The Other Woman (10 page)

No bruises—so, yeah, that was the same as Longfellow. But not like Charlestown.

The same. And different.

Possibility two, he was right. No serial. Maybe there were
three
killers. Three separate incidents. That would be a huge piece of crap to solve.

Possibility three was why Jake had to talk to Jane. Possibility three meant Charlestown and Longfellow were killed by the same person. Fine, he was wrong, there was a Bridge Killer. Which sucked. But possibility three meant Sellica was a separate deal altogether.

Maybe she’d finally hit a john who’d gone too far, doused her with roofies, freaked, pushed her into the water and booked. Or—and here was the biggie. Or, Arthur Vick had decided it was time for a big payback.

A payback bigger than a million dollars.

That’s why Jake had to talk to Jane.

This isn’t across the boundaries we set, because this isn’t personal. This is part of the investigation. Maybe Jane is also a target? I’d want to call her, even if she wasn’t …

He grabbed his phone, then stopped. The call would be on his cell log. And the supe, clearly unhappy with him, must suspect he was the department leak. His shoulders sagged. Jane would be safe for now. No one was getting killed tonight. And the supe was waiting for an update. If he solved the damn case, no one else would get hurt.

Jake opened the Jeep’s front door and stepped into the October evening. Time to visit the victim’s mother. Maybe she’d know something.

Someone sure did.

15

It can’t be.
Matt stared at the photo on his desk computer. He was reading the
Boston Register,
online, as he did every day. A Red Sox fan since he was a kid, he imagined he remembered his dad talking to him about Yaz, and Eck, and Carlton Fisk. Now, a thousand miles away and twenty-some years later, Matt couldn’t shake the Sox habit.

Today it was political news, not sports, that skidded his work to a halt. A picture of a woman at a rally. One face in the crowd. It hit him as hard as a wild pitch.

It was only a couple years since he’d seen her.
If
that was her. Matt clicked the arrow in the center of the picture, zooming in. Closer.

Crap. It’s her. Is it her?
He placed the plus-sign directly over her face, his heart racing. Clicked his mouse, making the photo bigger. Her face blurred from black-and-white to gray. No help.

Her attitude. Her stance. That wild blond hair, knockout body, curves obvious under those almost too-tight skirts she always wore. She’d wanted to be a model, she’d admitted, but the big agencies told her she was too short.
Maybe I can just model for you … privately,
she’d teased him. With that same smile he now saw in the photo. Back in B-school, after the library closed, walking by the river, she had—he remembered it, perfectly—thrilled him. Then terrified him. He thought she was out of his life.

The bustle and buzz of his office faded. He vaguely heard see-ya-tomorrows, saw lights flipping off in the glass cubicles down the hall, the ticker go dark. The markets were closed, the gang headed home. Not him. Not now.

Maybe there were other photos. Maybe it was by chance. Maybe it was someone who looked like her. His keyboard clattered as he typed in the search.

Lassiter. Rally. Boston. Search images.
Click.

A gallery of wide shots popped up on his flat computer screen. He’d have to check one at a time. But even if he could tell, what would he know?

Damn it. This would be fricking impossible.

Matt yanked at his tie, pulled open the collar button of his pale blue oxford shirt. He felt the prickle of sweat at the back of his neck. Why’d he ever thought this day wouldn’t come?

What the hell is she doing in Boston?
If she
was
in Boston. He calculated the possibilities. And there were only two: It was a coincidence. Or it wasn’t.

And if it wasn’t, he was screwed. And he wasn’t the only one.

Why had he told her? A couple of brews, the sun on the river, that striped blanket. It had been hot for May. She’d stripped off her top, laughing, thrown it across his shoulders, drawing her to him. Surprising him with that little bathing suit thing underneath. They’d come here to study, he reminded her. Marketing finals, big stuff.

She’d teased, pouted, yanked off his Sox cap and tossed it into the river. When he protested, she’d retrieved it, returning dripping and slick, the sun glistening on her wet skin. “All I want is you, Mattie,” she’d said. “I know I can change your mind. We’re meant to be together. Let me show you.”

And how could he have said no? Even though it wasn’t her, it never had been, it never would be. It was almost the end of the school year. A month or two before B-school graduation. Why not?

Later, afterwards, he was—whatever. Wiped out. Might as well have been on drugs. And he’d told her, told her why they couldn’t be together, told her why he couldn’t love her, or anyone. Grief over his mother still raw, he’d told Holly everything. Even about what happened.

“Your poor mother,” she’d said. Consoled him. “But I can wait. However long it takes.” He remembered her drawing one finger, slowly, down his bare chest, remembered how the finger continued, remembered he couldn’t stand it. And she knew it. Christ, he’d told her.
I told her.
Even though he’d promised not to. He made her vow to keep their secret.

“You’ll change your mind about me, when you’re ready,” she whispered. “That’s what I’m promising you.”

When the semester was over, they graduated, she went—wherever she went. Two frigging years ago.

He stared at the computer screen, cursor flashing, the pixilated image taunting him.
But maybe it’s not her.
It was his secret to tell. When he wanted to.
If
he wanted to.

A rustle at his doorway. He swiveled his chair, annoyed. The intern took a tentative step into his office. “Matt?”

Matt raised one hand, waved her away. Pointed to his headset.
I’m busy.

Made another gesture.
And close the door.

“Boston,” he said into the phone. “Round trip. Open return. When’s the next flight? Tonight? First thing tomorrow?”

*   *   *

Do not turn around. Do not turn around
. Jane leaned her forehead against the chilly window of the subway car as it motored up into the night landscape of bustling Kenmore Square, racketing her home. She pulled her black wool coat closer, sliding her gloved hands under her sleeves. Absurd, wanting to look behind her. No one was there. What could be safer than the Green Line?

Arthur Vick was not on the train. She was spooked, that was for sure. But Arthur Vick, with all those grocery stores and TV commercials, picture in all the papers, would never take the T. He didn’t send the letters. He didn’t kill Sellica; he was not the Bridge Killer.

Right?

Boston hurtled by. Beacon Street front porches, lights switching on. Rows of brownstones, a spate of restaurants, cars playing beat-the-trolley across the intersections. Friday night, beginning of the weekend rituals. She was almost home.

Sellica was dead.
Her
secrets were safe. Jane was alone.

“There you have it,” she whispered to the window. Her breath made a little fog place on the glass.

Alex, for now at least, had let her off the hook.
Maybe he’ll even turn out to be a good guy.
Tuck was assigned the Sellica story. Jane, fighting off stomach-clenching memories, had agreed to give some color from her trial days. No byline. Tay Reidy acquiesced, even giving Jane a regal pat on the back as he made his exit, lawyer in tow.

Tuck had already added a photo of the Sellica crime scene to the macabre collection tacked to her more-than-half of the bulletin board.
How’d she get that, so quickly?
Jane had tried to avoid looking.

Channel 11 hadn’t called back.

All in all, another fun day in Jane world. And the prospects for tomorrow were no better. In fact, they might be worse.

She forced a smile. She would go home, put on sweats, have a glass of wine, turn on some Diana Krall. Watch a movie. Call Amy. Go visit Eli for a game of Psychonauts; maybe his mom, Neena, would be up for a chat. See if Mrs. W had some leftovers. Almost home. She was not afraid.

But Jake. He would go ballistic over tomorrow morning’s headlines. Jane had hung around the newsroom for a while, still bemused over the identity of the real Tuck, who seemed driven but friendly enough. At some point,
BRIDGE KILLER CHANGES TACTICS
popped up as the headline in the dummy edition. The press room had held the front page for Tuck. As long as there were murders, Miss Tucker Cameron was queen bee.

The train’s doors hissed open, jolting Jane back to reality. Her stop. Corey Road. She grabbed her purse and tote bag from the train’s gritty floor and clattered down the steps to the street.

Her mind spiraled around Sellica’s murder. Was there anything she knew that Jake should know? If there were, should she tell him? Could she? She really wanted to talk to him. She really, really wanted to find out what he thought about Sellica. Maybe she could just call him, all business, totally reporter, and say—

Jane jumped as her cell phone rang. She clutched a hand to her throat, then burst out laughing, the sound disappearing into the night. Lucky no one was here to see how jumpy she was. She looked around, spooked. A police car on patrol, lights off. Sidewalks deserted. Safe. And maybe it was Jake calling.

The phone rang again. She clicked it on, stepping into the protective glow of a streetlight. It better not be Channel 11 again.
Jerks.
She missed TV. Missed her old life. But that door was closed.

“This is Jane.”

“Jane Ryland?” A woman’s voice. Low, not quite a whisper.

“Yes?”

“This is Moira Lassiter. I apologize for phoning so late.”

Good news? About time.
“Oh, Mrs. Lassiter. Thank you for calling. And it’s not so—”

“Jane?” Moira Lassiter interrupted. “I can’t talk now. About that interview. Let’s do it.”

16

“May I help you?”

Holly Neff stared at the beauty behind the desk. That woman should be, like, on television, not answering phones in some campaign office on a Saturday morning. Maybe she was someone’s daughter, had the job because of who she knew or how she looked. It didn’t matter. Holly had to get inside. Upstairs.

The lobby was completely decorated for the campaign, lots of posters and photos. The music was pretty loud. Groups of people hurried by, holding up badges hung around their necks. Miss Beauty Pageant hardly looked at them.

Elevator bells dinged, doors opened, people came out, others elbowed their way inside. She
had
to get upstairs.

Oh
. The woman was waiting for her to answer. Lots of lipstick.

“Thank you so much,” Holly said. She felt a little strange with all her hair pulled back, and she wasn’t used to not wearing makeup. She’d never go out looking like this, so dowdy and plain—except today. And she wasn’t used to wearing the geeky glasses. Well, it would all be worth it. Holly zipped open one pocket of her carryall, feeling for the folder inside. Her camera was there, too, safe in its pouch. She pulled out a little spiral notebook she’d gotten at the drugstore. It had a picture of an American flag on the front.

“I’m a very enthusiastic Lassiter supporter.” She held the notebook up so the woman couldn’t miss it. “I’ve been to all the rallies. And I think it’s time I got involved.”

She looked for a nameplate or a name tag, since you were supposed to call people by their names, but there wasn’t one.

“I’m—” She paused, remembering her plan. And her secret name. “—I’m Hannah,” she said. Bright smile.
Hannah.
Then she waited.

The woman didn’t introduce herself. Whatever. Didn’t matter. Holly knew from her phone calls that the volunteer office was on the third floor. So was the communications department, where the press people were. Owen’s office was the only one on the fourth floor. Holly-Hannah simply had to get upstairs.

“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. The phone rang, and Holly waited while she answered it, saying, “Lassiter for Senate.” The woman pushed some buttons on the phone console, then looked at Holly again. It seemed like she didn’t love her job.

“Oh, well, no, I don’t, but this is such an important election, you know?” Holly had practiced what she would say, and it seemed just right. “I do the neighborhood newspaper? I’m like, kind of a neighborhood reporter? I write while my kids are at school. And I’d love to do a story about Governor Lassiter. Maybe I could get a quick tour of headquarters? See what it’s really like inside a campaign?”

She watched the woman look her up and down.
Well, fine, go ahead.
Holly looked perfect. She tried not to smile.
Perfectly awful
. A coat she’d gotten at a cheapo store, an acrylic scarf, stretchy wool gloves. The blonde behind the desk, all that chest showing even under that sweater, hideous. She’d assume she was seeing some nerdy housewife, trying to get out of the house and have a life.
As if.

“If you’d like an interview with the governor,” the woman was saying, “you’ll have to go through our press office. I could take your name and number.”

The woman yanked a sliding shelf from under the desktop. Holly could see a list of names and phone extensions taped to it, but it was too hard to read upside down. “Or you can contact Sheila King directly. She handles press. Extension 403.” The woman looked up at her. “Do you need to write that down?”

The blonde’s lipsticky mouth went tight, as if Holly were bothering her. Pretty snippy for a receptionist. The phone rang, then rang again. Holly waited, so patiently, while the woman answered the calls.

“Lassiter for Senate. Please hold. Lassiter for Senate.”

It made Holly smile to hear his name.

“Oh, I don’t need an interview with the governor, gosh no.” Holly tried to look as if the thought had never crossed her mind. “Can I call Sheila King from here? Maybe someone could show me how it all looks, and I could maybe get some shots of it for the paper?”