The Other Woman

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Someday, you wanna come tour the police station?” Jake asked. He’d dropped to a crouch, eye level with the little boy in the open doorway. “I’ll show you how we do target practice.”

  “Eli! Are you bothering Jane again?” Eli’s mother was tramping down the one flight of burgundy-carpeted stairs, baby Sam balanced on her hip, his pudgy hand grasping the strap of her rock-star tank top.

  “It’s fine, Neen,” Jane called out. “He was just showing…”

  Arriving on the landing, Neena Fichera hitched Sam to her other already-slim hip, checked out Jake unabashedly. “Hi,” she said, throwing Jane a look. “Are you—?”

  “Neena, super of the building, Jake, um, work colleague of mine.” Jane’s brain was about to fry. Jake was showing an enthralled Eli his handcuffs, chatting as if they were old pals.

  Neena raised an eyebrow, gave a quick thumbs-up.

  Jane stuck out her tongue. Neen thought Jane was missing the motherhood boat, too. This whole day is out of control. And Eli seemed to have a new hero. How did that happen so fast?

  “Come on, Eli, Jane’s busy,” Neena said, scooting him out the door. Sam gurgled, sticking one bootied foot into a pocket of Neena’s cargo pants.

  “See you later, Eli,” Jane said. “Great costume.”

  Eli turned, ignoring Jane, saluting Jake. “You promise? To show me?”

  “Ten-four,” Jake said.

  By the time they’d gone, and Jane had closed the door, the afternoon was evaporating. She was exhausted. And craved sleep. But here was Jake, and he was so damn—

  “He’s a funny kid,” Jake said, clicking his handcuffs back into place. “He adores you.”

  Jake paused, took a step closer. “I see why.”

  Jane didn’t move. She could hear him take a deep breath, see him seem to consider …

  He reached out a hand, touched her shoulder. “You know we could…”

  She had to get this afternoon under control.

  “No, we can’t.” She took a step back. “You know that, too, Jake. And you were warning me, I think, about Arthur Vick. That’s why you’re here, right?”

  That ought to change the mood. For better or for worse.

  “You really think he killed Sellica?” she continued. Determined. “Is he under arrest?”

  Jake paused. Stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.

  “I see,” he said.

  The room was silent. Upstairs, a door slammed.

  “Okay,” Jake said. “No. No arrest. We talked to him. He said the L-word. Lawyer. So we’re moving carefully.”

  Jane leaned against the white-painted wall, trying to kick her weary brain into gear. “And you said—all three victims? Are connected to him?”

  Jake nodded. “Seems like it. Sellica, you know about. The second victim is Amaryllis Roldan. She worked at a Beacon Market. And the first victim had applied for a job at Beacon. But it’s all—it’s still not public. A next-of-kin thing.”

  “So Vick could have—,” Jane began. She gestured him back to the living room. Might as well sit down. Sleep seemed unlikely at this point.

  “Yeah. So. We don’t know.” He sat on the couch, next to her.

  She picked up a paisley pillow. Made it a barrier between them.

  “Janey, here’s my point.” Jake leaned toward her, elbows on knees. “If it was Arthur Vick—well, I thought you should—be aware. Cautious.”

  Jane stared at him, her fingers sliding through the pillow’s silky fringe.

  “Tuck’s already sniffing around him,” Jake went on. “Listen, are they gonna put Vick’s name in the paper as a suspect? After what he did to you?”

  “No idea.” She blew out a breath, considering. It’d be interesting to see what Alex decided about that. “But—wait. Tuck. Did she ask you about Kenna Wilkes? Is that why you e-mailed me that name?”

  “E-mailed you the name Kenna Wilkes?” Jake looked confused. “I never e-mailed you. How do you know that name?”

  “Well, first off, because—” Jane pushed up the sleeves of her turtleneck, checked her watch. Doomed. “Listen. You want something to drink?”

  * * *

  The sugar maple outside her kitchen window had given up the last of its leaves, and a fat squirrel scuttled up a bare branch. The redwood bird feeder she’d rigged up was empty. Jane sighed. The bird feeder was more for Murrow than for me. She took the silver kettle to the sink, turned on the water. “Tea? Yes, no?”

  Jake sat at the round table by the window, elbows on the yellow-checked tablecloth, examining her little terra-cotta pot of delicately blooming paperwhites.

  “Sure. But Kenna Wilkes, Jane.”

  “Well,” she said over the running water. “First, you e-mailed me the name. But I figured—” She turned off the water and turned on the stove. “—I figured Tuck asked you about her. Thing is, I had asked Alex to find out about her. For a whole nother story. He apparently misunderstood. But then, when you e-mailed me, I thought there might be something more.”

  “Like I said. I didn’t.” Jake pulled out his BlackBerry.

  Jane found two chunky mugs, rummaged in the cabinet for tea bags. “Sure you did. Too late for English Breakfast. How about Calm?”

  “Damn,” Jake said.

  “Huh?” Jane said. She pulled out two colorful boxes. “Okay. I have other kinds.”

  She turned to show him, but he was staring at his BlackBerry.

  “I meant to send the name to myself,” Jake said. “I guess I hit JA, then screwed up when DeLuca came in. Hit the wrong button. And it got sent to you. The next one on my contacts list.”

  The teakettle whistled. “Funny,” she said, pouring steaming water into the mugs. “You had me thinking she was involved in the bridge killings. That’d be weird.”

  She put a mug in front of Jake, added a spoon and a folded napkin, pushed the sugar bowl toward him. She leaned against the kitchen counter, holding her own mug with both hands.

  “Well, Kenna Wilkes doesn’t exist, far as I can see,” Jake said, stirring.

  “Sure she does,” Jane said. “I’ve seen her.”

  Jake took a tentative sip. Put his mug back on the table. “Well, you saw someone. But there is no Kenna Wilkes. Not that my assistant can find, anyway.”

  “Really? You looked her up in your woo-woo secret police files, whatever you guys have? Why?”

  “Yup. We did. What’s she to you, anyway? When Tuck mentioned her name, I thought she was a bridge killer victim. So I—”

  “Kenna Wilkes isn’t a bridge killer victim. She isn’t dead.”

  “Well, whatever. That’s what I thought at the time. So we checked out the name, and there’s no record of her. Registry of motor vehicles, social security, criminal history. Nothing.”

  Jane watched the steam twirl up from her tea. Watched Jake, one arm draped over the ladder-back of her kitchen chair, legs stretched out on the hardwood floor. Just the two of them. A Sunday afternoon. If the world were different, they’d be luxuriating, reading the papers, watching an old movie, sharing a bowl of popcorn. Or ripping each other’s clothes off, if wishes came true. But here they were talking about murder, and danger, and now he was telling her an impossible thing. That Kenna Wilkes didn’t exist.

  “I talked to her. Last night. In Springfield.” Jane mentally replayed their conversation. How Kenna seemed to recognize her, but didn’t know she’d been fired. They talked about the election. She pretended she wasn’t involved with Lassiter.

  Hey. Jane had taken her photo! She could simply show that to Jake. All she had to do was grab her camera from her purse, and—she stopped. That wouldn’t prove anything about who Kenna was. Or her role in this election.

  The election. There was a way to find out about Kenna Wilkes.

  “Jake? Did your person check voter registration lists?”

  Jake shook his head. “Doubt it. Why?”

  “Kenna Wilkes told me she ‘couldn’t wait to vote for Owen Lassiter.’ She said �
�I wish I could vote for him a million times.’ So she must be registered. And that’s public record. I’ll look her up tomorrow at City Hall.”

  She toasted him with her tea, pleased with herself.

  Jake nodded. “Nice going, Brenda Starr. Hope it works for your story. But, you know, she’s not part of this case.” He took a last swig, walked past her to put his mug in the sink. “Thanks, Janey. I’d better let you get some sleep.”

  She joined him at the sink, put her empty mug next to his on the stainless steel. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking out the little curtained window overlooking the courtyard. A cardinal, a flare of crimson, swooped into the bare branches in front of them.

  Jane felt Jake’s arm slide around her waist. Felt his warmth. Felt him breathe. Felt the slightest touch of his hair on her cheek.

  She turned to him, barely. Not wanting to move. Wanting to move.

  “Want some company?” Jake whispered. “For your nap?”

  Yes, Jane thought. Yes, yes, yes.

  He looked down at her, lifting her chin with one finger. “Janey,” he whispered. “Tell me again why we decided…”

  “It’s hard to remember, right now.” Jane could barely hear her own voice. Barely knew her arm slid under Jake’s leather jacket, barely realized her cheek nestled in the soft wool of his sweater.

  “You there, Jake? Over.” A voice crackled through the portable radio clipped to Jake’s belt.

  She heard Jake sigh, felt his chest rise and fall. She kept her eyes closed, wrapping herself in the moment, marking it. It would soon be gone.

  “I hear you, D. Over,” Jake said into the radio. His arm tightened around her waist, one hand slipping under her sweater. His hand was cool, and warm, and soft, and strong.

  “The Howarths got plane tickets. They’re on the way. Meet at Logan in an hour? Terminal B. Over.”

  Jane opened her eyes. Saw the cardinal fly away.

  “Roger that,” Jake said.

  “That’s why,” Jane said.

  44

  Thank goodness for my little tape recorder. Jane had made it to Eleanor Gable’s office, right on time at five. Running on adrenaline. Gable was already talking faster than Jane’s frantic note-taking could possibly keep up.

  The candidate catalogued her personal history in nonstop bullet points: flossy childhood on the North Shore, boarding school, college, trust fund, escapades, law school. Women’s rights, volunteer work, politics, change the world, do her part, take a stand.

  Ellie Gable came out from behind the pale green antique desk in her opulent Beacon Hill study and paced, all broad gestures and unrelenting eye contact, in front of the tartan-silk curtains draping the bay window.

  Wonder how many Chanel suits the woman has, Jane thought. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  “So when we finally got enough signatures to get on the ballot”—Gable was wrapping up the push-for-the-nomination chapter in her political life—“we knew we were on the way.” She refilled a crystal goblet with the last of her Diet Coke, lifting the empty plastic bottle to signal a conservatively suited young woman standing near the doorway for another. The links of Gable’s gold charm bracelet glinted in the light of the crackling fire. “And now with the election less than two weeks away—well, it’s all been the most exciting, the most compelling—”

  Wonder why her people called this an “interview.” Jane dutifully took notes as Gable continued. It was more like a performance. A monologue. The world according to Ellie. Jane was too weary to try to stop her. It wouldn’t work anyway.

  “We’ve matched Lassiter dollar for dollar in contributions,” Gable was saying. “And I’m sure you know all the polls—thank you, Frannie, you can leave us now.” Accepting another Diet Coke, she unscrewed the plastic cap with barely a pause. “All the polls have us neck and neck. And Lassiter trending down. Isn’t that what the Register says, Jane?”

  Jane looked up from her notebook. “Is that what your internals are showing?”

  “Well, yes, they do. But we won’t know until election day, will we? That’s why our get-out-the-vote organization—”

  Jane eyed the photographs covering every flat surface and tabletop in the study as Gable continued. Silver frames, smiling faces, beaches and monuments and infants and christenings and graduations and inaugurations. Nantucket, again. Washington, D.C. Wonder why Gable never married. Maybe she had? Nothing in her bio about it. But that was proof of nothing.

  “Is it difficult to run by yourself?” Jane’s question came out almost before it was fully formed. “Most candidates these days have a spouse, a partner of some kind, to be a—you know, touchstone, companion, a reliable buddy on the campaign trail.”

  “More likely to be killed by a terrorist than get married after forty? Like that old Newsweek article? That where you’re going with this?” Gable said. She took a sip of soda, smiling. “Nope, Jane, I’m a one-woman show, always have been. Looking for love? Well, of course, in the back of my mind. Aren’t you? You’re not married, right? But there are so many things I need to get accomplished. Marital bliss will have to wait.”

  Gable tucked a strand of ice blond hair behind one ear, revealing a filigreed onyx and gold earring.

  “Is this the part of the story where you compare me with Moira Lassiter?” She put her hands out, raising and lowering, like a scale. “Married, not married. Family woman, single woman. Good wife, bad girl.”

  Jane started to protest. “You’re hardly a—”

  “What does Moira say about me, might I ask? And what does she say about being MIA?”

  “Missing in action?” Jane asked. Interesting. The chic candidate was suddenly gossip girl.

  “Not to mention the fiasco at the Springfield rally,” Gable went on. Her voice lowered. “A mess, huh? I heard all about it. You’re the reporter, Jane. But seems as if something’s going on over there. Moira suddenly off the map. Campaign appearances canceled. Off the record? If you ask me, it’s out of control.” She gave a little smile. “Perhaps it’s just Gable momentum. We’ll see.”

  Gable placed her goblet onto a leather coaster atop a sculpted wood end table, ice clinking as it settled in the glass. “Let me ask you something, Jane. In the story you write, are you going to mention Lassiter’s first wife? Or have you media people decided to leave that out?”

  Jane knew she hadn’t kept the surprise from her face. First wife? She racked her memory, going over the research in her file. She was zonked, so tired, but she’d have remembered that. There was nothing.

  “I see you aren’t aware of this,” Gable said. “Well, some are, some aren’t. It was … heavens, twenty years ago? Or more. Before he ran for governor. Before he got anywhere near politics. I simply wonder why it’s never discussed.”

  Kenna Wilkes? Could Kenna Wilkes be Lassiter’s first wife? Jane quickly calculated, estimating and subtracting. Impossible. Kenna—whoever she really was, if Jake was right—looked way too young for that. Ellie Gable herself would be closer to the right age. Now that would be a story.

  “What happened to her? Do you know her name?” Jane asked.

  “Katharine, something, I think,” Gable said. “I’m not sure what happened to her. If anything ‘happened,’ you know? It would be easy enough to dig up the answers, I suppose. She certainly hasn’t appeared at my front door, I can tell you that. More’s the pity.”

  Strange that Moira never mentioned this. Or—Jane mentally shrugged—maybe not so strange. Everyone was divorced.

  “Katharine what?” Jane asked. “Is her last name still Lassiter?”

  Gable took a sip of her drink, examining the glass before replacing it on the coaster. “Oh, goodness. Those hotshots running Owen’s campaign, I’m sure they know. Kiernan? Is that his name? And that Maitland. What’s his name? Roy?”

  “Rory,” Jane said.

  “That’s right,” Gable said. “Rory. I’m sure he decided it wasn’t important. Times change, voters change. Ronald Reagan, New
t Gingrich. Rockefeller, Joe Kennedy. They all had first wives. Who knows who else. Everyone gets divorced.”

  “Except for you.” Jane smiled. “Or do you have an ex-husband who’s not in your campaign literature?”

  “Me?” Gable said. Her charm bracelet flashed as she waved a hand. “Ask me anything, Jane. The Gable campaign has nothing to hide.”

  45

  “I’ve never ever been happier. I knew you would find me.” Holly draped Matt’s jacket across her shoulders, stared at him, drinking him in. It had been two years and four months, but she could never forget the shadow of his cheekbones, the bulk of his shoulders, the lift of muscle as his arm encircled her waist. He’d brought her here to the Spinnaker Café, pulled out the wrought-iron chair for her. Finally the waitress left them alone.

  And here, looking out over the harbor, on the second-story redwood deck, Matt was sitting right across from her! Just like that day in B-school by the river, the two of them, connected. She knew this would happen. She’d willed it to happen. It was supposed to happen. It was perfect.

  She took a sip of her coffee, creamy and steamy in a thick white mug. He’d ordered it special for her, with Irish whiskey and whipped cream. Her white plastic straw was coated with sweetened liquor and sugar. She licked it like a satisfied cat, tasting the sweetness and feeling the warmth course through her.

  He was talking to her, so charming and so Matt, but she barely heard his words. She watched his mouth, the way his jaw worked, the way the last of the sun twinkled on his curly ginger brown hair, the way he watched her. Wanting her. She knew he was, she knew it, even with his eyes hidden behind those sunglasses. He couldn’t hide from her. He didn’t want to. Didn’t today prove that?

  He found me.

  She stroked the lapel of his jacket as if it were his skin, feeling the weave of the wool, inhaling the scent.

  And when she’d finally get to tell him her plans—when she told him! She was sure he would never leave her again.

  * * *

  Matt watched her across the table, off in her own wacko Holly-world. She seemed to simply accept his being here, instantly buying his half-assed story, hardly questioning where he’d come from or how he’d found her in the post office parking lot or why he was in Boston. The woman was a total nutcase.