The Other Woman (34 page)

“I guess that’s kind of right,” Jane said. She wouldn’t have recognized her own voice. “A ghost.”

By the time she got back to Alex’s office, her brain was working again.

*   *   *

“Boston Police Department, official business,” Jake called through the door marked number 43. He’d knocked several times. No answer.

DeLuca was shaking his head as he walked up the hall. “No one at the front desk,” he reported. “There’s a phone, looks like a house phone. But no one picked up.”

“No one answered the manager’s door, or the doors on either side,” Jake said. “No one’s answering Holly Neff’s door, either.”

DeLuca patted his pockets, took out a wallet, extracted a thin piece of plastic from between two bills. “In about three seconds I can get us in there,” he said. “Take a look around.”

“In your dreams,” Jake said. “Let’s see if we can find the super.”

“I’m serious,” DeLuca persisted. “Exigent circumstances, right, Harvard? The law says if we think there’s something—”

“I’m familiar with exigent circumstances.” Jake gestured his partner toward the elevator at the end of the hall. “You know as well as I do, it’s a probable cause thing. Problem is, we don’t genuinely believe Holly Neff may be bleeding to death inside that apartment. That’s because we genuinely know she’s already dead. And inside the morgue.”

“But what if, uh, uh, the guy who killed her is in there?” DeLuca stopped, beseeching Jake with outstretched palms. “What if he took her keys, ya know? How about that? We know she didn’t have them on her when she was found. What if he snagged them, and he’s inside right now. Maybe he dragged his next victim there, and if we don’t get inside, he might—”

“Good try, my man. But no way,” Jake said. “We gotta get a warrant to go into that apartment. Or whatever we find would get thrown—”

A rumble sounded within the walls, and a ping of the aluminum elevator. The doors swished open. And a menagerie emerged. Jake recognized two corgis, a pug, and one of those yappy poodledoodles, each with a Halloween jack-o’-lantern decoration on its collar. His own Diva would have eaten them each in one golden retriever–sized chomp. Holding the ends of all their leashes, one of those women-who-look-like-their-dogs. Bug eyes, button nose, a halo of curls, pumpkin dangly earrings. She wore a denim jacket over a denim work shirt over a denim miniskirt. Sneakers.

“May I help you?” she said. “I’m the manager of this building. Live here, too. Barbara Bellafiore.” Each dog yanked her in a different direction, but she looked at Jake, then DeLuca. Chose Jake. “Puppies, no! You’re cops, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake said. “Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD. This is my partner, Paul DeLuca.” Jake pulled out his BlackBerry. Clicked to the photo he’d taken that morning, the sketch of the Fort Point victim. “Do you recognize this person? Does she live here?”

A snuffling pug fell in love with DeLuca’s shoes. The corgis sniffed each other. The woman stared at Jake’s BlackBerry screen.

“Holly Neff, apartment forty-three, one of my month-to-months,” Barbara said. “Puppies, no no no!”

“You sure?” Jake and DeLuca asked her at the same time. DeLuca shrugged, gestured with a palm.
All yours
.

“Oh yes,” Barbara said. “I think she’s a…” She stopped, shrugging.

“A what?” Jake said. “Has she been home this weekend?”

Barbara let the dogs drag her a few steps down the hall. The corgis, yapping, seemed to be tracking some invisible prey. Jake and DeLuca followed, DeLuca making a surreptitious
cuckoo
gesture. They stopped at apartment 43.

Barbara looped the leashes over one wrist, pulled a jangling collection of keys from a pocket of her denim jacket. “Easy way to find out,” she said.

She banged on the door with what looked like a brass whistle on the key ring. Waited a beat. No answer. She sorted through the keys, then brandished one. “All righty then.”

“No, ma’am, don’t do that.” Jake took a step forward. This could ruin everything. He almost wanted to close his eyes. “We can’t—just tell us whether—”

But she had already swung open the apartment door.

58

“I know who the other woman is. I know her
name
!” Moira Lassiter’s voice over Jane’s cell phone speaker, insistent, cut through the rumble of evening rush hour traffic. Jane navigated Boston’s zig-zag side streets, one hand on the steering wheel and the other digging into a bag of Cool Ranch chips she’d snagged from the
Register
’s ancient vending machine.

“She was here, at our home, Jane. Flaunting her little tight-jeaned self like I was someone’s dotty grandmother and she was Queen of the May. I told you, Jane. I told you. I knew it.”

A parking place. Jane licked the salt from two fingers. “Mrs. Lassiter, hold on one second, okay? I’m just parking.” Jane eased her Audi into a too-small spot on Canal Street, turned off the ignition. If Moira knew who the other woman was, that meant there
was
another woman. And that meant Jane had been right about this story from moment one.

What if the other woman Moira’s talking about—the one who’d been at the Lassiter home—is the victim now lying in the morgue? Moira said, “I know her name.”

Maybe she was about to hear the key to the whole deal.

“Okay, I’m back.” Jane ate the last chip, trying to chew softly so Moira couldn’t hear. “So you said—you know her name?”

“Absolutely.” Moira’s voice was certain. “Kenna Wilkes.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Lassiter…” Jane’s shoulders sagged, and she rested her forehead on the steering wheel as Mrs. Lassiter described how flossy “Kenna Wilkes” looked and how inappropriately the young woman behaved.

Moira was apparently as confused as Jane had once been. At least Jane now knew the other woman—Red-Coat Girl—was
not
named Kenna Wilkes. Kenna Wilkes was a receptionist.

And, more important, not dead. Kenna Wilkes was not the woman in the pictures. And that’s what had to come next on Jane’s agenda. Finding the identity of the woman who
was
dead. And finding who had sent those photographs to Jane.

“Mrs. Lassiter?” Jane took a chance, interrupting mid-tirade. “Listen, I have some ideas about this. In fact, you might be— Well, do me a favor. Let me do some investigating. Can you give me some time? Sit tight? And I’ll be back in touch?”

Jane clambered out of the car, clicking it locked. Headed down the sidewalk toward Lassiter headquarters. Moira continued to vent.

“They’ll lie to you, Jane, if you ask about it. Be careful. I need to know what the truth is. That’s all I can think about. I don’t believe that Rory person even comprehends what ‘the truth’ means. And as for Owen, he’s—”

“I’ll call you, okay?” Jane arrived at the campaign HQ. She had to go in. Right now. “I promise. Today.”

As Moira hung up, Jane pushed through the revolving doors. Pushed away thoughts of Moira, for the time being at least, and focused on the photo mystery. No one was at the reception desk
. Hmm. Wonder where Kenna-whatever-her-name-really-is went?
But not having to talk her way inside certainly made Jane’s life easier. She yanked her tote bag securely up and over her shoulder, then poked the elevator button with one finger. She poked it again to make sure.

Poor Rory Maitland. He was not going to be happy to see her again.

*   *   *

“I think I saw a movement in the back. Inside the apartment. Could be trouble.” DeLuca took a step toward Holly Neff’s open door. “We better check it out.”

“You did not,” Jake said. He didn’t move from his spot in the hallway.

“You saw something?” Barbara Bellafiore shepherded her pack of lapdogs toward the door. “Is there gonna be a problem? Do I need to call the—? Oh, right, you
are
the cops.”

She turned to Jake, the dogs wrapping themselves around her legs. “Is Holly Neff in trouble?”

Jake watched DeLuca edge closer to the door. A goddamn open door, an open door to the apartment of the latest victim in a string of murders that—even though unconnected, he was certain—had made his life miserable for the past month. He was as tempted to go into that apartment as anything he’d ever been tempted to do in his entire life.

Yet, it would take only one phone call to get the warrant allowing them to look inside, legally. Anything inside now would still be there after they got a judge’s signature. Anything they saw before that would get tossed out of a murder trial. That made the decision a no-brainer.

“DeLuca, I mean it.” Jake knew his partner was craning his neck, trying to look inside without looking like he was looking.

“Officer?” Barbara touched his arm with a key. “About Holly Neff?”

The dogs had gone quiet, looking up at their mistress. Her eyes were wide as the little pug’s.

“Holy shit,” DeLuca said. He winced. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Don’t even—” Jake turned to him, frowning. What if DeLuca actually did see something wrong? “What? This had better be good.”

“The place is full of Lassiter stuff,” DeLuca said. “Like—”

“Oh, I can help you with that,” Barbara said, perking up. “You should see what’s inside her apartment! You wouldn’t believe it.”

All Jake needed to hear. A witness describing what was inside?
That
was legal.

“Ma’am?” Jake took out his BlackBerry, cued up his notes. Turned his back on the door, waving DeLuca to do the same. “How would you describe what’s inside?”

“She must be some kind of photographer,” Barbara said. “There’s ten million pictures of Owen Lassiter. And lots of ’em with him
and
her. Okay, not really ten million, but lots. Holly and Owen Lassiter.”

DeLuca scratched his cheek with two fingers. “Was Owen Lassiter himself ever here? You ever see him?”

Barbara shook her mass of curls. “No. But I suppose—”

“Don’t ‘suppose,’ ma’am,” Jake said. “Just what you know for sure. You never saw Owen Lassiter here, correct? Did Miss Neff have a boyfriend at all?”

Barbara’s curls bobbed again, this time up and down. “Oh, yes, she did. But he was never here. That I saw. She said he was … I don’t know. ‘Away,’ I think she said.” She brightened. “But she has his picture, you know? Inside. I could show you.” She took a step toward the door, arm outstretched, dogs jumping to all fours to follow.

“Bingo. That’s a suspect.” DeLuca took a step toward the open door. “Probable enough cause for me. Thanks, Miss—”

“Those pictures ain’t going anywhere,” Jake interrupted.
Have to give D credit for trying.
“Go call Judge Gallagher. Now. Tell her the deal. She’ll give us the warrant. Then we can go in. Signed, sealed, and legal.”

“Boy Scout,” DeLuca said. He flipped open his phone, dialing.

“I’ll go to the car, report this to the supe.” Jake gestured at the open door. “And the identification of Holly Neff. Ma’am? Can you lock the door again, please? Absolutely no one is to go inside. Detective DeLuca will stay and make sure.”

By the time Jake got to the car, he’d filled in the supe, promised to head back to HQ for the follow-up paperwork, and been told Arthur Vick was in holding room 6, conferring with his lawyer. “Sadly,” as the supe had put it, no bail hearing could be scheduled any time soon. Jake signed off, smiling. Then he punched another number on his speed dial.

He had to talk to Jane.

Only that afternoon, at Lassiter headquarters, Jane was certain the fourth victim was a person calling herself Kenna Wilkes, a woman connected to the campaign. Meeting Kenna Wilkes, indisputably alive, blew that theory to hell. Now, it appeared that Jane was wrong about the name but right about everything else. The victim
was
connected to the Lassiter campaign. That escalated Holly Neff’s murder into a complicated political nightmare.

Damn
. Jane’s voice mail.

He couldn’t risk leaving a detailed message. Or any message at all. He heard the beep.

And he hung up.

*   *   *

Why does my phone always ring at the worst times?
Jane let it go to voice mail, ignoring it as she faced down Rory Maitland. She stood on one side of his glass-topped desk, extending her arm, a photo of the girl and Owen Lassiter between two fingers. She’d been given ten minutes, so she didn’t even take off her coat.

Rory stayed barricaded behind the desk, as if repelled by what he saw. This picture was of the woman and Lassiter at some outdoor rally, his arm around her shoulder, sunlight spotlighting her obvious pleasure.

The rest of the photo collection still lay in Jane’s tote bag, still in the manila mailing envelope, safely beside her on the floor of Maitland’s office. She didn’t need to reveal her whole hand at once.

“So?” Jane said. She moved the photo closer to him, offering it, but he made no move to take it. “You’ve seen, what, six snapshots now? Of this woman with the candidate?”

“So?”

Jane could tell he was struggling to keep a poker face, but she saw his nose twitch briefly, as if he smelled something unpleasant.

“Mr. Maitland? Let me put it this way. I’m writing a story about this for the paper. This woman is clearly connected to the campaign.”

“I’m not sure I’d use the word
clearly
.” Maitland crossed his arms over his pale blue oxford shirt, his red-striped tie crinkling underneath. “Or,
connected
.”

“Whatever word you’d use,” Jane said. “Our story—”

“Story about what?” Maitland interrupted. “You wanted to show me photos. I agreed to see you, you’ve shown me. So what? Is this about the volunteer story you pitched to Trevor Kiernan?” He pushed the red button on his desk intercom. “Deenie. Ten minutes is up. What’s my next appointment?”

Jane laid the photo on Maitland’s desk, face up. Then dug into her tote bag.

“Mr. Maitland? Before you call in the troops? Let me show you this.” Jane placed another picture on the desk. “This is the police artist’s sketch of the fourth bridge victim. Released just a few hours ago. I’m sure you’ve seen it on all those televisions of yours. Look again.”

She pointed her forefinger at the sketch, then at the snapshot. “Look at this. And then this. Now do you see why I’m asking?”