The Other Woman (35 page)

Maitland stood, placing his palms wide apart, flat on his desk. His eyes on the pictures.

“Deenie’s gone for coffee, Mr.—” A voice from behind, at the office door. Jane turned to see who was interrupting.

Kenna Wilkes.

59

Jane Ryland is in Rory’s office.
That could not be a good thing. Luckily Kenna had been in the press room when the reporter showed up. As soon as she heard who’d arrived, she raced upstairs, sent Deenie for coffee, and staked out Rory’s office for herself.

Jane had to be showing Rory the photos Holly sent, just as Matt predicted. She couldn’t believe her brother’s crazy ex—or whatever she was—had geeked herself up as that mousy Hannah woman, gotten inside that way. But she, Kenna, was the only one besides Matt who knew that. So no problem there, at least. Matt, now packing to leave town, told her Holly had never been to Lassiter headquarters as herself.

“Kenna, come in. This is Jane Ryland, a reporter for the
Register
. Jane, this is—”

“We’ve met,” Kenna said with a smile, entering and standing in front of the bank of darkened televisions. She looked at Rory for direction, got nothing. “Hello, Jane.”

“Kenna, Miss Ryland is preparing a story on campaign volunteers. Pitched it to Trevor. And she asked him whether you’d be interested in participating. Tell why you’re involved in the Lassiter campaign.”

My, my. One door closes, another opens
.

Kenna’s smile was genuine this time. “Well, of course,” she said. She perched on a chair, crossing one leg over the other, flapping closed the front slit of her black pencil skirt. In full interview mode. “This close to the election, I’m delighted for the public to hear how wonderful Owen Lassiter is. How beneficial he’ll be for Massachusetts. Much more effective than that Eleanor Gable. And I think—”

“So, Jane, let’s arrange for you two to connect at some point,
later
.” Rory cleared his throat, interrupting. He came out from behind his desk, moving toward the door.

Ah. Got it
. Kenna stood quickly and turned in the same direction. “Miss Ryland? Come to my desk downstairs and arrange a time. Maybe at—” She looked at Rory. “My house?”

“One moment, please.” Ryland was frowning. Holding that piece of paper. “I was asking you, Mr. Maitland, about this sketch. So since Miss Wilkes is here, let me ask her, too. Do you recognize this woman?”

The reporter held up what looked like one of those police drawings. Pencil. Black and white. She’d never seen that face before. Still, she feared it had to be the real Holly Neff.

The truth was one thing. What Kenna needed to say was another.

“Just
if
you’ve seen her before,” Jane said, moving the picture closer to her. “Around the campaign. Or anywhere.”

“I’ve never seen that woman, no,” Kenna said. True-ish enough.

Besides, what did it matter what she told a stupid reporter? It wasn’t like it was the cops. She’d have to talk with Matt. Get their stories straight.

“How about this person?” Jane held up a photograph.

Now what?
This was clearly one of the photos Matt warned her about. The same woman with Owen Lassiter, smiling, arm in arm. Ryland had apparently received Holly’s little gift. The reporter was “sharing” it, exactly as Matt feared. But Kenna just might have figured out how to make it all work. Because, thanks to big brother Matt, she knew what to expect.

The fly in the ointment, potentially, was Rory. How he’d handle this. But
his
truth was, he’d never knowingly met Holly. Hannah didn’t count.

It was up to Kenna. She took the photo from Jane.
Holly and Lassiter at some rally.
“No,” she said. “I’ve never seen her.”

“How about this one?” Jane held up yet another photo.

Holly and Owen arm in arm on the Boston Esplanade. Funny, she and Rory had been there that day. Her first day on the job. “No,” she replied.
Oh, so baffled
. “Who is she?”

“Miss Ryland, I don’t know where you’re going with this.” Rory stepped in front of Kenna, as if to steer her out of the room. “I told you, that person is not connected with the campaign. Every photo you’ve shown includes dozens of people, they’re clearly taken at public events. The candidate is on his way to one of them this very minute, in fact. We hope there’ll be Lassiter supporters there. We actually invite them. We even encourage them to take photos.”

Kenna stood back, taking it in. Rory’s sarcasm was making this even better.

“Someone’s sent you pictures of the candidate at public events. That’s pretty darn newsworthy, Miss Ryland.” Maitland held out an arm, dramatically showing Jane the door. “I know where you can get a whole lot more, exactly like that. In the newspaper. Every day. We done?”

I hope not,
Kenna thought.
We’re just getting to the good part.

*   *   *

“You’re so right, Mr. Maitland, they
are
public places. But look at
this
photo,” Jane said. She pulled out another snapshot. Showed it to Maitland, then to Kenna, then back to Maitland. She was taking a chance with the next question. “It appears to be in the candidate’s office. Lassiter’s personal desk. Doesn’t it? That’s hardly a public place.”

Jane waited, taking in the silence. Maitland and Kenna—
who is she, anyway?—
exchanged glances.

“Look here, in the reflection of the glass display case. You can see the person taking the photo. Hard to tell, certainly, but it could be the same woman.”

No one was correcting her.

“And since it
is
the governor’s private office, who took this photo? And how did the person who sent it to me get this photograph without having some connection to the governor?”

Maitland gave a snort, dismissive. “I beg you. The number of people who are brought to his fourth-floor private office to meet—”

“Exactly,” Jane said. “Who brought her? Cards on the table. This woman is dead. She’s connected to the campaign. She knows Owen Lassiter. If you don’t know who she is, I’m sure someone on your staff does. Whoever took her into the governor’s fourth-floor office. I’m not leaving until someone tells me her name.”

Kenna was edging toward the door. Maitland raised a hand to stop her, gave a half shake of his head.
What is that about?

“And while you’re considering that, one more thing.” Jane displayed the picture in front of her, one hand holding the corner, the forefinger of the other pointing to a certain place on the photo. “See this big book on the governor’s desk? There’s a Magic Marker circle around it. Why?”

60

“Do you have any idea who this man is?” Jake showed Barbara Bellafiore the framed photo from Holly Neff’s dresser. It showed Holly with a youngish guy, both wearing gray Red Sox sweatshirts and navy baseball caps. “Did Miss Neff tell you his name?”

“’Scuse me, Jake?” Darrell “Humpty” James knocked on the doorjamb of apartment 43. He was already wearing his purple nitrile gloves. Humpty’s search team—Officer Kim lugging her trace evidence kit and Big Joe laden with his camera equipment—trooped behind him into Holly’s living room.

Humpty scanned the array of photographs covering two walls, shot Jake a
mother-a-gawd
glance. “Okay if we start? We looking for anything in particular?”

“DeLuca’s in the back.” Jake cocked a thumb toward the first bedroom. “He’ll give you the lowdown.”

The building manager, two-page warrant now in hand, watched the search team tramp through. “At least she didn’t die here,” Barbara said, almost to herself. “Won’t be a problem to rent the place again.”

Jake figured that didn’t need a response.

“Ma’am? We don’t have much more for you. Just this.” Jake held up the framed photo again. Hard to see the guy’s face, his baseball cap low on his forehead, mirrored sunglasses. His arm looped over Holly’s shoulders. Background looked like a park or something, a lake.
Could be anywhere.
Before Jake removed the framed photo from Holly’s dresser, he’d taken a snap of it with his phone. “Just confirming. Miss Neff told you he was her boyfriend, but didn’t say his name?”

Barbara shrugged, folded the warrant into thirds, and stuck it into the waistband of her skirt. “Wish I could remember,” she said. “But—no, I don’t think so. Names, you know. Why would I remember?”

“I understand, ma’am. If it comes to you—” Jake handed her his business card. “—you call me, okay? Or if anyone comes by asking you about her? You’ll let me know.”

“I could stay, you know. Help.” The building manager craned her neck, looking toward the bedrooms where DeLuca and the others would be digging through drawers and burrowing into closets. Joe’s flashbulbs popped. “Maybe they need—”

“We’re fine, ma’am,” Jake said. Death always had a strange effect on the living. Barbara had been shocked, of course, initially. Took her about ten minutes to start rerenting the victim’s apartment. Now she wanted to poke through Holly’s personal property. Jake put a hand under the woman’s elbow, escorting her to the door. “We’ll inform you when we’ve completed the search. Thank you so much for your help. I’m sorry for the loss.”

“The? Oh. Yeah.” Barbara looked as if she’d just remembered why they were all here. Touched the warrant in her waistband. “Thank you.”

Jake reached for his BlackBerry as the woman—eyes glued to the search team—backed toward the door.
People.
He cued up his photo of Holly and the boyfriend. Punched in Jane’s e-mail, typed a message. “U recognize?”

He paused, thumb over the Send key, considering.

*   *   *

Jane faced the corner of the Lassiter headquarters lobby, trying for privacy on her cell phone call.

“I know, Alex, but what was I supposed to do? I tried, but I can’t demand to go upstairs into Lassiter’s office with them, you know? To see what’s in that book that was circled?”

Not many people were around. Jane had watched the curved streetlights glow into intensity, glaring now through the lobby’s front windows. Headlights flashed by on Causeway Street.

“Maitland promised to tell you what was in it?” Alex said. “Oh, like that’ll happen.”

Her face probably reflected the same skepticism.
This stinks.

“Yeah, I agree. Whatever’s in there, they’re never going to tell me. Like I said, they’re insisting they have no idea who the woman is.” Jane shrugged, even though Alex couldn’t see her. “I say, we go with this no matter what. We have the photos, we have the sketch. They match. If the campaign bigwigs insist they don’t recognize her, then fine, we quote them. We’re running the sketch of her on the Web site already, right?”

“Yup. We put it up after the news conference.”

“No one’s called in to say they recognize her?”

“Nope.”

“I wonder about that. I mean, if she’s from around here—”

“Jane?” Alex interrupted. “Hang on a second.”

Jane kept the phone to her ear, examining the now-quiet headquarters lobby. The reception desk, empty. A phone console and a chair. Where Kenna sat. Empty.

Jane’s fingers itched to open a desk drawer or two. See what she could find out about Kenna.
Find out about Kenna
. A memory struggled to emerge, something about …
Oh.
She clamped the phone between her ear and shoulder, pulled her laptop from her bag.

Since Kenna was upstairs, no reason why she couldn’t use her desk, right? She perched on the edge of Kenna’s chair to indicate she was not really sitting there, just visiting. Flopped open the laptop, punched in her code. She hadn’t found a second, yet, to look up the address Trevor gave her. This was a perfect time. The site flickered open.

Town of Deverton. Assessor’s office.
Click.
463 Constitution. Last sale, five years ago.
Click.
Current assessment.
Click
. $567,000. Owner.
Click.
The screen flashed.

And she saw the name.

“Jane? You still there?”

“Alex, yeah, I’m here. Listen to this. You know that—”

“Wait, Jane, let me tell you something first.”

“But this is—”

“Jane? They’ve got the ID of the victim. The police. They have the ID of the Fort Point body. Tuck found out.”

The computer screen popped to black. Jane hit Enter to bring it back, staring at it, unseeing.

Was this a good thing? To have the victim’s identity? No matter what Tuck knew, Jane had the line on the campaign connection. The photos were sent to
her,
not Tuck. The Lassiter relationship story—whatever it was—also belonged to
her.
Not Tuck. Or was Tuck about to pull the whole rug out from under her? Would Alex let that happen?

“What’s her name?” Jane managed to ask. At least she was right here at campaign central. Once she knew the name, she could quickly ask about it.
Someone
here would have to recognize her. Have heard of her.

“Don’t know. Tuck’s on her way to get it,” Alex said. “She’s not sure how long it’ll take.”

“Are we running a story that there’s an ID? In the online edition?”

“Not yet,” Alex said. “Got to have one more source. Tuck’ll call as soon as she has it. Jane? Wait. My other line. Maybe this is her. Hang on.”

Jane pressed her lips together, chin in hands, elbows on desk. Nothing to do now but wait.

And think
. Jake knows about this. He has to. And he must have realized the same thing I did
. This victim, whatever the heck her name turns out to be, is connected with the campaign.
The minute I hang up, I’m calling him. On his cell. Forget protocol.

“Nope, not Tuck.” Alex was back on the line. “Anyway. Jane. Your turn. What’s happening on your end?”

Jane watched the elevator lights come on. Heard the mechanism clunk and slide. On the way down. Could be Kenna and Maitland. If so, that meant right now, instantly, she and Alex had to figure out how to handle her discovery.

“Alex. Listen. You remember I told you Kenna Wilkes—”

“Or whatever her name is,” Alex interrupted.