The Other Woman (27 page)

“How do I look?” she asked. She posed like a fashion model, then twirled in front of him. She still wore her extra-tight running pants, and—bad Holly, she gave her body a little extra shimmy as she turned to face him, posing. Her face felt flushed from the cold and the warmth of her drink and the rush of being with Matt again.

“You look great,” he said.

He was so cute, acting awkward and tongue-tied. Maybe because she was so close.

She risked it, then, putting her arm—wearing his jacket!—through the crook of his elbow. “You know best,” she whispered into his ear.

A long wooden ramp, like a sidewalk, stretched out in front of them. It led to a little park, and she could see the lights of a carousel twinkling in the distance.

“Oh, Matt, a merry-go-round! Shall we go see it?”

“Lead the way,” he said.

Was he pulling her even closer? He was, he really was. She could smell the beer on him, just like he used to smell, and wondered if she smelled like sweetness and sugar and whiskey, and whether he liked that.

“You haven’t told me why you’re in Boston,” Matt said, interrupting her thoughts.

She looked up into his eyes—
those eyes, I remember them so perfectly
—then down at her feet, biting her lip, trying to figure this out. They were close to the merry-go-round now, and the lights were on, all sparkly on the colorful horses and bejeweled elephants and curlicued carriages. Holly’s thoughts were almost like a merry-go-round, she realized, spinning too fast for her to catch.

She would tell him when they got to the carousel, she decided. Maybe they could sit on a bench by the water, the two of them, and she would tell him the whole thing.

Yes. She would.

46

“Let the record show it’s Monday, October thirty-first, at nine twenty-seven
A.M.
, and this interview is taking place in the law offices of—” Jake paused his tape recorder, checking the stiff white business card in his hand. He took his finger off the Pause key and continued. “—law offices of Macording, McMurdow, Rothmann, and Lunt, 90 Canal Street, Boston. Present are myself, Detective Jake Brogan, as well as Detective Paul DeLuca, attorney Henry Rothmann, and Mr. Arthur Vick.”

“And me,” came a bleating voice from the beige leather couch.

“And Mrs. Patricia Vick,” Jake continued. “This interview is being conducted with the consent of Mr. Vick, who is being represented for these proceedings by Mr. Rothmann.”

Jake pushed Pause again. “Anything else?”

DeLuca, leaning against the closed office door, circled a weary forefinger
. Roll tape.

Henry Rothmann, lawyer-perfect in tailored navy blue and no-doubt-pricey tie, posted himself behind Arthur Vick’s leather club chair, testy and protective as a wing-tipped pit bull. His client, in chinos and a monogrammed crew neck sweater, rubbed a smudge from his tasseled loafers. “For the record, my client is not under arrest and is free to go whenever he chooses.” He placed one defending hand on his client’s shoulder.

Vick shrugged it off. “Let’s get the show on the road,” he said.

Jake hit Record. “And Mr. Vick is not under arrest and is free to leave. Now, Mr. Vick. We have previously discussed your employee Amaryllis Roldan. Where were you on the night of—”

“You asked him this already.” Patricia Vick, balancing a yellow spiral notebook on her lap, brandished a stubby black Sharpie at Jake, then pointed it at Rothmann. “Didn’t they, Henry? And we told him, Artie was home the night that girl was killed. With me. And listen, Mr., um, Detective. He was with me on the nights those other girls were killed, too. You wanna know where he was
every
night? Fine. Last night, my birthday party. At my studio. Any other nights you’d like to hear about?”

“Mrs. Vick, you’re only here because your husband insisted that—,” DeLuca said.

“Actually, my client’s wife is correct here, gentlemen,” the lawyer interrupted. “Asked and answered. Let’s move on.”

“This isn’t a court proceeding, Mr. Rothmann,” Jake said.
Lawyers.
“We can ask anything we want. However often we want.”

“I was with my wife.” Arthur Vick made a dismissive gesture. “Next question.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “Are you acquainted with an Amaryllis Roldan?”

“Henry!” Patti Vick’s voice hit the ceiling. She plunked down the bag, spilling out a black plastic compact and a battered package of tissues. “Are you going to let them—?”

“Mr. Vick?” Jake ignored the woman.

“As you well know, she was a Beacon Market employee,” Vick said. His voice dripped elaborate boredom. “I have hundreds of employees. Obviously. Do I know each and every one of them? Obviously not.”

“But did you know Miss Roldan?”

“I did not.”

“How about Kylie Howarth?” Jake said. “Does that name ring a bell?”

“Who? How do you spell that?” Patricia Vick’s pen hovered over her notebook. “Like, Howard?”

“Mrs. Vick? We’re fine here, we’re on tape,” Rothmann said. He remained at his post, standing sentry beside his client’s chair. “Arthur? You don’t have to answer that.”

“Hell I don’t,” Vick said. “Never heard of her.”

“She didn’t try out for—?” Kylie’s parents had told them yesterday at the airport that their daughter’s suicide note indicated she’d applied for a job at Beacon Markets, wanted to be in the company’s commercials, but became despondent because she hadn’t been called back for a second audition.

“What part of
never
don’t you understand?” Vick said.

“Fine. Never. Interesting. Noted.” Jake checked the tape recorder. Rolling. “Sellica Darden,” he said.

“And we’re done,” Rothmann said, brushing his palms together. “Thank you, Officers, but—”

“What about Sellica Darden?” Vick’s mouth twisted into an almost-smile.

“That woman,” Patti Vick said. “Should have gone to jail. That woulda saved her. No offense.”

“Jake?” DeLuca’s voice came from the doorway. He was looking at his cell phone screen. “I need a moment in private.” He slid his phone back into his inside jacket pocket, then cocked his head toward the door.
Outta here
.

Jake hit the Off button, stopping the tape recorder, then looked up, trying to read his partner’s face. But DeLuca, hand on the doorknob, was giving him nothing.

“Five minutes?” Jake said. “Okay with everyone?” He surveyed the room. Patti, her Sharpie clicked closed, was punching little pieces of gum from a crackling cellophane and foil package. Vick actually yawned, then pulled out an iPhone.

Rothmann shrugged, smoothing his tie. “Do what you gotta do.”

“What the hell?” Stashing the recorder in a pocket, Jake followed DeLuca down a side hallway, striding to keep up with him. His partner stopped in front of the men’s room door, looking both ways down the corridor.

“Dammit, we need an empty office or someplace,” DeLuca said.

“Paul, whatever it is.” Jake crossed his arms, done. “Rothmann’s waiting for us. Vick’s gonna bail. Just tell me.”

“May I help you?” A bearded guy in a pin-striped suit emerged from the men’s room, adjusting his tie. He considered the two of them. “Are you gentlemen looking for someone?”

“Just the can,” DeLuca said. He caught the heavy wooden door with the flat of his hand, stopping it before it closed. “Thanks.”

“This had better be good,” Jake said. Once inside, DeLuca clanked open each metal stall door. No one else was in the room. The glaring fluorescent lights banged off the white-tiled walls; the place smelled of spearmint and lemon. Jake caught a glimpse of himself in a long polished mirror over a bank of fancy stainless steel sinks. He looked baffled. “You ’bout ready to do this? Before I—”

“That was the supe on the phone.” DeLuca stared at his feet, not at Jake. Then crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s bad. We got bridge victim four.”

Jake was afraid to check the mirror again. No reason to see what screwed looked like. “Water? Bridge? Woman? Sunday night? No ID?”

“You got it,” DeLuca said. “Total cluster f—”

The door creaked open. DeLuca, lightning, slammed it closed before whoever it was could enter. “Out-a-order,” he called out. He leaned against it, bracing his feet on the elaborately tiled floor. “Come back later.”

“What’s the rest?” Jake would find out eventually, might as well be now.

“Found her this morning, some joggers or something. ME says drowning. No bruises, no trauma. By that lobster place, ya know? By the post office.”

“Killed overnight, they think?”

“Yup. TV’s all over it. Newspaper. It’s a shit-storm. Supe’s calling a press conference for this afternoon. Says you and I gotta know something by then. As if.”

“Vick,” Jake said.

DeLuca crossed to the sink, pumped out a pink ribbon of soap, put his hands under the faucet. Cranked his head around to look Jake in the eye. “You think? He’s the Bridge Killer?”

Jake heard the hiss of the water, the buzz of the paper towel reeling out from the motion-activated dispenser. Saw DeLuca hit the wastebasket for two.

“No,” Jake said. “Vick’s an asshole, and he’s lying about something. Maybe about a lot. But a serial killer? Naw. He’s just—not a candidate.”

“So who—?”

“Hell if I know.”

*   *   *

“And you got up to my office
how
?” Rory Maitland was up and out of his chair before Jane got halfway to his desk. Three televisions, sound up full, showed the CNN, HLN, and Channel 11 morning news.

“Elevator,” Jane said, smiling. She raised her voice over the TV sound. “I got here by elevator.” Might as well try a little humor. Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea, barging into his campaign office unannounced, but too late now. “There was no one at the front desk downstairs, or in your outer office, so I took a chance and—”

Maitland punched a red button on his phone console, yelling into the speaker. “Deenie! You out there? Where the hell is everyone?” No response. He puffed out an annoyed sigh, giving up on the phone, then held out both palms, dramatically mystified. “Enlighten me here, Miss Ryland. You ignore the rules, ignore the protocol, ignore Sheila King, ignore security, you sashay up here like a— Where’s the regular
Register
guy, anyway?”

“Mr. Maitland?”
Apologize first, hit him with the Gable bombshell later.
She put on her best beseeching look, contrite. “I’m so sorry, there was just no one to ask, and Sheila didn’t answer her phone, and I really need to talk with you.” She eyed the door. “Privately.”

“Oh, now I get it.” Maitland clicked a silver remote at the television sets, one after the other, jabbing their screens to black. “You’re still dogging us about that pitiful Springfield rally. Listen. Advance team blew it, the candidate is not happy. Old news. You want to find out what happened? Ask those hotel people.”

“No, I—” Jane took one step into the room, testing.

“We have a campaign to win.” Maitland waved the remote at Jane, as if to turn
her
off. “We’re interested in tomorrow, not yesterday. You can quote me. That do it for you, Miss Ryland?”

“Well, it’s not about the rally.” Jane took another step into the office. “You’re right. Old news. It’s just—you know I’ve been trying to get permission to do an interview with Mrs. Lassiter.”

“No can do.” Maitland flipped a palm at her,
forget about it
. “As Sheila King told you. Moira’s exhausted. Taking some time off.”

Sure she is.
Jane nodded, wide-eyed, as if buying his line. “So I hear. But while waiting for her to, uh, come back, I did a little research on her, you know? Now I have a couple of quick questions. About her background.”

Big smile. Notebook out. Wait.

Maitland’s face changed, then changed again before Jane could catalog the emotions morphing by.

He lowered the remote, eyes narrowing at her. “Moira’s background? What about it?”

“Well,” Jane said. “It’s actually less about Mrs. Lassiter, and more about the candidate himself.”

“Have a seat.
Jane.
” He pointed to a tweedy upholstered chair in front of the bank of still-dark TVs. “Now. What’s this really about?”

“Katharine,” Jane said.

Maitland took off his rumpled sport jacket, draped it across the back of his desk chair. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled back his sleeves. Once, twice. He glanced at a chunky Rolex.

He’s stalling,
Jane thought.
Love it.

“Who?” Maitland said.

“You know who I mean,” Jane replied. Keeping it polite. “Owen Lassiter’s first wife. Why is she never mentioned? She’s not in any of your—”

Maitland placed both palms flat on his desk, leaning toward her. His yellow-striped tie flapped forward, the ends touching a stapled pile of documents. “Where are you going with this, Jane?”

Jane put a hand up, conciliatory. “Look. It’s only that I’m doing a profile on Moira Lassiter. If there was another wife, a first wife, that means Moira—”

She stopped, midsentence, realizing exactly what it might mean. It flashed through her mind, fully formed, clear as a memory. It might mean, back then, Moira and Owen had been—having an affair. It might mean that still-married Owen cheated on his wife with Moira. It might mean Moira was now recognizing the signs of Owen’s infidelity because she had seen them firsthand. When Moira was the other woman.

Or, not.

“Excuse me,” Jane said. She pretend-scratched her head. “Lost my train of thought. Anyway. If there was another wife, I was wondering why she’s never mentioned. And where she is now.”

“Jane.” Maitland sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers. “Divorce is hardly an earthshaking event in politics these days. Times change. I mean—Ronald Reagan. Newt Gingrich. Rockefeller. Everyone gets divorced.”

Jane almost burst out laughing. Exactly what Gable had said.
Politicians.
“Yes, Mr. Maitland. I’m aware. So are you telling me Owen Lassiter and Katharine—what was her last name? Are divorced? And if so, when and where? And why? And where is Katharine now?”

“Mr. Maitland?” A voice from behind her. A young woman in a green turtleneck and unfortunate shoes hovered in the doorway holding a brown paper carton of precariously tipping Dunkin’ Donuts cups. “I went for your coffees, and—”