The Other Woman (40 page)

Matt took a step back. Considering? Believing her?

Jane put one hand on the pink marble. Slowly, slowly, hoisting herself to her feet. Thinking, for a yearning fraction of a thought, of her
own
mother. How much she still missed her. Loved her. Maybe—

“You must have loved your mother very much,” she said. Hoping she was right. Watching his eyes. Hearing his ragged breathing. Cars murmured past on the street outside the cemetery. A tentative wind rustled through the bare branches.

Matt was nodding.

“She’d want you to be happy,” Jane continued. Keeping her voice quiet. Not wanting to break the spell. “Tonight at eleven. Right? I can help you—”

“Do not move!”

The voice split the darkness, blinding lights blasted her, the glare so instantly intense she staggered backwards, almost falling again, grabbing the grave marker behind her, scraping one hand on the rough stone.

“Do not move, do not move, stay right there.” A grating voice bellowed over—over what?

Jane struggled for balance, shading her eyes, squinting, looking for—loudspeakers? Her hand was bleeding now, she could feel it, but that was okay, whoever this was would protect—

Footsteps, running, movement in the trees, more shadows. “This is security, we see you, do not move! We see you, and you’re now under arrest. Damn kids! Put your hands in the air! Now! Now! Now!”

The loudspeaker voices continued, threatening, commanding, piercing the quiet. Two silhouetted figures, men, came into view. One ducked behind the angel, as if taking cover. The other approached, cautious, holding something in his hand. A gun?

Matt gave her a terrified look. Whirled. And bolted.

“Yes, yes, I’m here, don’t shoot!” Jane yelled, waving both arms. Both guards were headed right for her. She pointed at Matt, still running, now almost to a car parked by the exit. “Stop him!”

69

Matt hit the accelerator almost before he got his car door closed, powered out of the cemetery, under the archway, away from the voices and the guards, away from Jane Ryland. What she’d told him. Could it be true?
My father knows?
That’s what Cissy was planning for tonight? He shifted, gears grating, turned onto the street, ignoring the stop sign, heading toward Boston.

He patted the seat beside him, risked a fast look under the dash. Where did he put his damn phone? His car swerved, crossed the yellow line, edging into the other lane. He steered back to safety, headlights flaring—
too close!—
in his side mirror.

“Asshole!” he yelled at the night as some jerk honked at him.
Christ
. He had to calm the hell down. He was fine. It was fine. He was out of there. And Cissy had told him to be at Lassiter headquarters at eleven.

For a family reunion?

He felt the beginnings of a smile. His first real smile in a long while.

He would make it. Just in time.

*   *   *

“Ma’am? Do you realize you’re trespassing?” The stocky man, wearing a dark nylon jacket marked
PGSECURITY
, growled at Jane, aiming his flashlight in her face. Her rear end and gloves soaked with mud, head throbbing, she’d watched the other guard race after Matt. He now trotted up beside his partner.

“Lost him,” he said. “What’s the status, McCray? Ma’am, we’re going to have to call the—”

“Oh, thank goodness you came,” Jane cried, holding out both hands, damsel in distress. There was the trespassing issue, sure, but she could explain. At least she was alive to explain it. And these two, pudgy and pudgier, weren’t so intimidating without the loudspeaker. Seemed they didn’t have guns. Only flashlights. “I was visiting a—”

“You not see the closed sign? It’s Halloween, ma’am. We’re closed.” The taller one pointed behind him. What looked like a microphone was clipped to his jacket, a miniature loudspeaker strapped over his shoulder. “You can’t be here, miss.”

“Oh, really?” Jane widened her eyes. Talking fast. “I thought it was open all the time. I was looking at the headstone, it’s so beautiful, in the moonlight … and then that guy came in, and I didn’t know what he was doing, and it was so scary, and then I tripped, you know, and—”

“Yo, McCray, check it out. She’s Jane Ryland,” the shorter one said. He waved his long-handled flashlight at her. “But with shorter hair. You’re on the news, right? What’re you doing here?”

“Leaving. Right now.” Smiling, smiling. “Like I said, I was visiting a friend’s grave. Is that okay? I’m so sorry. I mean, I didn’t know it was closed, and…”

The two guards exchanged glances. One shrugged, then the other.

“Don’t do it again,” pudgier said.

*   *   *

“Bad news, I’m afraid, Mr. Vick.” Jake put on a somber face as he entered interrogation room C. Arthur Vick, still seated in a folding chair, arms crossed on the long table, slowly raised his head. His eyes were rimmed with red, his drawn face the picture of defeat. Coffee-stained Styrofoam shards now littered the table. Someone had torn the cups into pieces, lining up the bottoms in a row of grubby polka dots.

“Huh?” Vick said. He squinted at Jake, blinking as if he’d been asleep. “What happened to the other cop?”

“Shut up, Arthur.” Henry Rothmann leaped to his feet, his metal chair banging against the wall. “What bad news, Detective? Bad news for
you,
maybe? You admitting this whole thing is a farce? You going to let my client go? The way you should have hours ago?”

Jake closed the door behind him, then stood in front of it. Vick lowered his head back down onto his arms.

“Maybe so,” Jake said. This was risky, and if the whole thing went to hell, there’d be Miranda violations out the ass. It would kill a murder case against Arthur Vick. Jake hoped that wouldn’t matter.

She was roofed up,
Patti had said. How’d she know that? The cops kept that secret. Either Vick told his wife he drugged Sellica and killed her, which was pretty damn unlikely, or Patti Vick—scorned wife of the hooker-hiring grocer-about-town—killed the other woman herself.

Vick’s head lifted ever so slightly, only his eyes showing.

“I’m aware that I can’t direct my statement to Mr. Vick, since he’s Mirandized,” Jake continued. “And on the record here, I am not asking him to respond. However.”

He paused, giving his strategy one last gut check. “However, Mr. Rothmann. And I remind you all conversations in this room are taped. Patricia Vick has just confessed to the murder of Sellica Darden.”

*   *   *

“Answer the phone, answer the phone,” Jane said to the darkness as she drove over the Longfellow Bridge, alert for speed traps, headed as fast as she could back to Boston. She’d found a stash of paper napkins in her glove compartment, cleaned off her coat as best she could, wrapped a couple of them around her now barely bleeding hand. It stung like crazy, and she really needed an Advil for her head. She could already feel the lump behind one ear. But she’d live. Which, for a couple of moments there, she’d wondered about.

Those rent-a-guards might call the police about Matt. Good news and bad news—really nothing for them to tell.

Her call kept ringing, the speaker filling the car with the sound. “Come on, Jakey, pick up, pick up.…”

The names on that headstone.

Two children. Matt—Lassiter’s son. Could Holly Neff be Lassiter’s daughter? The ages were about right. What was she doing at the campaign? Why was she using a phony name?

Still. Had Matt killed his own sister? But Jake had said—girlfriend
. Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe everyone just assumes that. Or believes that.
Maybe Holly Neff was Matt’s sister.
Owen’s daughter.

The phone rang again. Jane hit the red light at the Charles Circle rotary. Watched the late-night traffic battle for right-of-way around the rain-slicked loop to Mass General and Beacon Hill.

Or. Maybe not. Maybe not Holly. Would she send such a sexy photo—to her own father?

Maybe Owen’s daughter was the
other
woman.

Jake’s phone went to voice mail. “It’s me,” Jane said after the beep. “I think I know where to find Kenna Wilkes. Matt, too. Call me. Right away. Call me.”

70

“Bull. Shit.” Henry Rothmann poked the air at Jake with each word. “What a cheap, worn-out cop trick. Pitting the Vicks against each other. I demand to confer with my client’s wife. Confirm she really confessed. We’ve been here nine full hours. My client is exhausted. And this is simply—”

“Henry?” Arthur Vick raised a palm.

“Shut up,” Rothmann said. “She had no lawyer, she was coerced, you tricked her, nothing she said will hold up in court. And, Detective Brogan, you just presented my client with an indisputable chunk of reasonable doubt. So they’ll both go free.”

“No.” Vick stood, smoothing his sweater, tucking in his shirt. “No way. Forget it. I’m not going on trial for a murder I didn’t do. I’m not going to rot in prison for this. I didn’t kill Sellica.
Yes
. My wife did. And I can prove it. What else do you need to know?”

“Arthur, I order you to stop talking,” the lawyer tried again. “They’re trying to—”

“She was jealous of you and Sellica?” Jake’s phone was ringing, vibrating in his jacket pocket. He couldn’t answer it, not now that Vick was spilling. “Your relationship? So your wife was, what, out for revenge?”

“I suppose. Sure.” Vick shrugged. “Patti hated the commercials, hated my life. Swiped those photos from my computer. We were supposed to have a deal: I let her paint. I could do whatever.”

“You agree to testify against her?” Jake asked.

“No, a husband cannot testify—” The lawyer tried to interrupt again.

“Can’t be
compelled
to, as you well know, Mr. Rothmann,” Jake said. “But voluntarily? No problem.”

“Yes, I’ll testify against her,” Vick said. “If I can go now.”

“Not quite yet,” Jake said. “So you had a relationship, a financial relationship with Sellica Darden? Prior to her murder?”

“Yes, yes. Like I said.” He looked at the door, fists on hips. “Can we go now?”

Jake tilted his head back and forth, as if considering. He was actually considering how gratifying this was about to be. He had taken an oath to protect and defend. To seek the truth. And here it was.

“Ah, in fact, no, you can’t go,” he said. “Arthur Vick, you’re now under arrest for perjury. For your false testimony in the Jane Ryland defamation trial.”

*   *   *

“Kenna?” Governor Owen Lassiter, back from the Chamber dinner, stood in the open doorway to his private office, one hand on the doorjamb. He took a deep breath. “The back elevator’s broken again.”

Smiling prettily, Kenna looked up from her place behind Owen Lassiter’s important-person desk. Sitting in Owen Lassiter’s important-person chair. She’d dressed for the occasion, formal in a black blazer and sleek white silk blouse, lace camisole, pearls, charcoal pencil skirt, and pricey suede pumps.

“Hello, Governor,” Kenna said. “Yes, we know. And Mr. Maitland says to tell you he’ll be here momentarily. We have something to discuss with you.”

Lassiter turned, looking behind him at what Kenna knew was the empty corridor. She knew Rory was elsewhere, otherwise occupied. And would be for some time.

“This is somewhat of a surprise, I must say,” Owen said. “It’s rather late, Kenna, close to eleven. Couldn’t we chat tomor—?”

Kenna stood, her fingertips touching the glass desktop. She waited, eyeing him, wondering if she ever crossed his mind.

“I’ll take only a moment of your time.”

The governor came into the room, took off his suit jacket, held it by a finger over one shoulder. Gave a half smile. “Well, what can I do for you, Kenna?”

“Something we need to discuss.” She kept her hand on the desk to keep herself from floating away. “You’re dropping out of the Senate race.”

*   *   *

Almost there. Matt made the light at Causeway Street, found a space, locked the car. His heart raced; his face felt hot. He was about to face his father. Face his future.

His life was about to change. About time.

He trotted up the sidewalk toward Lassiter headquarters, dodging a couple of beer-toting Celtics fans wearing numbered green jerseys over their jackets. Boston Garden.
Someday my father and I might—

The headquarters lobby was dark. He pushed the revolving door with the flat of his hand. It didn’t budge. He tried again, his eyes filling with tears of frustration. Locked?
Locked?
And the lobby was empty. Silent.

No. No. He had to get inside.

71

Kenna watched, almost—entertained, by the slideshow of emotions across Owen Lassiter’s face.

Disbelief. Confusion. Disgust. Fear?

Finally, he seemed to decide on derision. Laughing softly, he draped his suit jacket on a mahogany hanger, fastidiously adjusting the shoulders, taking time to straighten the lapels, setting it into a curved bracket of a wrought-iron stand by the door.

“It’s late. You’re tired. I’m sure you understand this is not amusing.” Owen’s voice was cool. “I’m not quite sure what your goal—”

Kenna interrupted, drinking it in. “Here’s the thing, Owen.” She drew out his name, dropping the title she’d always been careful to use. “You have a problem with women. Yes, indeed. Sadly. And your wife knows, of course. I suppose that’s why she’s been in hiding all this time. Soon, even more sadly, everyone will know.”

“Will
know
?” Owen looked at the door, at his desk, at the phone. “Are you—drunk? High? In one second, I’m calling security.”

“Our little fling was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?” Kenna continued. He wasn’t calling anyone. And if he made a move against her, she was prepared to stop him. She gave her voice an edge of drama, as if reciting a movie plot. “I mean—you invited me to your hotels—I even took souvenirs from the presidential suites we shared.”

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pink vial of body lotion labeled
PRESIDENTIAL SUITE
. Dangled it in front of him.

“I was so enamored with you. Rory knows how often we were together, of course. The hotel people, too. The room service I ordered for us. You were so loving, so charming. You said it would be just the two of us, as soon as you were elected and you could get rid of that silly social-climbing wife of yours. But now—it seems you were unfaithful to me, too. Taking up with that
Holly
person.”