The Other Woman (31 page)

“Well, you’ve knocked this one out of the ballpark,” Alex said. “I’m thinkin’ no more six-month tryout. We’ll have to keep the networks from grabbing you away from us, when this thing hits the fan.”

The room was silent for a moment. “It’s a big story,” Jane finally said.

Alex’s intercom buzzed. “Victoria on line two,” a woman’s voice squawked through.

“I’ll call her right back,” Alex said into the speaker. He gave Jane a look. Then held up his left hand. “My wife. Soon-to-be ex-wife.”

“Oh, I’m—” Jane scrambled for the appropriate response. Sorry? Happy? She couldn’t help but look at his fourth finger.
Nothing
. Hot Alex was suddenly soon-to-be available. Amy would go ballistic. Send her a subscription to
Brides
magazine.

“Anyway.” Alex waved away the moment, changing the subject. “Back to Kenna Wilkes. We need to work this out. We need to be careful. The election is only eight days away. We can’t accuse—”

“Like I said, we should call the campaign first.” Jane nodded, relieved to be back on track. “See what they say. And
who
they’re going to say she is.”

“Well, they’d never admit she’s—”

“The other woman,” Jane said. She took out her cell phone. This was such a crossroads. “I know. Amazing. I can’t wait to hear what they do say. I’m calling. Right now.”

52

The shower had been a great idea. Steaming soapy water, coursing over his shoulders, washing away the fear, washing away the memories, washing away that morning’s news conference, washing away everything but his determination. Matt had used all the towels from the hotel’s racks, wrapping himself dry, rubbing away two days of craziness. He’d called in sick to his office, grabbed a take-out lunch from the hotel coffee shop. Now well fed, clean shaven, in pressed Levi’s, shirt and tie, and leather jacket, he knew what he had to do.

He stood in front of Lassiter headquarters, one gloved hand ready to push the revolving doors. He couldn’t make himself do it.

A gaggle of laughing campaign types swarmed ahead of him, young girls with Lassiter buttons on their puffy vests, one wearing a hat with two Lassiter buttons on wires, sticking out like political antennae. “Don’t forget to vote next week,” one girl called as she pushed against the door.

The door revolved and campaign headquarters swallowed them up, leaving Matt standing outside. He reviewed his plan, one more time. Go in. Maybe that Deenie person who’d told him about Springfield would help him. He’d find Owen. Go from there.

Besides, he was here with good news, right? He decided he would promise Owen—his father—he’d keep quiet about their relationship until
Owen
wanted to make it public. He wasn’t here to create problems. The way he’d dealt with Holly proved that, right? He wasn’t going to mention that, of course.

He would finally be Matthew Lassiter again. No longer left behind, no longer forgotten, no longer erased from his family. His mother, bitter and divisive, had moved them to Philadelphia and changed their names to Galbraith, but he was really Matthew Lassiter. And he was part of the solution.

He put his hand on the glass and metal door, ready to push through. Then he stopped.

Maybe he should—forget it. Go to one campaign event, get one close-up glimpse of his father, call it even. Maybe now wasn’t the right time to show himself. Election day looming, a tight race, maybe Matt’s very existence would ruin it all, and where would that leave their relationship? Someday they’d meet properly. Someday his father would accept him. Treat him as a real son.

He patted his pockets, wishing for cigarettes. Instead, he felt Holly’s car keys. And the paper with Jane Ryland’s phone number. Reminding him of what happened.

With that, Matt straightened his shoulders, pushed on the metal bar, and stepped inside as the glass door began to turn.
Turning point,
this is what they mean by that.

The fluorescent lights in the headquarters lobby glinted on the polished marble floors; march music blared through unseen speakers; red, white, and blue bunting draped across the ceiling and looped down the walls. Huge posters of Owen and Moira Lassiter lined one side of the lobby. But it was the front desk that commanded Matt’s attention.

The woman at the front desk was not Deenie Bayliss.

He stared. Felt his heart threaten to break through his chest. Felt every memory of every year of his life and every year of his loss flood back over him, swallow him, suffocate him, overwhelm him.

His lips went dry; he knew his voice would never work.

What was
she
doing here?

He took a step closer, put both palms on the reception desk. Tried to think of what to say.

“Cissy?” He heard his voice rasp, didn’t sound like himself.

The woman lifted her head.

She had her mother’s eyes. Same as his.

“Hello, Cissy,” he croaked again.

The woman stood slowly, not taking those eyes off him. “No,” she said. “No.”

“Yes,” Matt said. “But—”

She ripped off the telephone headset, put her hands to her mouth, scanning the room. They were alone. She darted from behind the desk, clutched Matt’s arm with a vise of manicured fingers, hissed into his ear.

“You idiot. Get out of here.”

She pulled him through the lobby, stumbling once in her high heels, pushed him into the revolving door, herself right behind him, the door moving fast, spilling them onto the sidewalk. He still towered over her.

She jabbed a forefinger into his chest. Her eyes narrowed; spots of color flamed her cheekbones. “Get out of here. Now. Leave. Oh, my god, you’ll spoil everything. What in hell are you
doing
here?” She turned away, as if to go back inside, then whirled to face him. “No. I don’t even want to know. Just—go. You didn’t see me, you don’t know me. Good-bye.”

“Five minutes.” He grabbed her arm, thin under the soft black sweater, stopping her. “That’s all. We have to talk. You need to know that—”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need to know anything.”

But she let him draw her into a little alleyway next to the building, into a shadow, out of sight. Cissy needed to know about Holly Neff. What he’d done. Everything. Holly’s plan. It was just as dangerously destructive to his little sister as it was to Owen. Cissy needed to know they were all in it together. A family again. Their father just didn’t know it yet.

With a start, Matt realized what
he
needed to know.

“Hey,” he said. He didn’t let go of Cissy’s arm. “What are
you
doing here?”

*   *   *

“See, Jakey? I told you. She’s not there. She’s supposed to be at the front desk, and she’s not. Look,” Jane whispered, pointing at the window fronting Lassiter headquarters. The
Register
’s lawyers had insisted Jane call the police with what she knew about Kenna Wilkes. She and Alex had protested, a united front, arguing about breaking news, headlines, and the separation of journalists and law enforcement. Alex had been terrific, supportive, genuinely on her side. Still, they’d lost. And now she was in a position she shouldn’t be in—cooperating with the cops. Making a deal.

With Jake.

Quid pro quo. They’d reveal the identity of Kenna Wilkes, the newest murder victim; the police would give them the exclusive. Not the most desirable situation, but the cards had been dealt. It was a great story, that was for sure, and gave her massive brownie points at the paper. And getting such a good lead on the case might make Jake look good to his superiors.
She
was the one helping
him
now. It evened the score.

“So did you call?” Jake peered through the window, cupping his hands along each side of his face to block the light.

“I wanted to. But Alex insisted we come check it out in person. I guess he’s right. Better to gauge the reactions face-to-face.”

“Pretty empty in there,” Jake said. “Guess everyone’s still at lunch. Interesting, though. We know Kenna Wilkes must be a fake name.”

“Yeah.” Shoulder almost touching Jake’s, Jane put her face close to the window, wanting to see inside again for herself. “She pretended to be registered to vote. She was hiding something, that’s for sure. So either she was fooling the heck out of everyone here at Lassiter headquarters—or they’re complicit in whatever she was up to.”

“Or both,” Jake said, turning to her. “Could be her intentions wound up making her some enemies.”

“Which means—you think someone in the Lassiter campaign killed her?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out, right?”

“I love it when you talk cop. Shall we get this show on the road?” Jane smiled, bursting with excitement at what was about to unfold. It was sad, of course. Someone was dead. But in journalism and in law enforcement, you couldn’t ignore the satisfaction of getting to say,
case closed
. “I can’t believe we’re working on a story together.”

“I could get used to it if you can, Janey. Maybe we could arrange a little after-hours research—”

“Jake, you read me?” DeLuca’s voice crackled over the two-way.

“Loud and clear,” Jake said. He shrugged at Jane. “Two seconds.”

“You someplace secure?” DeLuca said.

“Not exactly.” Jake’s eyebrows raised. “Stand by one, D.”

Jane pointed to herself, then to the front door. She mouthed the words,
I’ll go in
.

Hell, no,
Jake mouthed back. He grabbed her wrist. Letting go, he put a finger to his lips, signaling her to keep quiet.

“Go ahead, D,” he said into the radio.

“You know that search warrant you asked for? For Patti Vick’s studio?”

Patti Vick?
Jane leaned in, eyes widening. They’d searched Arthur Vick’s wife’s studio? Jane knew from her stories it was in one of the Fort Point buildings. Near where Kenna was found. She struggled to make sense of it. Was Arthur Vick connected to Kenna Wilkes, too?

“Why did—?” she whispered.

Jake glared at her, warning her to keep quiet. “Copy that.”

“You have the address?”

“Ten-four.”

“Then you better get over here.”

53

“She threatened me,” Matt said. Standing in the alley, he held out both hands to his sister, pleading his case. Trying to make her understand. The October sun barely filtered through the narrow space between buildings. Cissy must be freezing in that thin sweater. She was calling herself Kenna Wilkes, she’d said, but she was Cissy Galbraith to him.

He told his sister, fast as he could, about Holly, and B-school, and what he’d revealed to her, and what happened after he saw Holly’s photo in the paper. “She was going to ruin my life. And yours, too, Cissy. And, most important, our father’s life.”

“So you killed her? Are you crazy?” Cissy ignored his explanations, frowning with disbelief. She put her hands on top of her head, took a few steps away from him, farther down the alley, then turned back, hands outstretched. “Please tell me it was an accident. We can go to the police. We can tell them you snapped, or she threatened you, or she tripped, or she—”

“Yes, yes, of course it was an accident.”
She has to understand.
“I didn’t mean to. I hadn’t planned to. I only wanted to stop her. She was sabotaging our father’s campaign. She was going to ruin him, make it look like he was having an affair with her. And I couldn’t have that happen. I couldn’t!”

“You idiot,” Cissy said.

Her head was shaking back and forth, like their mother’s used to whenever she was upset. He hated that. He wished she would stop it. He wished she would listen to him. “Cissy, that’s not all.”

“Oh, dear god, what else?” Cissy looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get back inside. They’ll be freaking, wondering where I am. And I have my own—ah. So what, Matt, what now?”

“She told a reporter. Jane Ryland, at the newspaper. Mailed her a bunch of stuff, incriminating-looking stuff, about Holly and our father. Holly has photos. Of the two of them together. And now Jane Ryland has them.”

“Holly Neff? And Owen Lassiter?” Cissy’s forehead furrowed, as if she were deciphering a secret code. “Jane Ryland?”

“Yes, and so you’ve got to be ready. Any time now, this Jane Ryland could show up at Lassiter headquarters. When she does, it means all hell’s about to break loose. We have to stop it.”

“Holly Neff? And Owen Lassiter?” Cissy said the names again, deliberately, syllable by syllable, like she couldn’t quite make them compute.

Matt raised his hands, frustrated.
Doesn’t she get it?
“The pictures aren’t real, you know? They never really—I mean, he didn’t even know her. Let alone have a torrid affair with her. But she said the media would buy it all, instantly, and wouldn’t get to the real truth until it was too late. And she’s right, you know? The more he denied it, the more they wouldn’t believe it. The headlines and speculation alone would— What?” Matt stopped, midsentence, baffled. Cissy was suddenly smiling. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He saw his sister take a deep breath, then look up through the narrow band of still-blue sky. “Let’s go inside,” she said. “It’s cold out here.”

*   *   *

“So you have to leave? Right
now
?” Jane stamped a foot, annoyed. Bad enough to have to take Jake with her as she revealed the identity of the city’s newest murder victim and political paramour. Now Jake wanted her to wait?

“See?” She patted her tote bag. “Now
my
phone’s ringing. But am I answering it?
No.
So I don’t see why you—”

“Search warrant. I’ve got to be there. There’s no way I can—”

“Oh, no, Jakey, we’re doing this,” Jane insisted. Her phone stopped ringing.
Good
. “And
then
you can go do your search warrant thing. In fact, I might go with you. Arthur Vick won’t get any less guilty if we wait fifteen minutes. Then I can go write my page-one, blockbuster-headlined, Channel-Eleven-can-eat-my-dust career-making story, and you can go catch the bad guy. Okay?”

“Sorry, Janey, there’s no choice.” Jake zipped up his leather jacket.