The Other Woman (36 page)

“Yeah, yeah, that’s the point.” The elevator whirred, the sounds getting louder.
Closer
. “That Kenna Wilkes or whatever-her-name-is was not registered to vote in Massachusetts, but yet Lassiter met her at some house in Deverton, where she supposedly lived? Where Trevor Kiernan thought she was registered to vote?”

“Yes, sure, I remember.”

The elevator doors slid open. Jane leaped from the chair, grabbed her laptop, ready to make excuses. But no one got out. The doors slid closed again. Heart racing—
what am I afraid of?—
she picked up where she’d left off.

“Here’s the scoop: I looked up the owner of that address. And the house belongs to—” Jane checked the screen one more time. The indisputable key to Kenna Wilkes was still there, clearly shown in digital black-and-white. Jane took a deep breath. “—Eleanor Gable.”

61

Kenna followed Rory up the rickety metal stairway. She’d punched the button for the elevator, but Rory had waved her off, saying the back elevator was broken, repair guy was coming tomorrow.
Fine
. Almost there.

“So you really have no idea about the book on Owen’s desk?” Kenna said. Such a pain to climb steps in high heels. Men had no clue.

“No.” Rory turned to look back at her over his shoulder. He frowned. “Do you?”

“No, of course not,” Kenna said. That was basically the truth. She was as curious as he was about where this was going.

Rory stopped at the landing, halfway up. Narrowed his eyes at her. Questioning.

She waved him to keep climbing. “Really. No.”

He grabbed the railing, taking two more steps. “But I’m thinking about that woman,” he said, stopping again. “No idea who the frig she is. But she’s dead, and if she’s somehow connected with the campaign, so’s Lassiter. Dead, I mean.”

“I guess it’s not politically correct to have a murdered girl connected to the candidate.” Kenna’s heel caught on an opening in the latticed metal of a step, and she yanked it out with a muttered curse. “Gary Condit. Didn’t do much for his career. Even though he had nothing to do with Chandra Levy’s death.”

“Owen’s going to flip,” Rory said. They were on the landing. “He’ll be back in his office after tonight’s event. I’ll wait till then to tell him.”

Rory clanked open the door, waving Kenna through. The long hallway had been walled off with temporary barriers to keep Lassiter’s office private and secure. “We’ll have to call Sheila King to handle the press. This is a new one, I gotta say. Right before the election. Incredible.”

Kenna knew it was frumpy Hannah who’d taken the private-office snapshot. She’d been in the room that day. Maitland, too, though he obviously didn’t realize it. But what was the deal with the book? Matt hadn’t told her about that little surprise.

They entered the private office. And there it was. Just like in the photo. Owen’s desk, and the big book on the corner.

Kenna watched as Rory picked up the thick leather-bound volume. It looked like an old law book or some such, pale yellow binding, cracking spine, raised red and black letters.

“You think there’s a legal decision about Owen, something like that?” Kenna tried to figure what Holly might have known. “Maybe it’s marked? Why would Owen keep that particular book on his desk?”

“Christ if I know. Mass Code of Laws.” Rory turned the book over, examined the back. Turned it right side up again. “Let’s see if there’s anything obvious, then decide how to handle it.”

She watched Rory open the front cover. Nothing. Open the back cover. Nothing. He held the book by its binding, shaking and flapping the pages above the desk.

A piece of paper floated out, slipped off the edge of the desk, and onto the oriental rug.

Kenna moved to pick it up. Rory was faster.

He stood, paper in hand.

“My, my,” he said.

She couldn’t stand it. “What is it?”

Rory turned the page to face her.

Her eyes widened. This was— She never would have predicted.

A photograph of a woman. The same woman in Ryland’s pictures. The same woman in the police sketch. Holly Neff.

Except in this photo, she wasn’t dead. Far from it.

Here, it was only her. And not much else. She was skin and lace and legs and hair and gloss and breasts and pouting lips. Oozing lust. Oozing promise.

And on the photo, across one extended leg and just touching a scrap of black lace lingerie, an inscription.

Kenna took the photo in hand, read it out loud.

“‘To Owen, with all my admiration and gratitude … after a wonderful afternoon. Here’s to many more.’ Then it says, ‘
xoxo.
Holly Neff.’”

Kenna looked at Rory.

“Xoxo,”
he said. “Who the hell is Holly Neff?”

She handed him the photo, shrugged like,
who knows?
“Jane Ryland is waiting downstairs.”

“Let her wait,” he said.

I have a better idea,
Kenna thought.

*   *   *

“Eleanor Gable? That house belongs to Eleanor Gable?”

Jane closed her laptop as she listened to Alex’s astonishment.

“Yes. Can you believe it? Eleanor Gable’s the owner. Even though we know she lives on Beacon Hill—I was just there, you know? The assessor’s records prove she’s owned the Deverton house for years.”

The lobby was still deserted. After seven o’clock, people must be at dinner, or home. The elevator doors had opened again once or twice, but no one got out. That meant Kenna and Maitland were still upstairs. With whatever they’d found. “So, Alex, why was Kenna Wilkes at Gable’s house? And who the heck is she?”

“Here’s what you do,” Alex told her. “Go to Gable headquarters. Don’t call. Just go. See what she has to say.”

“Okay.…” Jane stared at the scuffed floor. Was that the way to handle it? She stowed her laptop, hefted her tote bag to her shoulder, paced to the front window, then back to the desk. “But Kenna and Maitland are supposed to come down here. Tell me what’s in the book.”

“Oh, forget
that,
” Alex said. “You think for one minute they’re going to? If they do show up, it’ll only be to inform you there was nothing in the book. No question. We’ll never know the real deal.”

That part she agreed with. “True. But I think we should see. This woman’s dead, after all. Gable’s house in Deverton is going to be there whether we confront her about it tonight or tomorrow. And what’s there to confront her about, really? Someone who happens to volunteer for the Lassiter campaign is living at her house? So what?”

Each was silent for a moment. She could almost hear Alex thinking about her question. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Lassiter’s book.
What could be in it?

Maitland and Kenna promised to tell her. If they weren’t coming down, she would go up. She strode to the elevator, confident. Nodding in solidarity with her own decision, she punched the green button.

“Alex? I’m going to push them about the book. But the Gable house—don’t we have to go to Lassiter first?”
And someone else has to be told. The candidate’s wife. She thinks Kenna Wilkes is the other woman. That means—
“And tell Moira? That someone working in the campaign could be in cahoots with Owen’s opponent?”

Jane heard the elevator’s gears and pulleys shift into motion.

Go with what you’ve got.
That’s what she learned in journalism school. What they had were multiple photos of a dead woman with Owen Lassiter, and a photo of a book in Lassiter’s private office that someone—whoever mailed her the photos of Red Coat—had circled. If the campaign mucketies insisted they’d found nothing, and the murder victim had no connection with the campaign or the candidate, fine. Say so. Readers—
voters
—could decide who was telling the truth.

Elections had been lost after the smallest of scandals. This one could be massive.

“One thing at a time,” Alex said. “Call me as soon as—”

Jane poked the Up button again.

And jumped back, startled, as the elevator doors began to slide open.

*   *   *

“You listening?” Kenna had hissed into her cell phone. “I’ve got zero time. I’m in an elevator at Lassiter headquarters. Jane Ryland is down in the lobby. She’s asking questions about Holly Neff, but she’ll be leaving soon. Out the front door. Then meet me here at headquarters at eleven tonight. Fourth floor. Got me?”

“I understand. Did she say Holly’s name? Does she have the photos?”

“Yes, she has the photos. No, she apparently doesn’t have her name.”

The elevator bell pinged at floor one and eased to a stop. She clicked off the phone.

“Yet,” Kenna said.

62

Jane saw Kenna slap her cell phone closed. The woman stepped out of the elevator, alone. She looked both ways, then at the front door, then at Jane. The elevator doors swished closed behind her, framing her black-sweatered curves in glistening burnished silver.

“Alex? Gotta go. Call you right back.” Jane hung up and looked at her expectantly. “Hi, Kenna. So? What did you find? Where’s Rory?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Ryland,” Kenna began.

Her voice, almost a whisper, seemed uncertain. Unhappy.

What is all this about?

“Mr. Maitland says to tell you…,” Kenna continued. She stopped, looked at the floor, moved her black patent toe along a line in the pattern of the tiles. When she looked up, her eyes were welled with tears. “I’m sorry. He says to tell you there was nothing in the book. It was—a law book, the Massachusetts Code of Laws. It was just a book. And he says…”

Jane crossed her arms, waiting. Hiding a smile. Exactly what she and Alex predicted. This woman was the personification of lying. A terrible actress giving an absurd performance. And why was she living in Eleanor Gable’s house?

“And he says…,” Kenna repeated.

Then Kenna’s face hardened. She took a step forward, then another, her eyes darting, side to side. She grabbed Jane, putting one hand on each arm.

“Miss Ryland. I can’t do this,” the woman whispered, leaning close. When a wave of hair fell across her face, she flipped it away, fidgety. “Come outside with me. Just for one moment. Please.”

Suddenly letting go, Kenna hurried through the revolving door. Jane scooped up her belongings and followed.
What the hell?

Kenna turned right, then right again down that little alleyway between the buildings, Jane trotting behind. A lone spotlight illuminated the latticed fire escapes zagging up one side and down the other. The headlights of passing cars flashed, intermittent pulses of light, as Kenna headed deeper into the alley.

Not a chance,
Jane thought, stopping short. There’s no Bridge Killer, that was clear, but she wasn’t stupid enough to walk into a dark alley with anyone. Even a knockout blond source with tears in her eyes.

“Kenna?” Jane stayed in the light, one foot on the sidewalk, in full view of anyone on the street. Safe. Illuminated. She beckoned with one hand. Kept her voice low. “Let’s talk out here, okay? No one’s around.”

“Maitland,” Kenna said. Almost a whisper. She didn’t move.

Maitland?
Jane looked up, scoping out the place. “There’s no windows from headquarters overlooking out here,” she said. “We’re fine.”

Kenna took a step, hesitant, closer to Jane. Then stopped, hands clasped in front of her, forefingers together, pointing. “I’ll say this once. And if you ever, ever tell, I’ll deny it.”

Jane nodded.
What on—?
“Of course. What?”

“We did find something. But Rory will pretend we didn’t.” Kenna’s chin came up, resolute, as if she knew she had irrevocably crossed some line. “He’s lying, Jane. He’s protecting Owen Lassiter. And I can’t … can’t … condone it. I signed up with Lassiter because I thought he was a good guy. An honest, trustworthy candidate. But he’s—I can’t work for someone who—who—” She gulped, the torrent of her words suddenly seeming to catch in her throat.

“It’s okay, I understand.” Jane said.
Yikes.
Now Jane was looking around, checking for Maitland. Or anyone. But they were alone. “What was in the book, Kenna?”

“It was a photograph of that same girl,” Kenna said. “The one you showed us. Only this one was—provocative.”

Jane’s eyebrows went up. Across the street, someone honked, and someone else honked back, battling for a parking space or something.
Shut up.
She didn’t want any distractions. She didn’t want Kenna to change her mind.

The woman’s lower lip trembled, and her now-mournful green eyes didn’t meet Jane’s. She touched her fingers to her mouth, as if it were difficult for her to let the words out. “You know. Sexy. Lingerie. Lace, that kind of thing. And the photo was signed. It said, ‘To Owen. With gratitude for a wonderful afternoon, and hopes for many more.’ I saw it. I guess Owen was … keeping it close to him. But Rory will never let on. He’ll never tell you. He left by the side door to avoid you. And that photo, he’s probably already destroyed it. He’d do anything to win this election. Anything.”

“Signed?” Now it was Jane’s turn to whisper. “With what name?”

A car whizzed by, then another, raking Kenna with headlights. She darted back into the shadows, then emerged. One step, then another. She looked into the street, wary, watching a car that eased by.

“What name?” Jane repeated.
Come on, honey
. Rory was already gone. And this woman—whoever she really was—was about to bolt.

“Holly Neff.
N-e-f-f.
” Her hand darted forward, grabbing Jane’s arm again. “I know you can keep a secret. I read about you. I know you protect your sources. Now you have to protect me.”

63

Who the hell is Holly Neff? And who the hell is Kenna Wilkes?
Talking on the phone while driving a stick shift in Boston evening traffic. Fine, she could handle it. She had to call Jake. And Moira. And damn it, she had to find out about the Deverton connection. Maybe Kenna didn’t even know who owned the house. But she had to call Alex first.

Jane punched in the number, pulled out of her space, waited two rings, filled Alex in at light speed.