The Other Woman (39 page)

Jane took another step.

Matt knew exactly what she was about to see. His name.

It was time.

67

“Unacceptable. Unacceptable!”

Henry Rothmann practically frothed at the mouth. In interrogation room C, Styrofoam cups littered the yellowing burn-pocked table and Arthur Vick did not look like a happy camper. His lawyer, tie askew and once-slick hair now tufted above each ear, was also a member of the unhappy camp.

Jake knew the news he was about to deliver would make them even more unhappy.

“Mr. Vick? Your wife is here,” Jake said. He nodded at Rothmann. “I’m afraid we’ll have to get your statement before we allow you to see her, however.”

“Unacceptable! You arrested my client at approximately one
P.M.
today. It is now ten
P.M
. You—absurdly—charged him with murder. According to case law,
Commonwealth versus Rosario,
my client must be arraigned before a judge or magistrate, without unnecessary delay, and clearly this is—”

“Ah, yes,” DeLuca said. He leaned against the wall, dramatically dismayed. “Thing is—”

Jake shot him a look. “Mr. Rothmann, you are, of course, correct. However, by the time we all arrived here at headquarters, and we contacted the magistrate, it was well past closing time for the court. As a result, your client is scheduled to be arraigned in Suffolk Superior Court at nine tomorrow morning. That, I’m afraid, is the best I can do.”

“That’s—” Rothmann flapped his yellow legal pad at Jake. “Preposterous. And a clear violation of the speedy trial decision.”

“Feel free to explain that to the judge,” Jake said. “Tomorrow. As for your client, we’ve got him on motive, means, and opportunity. He knew the victim, he had access to the drugs that incapacitated her before her death, he had proximity to the location of the deceased.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” Arthur Vick’s voice growled, rising from deep in his throat. His shirt had come untucked. His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot. A splotch of coffee stained his once-pristine sweater. “This is bull. Complete bull. I never did anything.”

“I’m so interested to hear your story, Mr. Vick, all you know about Sellica Darden,” Jake said.
How the mighty hath fallen.
He flipped open a folding chair and sat down, facing the defendant. “You’re facing life without parole, you know. In Cedar Junction. Maximum security. Where your clothes will still be monogrammed. But with
DOC
. Department of Correction. In case your lawyer has not informed you.”

“And your colleagues will not be pretty girls,” DeLuca put in. “Though they may think
you
are kinda cute.”

Rothmann planted himself in front of his client. “Not a word, Arthur,” he said. “Do not. Open. Your mouth.”

Jake smiled, pleasant, infinitely patient. “Your call. No problem. I’ll go see what
Mrs.
Vick has to tell us.”

*   *   *

Jane could hear her own breathing. The muck of the soft ground under her boots, the tips of her fingers cold even through her gloves.
Matthew
. Matt. The guy from the news conference was Katharine Lassiter’s son. Owen Lassiter’s son.

Why was that a secret?

She snapped off the flashlight, tucked it under her arm, and crouched low to the ground, flapping her coat underneath her to keep it from dragging in the mud. Stared at the headstone. She reached out, touched the letters. So not only had Owen Lassiter been married once before, but he also had kids. They’d be Moira Lassiter’s stepchildren. Certainly standard practice these days—everyone had stepkids. Why were they out of the picture?

And why did Matt—was he Matt
Lassiter
?—show up at the police news conference? He’d said he had a story for her. And then—he’d been with Kenna Wilkes.

“So now you know.”

Startled at the voice, Jane stood, too quickly, wobbled off balance, falling against the pink marble. Crying out, she tried to catch herself, one rubber boot sliding in the slick grass, one hand clutching at the air, the flashlight dropping from under her arm.

No use. Her ankle wrenched under her weight. She landed, hard, on the ground, splotches of cold dampness instantly soaking through her wool coat. Breaking her fall with one hand, her wrist slammed the hard stone of the next grave.

She looked up to see—
Matt?

Matt was making no move to help her. He stood, looking down at her, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “And since you
know,
that’s a problem,” he said. “Even my father doesn’t know. That I’m here. Who I am. And he’s not going to know. Until
I
tell him. Not
you
.”

“Matt?” She smiled, trying not to act as terrified as she was.
Lassiter doesn’t know he has a son?
Wait—“doesn’t know—that I’m here,” Matt had said. So Lassiter knew Matt existed, just not that he was in Boston.

Why does that matter to him? What in hell is this guy doing at the cemetery? How does he know I’m here? He must have—followed me?

She eyed her car.
Time to get out of here. Fast.
“What a surprise. Guess I lost my footing there.”

Matt stared at her, silent.

Not good.
Not good.
She was down, and small. He was up, and big. And not talking. She leaned forward, planting her glove in the wet grass, trying to clamber to her feet. She could see well enough. Her flashlight was right over there.

Her car. With her phone.
Over there.

She heaved herself to her feet—but Matt was already moving forward, fast, pushing her back. Both hands, strong, angry, pushing her, and she fell back again. Cold cold cold and hard.
It hurts, my head, oh, no
 … tears came and a jag of lightning in her head, and—

“Why are you—?” But her voice wasn’t there, she needed help, this wasn’t good,
he is Lassiter’s son
and now he … why would he—? The news conference.
Holly Neff?
The woman in the photo.
His girlfriend,
Jake had said. But maybe that was wrong.
What if Matt killed Holly Neff?

Her phone was ringing, in her car. She had to, had to,
had to
get up … or—

“Matt.” Her voice struggled to be heard. But he was coming at her again, his face hard and angry and focused and not seeing her, not seeing her … she had to get him to—she shifted, gritting everything, raising herself on one elbow. She felt something crawl across her hand, her hair was cold, her head
splitting,
she had to
think
.

He was Lassiter’s son. And Matt was angry she knew that. Why?
Maybe because of Holly’s death?
Would he figure Jane suspected him, since he’d approached her at the news conference? But the cops had never said Holly’s name. He couldn’t know she knew it. So the best thing—would be to pretend she had no idea about Holly. Change the subject. Take away his fear.

“Matt!” Her voice was so loud now, so strident, so shrill, it hurt her own ears. Her head was throbbing,
it hurts so much.
She struggled for calm, needing to reach him, distract him, misdirect him. Talk fast.
Convince him
. Otherwise, she would be his next victim
. And no one knows where I am.

“Yes, you’re so right,” she told him. “But, listen, Matt, I already knew who you were. That’s why I’m here, confirming it. It’s not a secret, it’s wonderful! And, listen, Matt. I’ve already told your father. Less than an hour ago. Kenna heard me. She was there for the whole thing. I told your father—‘your son is in Boston.’ So he already knows. He
knows
!”

68

“I’m afraid your husband won’t be coming back for … a while,” Jake said.

Patti Vick, legs crossed and clutching a bulging pocketbook, didn’t get up as Jake greeted her. She’d settled in the armchair in the duty officer’s room, filling the gray upholstery with coat and shawl and purse, not an inch of chair visible. Tattered “Wanted” posters and a calendar, last month’s, were the room’s only decoration.

A white-bordered clock, slow, Jake noticed, ticked reluctantly over a pitted wooden desk. Just after ten.

“What will happen now?” Patti Vick snapped open her purse, took out a little pink notebook. She clicked open a bright green ballpoint pen. “Does he have a chance?”

“Have a chance?” Jake hadn’t heard that one before. Some spouses of murder suspects went ballistic, furious at their partners for screwing up, getting caught, or leaving them all alone. Others sobbed uncontrollably, shocked, sad, terrified, lost in confusion or surprise or, sometimes, a haze of drugs.

Patti Vick was a new one.

“Let me ask you.” Jake leaned against the cinder block wall, arms crossed, in front of a poster showing a guy he’d captured. He’d give this a try, why not? Even though Patti Vick would probably clam up. Certainly that lawyer had filled her in on the three rules of talking to police: don’t, don’t, and don’t. “What do you think about Sellica Darden?”

“She was such a—” Patti Vick shrugged, her purple shawl tipping off one sweatered shoulder. “I mean, in that world she lived in? Probably dozens of people had her in their sights. It coulda been anyone. You know what she was.”

“What was she?” Jake asked. Not his place to warn her about “could be used against you.” Patti Vick wasn’t under arrest. She could make her own decisions.

“Puh-leeze,” the woman replied. She fingered one of her hoop earrings. “My husband is no killer. Okay, he’s no saint. I know that. I live with that. All those girls, the commercials, I know what goes on. Who knows how far she pushed him. Maybe someone else was there, you know? Tried to rip my Artie off. Some sleazy friend of hers. Roofing her up. Now my husband’s up the creek for it.”

Jake paused. One name on his mind.
Jane Ryland.
And the trial that almost cost her her career.
Jane was right. I knew it.
He kept his voice casual, not wanting to lose Patti Vick. “Must have been difficult for you. How long had your husband ‘known’ Sellica Darden?”

Patti slid one arm through the strap of her purse, holding the voluminous leather bag to her ample chest. He could almost see her calculating dates.

“I don’t know.” She swallowed. “Not before the reporter trial. Of course.”

“Of course.”
Bull,
Jake thought. “So, you let him use your studio? Did he have a key?”

Patti shrugged, looked relieved. “He paid the mortgage.”

Jake blinked. Remembering the search. Remembering what they’d found. “You ever paint portraits, Mrs. Vick?”

“Huh?”

“Why were there photos of women in your studio?”

“Oh, those.” Patti closed her notebook. Waved him off. “Arthur’s. From his commercials. He gave them to me. I paint from them sometimes.”

“I see. And you have trouble sleeping?”

“Oh, yes, it’s terrible.” Patti raised a plump hand to her forehead,
woe is me
. “Sometimes not a wink.”

“You ever sleep at the studio?”

“At the studio?”

“Yes, ma’am. I asked if you slept at the studio. We didn’t see a bed there.”

“Well, um, I suppose I…”

Jake’s phone didn’t ring. But he pretended it did. “Excuse me for a moment, ma’am.”

He took the BlackBerry from his jacket, pushed a random button, put it to his ear. “Detective Brogan,” he said. He paused, nodding, as if someone were telling him something portentous. “Yes, I’ll tell her. Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Tucking the phone away, he shook his head, so very full of regret. “Bad news, I’m afraid, Mrs. Vick.”

Patti stood, eyes wide. Her shawl fell to the chair. “Bad news?”

“Your husband’s confessed,” he said. “If you’ll wait right here? We’ll come back and get you. I know you’ll want a moment to say good-bye.”

“He—?” Patti sank into her chair, blinking furiously, one hand fluttering to her throat. “But…”

“Stay right there. I’ll send someone to sit with you,” Jake said. “And then I’ll be back. I promise.”

*   *   *

“He knows?”

Jane—freezing, wet, heart pounding—watched Matt process what she’d told him. She could see his brain at work. Assessing. Deciding. What she’d said was not true, of course. But sometimes the only way to suck the power from a secret is to tell it.

Jane shifted one leg carefully, knowing she might have only one chance to get to her feet. She had to get away. He’d certainly killed Holly Neff. He’d certainly kill her, too. The chunky black flashlight was almost within her grasp. Her only possible weapon. If she could reach …

She waved a hand to distract him, get him used to motion. Trying to engage him. “I’m a reporter, Matt, right? I find out things. I dug out birth records, you know? This is such good news, isn’t it?”

She kept her eyes locked on his, adjusting her arm underneath her.
I have to get up. Without startling him into action
. The back of her head throbbed; her neck and shoulders ached. Not only with pain, but also with the tension of pretense.

“In fact, I was hoping to bring you two together. A big wonderful family story, like a reunion. You know? Right before the election. Father and son. Didn’t anyone tell you? Maybe your…” Jane paused. The letters engraved on the headstone.
Two
children. “Your sister?”

She saw him swallow. Both hands—empty—came out of his pockets.

“Tonight at headquarters, his private office,” Matt whispered. His eyes looked off in the distance. “At eleven. Is that when you—?”

“Yes, yes, exactly.” Jane nodded.
Whatever
. “When Governor Lassiter gets back from his event. It’ll be wonderful. So we really have to—”

“No,” Matt whispered. “No.” A cloud floated over the moon, deepening the shadows on his face. He pointed to Jane, one accusing finger. “I know you had photos. She told me you showed photos to—”

“Oh, gosh, ridiculous, huh?” Jane was almost on her feet. Smiling. Lying. Playing for time. “My editor thinks those are Photoshopped, can you believe it? Fake as can be. Wherever they came from, who knows. What some people won’t do to get attention.”