The Other Woman (43 page)

“Understood?” Kiernan locked eyes with Jane for a split second, then glanced across the crowd. “Statement, then good-bye. Got me?”

“Trevor!” a guy in the front row stood, holding up a hand. “Where’s Governor Lassiter? Is he going to stay in the race?”

“Any word on his daughter’s condition?” The woman next to him wasn’t going to be scooped. “Why was he estranged from his own children?”

That started the torrent.

“Is Lassiter under arrest?”

“Is Owen going to drop out?”

“Has Eleanor Gable called you?”

“So much for ‘no questions,’” Jane whispered to Alex. “But I must say, I can’t wait to talk to Gable. The Kenna—I mean Sarah—connection. The Deverton house. You know?”

Alex, ignoring her, had Jane’s camera almost to his nose, his glasses balanced on his forehead. Staring at the photo.

The burnished silver of the elevator doors vibrated, the lights pinged to green, the doors slid open.

“But this is—,” Alex said. He turned to Jane, pointing a forefinger at the photo.

A man emerged from the elevators, into the spotlights. Took his place at the lectern.

“Rory Maitland,” Jane whispered.

“Rory Maitland,” Kiernan announced, “will now read the candidate’s statement. Then we’re done.”

77

“Why didn’t she just kill her husband, you know, Harvard? If she thought she could get away with it?”

Jake and DeLuca stood at the end of a dim hallway at the Nashua Street Jail. The women’s unit—different from the men’s only because of the sign—held mostly punks and angry crank heads. Patti Vick would not enjoy this slumber party.

This was the end of the line, Jake always thought. Layered with fear and wrong decisions.

The last of Patti Vick’s obscenities floated down the jail hallway, her shrill voice bouncing off the walls. Two matrons, one on each side, ignored her protests as they led her away. The woman had confessed. Jake got the whole damn thing on tape.

Her husband was out on bail. Facing a complicated and unpleasant future.

“Well, she told me she’d thought about it,” Jake said. “Killing him.”

“Yeah?” DeLuca stuffed his fists into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah. But she figured it’d be too obvious if she killed him. It’s always the spouse, everyone knows that. Plus, if her husband was dead, she thought she’d lose the million bucks. From his judgment against Jane, you know? She thought if he was in Cedar Junction for life, she’d still get the money. Vick had Sellica’s private phone number, of course. So Patti pretended to be some secretary, told Sellica her big-shot boss was auditioning for a photo spread, they’d heard about her via the grapevine, they were shooting it at the studio—you can figure out the rest. And Sellica had never seen Patti, you know? Clever Patti wrote some nasty notes to Jane, too, after the trial. Figuring they’d make her husband look guiltier.”

“So Patti does away with Sellica, sets up her cheating husband, and keeps the money.” DeLuca pursed his lips, nodding. Then he frowned at Jake. “Is that even how it works?”

“Nope,” Jake said. “If he died, she
would
get the money. If Vick were found guilty of Sellica’s murder, the missus probably wouldn’t. How dumb is that? Guess Patti could have asked a lawyer for clarification. But that’d be one iffy conversation.”

The two stood in silence for a moment. In the distance, a clang of metal.

“Jane know about this?” DeLuca finally said.

The day’s second bright spot.

“Nope.” Jake took out his phone. He wished he could tell her in person. He’d love to see that smile. Then he’d inform Leota Darden. “I’m calling her right now.”

*   *   *

“Owen Lassiter says he’s staying in the race.” Jane caught Eleanor Gable as the candidate walked up the front path of her Beacon Hill home. “So there are a couple of things I need to ask you.”

Instead of continuing the interview on the sidewalk, neighbors peering from brownstone windows, Gable invited Jane inside. “Five minutes,” she declared.

But standing in her high-ceilinged foyer, Gable made no move to invite Jane any farther inside. Five minutes. An interview in the entryway. Fine with Jane. She had only three questions. First, the easy one.

“We’re still working on your profile piece, of course. But because of last night— Well, I’m sure you heard Owen Lassiter’s statement,” Jane said. Her tote bag hung from her shoulder, the tape recorder rolling in an outside pouch. “I’m taking notes by tape, okay? So Lassiter said ‘tragic personal circumstances beyond my control do not diminish my public responsibility to stay in this race.’ What’s your reaction?”

“The voters will decide about that, Jane.” Eleanor Gable slouched off her camel-hair coat, turned her back to hang it in the hall closet. She didn’t offer to take Jane’s coat. “And now if you’re finished?”

“Two more questions,” Jane said. “There’s a house at four-six-three Constitution Lane in Deverton. You own that, correct?”

Gable, minus her usual hail-fellow demeanor, glanced upstairs, as if she wanted to get away. She tossed her head, her pale hair swinging across one cheek, then back into place. “Yes, if that’s the address of my family’s Deverton property. One of many. I’m sure you know that, Jane. That’s hardly a random question.”

Ball to Jane’s court. Fine.

“And do you have a tenant in that house now?”

An almost-laugh. A glance at a thin lizard-strapped watch. “Jane, please. If you have a question, just ask it.”

“Owen Lassiter visited a woman at that house.”

“Visited? A woman?” Gable raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should discuss that with him.”

“Well, I could, I suppose, but he’s at the hospital with her right now. Kenna Wilkes. As I’m sure you are aware.”

“His daughter. ‘Long-lost daughter,’ as your article this morning so eloquently described her.” Gable glanced up the stairs again, a double-tall mulberry-walled gallery, silver-framed photographs covering it floor to ceiling, edges aligned and almost touching. “Miss Ryland, do you have a point?”

Jane followed Gable’s glance upstairs. Was someone up there? Or was she just signaling Jane to leave? The photos on the wall reminded Jane of—
coffee?
Why? She must really need sleep.

“I do have a point,” Jane said. “And you know what it is. Why was Owen Lassiter’s estranged daughter, who infiltrated his campaign without his knowledge and later apparently attempted to kill him, living at a home you own?”

“Jane, I’m sure I have no idea.” Gable turned to the front door, placed her hand on the polished brass knob. “And if you have any further questions, please contact my—”

A creak from the top of the stairs.

“Ellie?” A voice called down.

A man.

“Just a moment,” Gable called back.

Oh. No wonder Gable was uncomfortable. She had a guy upstairs. So much for the—

“Ellie?” the voice came again, louder.

Jane turned toward the sound. Gable did, too.

“Jane?” Gable took Jane by the arm, ushering her out. “Any more questions, please call my office. It’s been a long day. The election is right around the corner.”

Jane had one foot in the foyer, the other on the front step. And the door began to close behind her.

78

Jane straight-armed the door. Keeping it open. She turned to look inside.
Coffee.
The picture. She knew where she’d seen it. And she recognized the voice on the stairway. No way she was leaving.

Rory Maitland stood, one hand on the banister, frozen midstep. No longer rumpled and polyester, he now sported khakis and a turtleneck. Beacon Hill casual.

Eleanor Gable whirled to face him, then turned back to Jane. Her nose went up, and she waved toward the stairway. “I’m sure you know Rory Maitland,” Gable said. “We’re discussing whether our campaigns should contact the secretary of state’s office to inquire about postponing the election. Given the ramifications of these difficult events.”

Rory Maitland? At Gable’s house?
Discussing?

“Did you find the powder room, Rory?” Gable smiled, gracious hostess.

“I noticed a photo on your wall, Ms. Gable. That one. Third from the bottom.” Jane was not buying Gable’s preposterous explanation. “A beach in Nantucket? The same photo’s also in your campaign office. Funny, there’s one exactly like it on Mr. Maitland’s desk. I blotted spilled coffee from it the other day. Remember, Mr. Maitland?”

“Jetties Beach?” Gable said, eyeing the photograph. “Hardly exotic.”

“You’ve been there, too, Ms. Gable?” Maitland said. He’d almost reached the bottom of the stairs. Loafers with no socks. “Not surprising. Who hasn’t?”

“She was ‘Ellie’ when you called down a moment ago,” Jane said. “And Ms. Gable? I was here before you arrived. Remember? You invited me in? There was no meeting under way. Mr. Maitland was already here. Upstairs.”

“I—,” Gable began.

“We—,” Maitland said at the same time.

Jane rummaged in her purse for her camera. “Let me show you this,” she said, finding the camera, for once, on the first try. She clicked the button. “This is a Lassiter campaign rally on the Esplanade a week ago, remember? There’s Holly Neff, the woman Matthew Lassiter apparently killed. And here’s—see? With his arm around the other woman?”

Jane held up the camera, first to Gable, then to Maitland, who’d moved closer. They examined the screen, then exchanged glances.

Gable spoke first. “And what this has to do with me is … precisely what, Miss Ryland?”

“So? I knew her as Kenna Wilkes,” Maitland said. He shrugged. “A campaign volunteer. One of many.”

“How did you know where Katharine Lassiter was buried?” Jane persisted. “Kenna told you, didn’t she? She hated her father. You two were in it together.”

Jane paused, looking at Gable, then Maitland. Statues. Ice and icier. “Or more likely—you
three
. Now I see. Ms. Gable, I bet Sarah approached
you
first. Maybe offering a ready-made scandal? And then
you
lured in Maitland.”

Maitland crossed his arms in front of his chest. Rolled his eyes. All drama. “That’s ab—”

“Good-bye, Miss Ryland.” Gable put her hand on the front door. With a flourish and a grand gesture, she yanked it wide open.

A puff of chill, Beacon Hill revealed, now almost in darkness. The bustle from Pinckney Street filled the entryway: taxis honking, car door slamming, a distant siren. The old-fashioned wrought-iron gaslights glimmered in the dusk, then glowed bright.

Lights.
Jane put her fingers to her lips, realizing. She ignored the open door. “Mr. Maitland? It was you who turned off the lights at the Springfield rally, wasn’t it? Pulled the alarm? Turned up the thermostat? You who put the campaign in such disarray? I’m right. It all makes sense. Because you were working—” Jane pointed at Gable. “—for
her.
”

Jane shook her head, struggling to grasp this level of deception. “Political consultant, huh? You used Ms. Gable’s Deverton house to insinuate Kenna—I mean Sarah—into the campaign. You both tried to manipulate Moira Lassiter into believing her husband was having an affair. And making it public. When
you
were the ones who were actually cheating.”

Jane paused, seeing the final possibility. “Was it personal, too? Or only politics?”

Maitland took a step up the stairs, then seemed to think better of it. “You could never prove I was here.”

Gable moved in front of him, blocking him. Hands on hips, charm bracelet jangling. “You’ll hear from my attorney, Miss Ryland. I know your reputation. So does everyone. There’s nothing between me and Mr. Maitland. No one will believe a word you say. And we’ll insist this whole conversation never happened.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed. She thought about greed and corruption and power. Thought about her tape recorder, still rolling in her purse. Thought about how quickly she’d need to get the hell out of here if they came at her together.

“I write the facts, Ms. Gable. The truth. And the truth is, your campaign dirty tricks resulted in two horrible and unnecessary deaths. And put your pawn, Sarah, in critical condition. And I think readers—or should I say, voters?—will be fascinated by that whole story. We’ll let
them
decide what the truth means.”

79

Why didn’t Jane pick up her damn messages? Jake propped his BlackBerry on the Jeep’s steering wheel, the heater humming, the shift in Park. He hadn’t even gotten to give her the word on the Vicks. He hit Redial. “It’s me. Again. By now you’ve heard. Call me.”

Should he head directly to her apartment? He tipped the BlackBerry back and forth on the wheel. Maybe yes, maybe no. Jane was certainly not in danger—Matt was dead, Sarah Lassiter hooked to a bunch of beeping monitors with two cadets and DeLuca guarding her hospital room. Not talking yet, but they’d buzz him if she came to.

She might live, doctors were saying.
If she does, maybe she’ll get Patti Vick as a roommate
. Jake had to smile. So much for the Bridge Killer.

End of story.

He shifted into Drive, eased out of the cop shop parking lot.
Jane’s apartment.
Why not?

*   *   *

That’s odd. Alex’s door is closed.

Jane had dashed up the three flights to the city room, unable to wait another moment for the exasperatingly slow elevator. Her head was full of her story—Maitland a turncoat, working for Lassiter’s opponent, Gable as the other woman—well, she couldn’t actually write all that, not yet.

Now, fidgeting in the waiting area outside Alex’s office, she waved both hands, signaling, trying to get his attention. He had the desk phone to his ear, cord stretched to the limit, pacing. Gesturing. Frowning.

She decided to go ahead, write what she had, a first draft. She had to call—who? Lassiter, of course. And the secretary of state, she was in charge of elections. Could she postpone the whole deal?

And Moira. Who so far wasn’t returning Jane’s calls. Would she play the good wife in all this?

Jane dug in her tote bag for her phone.
Damn.
Still on mute from this afternoon. She clicked it back on, turning the ringer to extra loud.