She walked to him, almost a swagger, slung one arm across his shoulders. As if he hadn’t just come close to shooting her. A real piece of work.
“And how about you, Detective Brogan, might I ask?” Tuck said. She lined her body against his, enough so he could tell. “You just here to pay your respects, too?”
He took a step back, surprised.
She laughed softly, her voice barely carrying. Hands on hips, she narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m wondering what to make of seeing you here, Jake. Something I should know about the Bridge Killer? That why you’re all on edge?”
“Tuck?” Jane approached them. “I’m leaving for Springfield now. Just got Alex’s page. I’ll talk to him from the road.” She aimed her key-clicker at her car door again. “Detective Brogan, thanks for walking me to my car.”
“Yeah. No problem.” Jake wanted to signal her somehow: Call me. He needed to warn her, at least get her guard up. Plus, he’d never told her the deal with Amaryllis Roldan. With Tuck in the picture, that was no longer an option.
Jane’d be okay in Springfield. She had to be. The Bridge Killer was in Boston.
Somewhere.
25
“What was that name?” Jane said it aloud, willing her brain to remember. She eyed the stupid eighteen-wheeler she was trying to pass. He was hogging the fast lane on the Mass Pike, and if he didn’t move his ass to let her by, she’d be late. She checked the digital clock on her dashboard. Ouch. Even later than she already was.
A huge latte in her cup holder and a last-resort drive-thru burrito in her lap—dinner—she watched for her chance. She tapped a finger on the steering wheel, replaying the conversation. Jake had said a name, a woman’s name. She even spelled it. And he had told her the other victim was connected to Arthur Vick. She had to remember.
Hitting the accelerator, she eased her TT into the middle lane, gunned it to eighty, then zoomed in front of the truck. The big rig behind her got smaller and smaller. Oh, yes, she’d make it in time.
So. The name. Amber something. Amber Rowan. No. Not exactly Amber.
Maybe she should call Jake. He’d tried to tell her something, she could tell, but she bet he couldn’t say it in front of Tuck. If only they’d had time to finish their conversation.
Jane took a bite of burrito, not bad, actually, since she was completely starving, then peeled down the paper wrapper with her teeth. She knew she could dredge up the name. It was in there somewhere.
What was it? And what did it mean?
From the depths of her tote bag beside her on the front seat, she heard the trill of her phone. Jake, maybe. She laid the burrito back onto its waxed paper wrapper, flipped the yellow cheese bits off her coat, then hit the hands-free button on the center console.
“This is Jane.”
“Alex.” His voice squawked through the speakers. “You in the car?”
“Yup,” Jane said. Thank goodness she was on the way. “I tried to call you, right? You got my message?”
“Yup,” Alex said. “You almost there? You get the info about the event? At the New Englander Hotel, Gus says. You know where that is?”
“Yup.” Jane had taken a bite of burrito, forgetting she was on the phone. She tried to talk around it. “What’s the scoop?”
“Huh? You’re breaking up.”
“Yeah, sorry.” She swallowed. “Headed west on the Mass Pike. Reception stinks.” She regretfully moved the burrito to the seat beside her. It would be inedible cheesy glue in about ten seconds. “Anyway, what’s the plan?”
“There’s some kind of rally, I have Gus checking on the deets. Apparently the candidate’s staying overnight. Moira tell you that? She’s still home, right?”
“Yeah, far as I know, she’s home. No, she didn’t tell me that. Pretty interesting.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Gus made you a reservation at the hotel, just in case. Hope you have a toothbrush.”
A toothbrush? Whatever. She’d manage. It wasn’t like she was going to Siberia. “Sure. No prob. So—”
“Hang on, my other line. Can you hold a sec?”
Jane reached for the burrito. “Sure.”
Alex had a point about the overnight thing, although if Lassiter were trying to hide some assignation, he’d cook up a big plan, right? Make it all look plausible? No surprises? Or maybe surprises were good. How would she know what a cheating husband would do? Maybe she should ask Alex. He was the one who might be having—
“I’m back. Sorry.” Alex sounded glum. “Where were we? Oh yeah, Moira didn’t know.”
Jane swallowed again, quickly. “Yeah, well, what do you think someone having an affair would do?” Lucky he couldn’t see her face. Then again, maybe it was Alex’s wife who was cheating. Not him. That’s why he was so upset these days. Maybe that had been his wife on the phone, telling him she had to be out of town, suddenly, overnight. Although this was not the time to be thinking about Alex’s marital problems. “They’d have some elaborate explanation set up, right? Not tell the wife at the last minute they suddenly had to be out of town.”
Alex didn’t answer.
“Alex? You there?”
“Yeah, someone at the door. Hang on.”
Jane strained to translate the sounds coming over the speakers. Frustratingly, the transmission was all fuzz and muffle. And some jerk driving a souped-up Dodge took that very moment to honk at her. Jane gave him the look. Idiot.
“So, Jane.” Alex’s voice, back on the line, sounded different. “You were at Sellica’s funeral? How come? I had no idea you were going. Tuck’s here. Says she saw you.”
Did she, now? Thanks, sister. “Ah, yeah, just paying my respects.”
“Why?” Alex asked. “That’s not your assignment, Jane. You wanted nothing to do with it. Since she’s not your source, of course.”
Jane could do without the sarcasm. Time to change the subject. Get back in Alex’s good graces. Her “six-month tryout” at the Register had barely begun, and newspaper jobs were disappearing faster than … “Listen, Alex. I’m getting close to Springfield, so gotta wrap up. But Jake was there at the funeral, too. And he’s on the Bridge Killer thing.”
“Yes, I already know that. From Tuck. Because Tuck is covering the Bridge Killer case. Just as she was assigned. And Jake told Tuck—”
Alex’s voice disappeared. Then returned. “But we’re going with it anyway. Tuck says she’s sure Sellica’s a Bridge Killer victim.”
“Sorry, Alex, my call waiting beeped in. The voice mail picked up. I missed what you said.”
“I said: Jake’s telling Tuck that Sellica’s death is not connected to the others. But Tuck thinks the cops are lying. Water, bridge, female, no ID. So the Register is going with Sellica as the third victim. The only one who’s identified. Not that it has anything to do with you. As you’d be the first to say.”
If she was a reporter in her next life, she was never ever having anything be off the record. Never. Or maybe, in journalism hell, everything was off the record. Journalism hell, where you knew a bunch of amazing stuff that you could never tell anyone. Maybe that was now.
“Jane? You hearing me?”
“Yes, I’m hearing you. Listen, Alex.” She crossed her fingers, hoping this wasn’t a mistake. But Alex was clearly angry with her, seemed to have already forgotten she was the one who brought him the Moira scoop. Anger was not good for her job security.
A quarter mile till the exit. Now or never. Never was probably the wiser choice. But now was what she decided.
“Let’s put it this way. I hear there might be an ID on one of the Bridge Killer victims.”
“Yeah, duh. Sellica,” Alex said.
“No, Alex. Not Sellica.” Jane paused. “The other woman.”
Roldan, her brain announced. Roldan. Amaryllis Roldan.
“An ID? What other woman? Which one?” Alex demanded. “How do you know? Who’s the victim?”
Jane yanked the car onto the exit ramp, sloshing latte through th
e narrow hole in the cup lid. The burrito rolled onto the floor. The New Englander Hotel was around the next curve, barely visible behind a stand of giant pine trees.
“I don’t know,” she said. And she didn’t really, she only knew Amaryllis Roldan was a name that Jake told her, off the record. She didn’t know who that was. Or why Jake asked her about it. But he’d said the name, and the word victim, and the name Arthur Vick, and it was all connected. Somehow. “Get Tuck to ask someone at the cop shop about it. But not Jake, okay? Not Jake.”
She pulled into the hotel parking lot. Searched for a spot among the wall-to-wall cars, many plastered with Lassiter bumper stickers. I’ve gotten into trouble before for not telling. Will I get into trouble now for telling? This was exactly why she and Jakey couldn’t be together. It was impossible to sort out responsibilities and priorities and—sure, Jake had said “off the record.”
But why would he tell her in the first place, if he didn’t want her to do something about it?
She was going to tell. And hope she wasn’t blowing up her life.
“Amaryllis Roldan,” she said. A chill went down her back. “But remember, Alex. The name didn’t come from me.”
26
Holly rolled the waistband of her black skirt once, to make it shorter. Why not? She checked her handiwork in the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door of her room at the New Englander. She’d gotten the last room, she was told. They were full up now. “Lucky you,” the hotel clerk had said.
Exactly.
Holly nodded, approving, as she assessed herself in the glass. The rally was inside. Perfect. Black skirt, black tights, bright bright green silk blouse with a lacy camisole underneath. Lassiter campaign button on her wide stretchy belt. She flipped her head from side to side, watching her hair, all curled and shiny now, swish back and forth like one of those TV commercials for shampoo. Nice. Nice new Holly. No more drabby old Hannah. Tonight she was pretty Holly.
She tried putting her hair behind her ear on one side, one curl twirling down her cheek. No. Maybe one side up? With a green ribbon? No. It was fine. There wasn’t time to change it again. She was perfect.
Camera. All set. Battery charged. Flash good to go. Into her purse. Everything else, ready.
She slid the flat key card into a side pocket of her bag, checked again to make sure it was still there, then headed down the hallway to the elevator. She was supposed to go to the ninth floor, then take the special Skyview elevator to ten, where the rally was about to begin. She pushed the button, and pushed it again, her heart lifting with what she hoped would happen.
Owen would be so surprised.
She just. Could not. Wait.
* * *
“The rally is where? Tenth floor? Inside? Really? I thought it was outside.” Jane slid her credit card across the hotel reception desk. The lobby was buzzing with Lassiter supporters, if funny hats and WE GO OWEN signs were any indication. Looked like a snafu of some kind at the elevators. One was marked OUT OF SERVICE, roped off with plastic tape. A crowd of impatient-looking rally-goers elbowed for space in the two still operating. No one looked happy.
Jane raised a hand, waving, recognizing that cute guy from the campaign—Trevor. Trevor Kiernan. But he didn’t see her. He focused on his clipboard, checking something. Assigning people to elevators. Seemed like a mess.
“Miss Ryland?” The desk clerk, a wiry young woman, all slicked-back hair and empty holes along each earlobe, wore a gold plastic name tag reading HI, I’M GINA ORTICELLI. She handed Jane a folder of papers and a blue key card. Whispered, “You’re room 916.”
“Oh, thanks, and—”
“Um, are you covering this for Channel Eleven?” The clerk’s eyes were wide, admiring. “I’m such a fan of yours. I completely love your new hair. I’m Gina. I hope you don’t mind me saying.”
“Oh, well, I—” Did Jane have to explain it? Which was worse, having to deal with the looks of pity? Or having to explain when they didn’t know the whole sad story?
Gina leaned over the desk, one hand above her mouth, conspiratorial. “I’m a Gable person, I don’t mind telling you. Ellie’s such a rock star. And I’m thinking I might have a story for you. This whole Lassiter thing has been disaster city. Can we go off the record?”
Jane almost burst out laughing. Off the record? What was this, everybody thought they were on 60 Minutes? On the other hand, hotel clerks were privy to some inside stuff.
“Sure, Gina, off the record,” she said. She stepped closer to the desk, giving Gina 100 percent. “I’m so flattered you recognized me.”
Gina turned, checking behind her. A door marked ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES was closed. At the other end of the counter, Jane saw another clerk, arguing with some red-faced guy wearing a Lassiter button. Fifteen minutes until the rally was supposed to begin upstairs. And the lobby still teeming with Lassiter people. Not good.
“Okay,” Gina said. “Hand me back your registration papers. We can pretend to talk about that.”
Jane struggled to hide her smile. Cloak and dagger in Springfield, Mass. Well, you never knew.
Gina pointed, dramatically, to something on the papers in front of her. “First of all,” she said, her voice low. “This rally thing was so last minute. That guy over there? End of the counter? He’s insisting they reserved a block of rooms, and the Special Pavilion for an afternoon rally today. But they didn’t. Reserve anything. Anyway, now the opticians have the Pav, and the Lassiter people have to go upstairs. That guy, Maitland or something, is making a huge stink. Like it’s the hotel’s fault. But it isn’t. The Lassiter campaign never reserved anything.”
“So that’s why it’s now at seven o’clock? Upstairs?”
“Yeah, they had to change everything. It’s already running late. And then the room reservation mess. We gave Lassiter the presidential suite, lucky that was open. Campaign types got the other vacancies. And you got one of the last regular rooms. We’re completely full up now. I mean, if they can’t set up a simple rally, how can they run the country?”
Rory Maitland, Jane thought. Hotshot consultant. A supposed insider who didn’t seem too clued in to reality. The big question was, who else was a last-minute overnight guest?
“You’re so observant,” Jane said. Gina looked proud of herself. Exactly what Jane was going for. “The campaign does seem somewhat disorganized. Did lots of Lassiter people show up at the last minute?”
Gina cocked her head down the counter. “Maitland, for sure. Maybe a few others. And a secretary type. They were all so mad, you know? The guy with the clipboard?” Gina stuck a thumb toward the elevator.
Trevor.
“He’s taking the heat,” Gina said.
Holy moly. A secretary? It couldn’t be this easy. How to phrase this—“Ah. So eventually there were rooms enough for everyone?”
“Yeah, barely. Like I said, you got one of the last ones. Most of the Lassiter people are on nine. We had to give the campaign the Skyview for the rally. Smaller, not so accessible, but that’s what we had.”
“I know Governor Lassiter, of course.” Jane tried again. “And Mr. Maitland, and the guy with the clipboard. But the secretary? A woman? Like, a press secretary? I’m trying to figure out if I know her. Is her name Sheila King?”
Gina glanced around again. Gave Jane a fleeting wink, then tapped on the computer keyboard in front of her. “Of course, Miss Ryland, I’m happy to see whether we have availability at our other location.” Her voice was louder, as if wanting to be overheard.
Jane watched the clerk’s fingers move across the keyboard. The computer screen faced Gina, so Jane couldn’t see what the desk clerk was actually looking up. With one quick move, Gina flipped the screen around.
“As you can see, Miss Ryland.” She tapped the screen with a silver pen. “Does this look like the type of accommodations you had in mind?”
Jane peered at the monitor. It looked like a registration form, like the one she just filled out. But this was for ro
om 981. And Gina’s pen was tapping at the name of the person registered to stay there. Kenna Wilkes. Mrs. Kenna Wilkes.
Commotion at the other end of the counter. The door marked ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES opened. A man in a navy blazer emerged. Frowning.
Gina twirled the monitor away, tapped the keyboard, looked up at Jane. “Will there be anything else, Miss Ryland?”
Not Sheila King. Kenna Wilkes. Mrs. Kenna Wilkes. Mrs.? Was there a Mr. Wilkes?
Was Kenna Wilkes the woman in the red coat? One easy way to find out—show the very helpful Gina the archive photos. But they were in the car, and Jane had to get to the rally. Still, if the red-coat woman was at this rally, too, it made sense that Jane had just discovered her name. She could always show Gina the photos later. Thank you, journalism gods.
“You’ve been so helpful, Miss Orticelli,” Jane said. She had to call Alex. Figure out what to tell Moira. Figure out who the heck Kenna Wilkes was. And what she wanted. “Are you working later tonight?”
“Nope,” Gina said. “But I’ll be here in the morning.”
Damn. Jane eyed the crowd at the elevator. She had to go. She looked at Gina, then waved a hand around her own head. “Curly hair? Semi-gorgeous?” Jane hoped the clerk would understand what she was asking.
“Totally,” Gina said. “You got it.”
27
“Inside? This thing is inside?”
Kenna could tell Owen Lassiter was not happy. She’d heard about his temper, of course, wondered if she was about to see it in action. That’d be educational. Edging into the corner of the elevator, she pretended to read the restaurant ad on the dark-paneled wall, as if giving him and Maitland some privacy. Whatever chaos was already under way at this rally, she didn’t care. She was here, and Owen was here, and exactly where some event was being held was hardly the point. Her plans were the same.
She sneaked a look at the two men. So opposite. Owen all pinstripes and foulard, silver and tall. Looking down at the stubby, bumbling Rory.
The Other Woman Page 12