The Other Woman (20 page)

“Reservation, sir?”

Matt took a bite of the apple, held up his hand,
wait a sec
. He swallowed, then said, “Nope. Just want a room for the night. A single. One night.”

The guy looked pained or something. Shaking his head. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, we’re fully booked this evening.” He waved a hand across the lobby. “Convention. And the Lassiter campaign. As you can see.”

Matt scowled. Hotels always had another room. This asshole just didn’t want to give it to him. He put on his nice guy look and reached into his pocket.

“Oh, gee, well, that’s too bad. I really do need to stay here tonight.” Matt opened his wallet, folded two twenties, and put them on the desk, his palm not quite hiding them. “I’ve stayed in your hotel chain lots of times. I’m a gold card holder. Isn’t there any way you could … check again?”

The clerk looked even more pained. And looked at Matt’s hand like it held a winning lottery ticket. “Yes—no, sir, we truly are full up. I’m so sorry. There’s just nothing—”

Matt tossed the apple over the counter. It splatted on the wall behind the clerk, landing on a deep bluish swirl in the ugly patterned carpet. “I doubt that, asshole.”

“Sir! I—”

Matt stuffed the two bills back into his wallet. Gave the clerk a look like,
You’re lucky it wasn’t you I threw against the wall
. Not that it would have helped. Plus, the guy had already darted behind the office door. Wimp.

Out the door, into the freezing night. He slammed on the ignition, cranked the heat. There was another way to handle this. He yanked out that brochure, then his cell phone, and dialed the hotel.

“I’m looking for a guest, a Holly Neff?” He disguised his voice a little, in case wimp clerk answered.

“One moment, please, sir.” A woman’s voice, so no prob.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” He’d get the operator to put the call through, hear her voice—he’d know it—then say,
Wrong number
. He’d come back at the crack of dawn, stake her out. Or hell, sleep in his car. Done it before. It’d be worth it.

“She’s checked out, sir.”

Checked out?
“Checked out?” He tried to keep his voice calm, but he couldn’t believe this. She had been here. And he’d missed her.

A rock sank in his chest. The clerk had unknowingly answered another question. The woman he’d seen
was
Holly Neff. She
was
in that photo. She was back in his life. And maybe, as a result, back in Lassiter’s. They were all in trouble. Big, big trouble.

“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry.”

Not half as sorry as I am. Shit. Shit on a freakin’ …

“Can you tell me … when?” He put a smile into his voice, hoping it would work as well here as it did with his sales calls. “It would be so helpful if you could tell me—when did she check out?”

There was a pause.
Come on, honey.

“Well, actually, just a few minutes ago.”

Matt needed to think.

“Sir?” The voice on the phone.

“Yeah, thanks.” Matt tried to control his breathing. It was fine. If she was with the campaign, he had a handle on this. He didn’t need to find her tonight. He was cool. He just needed to confirm it.

He squinted through the rental’s dirt-streaked windshield toward the hotel’s glass-fronted doorway. “She was part of the governor’s campaign, right? She’s with the—”

And there she was.

Holly Neff. His worst nightmare. Shiny as a bad penny. Standing in the hotel’s front doorway, walking out the doorway, nodding to the bellman. Walking into the parking lot. Walking his way.

Matt slammed off the phone.

His turn.

33

“Dammit,” Jane muttered. She couldn’t get the cell phone cord to reach the bathroom. “Alex? Me again. I’m in my hotel room. Plugged in.” She looked around, remembering. “All the lights are working fine. I skulked around the main offices to talk to the hotel people, but they were ‘unavailable,’ some corporate lackey finally told me. I’ll hit ’em again, later. Anyway, let me bang out a story—”

“Fifteen inches,” Alex said. “It’s for the morning edition, print version. Deadline’s at three, so chop chop. It’s so awesome you were there. Wish I had seen it, though. I mean, not seen it. You got pix?”

“We’ll see,” Jane said. It was odd not to worry about getting video.
Take that, Channel 11
. This newspaper stuff was much easier. “I just held the camera up, didn’t aim. How could I? It’ll be pretty cool if they turn out, very cinema verité. But I’m still waiting to hear from the campaign guy. He said Lassiter would have a statement in fifteen minutes, but now it’s been more than an hour. I’ll call him, soon as we get off. But I can write the lede without it and plug in the statement at the end. You know, Lassiter explains the blackout was—whatever they say it was.”

“Cool if it were sa-bo-tage.” Alex gave the word a spy-movie accent.

“You’ve watched too many thrillers,” Jane said, eyeing the bathroom. Darn this cord. She tried to yank off her boots, toe to heel, without putting down the phone. No luck.

“I’m serious,” he said. “What if it’s a Gable thing? You know? It could be—‘Lightgate.’” Alex was laughing. He could actually be pretty funny, though she hadn’t seen him smile much recently. Maybe his wife was back. Or gone.
Bathroom
.

“Alex? I’ll call you, okay?”

“—to know what Lassiter thinks,” Alex continued.

“Alex? My call-waiting just kicked in. Missed what you said. Gotta go. This might be Trevor.”

“—is that? And don’t let me forget to update you on the Gable interview. It’s gotta be soon. This week, they’re saying.”

“Alex? I’ll call you.” She clicked. “This is Jane.”

“Janey?”

“Jake? Are you okay?”

“Am
I
okay?” Jake was almost sputtering. “You’re the one who was in the—what the hell was it, anyway? Were you there? Are you okay? I tried to call you earlier, but you didn’t answer. So I figured—not good.”

He was truly wonderful. Maybe they could just … Jane plopped on the edge of the flowery bedspread, stared at the tight-woven shag of the unfortunate carpeting. Here she was, goofy over a gorgeous cop who was totally off-limits. Reluctantly intrigued by a married man, her boss, also totally off-limits. Waiting for a call from a professional contact, kind of adorable, ditto totally off-limits.

Her source was dead, her reputation battered, and a bad guy—who might be a serial killer—hated her. She was in a cookie-cutter hotel room with unreliable electricity and no toothbrush, and she had a story to write. Welcome to Jane World.

“Yeah, Jakey, I’m fine. My phone died at one point. My guess? Someone turned out the lights. A mistake, maybe? Or—I don’t know.” Jane quickly filled him in on the rest. “But at least I get to write it for the paper. My first story, right? Once I find out the deal. Where are you, anyway?”

“Mickey D’s. HQ confirmed Springfield was no problem. So DeLuca and I are getting—hang on.” Jake paused. “He’s back in the car. Says hi. Anyway, all good. I was only checking.”

Jake’s voice had gone professional. He must trust DeLuca somewhat, though. And Jane had to admit, Amy knew about Jake. Whatever there was to “know.” Amy was doing her best to wean them apart.
It’s a lose–lose, sister,
she’d warned.
Other fish in the sea.

Okay, Jane could be professional, too. Even though she liked
this
fish. “Can D hear me?” Jane asked.

“Unclear at this point,” Jake replied.

Ah.
So Jane whispered. “Amaryllis Roldan.”

*   *   *

“Yup, I can hear her.” DeLuca stashed the two mediums, light, two sugars, into the molded black plastic cup holders between them on the console, then backhanded Jake’s leather jacket. “Not at all ‘unclear.’ She wanna whisper sweet nothings?”

“I’ll tell you what’s clear, brother,” Jake said. Then, into the phone, “Talk to you later, Jane.”

That was close
. Jake pulled out of the lot, heading back to HQ. Then again, maybe there was one more place they needed to check out.

DeLuca leaned in, punched on the car’s radio. “News,” he said.

A staticky radio-announcer voice blasted through the cruiser.

“Hey!” Jake said.

“Gimme a break,” DeLuca said, turning down the volume.

“—and now, a very annoyed Governor Lassiter and his campaign team, just beginning to struggle in the polls, have left Springfield for the night. In other news—”

DeLuca punched off the radio. “So Lassiter leaves town,” he said.

Jake glanced at him, then back to the clamor of Saturday night traffic. Boylston Street and Mass Ave.—the busiest intersection in Boston. Coffee shops, music stores, fast food. Kids in packs, cars honking, some guy playing the sax on the corner, nobody in the striped crosswalks.

He hoped no one would walk home alone tonight across the Mass Ave. Bridge.

“So?” Jake said.

“Ver-ry senatorial.”

“Yeah, hardly a profile in courage.” Jake stopped as the light turned yellow, watched three cars accelerate from behind him and bang through it.

“Wanna hit the lights and siren?” DeLuca asked.

“Just about,” Jake said. The light turned red. One more jerk went through. “But listen, we know where Arthur Vick is, right?”

“Huh? He’s at his store. ‘Working,’” DeLuca added, making air quotes with his long fingers. Difficult, because he was also holding his coffee. “Probably banging—”

Jake hit his turn signal, rolled his eyes. “He’s at the store. And that means Mrs. Vick is home alone.”

“Or dead.”

“Which would give Vick a pretty good alibi, wouldn’t it, wise guy? So what I’m saying,” Jake continued, watching the light and feeling for his coffee, “is maybe it’s time to pay Patricia Vick a little surprise visit. At home.”

“It’s like, almost ten o’clock at night.”

“I have a watch,” Jake said. And the light turned green.

*   *   *

“It’s almost ten o’clock at night! You kidding me, Trevor?” Jane wailed into the phone, peering out the window of her hotel room at the spotlit parking lot, half-thinking she might actually see the governor’s car,
the courage mobile,
heading away from any news conference, official statement, or responsibility-taking. “He’s leaving? Not going to say a word? I’ve been waiting here in my room, all this time—I gotta tell you, Trevor, that seems—”

She stopped. Gave a mental shrug. She was a reporter. Whatever happened, that’s what she’d write. “Okay. Are you gonna have a statement, at least?”

A car
was
pulling out of the lot, she noticed, almost at the road. Then another set of headlights came on in a parking space near the hotel. Two cars leaving. Campaign cars? But she could hardly run down and stop them. On the phone, Trevor Kiernan was still in full-blown excuse-making mode.

“Listen, Jane, I’m so sorry, what can I tell you, it’s out of my hands. But, yeah, we do have a statement coming,” he said. “Call ya back in thirty seconds.”

The phone went dead.

Jane pressed her forehead against the chilly window. The first car was booking toward the highway, the second car now at the stop sign. Lassiter types who’d been at the rally, probably. Off to spin their yarns of the disaster of an evening they’d witnessed firsthand.

Now she had to go back downstairs, hope people were still in the bar hashing it over, get some eyewitness sound bites. She raised one forefinger, correcting herself. Not sound bites, interviews. And demand reaction from the hotel management. Lucky her boots were still on.

It’d be fun to tell her dad about her first newspaper story. And Amy. Steve and Margery. Wonder if the other Channel 11 people would notice it? Come to think of it, they couldn’t put this story on the air. They hadn’t sent a crew. She felt the beginnings of a smile. She’d scooped them. The new door was opening. Score one for Team Jane.

“This is Jane.” She clicked on her phone before the ring even finished. Tucking it between her cheek and her shoulder, she yanked her laptop from her tote bag so she could take down Trevor’s certain-to-be-weasly statement. She eyed the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. She’d better get a move on.

“Jane?”

Woman’s voice. Not Trevor.

“Yes? This is Jane.”
Like I said.

“This is Moira Lassiter. Do you know where my husband is?”

34

“Where the hell are we? What time is it?”

From her vantage point in the backseat of the campaign’s SUV, Kenna Wilkes saw Owen Lassiter’s head jerk awake. He looked across the front seat at Rory, driving, then back at her, then squinted ahead into the blackness of the Mass Pike unspooling in front of them. Seat-belted into the darkness of the backseat, she didn’t have to hide her smile. This could be interesting.

“Ah, Governor, you’re awake,” Rory said.

“How long was I sleeping?” Owen rubbed his face with both hands, then blinked, looking at his watch. Three cars, high beams switched on, zoomed by. Passing them going east toward Boston, one eighteen-wheeler, lights dotting its double-long trailer. They had a long way to go. “It’s almost two in the morning?”

The glow from the dashboard readouts spotted Owen’s face with flickering shadows. A car went by, and for an instant, its headlights illuminated him, full view. He looked confused. Exhausted. Older.

“Kenna. Mrs. Wilkes. You’re okay?” Owen said.

Kenna raised a hand. “Just fine, Governor. How about you? You’ve really been sleeping.”

“Rory? What’s the deal here?” Owen looked around, a baffled owl in pinstripes. He peered at his watch again. “Two? How’d it get to be two?”

Rory kept his eyes on the road. “Well, you fell asleep soon after we left Springfield. Perhaps that scotch you—”

“Damn. That rally. Any word from the brain trust at the hotel?”

“Nope. Told them we’d call in the morning.” Rory flipped a hand. “But let’s write it off, Governor. What are we gonna do, sue? Farther away that whole fiasco gets, the better. At least Boston TV wasn’t there.”

“That Jane Ryland was, though. From the newspaper.” The governor leaned back in his bucket seat, propped one foot on the dashboard. “But I guess she’s—”