The Other Woman (25 page)

She turned to him, her face crumbling. Was she about to cry? The woman was certifiable. Holly looked back at the paper, running her finger down a column.

“Jane what?” Matt said. “Who’s she?”

Holly folded his newspaper so the article she was reading was the only thing showing.

“I have to go,” she said.

Are you friggin’ kidding me?
“Ah, Holly, Hollister, no, not now, not now that we finally found each other again.” Matt scrambled to get back the advantage. Whatever just happened, he had no idea. “Whatever it is about this Jane, whoever that is, I know I can help you. I’m here to help you. But, Holly, it’s a beautiful Sunday, and we’re together, and there’s nothing you can do right now about whatever is…”

Matt put himself in full-speed-ahead sales mode, trying to gauge Holly’s reaction.

“Let’s go for a walk, the way we used to. Or sit in a café, and you can tell me everything.” He was not going to let her escape, not until he found out what she was up to. Maybe this Jane thing was something he should know about.

Reality hit.
Shit.
Jane.
Reporter.

“Hollister,” he said. Was she planning to tell what she knew? Was she stalking some newspaper or television person? That could be a disaster. He put his hand on her shoulder. Last ditch. “Come to my hotel room. Be with me.”

He watched as she lowered the paper. She turned to him, smiling.

And we have a sale, ladies and gentlemen.
Time to close the deal. “I’ll bring you back to your car later,” Matt said. “Unless you have other plans?”

“My Matt,” she said.

*   *   *

Jake’s car? In front of her house? As soon as she turned onto Corey Road, Jane recognized that undercover Jeep he sometimes used, dark blue, tinted windows. The bright morning had softened into gray afternoon. Sparse trees and empty sidewalks, fading piles of fallen leaves, even the rows of brownstones made her street a rainbow of neutral. End-of-October neutral. She caught a glimpse of Jake in the front seat. Why was he here?

Jake was out and beside her before she turned off the ignition.

“I need to talk to you, not on the phone,” he said as she got out. He moved close to her, his hand grasping her arm. Pushed her car door closed with his hip. “How are you?”

She could smell peppermint on his breath, and coffee. “Hey, Jakey,” she said. She left his hand there, didn’t move away from him. No one was watching them. And if they were—well. They weren’t. “I’m good. Except for being exhausted. Drove back from Springfield after all that, then had to go to the paper. And I need to take a nap before I die of sleep deprivation.”

She stopped. Tried to read his face. “Jake? What happened? Is this about Kenna Wilkes?”

Jake gave her a funny look. Frowning. “Kenna Wilkes? Why would—?” He cocked his head toward her building. “Can we go in?”

Jane’s eyebrows went up. “Sure, I guess. Is everything okay?” He was scaring her a little. But it had to be about his e-mail. After her initial bafflement, she’d figured he must have gotten the name Kenna Wilkes from Tuck. But why would he e-mail Jane about that? Unless Kenna—somehow—was connected with the bridge killings. Or maybe with Arthur Vick? She tucked her arm through Jake’s, clicking her car locked.

She couldn’t decide if she felt safer with him here, or more afraid. Maybe she was simply exhausted.

“Come in for five minutes. You can tell me what’s going on. Then I have to sleep. I’ve got an interview at five with—well, a work thing. But is everything okay? Are
you
okay?”

“Sure,” Jake said. “Everything’s fine.”

They climbed the series of narrowing concrete steps to her brownstone in silence, neither of them letting go of the other. Jane turned the lock in the outer door, punched in an alarm code, scooped up the newspaper from the black and white tiled entryway. They climbed two flights of wood-paneled stairway, arm in arm, silent.

“Nice place,” Jake said when she opened the door.

Jane gave her apartment a quick once-over look, relieved she’d put most of her stuff away before she’d headed out to Sellica’s funeral. Gosh, only yesterday. Not too many magazines and newspapers piled on the glass coffee table, only one coffee mug on the end table, only one blazer hanging over the back of a dining room chair.
Presentable.
She glanced at the cocoa-brown leather couch in her living room, still half-expecting Murrow to leap from her spot and greet her at the door. Poor kitty. She’d had a long and good life.

“Thanks,” Jane said. Weird he’d never been here before. She’d gone to
his
apartment. That once. That night. She plopped the newspaper on the dining room table and shrugged off her coat. Remembered she was still wearing the same black skirt and turtleneck as yesterday, and hardly had on makeup. Jake was already sitting in the taupe-striped wing chair by the fireplace, fussing with the zipper on his jacket.

What is this all about?

“Listen, Jane,” Jake began. “I’d get nailed for talking to you about this. I just yelled at Tuck for ditching protocol.”

“What did she—?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “But we got some info about one of the victims. A Bridge Killer victim. I mean, not the Bridge Killer.
Look.
Off the record?”

Jane plonked her head against the back of the couch, hugging a paisley throw pillow. “Jake Brogan. You show up at my apartment. E-mail me a name with no explanation. Tell me about some Amaryllis person without saying why. I think we’re way past off the record, dude.”

“Yeah, gotcha. But, Jane, this is for you, not for the paper. I want you to be careful of Arthur Vick. Seems like all the victims are connected to him. Seems like he’s not a good guy to have as an enemy. And if he’s coming after—”

The doorbell rang, an insistent buzz that cut through Jake’s words. Jane stood, knocking her pillow over the coffee table and onto the tight design of the rug. Her eyes widened, and she shook her head:
No idea …

Jake was already at the door. He cocked his head. Made his hand into a puppet.
Ask who it is,
he mouthed.

43

“Yes?” Jane leaned closer to the door, peering through the peephole. Nothing. Was someone hiding? Flattened against the wall? Crouching? Did they know Jake was there?

“It’s me,” a little voice piped through the door. “Eli.”

Jane collapsed against the doorjamb, holding her head in her hands, trying not to laugh, waving Jake off.

“Hey, kiddo,” she said, swinging open the door. Eli was much too short to show in the peephole. She burst out laughing as he came into the foyer. “What on earth?”

“I’m a zombie anchorman, for trick or treat tomorrow!” he said. “Listen.”

He furrowed his forehead, narrowed his black-rimmed blue eyes, and spoke into what looked like a paper towel roll with a tennis ball on top. “And now, the news of the dead,” he intoned.

“Very cool. Especially the bloody microphone,” Jane said.
Halloween
. She’d have to ask Mrs. Washburn to do Twizzler duty again. “This is my friend Jake. Jake, this is Eli. Eli’s a pal. Jake’s a police officer.”

“Hey, Eli,” Jake said.

“A real police officer? Do you have a gun?” Eli had apparently forgotten about the news of the dead. “Did you ever shoot anyone?”

“Someday, you wanna come tour the police station?” Jake asked. He’d dropped to a crouch, eye level with the little boy in the open doorway. “I’ll show you how we do target practice.”

“Eli! Are you bothering Jane again?” Eli’s mother was tramping down the one flight of burgundy-carpeted stairs, baby Sam balanced on her hip, his pudgy hand grasping the strap of her rock-star tank top.

“It’s fine, Neen,” Jane called out. “He was just showing…”

Arriving on the landing, Neena Fichera hitched Sam to her other already-slim hip, checked out Jake unabashedly. “Hi,” she said, throwing Jane a look. “Are you—?”

“Neena, super of the building, Jake, um, work colleague of mine.” Jane’s brain was about to fry. Jake was showing an enthralled Eli his handcuffs, chatting as if they were old pals.

Neena raised an eyebrow, gave a quick thumbs-up.

Jane stuck out her tongue. Neen thought Jane was missing the motherhood boat, too.
This whole day is out of control
. And Eli seemed to have a new hero. How did that happen so fast?

“Come on, Eli, Jane’s
busy,
” Neena said, scooting him out the door. Sam gurgled, sticking one bootied foot into a pocket of Neena’s cargo pants.

“See you later, Eli,” Jane said. “Great costume.”

Eli turned, ignoring Jane, saluting Jake. “You promise? To show me?”

“Ten-four,” Jake said.

By the time they’d gone, and Jane had closed the door, the afternoon was evaporating. She was exhausted. And craved sleep. But here was Jake, and he was so damn—

“He’s a funny kid,” Jake said, clicking his handcuffs back into place. “He adores you.”

Jake paused, took a step closer. “I see why.”

Jane didn’t move. She could hear him take a deep breath, see him seem to consider …

He reached out a hand, touched her shoulder. “You know we could…”

She had to get this afternoon under control.

“No, we can’t.” She took a step back. “You know that, too, Jake. And you were warning me, I think, about Arthur Vick. That’s why you’re here, right?”

That ought to change the mood. For better or for worse.

“You really think he killed Sellica?” she continued. Determined. “Is he under arrest?”

Jake paused. Stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.

“I see,” he said.

The room was silent. Upstairs, a door slammed.

“Okay,” Jake said. “No. No arrest. We talked to him. He said the L-word. Lawyer. So we’re moving carefully.”

Jane leaned against the white-painted wall, trying to kick her weary brain into gear. “And you said—all three victims? Are connected to him?”

Jake nodded. “Seems like it. Sellica, you know about. The second victim is Amaryllis Roldan. She worked at a Beacon Market. And the first victim had applied for a job at Beacon. But it’s all—it’s still not public. A next-of-kin thing.”

“So Vick could have—,” Jane began. She gestured him back to the living room. Might as well sit down. Sleep seemed unlikely at this point.

“Yeah. So. We don’t know.” He sat on the couch, next to her.

She picked up a paisley pillow. Made it a barrier between them.

“Janey, here’s my point.” Jake leaned toward her, elbows on knees. “If it
was
Arthur Vick—well, I thought you should—be aware. Cautious.”

Jane stared at him, her fingers sliding through the pillow’s silky fringe.

“Tuck’s already sniffing around him,” Jake went on. “Listen, are they gonna put Vick’s name in the paper as a suspect? After what he did to you?”

“No idea.” She blew out a breath, considering. It’d be interesting to see what Alex decided about that. “But—wait. Tuck. Did she ask you about Kenna Wilkes? Is that why you e-mailed me that name?”

“E-mailed you the name Kenna Wilkes?” Jake looked confused. “I never e-mailed you. How do you know that name?”

“Well, first off, because—” Jane pushed up the sleeves of her turtleneck, checked her watch.
Doomed.
“Listen. You want something to drink?”

*   *   *

The sugar maple outside her kitchen window had given up the last of its leaves, and a fat squirrel scuttled up a bare branch. The redwood bird feeder she’d rigged up was empty. Jane sighed.
The bird feeder was more for Murrow than for me.
She took the silver kettle to the sink, turned on the water. “Tea? Yes, no?”

Jake sat at the round table by the window, elbows on the yellow-checked tablecloth, examining her little terra-cotta pot of delicately blooming paperwhites.

“Sure. But Kenna Wilkes, Jane.”

“Well,” she said over the running water. “First, you e-mailed me the name. But I figured—” She turned off the water and turned on the stove. “—I figured Tuck asked you about her. Thing is, I had asked Alex to find out about her. For a whole nother story. He apparently misunderstood. But then, when you e-mailed me, I thought there might be something more.”

“Like I said. I didn’t.” Jake pulled out his BlackBerry.

Jane found two chunky mugs, rummaged in the cabinet for tea bags. “Sure you did. Too late for English Breakfast. How about Calm?”

“Damn,” Jake said.

“Huh?” Jane said. She pulled out two colorful boxes. “Okay. I have other kinds.”

She turned to show him, but he was staring at his BlackBerry.

“I meant to send the name to myself,” Jake said. “I guess I hit
JA
, then screwed up when DeLuca came in. Hit the wrong button. And it got sent to you. The next one on my contacts list.”

The teakettle whistled. “Funny,” she said, pouring steaming water into the mugs. “You had me thinking she was involved in the bridge killings. That’d be weird.”

She put a mug in front of Jake, added a spoon and a folded napkin, pushed the sugar bowl toward him. She leaned against the kitchen counter, holding her own mug with both hands.

“Well, Kenna Wilkes doesn’t exist, far as I can see,” Jake said, stirring.

“Sure she does,” Jane said. “I’ve seen her.”

Jake took a tentative sip. Put his mug back on the table. “Well, you saw
someone
. But there is no Kenna Wilkes. Not that my assistant can find, anyway.”

“Really? You looked her up in your woo-woo secret police files, whatever you guys have? Why?”

“Yup. We did. What’s she to you, anyway? When Tuck mentioned her name, I thought she was a bridge killer victim. So I—”

“Kenna Wilkes isn’t a bridge killer victim. She isn’t dead.”

“Well, whatever. That’s what I thought at the time. So we checked out the name, and there’s no record of her. Registry of motor vehicles, social security, criminal history. Nothing.”

Jane watched the steam twirl up from her tea. Watched Jake, one arm draped over the ladder-back of her kitchen chair, legs stretched out on the hardwood floor. Just the two of them. A Sunday afternoon. If the world were different, they’d be luxuriating, reading the papers, watching an old movie, sharing a bowl of popcorn. Or ripping each other’s clothes off, if wishes came true. But here they were talking about murder, and danger, and now he was telling her an impossible thing. That Kenna Wilkes didn’t exist.