The Other Woman

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  The elevator pinged on four. The doors opened. Three or four people tried to step in, but Rory stuck out an arm. “Sorry, folks, take the next one,” he said. “Thanks so much.”

  Kenna could hear protests fading as the doors swished closed. The elevator continued up. Poor Owen seemed even angrier.

  “Christ, Rory. What the hell? What happened to our security? We’re running so late. This whole thing is a nightmare.”

  “Governor, frankly, I’m not sure what happened. Trevor Kiernan booked the place, then I followed up. We were supposed to have the venue called the, uh—” Rory checked some notebook, gave her a fast look. “—the Pavilion. This afternoon. But the jerks at the desk insist it was rented already. I’ll ream Trevor a new one—excuse me, Kenna. But for now, we’re gonna have to make do.”

  The elevator stopped on five. More passengers attempted to join them. Rory hit the button, closed the door in their faces. “Thanks, folks,” he said.

  “What gives with these elevators?” Owen grimaced, clearly annoyed. “I hate to keep people out.”

  “Security, Governor,” Maitland said. “They understand. These folks are hardly undecideds, after all. They’re Lassiter do or die. Big givers. A-listers. Or they wouldn’t be here. And—”

  “All the more reason. Kiernan said people were still lined up in the lobby. If they don’t make it to the rally, we don’t get the campaign dollars.” Owen was full steam ahead, ignoring Rory’s explanations. Kenna had never seen him like this. Annoyed, brusque, demanding. Maybe the campaign stress was getting to him. He’d napped during the car ride from Boston. So she and Rory had gotten to chat a bit. Carefully, so they didn’t wake him.

  “The place is full of opticians, a national board meeting or some such,” Owen went on. “Not even all from Massachusetts, for godsake. Why the hell did we come here? Maybe do more harm than good. This close to the election. Waste of time. Maitland, you called Moira, right? I never got through.”

  “Governor, do you mind if I stop at the suite?” Kenna stepped forward, pushed the button for nine. “Rory gave me a key. I need to pick up one more batch of campaign literature.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Wilkes. I fear you’re not seeing us at our best.” Owen turned to her with a rueful smile. “But Rory said you wanted the inside look. That’s certainly what you’re getting. In a campaign, anything can happen.”

  The elevator stopped with a shudder; the doors slid open. Empty hallway.

  Kenna laughed, head back, then touched the candidate on the arm of his suit jacket. “It’ll take more than some rally to get rid of me, Governor. I’ll see you soon.”

  She knew she saw his eyes light up as the elevator door closed behind her.

  * * *

  Jane dragged herself around the last stairway landing, grabbing the railing and puffing for breath. Eight floors up, then nine. If she waited for the elevator, she’d never get there. Someone said the campaign commandeered one of the elevators, leaving only one to handle the entire buzzing pack of Lassiter supporters. Some, she saw, had taken off their buttons and funny hats and headed for the parking lot. Gina was right about this. A mess.

  Into the hallway, following the painted arrows toward the Skyview Room, almost at a run. One of the silver elevator doors swished open. And there was Owen Lassiter. Looking pretty unhappy. And Rory Maitland, if she had it right.

  Perfect timing, for her at least. Something finally worked.

  “Governor Lassiter.” Jane stopped, hand outstretched. She gulped, catching her breath. “I’m Jane Ryland from—”

  “The Register now. Yes, I know,” Lassiter said. He shook her hand, using both of his. “We’ve met before, of course. Great to see you. You know Rory Maitland? Power behind the—”

  “Hey, Jane,” Maitland said. “So we’re looking good here, right? Up in the polls, your paper says? Eleanor Gable’s campaign collapsing?”

  Not exactly, Jane thought. And this rally fiasco ain’t gonna help. Jane looked around. No sign of Kenna Wilkes. She was probably arriving at the event separately. The prudent thing to do.

  “Mrs. Lassiter joining you here?” Jane aimed her question at the candidate. Risky, maybe, but Lassiter didn’t know what she knew. What his own wife had told her.

  Maitland stepped between them. He held up a cell phone. “Governor? Time to go in. We’ll use the front door tonight. Not the back entrance. It’ll look terrific. Man of the people. We’re going in to ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’ Security is all in place, no worries. You set?” Maitland took the candidate by the arm, escorting him away. “Sorry, Jane. Any scheduling questions, call our press office. Sheila King. You know the drill.”

  A roar of applause and a blare of music. Jane scurried behind Lassiter and Maitland as they entered through the double doors marked SKYVIEW, but two blue-jacketed guards, rent-a-cops, stepped in front of her, blocking her way as soon as she tried to follow them. The music was already deafening, bouncing off the walls. People elbow to elbow. Everyone talking.

  “We’re full up,” one of the guards said. “Fire regs. No more room. We have to keep the doors closed. Sorry, miss.”

  “Press,” Jane said. She held up the plastic pass she’d clipped to a webbed lanyard around her neck.

  “Good for you,” the other guard said. “We’re still full.”

  No way. No way. This is all I need. Jane’s stomach clenched as she panicked for a solution. She could picture telling Alex, Oh yeah, I was there, but I arrived too late to get in.

  “Ow-en Lass-i-ter!” A voice bellowed through the PA system, even louder than the music. “The next senator from the Commonwealth of Mass-a-chu-setts!”

  “Maitland!” Jane pushed forward, trying to grab the consultant’s sport coat. “They’re saying the room is full!” she yelled, waving to show Maitland the situation. “But I have to—”

  The crowd, shoulders touching, was cheering, waving, vying for access. Hands reached out to touch the candidate, shake hands with him, get his attention. Silver confetti and green balloons floated from the ceiling.

  The blue-jacketed obstacle in her path threw out a gloved paw. “Miss, I told you, we’re full.” He rolled his eyes at Maitland. “Sorry, sir.”

  Maitland waved him off. “She’s with us.” He indicated a small riser on the opposite side of the room. “Press over there. You owe us, Ryland.”

  Lassiter and Maitland were consumed by the throng of cheering supporters, almost carried toward the stage in a surge of green and white. Soon, all Jane could see were Lassiter’s pin-striped arms in the air, waving in political salute to those who swarmed around him.

  Jane snaked past the guards, the doors clicking closed behind her. She couldn’t cut across the room to the press section. Much too crowded. She remembered all the Lassiter supporters still waiting downstairs. How annoyed were they gonna be? What a mess.

  Edging along the wall, she held her breath to squeeze by. Red-coat woman would certainly not be wearing her coat in this oven. Luckily Jane had dumped her own at the bell desk. Elbows poked her, bodies pressed against her, jockeying for position. And if one more person steps on my feet …

  “’Scuse me, ’scuse me,” she muttered. Maybe on tiptoe she’d go faster. Using the wall for balance and hugging her purse to her chest, she edged closer to the press platform. Lassiter was onstage, palms down, trying, not terribly hard, to quiet the continuing cheers.

  It was way too hot. Way too crowded. Jane made it to the end of the first wall. Took a deep breath. The press riser was just ahead, only about a million people blocking her way there. Three television cameras on tripods poked up from the wooden platform, logos from the Western Mass stations. No one from Boston. At least it was a foot or so off the ground, so once up there she could get a better view. Maybe even breathe.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m so proud to be your candidate.” Lassiter’s voice boomed through the speakers, making the one mounted in the corner above Jane rattle with the volume and intensity. Cheers erupted—so loud, the
wall behind her started shaking.

  Spooked, she turned, stepped away. And backed into someone.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, voice raised, almost tripping on her own feet to turn around. She pointed to the press riser, then her press pass, apologizing. “It’s so crowded. Just trying to get to the—”

  A young woman in a Lassiter boater, too much jewelry, and a row of multicolored campaign buttons looked her up and down. “You’re still on TV?” she said. “I thought you—”

  “C’mon, Melissa, we need to get closer.” A prepped-out young man, also in Lassiter hat and button array, grabbed the young woman by the arm, drawing her through the crowd.

  No red-coat girl. No one she recognized.

  “Thank you so much for being here,” Lassiter’s voice picked up again. “I know you agree with me, this election…”

  Two more steps to the riser. She dumped her tote bag on the platform, then, grateful for her flat boots, hauled herself up. Three camera guys grabbed their tripods and turned to her, glaring. “Watch it, we’re rolling tape,” one scolded. “You’re shaking the whole thing.”

  “Sorry,” she said again. Damn. “My bad.” She tried not to move as she dug into her tote bag for a notebook and pencil. As long as the cameras were rolling, she was stuck up here.

  And there was the woman she’d been searching for. There she absolutely is.

  Smack in the center of the crowd, head bobbing, arms raised in applause, edging toward the front. There was no mistaking that curly hair, that high-wattage smile. Even without the coat, Jane knew that face from the photos.

  And now she also knew her name. Kenna Wilkes. The other woman.

  Jane jumped from the platform, ignoring the hostile yelps from the photogs behind her. “Sorry,” she called out. Not looking back. Headed across the room, eyes on the curly-haired prize.

  “Sorry, press, sorry, sorry,” she repeated, not caring, squeezing behind some people, in front of others. Everyone else was focused on Lassiter. She focused on the curly hair, moving forward, toward the podium. Jane scrabbled in her purse, unseeing, trying to get at her little camera.

  She wasn’t losing her this time.

  * * *

  “Recalculating. When possible, please make a legal U-turn.” Incredible, in-frigging-credible. For fifty cents, Matt would throw the frigging GPS and its robo-voice out the car window. No doubt the rental company would charge him out the ass for it.

  Matt yanked the steering wheel, floored the accelerator, and swerved his midsize across three lanes of the Mass Turnpike for the exit. The traffic had been total hell, some moron had a flat in front of him, a lane closed, construction, every friggin’ possible obstacle. A blast of horns behind him protested his abrupt move. He flipped them the finger. Assholes.

  How hard could it be to get to Springfield, for godsake? You can’t miss it, the rental car kid told him. Straight out the Pike, get off when the GPS tells you. He’d gotten the last car in the lot, the kid said, and Matt had hardly listened to the rest of the spiel about insurance and return policies as he signed the papers, grabbed the keys, hit the road. Now it was pitch dark, he’d been driving for frigging hours in the boonies, and the GPS was sending him god knew where, anywhere but the New Englander Hotel.

  “Recalculating.” The GPS voice, taunting, sounded like something from a bad spy movie. Like the universe was trying to keep him from doing what he had to do. Trying to keep him from protecting Owen Lassiter.

  But the universe was not gonna win. He was. It was his turn.

  28

  “She’s his wife. She’s not gonna tell the truth if it’s gonna get her husband nailed for murder.” Jake yanked open his cruiser door and stepped into the Beacon Market parking lot.

  “True dat.” DeLuca tossed his coffee cup in a trash can, then followed Jake toward the entrance of the store’s Brighton location.

  Nighttime, spotlights, metal shopping carts scattered like tumbleweeds across the yellow-stenciled pavement. Not many cars at this time on a Saturday night. But Arthur Vick’s grocery stores were always open. “We’re here for twenty-four and, if you need it, more,” his chorus of store clerks sang in those annoying ads.

  “But she says her husband was with her on the nights of both murders,” DeLuca continued. “Plus Sellica’s. That’s Patricia Vick’s story. And she’s stickin’ to it.”

  “They always stick to it.” Jake shrugged. “Until we prove they’re lying. Then it’s adios, hubby, nice to know ya.”

  The glass double doors swished open. Tinkling buy-me-now Muzak and a wind chill factor of forty hit them as they entered. Glaring fluorescents, buzzing, made it instant daytime. That stale meat smell. Vegetables. A guy with a mop pretending to do the stain-streaked flooring.

  “See why Vick’s such a moneybags,” DeLuca muttered. “Low overhead.”

  “He gonna be here? Or who?” Jake looked around. Glad he got most of his food from the pizza place near his apartment. Jane loves pizza. He shook off the thought. She’d be fine. Especially if Vick was on his way here. “What’d he tell you?”

  “He said eight P.M. Here. That’s now.”

  Jake waved toward the counter. “After you. But I don’t see Vick.”

  “Maybe this lovely young lady will know.” DeLuca cocked a thumb at a clerk with almost-orange hair. She was leaning against a cash register, black-rimmed eyes staring at the empty aisles.

  “Miss?” Jake flipped his badge wallet open, closed it, put it away. “I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston Police. This is my associate, Officer DeLuca. And you are?”

  She touched the name tag on her electric blue smock. “Olive.”

  “Olive. In a grocery store.” DeLuca smiled at her. “You get that a lot?”

  “Don’t mind him, miss,” Jake said. Good cop. “We’re looking for Mr. Vick. Have you seen him tonight?”

  “Is this about the change machine?” the girl said. Almost a whine. A silver ring pierced her lower lip. “It’s broken, that’s all. Sometimes it doesn’t work right. I only know because—”

  “Miss?” Jake interrupted. He could hear DeLuca trying not to laugh. “It’s not about the change machine, okay? It’s about Sellica Darden.”

  Jake saw the girl’s face go wary. She even took a step back, away from them. DeLuca cleared his throat softly. Jake shot him a glance. I get it.

  “So you know her.” Jake scratched an ear. Casual, casual. “How? She work here, with you? How about Amaryllis Roldan?”

  Olive looked between them, back and forth. Settled on Jake. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Don’t know what, Olive? Don’t know if you know her? Or don’t know whether she worked here?”

  “Nothing,” Olive said. “I don’t know anything.”

  “I think that’s unlikely, Miss—? What’s your last name?” Jake took out a notebook and clicked open his ballpoint. “And I’ll need your current address.”

  “How long’ve you worked here, Olive?” DeLuca took a step forward, getting in her space, one hand on the counter. “You like your job? You think you’re gonna keep it by covering up for your boss?”

  “Am I under arrest?” The girl’s eyes went hard.

  “You got some experience with that, miss? Being arrested?” DeLuca was doing bad cop. “Easy for me to find out.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Jake said. Good cop. “Listen, Olive, you need to answer our questions. Truthfully. About Sellica. About Amaryllis. You can talk to us here, or down at the station.”

  “Or she can tell you to get the hell out of here.”

  The door had opened behind Olive. Arthur Vick held on to the knob with one hand, his other propped against the doorjamb. Tie loose, French cuffs hanging, one lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. His shirt pocket was monogrammed with an elaborate AV.

  Guilty, Jake thought. Of something. Vick looked just like his TV ads. Only—guiltier.

  “You hear me, Officers? Think I didn’t hear everything you said? You’re out of
line, you two.” Vick waved a flat palm, dismissing. His gold wedding band caught the light. “Miss Parisella, you can go. You’re done here. You don’t have to say a word to them.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Vick,” she said. She half lifted a partition in the counter and started to duck underneath it.

  “Not so fast, Miss Parisella.” Jake raised a hand. The girl stopped, still bent over, and backed out from under the counter.

  She looked at Jake, daggers. Then at Vick, pleading. She kept one hand on the semiraised partition. Half in, half out.

  “Arthur Vick? I’m Detective Jake Brogan. And this is my associate, Paul DeLuca. We had an appointment, I believe?” Jerk thought he was Mr. Big. Jake would let him have it, both barrels. What was true didn’t actually matter at this juncture. “I assume you’d be eager to have your staff help us catch a serial killer. Before he strikes again. Before he kills another one of your employees. Like Miss Parisella here.”

  Olive gasped. She dropped the partition. It clunked into place and she jumped at the echoing sound, putting both hands to her mouth. Now Jake could see only her eyes.

  This girl was terrified.

  29

  “Kenna! Kenna Wilkes!” Jane could almost reach out and touch her. She could see the ringlets in her cloud of shining hair, the sparkle of her just-too-big chandelier earrings as they caught the lights. Lassiter had chosen this moment to do his man-of-the-people, down-into-the-crowd move. Which, Jane now knew, was not so spontaneous as it had appeared when she first saw him try it back in Boston. Lassiter’s sudden proximity made the rallyers explode into another wave of adulation. Kenna couldn’t possibly hear Jane’s voice, not even yelling as loud as she did. One more time. “Kenna!”

  But the woman was moving, weaving steadily forward through the audience of boater hats and signs on sticks. No matter how Jane almost-pushed into the churning crowd, she couldn’t manage to get any closer than three people away. When she reaches the stage, she’ll be trapped. I’ll catch up, and I’ll nail her. Game over.

  Odd, though, Jane thought, heading toward her quarry. Almost too easy. Moira drops the bombshell. I get sent to Springfield. Gina tells me about Kenna. And there she is. The old “too good to be true” thing they warned you about in J-school. No valuable story came easy. And this one—well, almost had.