying her husband must have used them to knock Sellica out before he killed her. But I’m not allowed to go with it. They’re keeping that tidbit back.”

Jane clutched her laptop to her chest, trying to remember to breathe.

“Roomie? You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just thinking.…”

Tuck, smiling, put a palm up toward her. “High five, sister. If Arthur Vick killed Sellica Darden, that pretty much also kills his testimony that he had no relationship with her.”

Jane held up her own palm, slowly, and touched it to Tuck’s. Exactly what she’d been thinking but afraid to say out loud. Could it be true?

*   *   *

From the sliding glass window of Patti Vick’s studio, Jake could see the blue and white cruiser, Arthur Vick in the backseat and two uniforms in the front, crossing the Harbor Street bridge on the way downtown. Behind them, at the wheel of his ridiculous sports car, a probably still-fuming Henry Rothmann.

“The happy couple,” DeLuca said.

Jake stared across the water, remembering the parking lot press conference mere hours before. He squinted at the parking lot. “D?” he said. “I have a thought.”

“Alert the media,” DeLuca said.

“Come with me.” Jake ignored the wisecrack. “Vick and his pal can stew downtown for a while.”

It was two minutes away, less. Jake turned his Jeep into the post office parking lot, driving past the cars parked along the railing.

“What’re you thinkin’?” DeLuca asked from the seat beside him.

Jake jammed the shift into Park, flipped on his wig-wags. “I’m thinkin’—that one.”

Opening his door, he pointed to a white car with several orange parking tickets under the windshield wiper. The car had been there, with one ticket, during the press conference. It was still there.
Why hasn’t the owner moved it?

*   *   *

“It’s what happens in the news business, you know?” Alex said. “Until it’s in the paper, it’s not wrong. It’s reporting. Right?”

Jane nodded. Alex was taking the Kenna Wilkes thing pretty well. She perched on the edge of his couch, tentative, almost afraid to say anything for fear of upsetting the balance. The Arthur Vick arrest had just about steamrolled everything else in her mind. She had to call Sam Shapiro, because Arthur Vick’s arrest was proof she was right. Right? Vick would have to admit he and Sellica had a connection. Exactly the opposite of what Vick had testified under oath. Wouldn’t the judge be compelled to grant their appeal? Overturn the judgment?

Wouldn’t he be obligated to make it all go away? Her million-dollar albatross?

Alex glanced at his computer monitor, then adjusted the screen so Jane could see it. “Tuck’s already got the Arthur Vick story working. Here’s her draft for the e-version. ‘Grocery Magnate Arrested for Call Girl Murder.’ That’ll be the headline. We’re putting it up as soon as we get another confirmation.”

Alex leaned against the side of his paper-strewn desk. “How are you about this, Jane? Seems…” He blinked a few times, thinking. Toasted her with his striped paper cup of coffee. “Pretty huge. For your appeal.”

Jane put her elbows on her knees, chin in hands, staring at her own black leather boots. Ten minutes ago, she’d been trying to unravel the identity of a murder victim, trying to keep her job at the
Register,
trying to figure out how she was going to pay for a lawyer to defend herself against a million-dollar judgment. With the Vick arrest, everything changed. Didn’t it?

“One step at a time,” she said aloud. She stood, picking a bit of couch lint from her black wool skirt and adjusting the stretchy black belt over her turtleneck. “We’ll see about that. The appeal. But the Kenna Wilkes situation—”

“Yeah. As you said, we still have the photos of whoever the victim actually is.” Alex paused, contemplating. “Someone at the Lassiter campaign must know her, right?”

“You’d think.” Alex was talking about what happened
next.
So Jane’s job was safe. He really was a pretty thoughtful guy. He’d stuck by her. Trusted her.

Alex took a sip of coffee, then gestured his cup toward the door. “So, ace reporter, why aren’t you on your way over there to find out who the victim really is?”

57

“N-e-f-f
?
”
Jake said the letters out loud, indicating DeLuca should be writing them in his notebook. Jake used one hand to drive, the other to hold his cell phone. “First name, Holly?
H-o-l-l-y
?”

DeLuca nodded, writing. “Got it.”

“Is there an address on the application? A local address?” Jake pulled up to a stop sign, listening to the rental company clerk. It had taken three phone calls—one to the Registry of Motor Vehicles, one to the Budget Rental Car main headquarters, one to their local office—to track down the name of the person who’d rented the white car parked in the post office parking lot. The first ticket had been issued today at 9:35
A.M
. for violation of the thirty-minute meter. Several more orange tickets had piled up on top of that one. But one was all Jake needed. Sunday, he knew, the meters were not in effect. What if the victim had parked there Sunday? And didn’t pick up her car—because she was dead?

“55423 Harborside Drive.” With a glance, he confirmed DeLuca was getting it. That address was less than a mile away, in a sprawling yuppie complex near the harbor. Lots of newcomers, postgrads with financial district jobs. Dogs. Hot tubs. “Apartment forty-three. Phone number?”

Jake hung up, then punched his lights and siren as DeLuca wrote the numbers he’d rattled off.

“Call her,” Jake said. “Maybe she’s, I don’t know. Shacking up with someone. Shopping at Downtown Crossing. Having lunch at Quincy Market. Left her car at the P.O. because a ticket is cheaper than a Boston parking lot.”

“We’ll soon find out,” DeLuca said. He thumbed cell phone buttons as their car powered through a red light, made the turn onto Hanover Street. “It’s ringing. No answer yet.”

“Voice mail?” Jake asked. Half a mile to go.

“Nope,” DeLuca said. “Nothing.”

*   *   *

Jane stuffed the legitimate-looking mail into her tote bag and tossed the junk into the wastebasket. Tuck, fingers flying over the keyboard, hardly acknowledged her. Jane grabbed her coat from the hook, wrapped it closed. “See you—”

“Hey, roomie.” Tuck gestured to the floor. A stray envelope. “You dropped one.”

Jane picked it up, the postmark from four days ago, noticing it had been forwarded to her from Channel 11.
Nice of them
. No return address. And not the same awkward handwriting as the creepy letters. Those had stopped, thank goodness.

Almost without thinking, she ripped it open.

“Jane? What’s wrong?” Tuck turned, one hand still on her keyboard, and stared at her, frowning. “You made a weird noise.”

“I did?” Jane looked back at the envelope. What she’d pulled from inside. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

“Yeah, like you’d seen a ghost or something.”

“Yeah.” Jane blinked at the snapshots she held in her hands. It
was
a ghost. A person who was now dead.
Kenna W
— Well, not Kenna Wilkes. But it was the woman in the red coat. With Owen Lassiter. A recent photo of the two of them. And another, and another, and another. And then, what looked like a … a picture of a shrine to Lassiter. A whole wall of photographs of him, decorated with Lassiter balloons on ribbons and Lassiter buttons. Photos of rallies, wide shots of speeches, the exterior of his headquarters. Moira. At the bottom of the pile, a current photo of what looked—from the posters on the wall—like Lassiter’s own office, the candidate smiling behind a massive desk.