The Other Woman

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Code-a-silence, they called it. The townies never saw anything. Not much chance whoever was behind this door, or watching from the windows above, would admit to knowing what happened by the bridge last Sunday. Or would identify the victim, even if they knew her. Still, that’s what cops mostly did. Ask questions. Behind every closed door was a possible answer. This time on a Wednesday night, people should be home.

  Still no response. Holding his BlackBerry under the feeble glow of the dusty porch light, he checked the canvass notes he’d tapped in. No grimy spiral notebooks for him, though the other guys sneered. “Harvard,” they called him. But he could type in the info, zap it to himself via e-mail. Instant filing, paperwork done.

  “Boston PD,” he said, knocking again. “Anyone there?”

  This time he heard something. A scraping, a creak. Maybe someone on a stairway.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he called out. Which wasn’t exactly true. “Just want to show you a few photos.”

  A shadow behind the glass peephole, middle of the door. Sound of a dead bolt. The door creaked open, two inches, maybe three. The length of the chain. Then a slash of blue eye shadow, a heavy-penciled eyebrow. A fuzz of carroty hair.

  “Ma’am?” Jake guessed. “Jake Brogan, Boston PD.”

  “So?”

  “Do you recognize this person?” Jake pulled postcard-sized sketches from his inside jacket pocket, held one up. The first was colored pencil, a redraw from the crime scene photos of Sunday’s Charlestown Bridge victim, the girl found three blocks from here. The real thing—bloated, bruised, basically grotesque—was too gruesome to show on the street. The sketch, brown hair, brown eyes, trace of a smile, softened the girl into someone’s college roommate. Anyone who knew her would recognize her.

  “She had this on her leg.” Jake held up another drawing, this one depicting the green Celtic vine tattoo on one thin ankle. Minus, of course, the weedy vines the river waters had deposited around her leg. The tattoo was standard issue, another dead end, but he had a cadet hitting tattoo parlors and piercing places. Jake decided not to tell the reluctant townie exactly why he was asking.

  In the drawing she didn’t look dead. “She from around here at all?” Jake asked.

  “Zat the Bridge Killer girl?” The eye came closer to the chain.

  So much for strategy. “You recognize her, ma’am? We could use your help here. Someone’s missing a daughter, maybe.”

  “You people should catch that guy,” the voice said. “Before he kills someone else.”

  And the door closed in his face.

  * * *

  Another campaign event canceled? Jane clicked through the swirling graphics of the Lassiter campaign’s online newsletter, elbows on her desk and chin in her hands, weary, trying to focus. Trying not to listen as coworkers she didn’t know said good night to one another and headed for bars or gyms or someone special at home. The sounds of the newsroom, tapping keyboards, cell phone rings, beepers, and the occasional peal of laughter, were familiar, and yet—not.

  It had been a while since she’d been the new kid. Some people were trying to be nice, but breezy hellos and good-byes aside, she was the outsider. Maybe they couldn’t believe Alex had hired her. Everyone hates TV reporters. Amy had reminded her of that reality. Nobody hates them more devotedly than newspaper reporters. Especially a television reporter who gets it wrong. And they all thought she got it wrong.

  The Lassiter newsletter blurred with a twinge of tears. There was nothing she could say that people would believe. They thought she was defensive, or lying, or a has-been, someone to be pitied, or dismissed. She missed her old life. Missed the after-news postmortems at Clancy’s. Missed the sneaked lunchtime manicures with Margery. Except for Margery and Steve, stalwart pals who’d persisted with dinner and movie invitations, none of her “friends” from Channel 11 had even called. As if being fired were a communicable disease.

  Get a grip, she told herself. Shit happens. You’ll make friends here.

  If only the lawyers could win the appeal. If only Sellica would contact her. Decide to come forward and tell the truth. Then everyone would know Jane wasn’t wrong. A moment of hope lifted her heart. Then disappeared.

  “’Night, Jane.” Two women’s voices, almost in unison, called out as they passed her cubicle. Jane glimpsed the tops of two heads, blond and blonder, as whoever they were hurried by. She heard them laughing as they headed to the elevator.

  Unable to stop herself, she clicked off the Lassiter newsletter and into the Register’s Internet search. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt this time. Maybe something had happened. She keyed in her own name. Then, quickly, “Arthur Vick.”

  The headlines scrolled. Her name and his. Over and over. He was still the winner. She was still “Wrong-Guy Ryland.”

  Nothing had changed.

  * * *

  Holly Neff squinted at the wood-framed bulletin board. She’d strung a thin wire behind it, one end to the other, attaching it to the frame with two little round things. She’d measured with a foldout yardstick, so the board would hang exactly between the scrolling vines of the green parts of the wallpaper. Like a frame in a frame. She’d been at Harborside, what, two weeks now? And the living room was on the way to perfect. When things worked, they just worked.

  The bulletin board was smaller than she’d wanted, not covering the entire wall, but that had been a fantasy, she supposed. It would have been impossible to bring home such a huge—she tilted her head one way, then the other. Something was—

  Ah. The corner of the third photo wasn’t lined up with the second one.

  Holly frowned, adjusting the white-bordered eight by ten. It had to be perfect. She had to start all over.

  One by one, she pulled the clear plastic pushpins from the corners of each photograph. There were an even dozen, which was perfect. One by one, she placed each picture, aligned in an even row, across the pristine white cloth on her dining room table.

  Picture number one. Black-and-white. Owen Lassiter behind a bunting-draped podium, announcing his candidacy for the U.S. Senate. Crowds surrounding him. That woman beside him, all blond and smiling. Like she had something to do with it. Maybe that should be picture number two. Not first.

  Holly moved the Lassiter announcement photo farther along the tablecloth and replaced it with the new photo number one. Color. Lassiter’s head shot, just him, gray hair, cheekbones. Charcoal suit, white shirt, red tie with little—what were they? She squinted at the photo. Flags. Massachusetts flags. Flags on his tie.

  She paused, remembering. The love of her life. He’d be happier, so much happier, when he realized what she was doing. Yes, it was a sacrifice. But doing what was right often included sacrifice. That’s what made it powerful. That’s what love was about. Devotion. And persistence. And timing. Then, happy endings. You just had to be patient. And she was patient, patient, patient.

  Her timer, a red plastic apple that you twisted to set your limits, buzzed a warning. Hurry. She had to hurry.

  Photo number one: head shot. Maybe she should measure? No. I can do this. Photo number two. Announcement shot. Pushpins into each corner. Photo number three. One of her favorites. Cut from the newspaper with pinking shears, its zigzag edges setting it apart from the others. She was in this photo with him.

  Holly stared at it, seeing herself, herself, caught on camera, wearing that perfect little outfit, her honey brown curls perfect, that perfect expression she’d practiced, in the same photograph as Owen Lassiter. That was just, just perfect.

  And now she had to go to sleep. Tomorrow would be a very exciting day.

  6

  If she were giving advice to a friend, Amy or Margery or someone, she’d tell them poking the place that hurts is no way to make it heal. Easier to say than do. Jane ignored the blinking screen of computer newsprint on her desktop monitor. How had doing the right thing backfired so disastrously?

  What if she’d been on vacation, or busy, or out on a story? Sellica might have called s
omeone else, or decided to keep quiet.

  But no.

  Back then, Jane picked up her ringing phone. And back then, that ordinary move, that no-decision decision, landed her in journalism hell.

  “Is this Jane Ryland?” The voice on the other end had sounded guarded.

  “Yes. How can I help you?”

  Silence.

  “Ma’am?” Jane had prompted.

  “It’s Arthur Vick.”

  Jane frowned. The voice was a woman’s, most definitely not the grocery store mogul calling, unless he was brilliant at disguising not only his gender but the trademark Boston accent he exploited in his ubiquitous television commercials.

  “Arthur Vick … what? I’m so sorry,” Jane said. “You lost me.”

  “They’re all like, he didn’t do anything wrong. Like I’m some kind of slut-bitch who trapped the guy into, whatever.”

  The voice spoke quickly, tense, the words rushed and crowding one another. “He promised me I could be in the commercials. Then, like, he was outta there. And now the judge is like, yeah, oh sure, Mr. Big Shot, we wouldn’t want your wife to be upset. So we’ll keep your name out of it. Seal the court documents. Like, that’s supposed to be fair? I want what was coming to me. And you help people, right?”

  Jane instantly knew what this was about. Sellica Darden, “the other woman” in a headline-grabbing sex case, was calling her. Why?

  She gripped the phone, white knuckled. She couldn’t record it: Massachusetts law made that illegal. If this woman hung up and disappeared, she would never find her. But if Sellica Darden kept talking, Jane predicted, it could make her career.

  Jane Googled up a newspaper article as she listened. It had been a lead story, all lust and lies. Sellica had threatened to expose her high-profile big-name john to his unsuspecting wife if he didn’t fork over big bucks. He refused, and ratted her out to police. She was arrested for extortion, her name plastered across the news—but the judge had sealed the john’s name, even though he’d also broken the law. Even though the names of other men who hired hookers were often made public.

  Back then, Jane had felt her fingers cross. Please let it be Sellica. “Miss Darden? Is this you? And yes, I can help you. It was—unfair, that the judge kept the man’s name secret. And threatened you with jail if you told. Can we meet in person? As soon as possible? When?”

  It had been Sellica on the phone. And she said “yes,” and “tomorrow.” Soon after, Jane had gotten everything she wished for.

  And soon after that—everything she feared.

  Jane’s big story outed Arthur Vick. He sued, saying Jane had named the wrong guy. Sellica disappeared. Jane refused to give up her source. Vick won. The station lost a million dollars. And soon Jane was the one who was out.

  Jane’s shoulders sagged under the weight of the memory.

  Someday Sellica Darden would reveal the truth. Give Jane her life back.

  She had to.

  Jane’s cell phone buzzed.

  Wouldn’t that be funny if—? She grabbed it, clicked, fearing to hope.

  Amy. Texting.

  U not home? Called U! Even Brenda Starr went home! TTYL.

  Amy’s right, as usual. Jane clicked away the headlines, wishing she could as easily delete the past. Things would be better when she was reporting again. Jane brought up the Lassiter newsletter. It had a new headline.

  LASSITER FUND-RAISER RESCHEDULED. Jane reached for her hair, worrying a strand over one ear. The Lassiter campaign was imploding. No wonder Moira was hiding. Probably shopping for a new husband, or a new life. Probably Lassiter was off with that girl in the red coat. They all do it, Alex had said. As if somehow that made it okay.

  She paged through the file folder of archive photos Alex had given her. Was there something she’d missed?

  Moira showed up in the earlier ones. Front and center. Owen’s shadow. That ballerina posture of hers, salon-silver hair and nonchalant tailoring. Radiating wifely approval.

  Jane bent over in her chair, sorting the photos chronologically on the gray carpet of her cubicle. And there it was. Suddenly, a month ago? Moira was missing. Jane stared at the images, trying to imagine. Had Jackie Kennedy known about Marilyn? Had Gary Hart’s wife been told about that girl on the Monkey Business? Elizabeth Edwards suspected John and Rielle, she’d said, but rationalized it away. Until she couldn’t anymore. What would Moira do if she discovered that her husband—in the midst of an election, in front of millions of the very voters he was asking to trust him—was cheating? Who else knew about it? And who was helping Lassiter hide it?

  Someone’s phone ringing. An elevator bell. The heat kicking on. Back to reality. Was she the last to leave? Wasn’t Tuck supposed to be working nightside? No sign of him, except for the array of grisly eight-by-ten photos of the Bridge Killer bodies—where’d he get all those?—posted with multicolored thumbtacks across the entire bulletin board. She peered at them, interested in spite of herself. The Charlestown girl had a tattoo. The other victim didn’t.

  The other woman. Exactly what I’m working on, too. Jane smiled as she yanked her black wool jacket from the hook and cinched the belt around her waist. It was late, close to midnight, but her weariness was evaporating. She was beginning to feel like a reporter again.

  They all do it. So what? Cheating was unacceptable. For anyone, much less a U.S. Senator. The public had the right to know about it. Before the election. And she would be the one to tell them.

  No mistake about that.

  * * *

  What did he expect to find here, anyway? Jake stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, scuffing his work boots through the layer of slimy leaves under the Charlestown Bridge. Where the body was found. The place was deserted at this hour. What was he thinking, some coked-up asshole would show up? Drawn back to the scene of the crime, confessing all as he realized super-detective Jake had him dead to rights?

  He’d made his gold shield, younger than most. The public explanation, two years ago, was that a thirty-three-year-old detective might bring some street cred. Privately, the brass and the street cops understood Jake’s being grandson of a former police commissioner was a powerful—and unavoidable—legacy.

  Not what they usually mean by blue blood, Jake’s mother always said, disapprovingly. She was a Dellacort, a real blue blood, and Dellacorts were not in law enforcement. She still sniffed—elegantly, of course—at Jake’s “unfortunate” career choice.

  But an adolescent Jake and his grandpa had watched every episode of NYPD Blue together on the plush sofas of the Brogans’ Back Bay living room. Jake soaked up every nuance and every roll call and every takedown, and even at Harvard, he’d never wavered in his resolve. Grandpa had lived just long enough to see his graduation. Jake’s financier father presented him with an extravagant post-college trek around Europe, a thinly disguised effort to dissuade him from his career choice, but the year after he came home, Jake aced the exam, powered through the academy, and got his badge and gun.

  Now, though his parents reluctantly accepted his occupation, Jake still needed to prove he’d earned his spot on the squad. Deserved it, Grandpa Brogan or not. To do that, he needed to crack some cases. About this one, for now at least, he had no idea.

  The lights of Boston glowed at him. Jake’s flashlight scraped across the browning grass and broken weeds. The crime scene guys were long gone, taking their yellow tape with them. He had their report stored in his BlackBerry. Nothing left here. Nada.

  It was night, same time as when she must have died three days ago. Things looked different at night. You saw things. The way the light hit. Where you could be invisible. Jake stared at nothing, letting his mind go. Reconstructing. Why would a girl be here, that time on a Sunday night? Monday morning, really.

  Water in her lungs, the ME had confirmed. So she wasn’t dead when she got here. Big bruise on her back, one on her shoulder. Clothing intact. Jake tilted his head all the way back, considering the Erector Set structure of
the bridge above. Headlights, creeping along then surging by, headed into the labyrinth of Boston’s North End. Could she have jumped? Thrown herself off the bridge because … because of what? To kill herself? Escape?

  Wouldn’t someone have seen that? He looked at the cars, playing out the scene, screening a movie of the crime in his head. Someone would have seen that. Someone would have reported it.

  But if she jumped, where did she leave her purse? Her car? How did she get here? If she was trying to get away from someone, who?—and why?

  Wouldn’t someone have seen that, too? Who was she? Why hadn’t anyone reported her missing?

  Maybe it wasn’t about the bridge.

  A sound.

  Jake snapped off his flashlight, easing into the shadow of one of the ramshackle lean-tos townies used as fishing shelters. His left hand snaked under his jacket, feeling for the holster and his weapon inside. He waited. Heard the sound again.

  Then—a flash of light. And another. Christ. Someone was—taking photos?

  “Boston Police. Hands in the air. Now. Now. Now.” Jake took a step forward, then another, commanding. Weapon aimed dead ahead. Flashlight in the other hand, same direction. Then he lowered the weapon.

  “Tucker, dammit.” Jake holstered the Glock, adrenaline still rushing. He clicked off the flashlight, wiped a hand on his jeans. I’m gonna kill that— “Lucky I didn’t kill you, ya know? What in hell are you doing out here?”

  Tucker snapped another photo, the flash right in Jake’s face. “Might ask you the same thing, right? You out here looking for the Bridge Killer? You ID the victims yet? Care to comment?”