The Other Woman (7 page)

“Yikes,” she said, trotting after Kiernan. “Is it always like this?”

He hurried her past a bank of temporary wooden risers, television cameras on tripods lined one end to the other, set up to hold the reporters covering the event. She tried to pick out Channel 11’s camera, see who they’d assigned, but couldn’t.
Well, tough. Now I’m getting even closer than they can.

She followed Kiernan up three concrete steps at the side of the stage. He punched in a passcode on an electronic lock, then led her through a door hidden in the black-painted wall. The backstage entrance led to a shadowy concrete-walled corridor. Up a few more narrow stairs, around a corner, and—the daylight blasted her, so bright and surprising, she stumbled backwards. Hidden behind the curved proscenium wall, they had the candidate’s eye view of the crowd. And that view, Jane realized, must be intoxicating.

The colors. The signs. The cheering throng of voters. Adoring. Pulsing closer. Demanding attention. Calling his name. Some held their cameras high above their heads, capturing whatever memories they could.

“Watch,” Kiernan said. “I’ll stay right here. Off the record, right?”

“Ah, sure,” Jane replied.
What the hell?

Above her head, lofty metal poles held banks of spotlights and draping loops of wires. Thick cables, wrapped in duct tape, snaked across the concrete floor. It was darker here, the explosive light outside turning backstage into background.

People stood in groups of twos and threes. Campaign workers, Jane figured, insider enough to have special passes. Most clutched files or clipboards, plastic water bottles. Some wore suits and heels, others jeans. All wore Lassiter buttons. All eyes fastened on the candidate.

Jane could see only Lassiter’s back, moving slowly to the other side of the stage. The police linked themselves in a wavering blue line.

“Hey, Trev, goin’ great, man. Almost time. Gotta love it.” A harried-looking man with a clipboard gave Kiernan a thumbs-up, then disappeared behind the flashing red and green lights of the elaborate sound system.

Kiernan pointed to Lassiter. “Okay, Jane. Any second now.”

*   *   *

“’Scuse me, ’scuse me, ’scuse me.” She was late, she was late. The subway ride had taken too long and the walk from Park Street station had taken too long, and her darling new kitten heels kept catching in the Esplanade’s thick grass. Would she be
too
late? How did this happen? She’d planned it so perfectly.

Holly elbowed her way closer to the Esplanade stage, hardly noticing the bodies surging around her, her eyes on the prize.

Owen Lassiter. On the stage, hand outstretched, that smile. She promised to be here. And now she was. Everything would be okay. Happy endings.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She forced a smile of her own, relieved, needing to stay polite as she edged through, some guys looking her up and down, as always. She ignored them. As always.

The wooden reporter’s thing was set up to the left of the stage this time. Perfect. She aimed herself in that direction, propelled toward the cameras. Still photographers were posted there, too, she knew. Good. She had her own camera, out and ready to go. Too risky to leave it in its pouch.

Almost there. Almost time.

*   *   *

“Lucky you could get away.” Kenna slid her hand through the crook of Maitland’s elbow as a black-suited security guard waved them toward the back entrance to the big stage. “I’d never have gotten up here this close without you.”

“No problem.” Maitland guided her past a phalanx of rent-a-guards, then up close to one side of the stage.

“We going up there?” Kenna asked. The sun was hot, almost too hot to keep her coat on. Should have left it with Deenie. “Could we go backstage? Maybe I could chat with Owe—the governor—when he’s finished.”

Maitland looked at his watch, then seemed to listen. He smiled. “It’s already ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy,’” he said.

“Huh? Yankee—? Come on. You can get me closer.”

“We’re too late to go backstage.” He draped his arm across her shoulders, guiding her. “But come this way. You’ll see.”

*   *   *

“What?” Jane asked. Trevor stood next to her, elbow to elbow, backstage. “Watch what?”

“Now,” Kiernan repeated.

She heard a roar from the crowd. Suddenly Lassiter was gone.

She couldn’t take it in fast enough, had to stand on tiptoe, craning her neck to see. The music so loud, so thundering that Jane could feel the stage beneath her vibrating, had changed to a bass-pounding “Simply the Best.” Cameras flashed. The crowd cheered, erupting in delight. More blizzards of confetti, this time spewing into the air from containers circling the green. TV photographers yanked their cameras from their tripods. Reporters dashed forward, jumping down from the wooden risers of the press pen, pushing toward the action.

Lassiter had leaped off the stage onto the grass. No longer above the people, he was now part of them. One of them. On their level. Blue uniforms surged to surround the candidate, linked arms in a protective circle, Lassiter in the center, moving away from the stage, deeper into the crowd. Every arm reached for him; every camera aimed at him. Every person wanted him.

She and Kiernan stepped to the edge of the stage, watching the spectacle. She stole a quick look at him. “You kidding me?” she said. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

He smiled, one eyebrow raised. “Couldn’t resist, I guess. Such a man of the people. Gotta give ’em what they want, right?”

Jane could catch only glimpses of Lassiter’s face, smiling, radiant, accepting their devotion, embracing the rush. The crowd was in love. The candidate must know it. And he’d just proved he loved them back.

“Now. You tell me,” Kiernan said. “We gonna win this?”

Jane dug into her tote bag, eyes still on the crowd, scrounging by feel for her camera.
Found it.
She brought it out, and in one motion aimed and clicked.

“Hey, you can’t use that.” Kiernan put a hand on her forearm. “No unauthorized photos. You’re here off the record. Remember?”

“Had to try,” Jane said. She dropped the camera back into her bag. With a dramatic flourish, she zipped it closed. “See? All gone.”

She probably hadn’t gotten anything usable anyway. And someone else must be covering for the
Register
. Lassiter’s ring of blue moved across the green. The people around him surged closer, some ducking under the police to snag a photo with the candidate. A sea of red, white, and blue. And Lassiter green.

And then, red. A red coat.

Jane didn’t need to check Archive Gus’s photo to make sure. That was her. Heading steadily toward Lassiter. By herself?
If I try to get down there, through all those people, I’ll lose her. I’d never make it.

“Hey, Trevor—” Jane couldn’t take her eyes off the crowd, but maybe she didn’t need to get any closer. Damn it, why had she zipped her camera away? She yanked open her bag.
There’s no more off the record.

Where was Kiernan? She risked a look behind her. In a backstage corner, deep in conversation with a clipboard guy. She called his name, waving. “Trevor! Can you come here? For one second?”

Jane looked back at the crowd. The red coat was moving toward the candidate.

Back at Trevor. Walking, seemed like slow motion, toward her.

Back at the crowd. Jane squinted through the sun’s glare, as if the very desire to see would make her vision stronger. And there was the coat.
Yes.
And then—the girl was—taking it off? Now she was just a woman in a white—

“Jane? What’s up?” Trevor appeared at her side.

“See that woman? In a … a white blouse? At about ten o’clock from Lassiter? Curly hair? Youngish? Tallish?” She pointed at the spot—
I can’t lose her
—looking at Trevor for only a brief second, then back at the crowd.

Trevor was laughing. “You’re kidding me, right? There are thousands of women.” He touched her shoulder, getting her attention. No longer smiling. “Is there a problem? Jane? Do we need to—?”

“No, it’s fine, just look, really.” Jane jabbed the air with a finger. “Now she’s right next to him. Holding up a camera? See?”

Trevor leaned forward, following the direction of her finger. “Yeah, I see her. So?”

“Ever seen her before? Do you know who she is?”

“Why?”

“Just—do you? Know her?”

Trevor shaded his eyes with both hands. Shrugged. “Ah, not as far as—”

“I’ll call you about the Mrs. Lassiter thing,” Jane said. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She waved over her shoulder. “Thanks so much, Trevor. Talk soon. Gotta go.”

Jane raced down the three steps, slinging herself around the corner by holding on to the railing, slammed open the stage door, and headed into the daylight and onto the Esplanade grass. Then skidded to a stop. Suddenly she wasn’t four feet higher than the crowd. Suddenly the swirl of people who’d been individuals from her lofty stage-high vantage point became an impassable mass of shoulders and faces and hats and signs and blue uniforms and impenetrable motion.

She stood on tiptoe in desperation. Ridiculous. She couldn’t even see tops of heads. She tried again.
Nothing.
She looked longingly at the stage behind her—and the locked door with the unknown passcode. Her shoulders sagged.

Come on,
she said to herself.
You can find her.

In a flash, she hopped onto the wooden riser of the press platform, now empty of everything but left-behind tripods and canvas equipment bags. She shaded her eyes, scanning for the pack of TV cameras certain to be following Lassiter. They were already way down the green, past the gingerbread-decorated ice cream stand, almost to the river.

Leaping off the riser, Jane dodged through the edges of the crowd, turning and sidestepping like a wide receiver headed for the goal line. “Come on, Red Coat,” she muttered. “Be there. Be there.
Be there.
”

10

Gotta love it. Less than a mile from Charlestown, but everything is different
. Here on Beacon Hill, cobblestones and gas lamps, home of money and privilege and history, people actually answered their doors. Opened them. Offered Jake coffee. Like this one, the eleventh this morning, they wanted to chat. Wanted to help the police find the Bridge Killer.

Damn
. There was no Bridge Killer.

“We don’t think the killings are connected, Mrs. Connaughton,” Jake said, putting his glass of ice water carefully on the dark leather coaster she’d scooted in front of him. Ten
A.M.
Friday, he’d already had enough coffee. Growing up just a few blocks away, he’d seen a million of these Beacon Hill brownstones: seasonally decorated living rooms, too-long curtains pooled on hardwood floors, fresh flowers.

“No matter what the
Register
says this morning, ma’am”—he smiled conspiratorially—“there’s no ‘Bridge Killer.’ I’d stake my job on it. They’re trying to scare you into buying papers.”

“Well, they’re succeeding.” The woman, navy trousers, white shirt, heavy necklace, reading glasses on a gold chain, took a sip of whatever filled her teacup. She tapped the newspaper folded on a mahogany side table. “You must admit, it appears to be more than a coincidence, two poor girls killed, both by bridges, both left in the water. Honestly, when was the last time—?” She tilted her head, eyeing Jake. “You really don’t know who they are? Is it true, they weren’t wearing shoes?”

Jake shifted on the leather couch, unbuttoning his tweed sport coat, pulling another sketch from his inside pocket.

“Ma’am? That’s why we’re asking for your help.” He placed one of the colored-pencil sketches, the head shot, facing her on the coffee table. Brown hair, shorter than the Charlestown girl. He called this one the Longfellow girl, since her body was found near the Longfellow Bridge. She was listed on the squad’s case board as “Victim One.” Didn’t seem right, though, to make her just a number.

“Do you recognize her? Brown hair. Dr. Archambault, the medical examiner, says it was professionally colored. ‘Walnut brown number 16,’ apparently, if that means anything to you?”

The woman stared at the drawing. “Have you checked beauty salons?”

Everybody’s an expert
. “We’re in the process, ma’am. But meanwhile. Anyone you know have a daughter, supposed to be at college? Maybe she was expected home, never made it?”

The woman was shaking her head. Using one tentative finger, she pulled the drawing toward her, then picked it up, adjusting her reading glasses. “I’m so sorry.” Almost as if she were talking to the drawing. “It’s very sad, isn’t it?”

She handed the sketch back to him. Interview over. Jake turned toward the front door, and she followed his lead.

The woman touched his sleeve as he stepped across her threshold. “Do you think the Bridge Killer will do it again?” she asked. “Are we in danger? Should we all stay home?”

*   *   *

“Jane Ryland! How fantastic to see you. Do come in! So glad you could make it this early in the day! You’re calling me Ellie, okay? And you’re Jane.”

Eleanor Gable, dripping exclamation marks, greeted her as if they were long-lost sorority sisters. And what was that accent all about? Locust Valley meets London. Far from the Massachusetts North Shore.

“Thank you, Ellie.” Jane edged through the door into the spacious, window-lined office in Boston’s West End. Gable’s elaborate, expensively framed campaign posters displayed on cream-colored walls looked like Norman Rockwells. Dinner tables. Kids with cops. Ice cream parlors. American flags. Then, still in Rockwell style: Wind farms. Recycling centers. Skateboards and bicycles.

“Nice to see you, too,” Jane added. “I—”

“Sit, sit.” Ellie, interrupting, waved her to a puffily upholstered sofa, caramel colored and elegantly feminine, angled in front of an antique-looking desk. Ellie took the dark wooden desk chair, its cushion covered in crimson silk. “Coffee? Can you believe how well this election is going? We’re so excited about what a difference we can make.”

To the left Jane saw an American flag, ceiling high, set in a brass post. Next to it, the ocean blue and white flag of Massachusetts. On a narrow wooden table, an array of photos. Gable with at least two presidents. A general. Gable arm in arm with a T-shirted little boy. A beach scene, a rainbow of umbrellas on a stretch of white sand. Nantucket?