The Other Woman (15 page)

This was too important. To him. And maybe to Owen Lassiter.

The phone rang. “Excuse me, please.” Then, into the phone, “Lassiter for Senate. May I help you?”

Matt jammed his fists into his vest pockets. He had about ten seconds to make this work. He had to find Holly. He had to stop her.

If
the woman in the picture was Holly. It was possible, of course, she wasn’t.

What if he just told this Denise the truth? For a moment, he imagined the endgame.
No.
The truth was never gonna fly. Shit. She’d think he was a mental case.

But the woman really didn’t seem to recognize Holly’s name. Was she using a phony name?
Shit
. Of course. That would make this even more impossible.

On the other hand, he’d seen Holly in that campaign event photo, and a few others he’d dug up online. Maybe to find Holly—he just had to find Owen Lassiter. No problemo.

The telephone rang again, a green light flashing. Then another. “Lassiter for Senate, please hold,” the woman said. “Lassiter for Senate, please hold.”

She looked up at him, flustered. “I need to handle the phones now. There’s no one else to help me. They’re all in Springfield at the rally.”

“Great.”
Exactly.
“Where?”

“Lassiter for Senate, please hold,” she said again, then covered the phone. “It’s on our Web site, sir. But it starts in less than two hours. You’d never make it.”

“Thanks,” Matt said. He pulled out his iPhone. Punched up the Internet as he headed for the door.

Never make it? Denise was so wrong. He’d make it. He had to.

24

He had to move Jane out of the way. Get her out of the headlights. What if Arthur Vick wanted to scare Jane, make her miserable? What if he’d sent her those ugly letters, and now … what if Vick thought Mrs. Darden had told Jane something about him and Sellica?

“If I say get down,
do
it,” he hissed. He eased in front of her, his hand on his holster. So close to Jane, he could feel her body tremble. “I mean it.”

At the parking lot entrance, the new arrival was still a shadow. Car engine chugging. Headlights blasting. Whoever it was could see them. No way out of that. He couldn’t see them for shit.

The person took a step toward them. Both hands out.

No gun.
Probably
.

Jake clicked his weapon another fraction out of the holster. “Boston PD,” he said. “State your business. Now.”

“Don’t shoot, Jake,” the silhouetted voice said.

A woman? Laughing? His mind struggled to process it.

“You’d never live it down if you killed a reporter,” the woman said. “Tell him, roomie.”

“Oh, my god,” Jane whispered. “It’s Tuck.”

“Tuck?”

“Tuck!” Jane’s voice cut through the darkness. “You kidding me?”

Jake felt Jane’s body relax. He tried to take a step forward, but she had grabbed the back of his jacket. Shaking loose, Jake stomped out from between the cars, one finger jabbing the air. “Tuck, you incredible moron. I could have—” Jake stopped. Slapped his hands against his sides. “What’s the matter with you? You got a death wish?”

“Hey, I’m just covering the funeral, and I’m late.” She gave an elaborate shrug, both hands in the air. “Trying to park. Is that suddenly illegal? Whoa, you two. You look like— Am I missing something here?”

“Holy crap, Tuck.” Jake was shaking his head. “You’re the last person I thought…”

“Holy crap, Tuck,” Jane said at the same time. “I about had a heart attack. How’d you know we were here?”

“Didn’t,” Tuck said. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Alex thinks you’re on the way to Springfield. To the Lassiter thing.”

“Just came to pay my respects,” Jane said. She looked at Jake. “And I met up with Detective Brogan. By chance.”

“I see,” Tuck said. She looked at him, then at Jane, then back at him. “Gotcha.”

Her headlights had clicked off, and now he could see her, jeans and a leather jacket, slim leather boots, a black cap yanked over her hair.

She walked to him, almost a swagger, slung one arm across his shoulders. As if he hadn’t just come close to shooting her.
A real piece of work.

“And how about you, Detective Brogan, might I ask?” Tuck said. She lined her body against his, enough so he could tell. “You just here to pay your respects, too?”

He took a step back, surprised.

She laughed softly, her voice barely carrying. Hands on hips, she narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m wondering what to make of seeing you here, Jake. Something I should know about the Bridge Killer? That why you’re all on edge?”

“Tuck?” Jane approached them. “I’m leaving for Springfield now. Just got Alex’s page. I’ll talk to him from the road.” She aimed her key-clicker at her car door again. “
Detective Brogan,
thanks for walking me to my car.”

“Yeah. No problem.” Jake wanted to signal her somehow:
Call me
. He needed to warn her, at least get her guard up. Plus, he’d never told her the deal with Amaryllis Roldan. With Tuck in the picture, that was no longer an option.

Jane’d be okay in Springfield. She had to be. The Bridge Killer was in Boston.

Somewhere.

25

“What was that name?” Jane said it aloud, willing her brain to remember. She eyed the stupid eighteen-wheeler she was trying to pass. He was hogging the fast lane on the Mass Pike, and if he didn’t move his ass to let her by, she’d be late. She checked the digital clock on her dashboard.
Ouch
. Even later than she already was.

A huge latte in her cup holder and a last-resort drive-thru burrito in her lap—dinner—she watched for her chance. She tapped a finger on the steering wheel, replaying the conversation. Jake had said a name, a woman’s name. She even spelled it. And he had told her the other victim was connected to Arthur Vick. She had to remember.

Hitting the accelerator, she eased her TT into the middle lane, gunned it to eighty, then zoomed in front of the truck. The big rig behind her got smaller and smaller. Oh, yes, she’d make it in time.

So.
The name.
Amber something. Amber Rowan. No. Not exactly Amber.

Maybe she should call Jake. He’d tried to tell her something, she could tell, but she bet he couldn’t say it in front of Tuck. If only they’d had time to finish their conversation.

Jane took a bite of burrito, not bad, actually, since she was completely starving, then peeled down the paper wrapper with her teeth. She knew she could dredge up the name. It was in there somewhere.

What was it? And what did it mean?

From the depths of her tote bag beside her on the front seat, she heard the trill of her phone.
Jake, maybe.
She laid the burrito back onto its waxed paper wrapper, flipped the yellow cheese bits off her coat, then hit the hands-free button on the center console.

“This is Jane.”

“Alex.” His voice squawked through the speakers. “You in the car?”

“Yup,” Jane said. Thank goodness she was on the way. “I tried to call you, right? You got my message?”

“Yup,” Alex said. “You almost there? You get the info about the event? At the New Englander Hotel, Gus says. You know where that is?”

“Yup.” Jane had taken a bite of burrito, forgetting she was on the phone. She tried to talk around it. “What’s the scoop?”

“Huh? You’re breaking up.”

“Yeah, sorry.” She swallowed. “Headed west on the Mass Pike. Reception stinks.” She regretfully moved the burrito to the seat beside her. It would be inedible cheesy glue in about ten seconds. “Anyway, what’s the plan?”

“There’s some kind of rally, I have Gus checking on the deets. Apparently the candidate’s staying overnight. Moira tell you that? She’s still home, right?”

“Yeah, far as I know, she’s home. No, she didn’t tell me that. Pretty interesting.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Gus made you a reservation at the hotel, just in case. Hope you have a toothbrush.”

A toothbrush? Whatever. She’d manage. It wasn’t like she was going to Siberia. “Sure. No prob. So—”

“Hang on, my other line. Can you hold a sec?”

Jane reached for the burrito. “Sure.”

Alex had a point about the overnight thing, although if Lassiter were trying to hide some assignation, he’d cook up a big plan, right? Make it all look plausible? No surprises? Or maybe surprises were good. How would she know what a cheating husband would do? Maybe she should ask Alex. He was the one who might be having—

“I’m back. Sorry.” Alex sounded glum. “Where were we? Oh yeah, Moira didn’t know.”

Jane swallowed again, quickly. “Yeah, well, what do you think someone having an affair would do?” Lucky he couldn’t see her face. Then again, maybe it was Alex’s wife who was cheating. Not him. That’s why he was so upset these days. Maybe that had been his wife on the phone, telling him she had to be out of town, suddenly, overnight. Although this was not the time to be thinking about Alex’s marital problems. “They’d have some elaborate explanation set up, right? Not tell the wife at the last minute they suddenly had to be out of town.”

Alex didn’t answer.

“Alex? You there?”

“Yeah, someone at the door. Hang on.”

Jane strained to translate the sounds coming over the speakers. Frustratingly, the transmission was all fuzz and muffle. And some jerk driving a souped-up Dodge took that very moment to honk at her. Jane gave him the look.
Idiot.

“So, Jane.” Alex’s voice, back on the line, sounded different. “You were at Sellica’s funeral? How come? I had no idea you were going. Tuck’s here. Says she saw you.”

Did she, now? Thanks, sister
. “Ah, yeah, just paying my respects.”

“Why?” Alex asked. “That’s not your assignment, Jane. You wanted nothing to do with it. Since she’s not your source, of course.”

Jane could do without the sarcasm. Time to change the subject. Get back in Alex’s good graces. Her “six-month tryout” at the
Register
had barely begun, and newspaper jobs were disappearing faster than … “Listen, Alex. I’m getting close to Springfield, so gotta wrap up. But Jake was there at the funeral, too. And he’s on the Bridge Killer thing.”

“Yes, I already know that. From Tuck. Because Tuck is covering the Bridge Killer case. Just as she was assigned. And Jake told Tuck—”

Alex’s voice disappeared. Then returned. “But we’re going with it anyway. Tuck says she’s sure Sellica’s a Bridge Killer victim.”

“Sorry, Alex, my call waiting beeped in. The voice mail picked up. I missed what you said.”

“I said: Jake’s telling Tuck that Sellica’s death is not connected to the others. But Tuck thinks the cops are lying. Water, bridge, female, no ID. So the
Register
is going with Sellica as the third victim. The only one who’s identified. Not that it has anything to do with you. As you’d be the first to say.”

If she was a reporter in her next life, she was never ever having anything be off the record. Never. Or maybe, in journalism hell, everything was off the record. Journalism hell, where you knew a bunch of amazing stuff that you could never tell anyone. Maybe that was now.

“Jane? You hearing me?”

“Yes, I’m hearing you. Listen, Alex.” She crossed her fingers, hoping this wasn’t a mistake. But Alex was clearly angry with her, seemed to have already forgotten she was the one who brought him the Moira scoop. Anger was not good for her job security.

A quarter mile till the exit. Now or never.
Never
was probably the wiser choice. But
now
was what she decided.

“Let’s put it this way. I hear there might be an ID on one of the Bridge Killer victims.”

“Yeah, duh. Sellica,” Alex said.

“No, Alex. Not Sellica.” Jane paused. “The other woman.”

Roldan,
her brain announced.
Roldan. Amaryllis Roldan.

“An ID? What other woman? Which one?” Alex demanded. “How do you know? Who’s the victim?”

Jane yanked the car onto the exit ramp, sloshing latte through the narrow hole in the cup lid. The burrito rolled onto the floor. The New Englander Hotel was around the next curve, barely visible behind a stand of giant pine trees.

“I don’t know,” she said. And she didn’t really, she only knew Amaryllis Roldan was a name that Jake told her, off the record. She didn’t know who that was. Or why Jake asked her about it. But he’d said the name, and the word
victim,
and the name
Arthur Vick,
and it was all connected. Somehow. “Get Tuck to ask someone at the cop shop about it. But not Jake, okay? Not Jake.”

She pulled into the hotel parking lot. Searched for a spot among the wall-to-wall cars, many plastered with Lassiter bumper stickers.
I’ve gotten into trouble before for not telling. Will I get into trouble now for telling?
This was exactly why she and Jakey couldn’t be together. It was impossible to sort out responsibilities and priorities and—sure, Jake had said “off the record.”

But why would he tell her in the first place, if he didn’t want her to do something about it?

She was going to tell. And hope she wasn’t blowing up her life.

“Amaryllis Roldan,” she said. A chill went down her back. “But remember, Alex. The name didn’t come from me.”

26

Holly rolled the waistband of her black skirt once, to make it shorter. Why not? She checked her handiwork in the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door of her room at the New Englander. She’d gotten the last room, she was told. They were full up now. “Lucky you,” the hotel clerk had said.

Exactly.

Holly nodded, approving, as she assessed herself in the glass. The rally was inside. Perfect. Black skirt, black tights, bright
bright
green silk blouse with a lacy camisole underneath. Lassiter campaign button on her wide stretchy belt. She flipped her head from side to side, watching her hair, all curled and shiny now, swish back and forth like one of those TV commercials for shampoo. Nice. Nice new Holly. No more drabby old Hannah. Tonight she was pretty Holly.

She tried putting her hair behind her ear on one side, one curl twirling down her cheek. No. Maybe one side up? With a green ribbon? No. It was fine. There wasn’t time to change it again. She was perfect.