Plus, she’d had to run out of Maitland’s office before she could ask about Kenna.
Damn. After this morning’s unpleasantly contentious encounter, it would be a real challenge to even get near Maitland again.
She inched as close as she could to the gigantic pickup mooching too much space in front of her. She tapped its fender, wincing. “Yeah, yeah, Alex, I’m here. I’ll let you know when Tuck arrives. Where is she, anyway? She owes me, big-time.”
She was talking to air. Alex had hung up.
A hulking black Crown Vic four-door blurped its siren at her in warning, turning across her path as it slid into the post office parking lot. A BPD decal on the side of the car said SUPERINTENDENT.
Thank goodness. Jane, out of breath, reached the pack of reporters before Rivera stepped to the lectern’s bristling bouquet of microphones. Jane eyed her colleagues—ex-colleagues, some of them. Maybe it was good she was late. She wouldn’t have to chitchat, pretend to like them. She pulled out her spiral notebook, wrote 11:45 A.M. at the top of a clean page.
A gaggle of cops surrounded the podium. Superintendent Rivera, wearing dress blues and his hat yanked down over his forehead, towered over the rest. Laney Driscoll, the PR guy, hovered next to him, clutching a thick manila envelope. A few uniforms stood stationed along the fence, eyes hidden behind identical dark Ray-Bans.
Jake.
In those jeans and leather jacket, almost with his back to the crowd, talking to some woman in a black police-issue pullover. Poor Jake. Another victim. He must be …
The woman was holding up a piece of paper, and Jake seemed to be snapping a photo of it. As the woman walked away, Jake turned around, now facing the reporters but not making eye contact.
Jane shifted position, willing him to see her. Come on, Jakey. She sent him ESP messages. I’m here.
But everyone’s attention was on the superintendent. He marched toward the podium, face grim.
“Jane Ryland?” A voice behind her.
Someone wanted to talk to her. Who? The news conference was about to start.
The man stepped closer. Not someone she recognized, not a reporter, no notebook in hand. Not a cop. Maybe some young business exec on a day off, wandered by the news conference, got curious. Good-enough looking, mid-twenties, athletic-ish, hair mussed and a hint of stubble. Running shoes. Water bottle.
“Yes?” she said. She glanced deliberately at the podium, to make sure this guy knew she had no time for interruptions.
“Jane Ryland from the Register? Who had that front-page article in yesterday’s paper?”
Jane nodded, needing him to hurry up. But he’d asked about her article. Maybe he knew something about the rally?
“My name is Matt. Uh, let’s leave it at that for now,” he said. “I think I have a story for you.”
“About the rally?”
“Rally?” Matt said. He gave a little shrug. “No, it’s … well, it’s really a long story.”
She smiled back, trying not to be one of those pretend-reporters who weren’t open to possibilities. You never knew where the next big story would come from. Still, it probably wasn’t from here. She gestured to the podium, where Laney Driscoll was adjusting the microphones.
“I’m assigned to cover this,” she said. “Can I give you my card?”
Then she realized she didn’t have a Register business card yet. “I’ll give you my private number at the paper,” she said. She scrawled it on a page of her notebook, ripped it out, and handed it to him. “Call me later today.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Driscoll was saying. “The superintendent will have a brief statement, then take a few questions. There’s a handout which we’ll distribute. No one-on-one interviews, no live shots, nothing more today. We clear?”
“I want to hear this, too,” Matt said. Jane saw him stash her number into the pocket of his jacket. “I’m gonna get closer. I’ll call you later.”
“Great,” Jane said, giving him her best pretend-sincere smile. Adios.
The man squeezed past the camera in front of him, threading through the journalists until Jane could see only the top of his head and a jacketed broad shoulder. He stopped at the edge of the group, toward the front.
I should have at least taken his phone number, Jane scolded herself. Maybe I’ll get it after.
“My name is Francis Rivera.” The voice came from the podium. “I’m Superintendent of the Boston Police Department. We’re here today to…”
Jane tried to focus her attention on Rivera, but where the heck was Tuck? This was her deal, and Alex promised she’d show up. Now it was looking like Jane would have to handle this herself. Which was a drag, since she was hot on the trail of the other women in Owen Lassiter’s life.
She’d track down Katharine, maybe with records from Poplar Grove Cemetery. As for Kenna Wilkes? Jane smiled. Woodward and Bernstein, huh? As if breaking big political news were a bad thing.
“Hey, roomie.” Tuck, ponytail bobbing, trotted up beside her. “Thanks for covering for me. Supe say anything major yet?”
“Hey, Tuck,” Jane said. “Nope, just started.” Up at the podium, the PR flack was dumping papers out of a big manila envelope.
“Great,” Tuck said. “You’re clear from this location, Alex says, just check in later. I’ve got this now. There’s more big news about to break.”
“Yeah, I know. Great.” Jane flapped her empty notebook closed. Tuck could have this story. Jane had her sights set on Katharine, whatever her last name was, and Kenna Wilkes.
Kenna Wilkes. The other woman. No mistake about that.
* * *
So what if she was a little late getting to campaign headquarters today. It’s not like there was any big deal. Kenna Wilkes parked her stupid rented hybrid and strolled up the manicured front walk of Owen Lassiter’s ritzy house. Owen, she knew, was off at a conference, some union thing. But it was not Owen she was here to see.
She flipped her hair out from under the collar of her white wool coat. Extravagant, yes, and ridiculous in the Boston grime. But it looked so good with her hair. And, according to the article in House Beautiful, Moira loved white.
The doorbell binged. The door swung open. Moira herself, imagine that.
Kenna switched her stack of brown envelopes and file folders from one arm to the other, held out her hand, polite as could be.
“Mrs. Lassiter? I’m Kenna Wilkes, from the governor’s campaign office? They did call to tell you I was coming, right? Mr. Maitland sent me with some photos for you to sign?”
Not exactly true, but close enough. She could fix it all later, get everyone’s stories straight. She saw the woman’s famously elegant face twitch for a moment, in fear. Or anger? Or defeat? Didn’t really matter. This was merely Kenna’s inaugural get-to-know-you visit.
“They didn’t, no.” Moira didn’t budge from the doorway.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Kenna said. Ma’am. She almost burst out laughing. She’d said it on purpose, as if Moira hadn’t noticed the difference in their ages. It had been a long time since they’d last crossed paths. A long, long time. Not that Moira could possibly realize that. “Could you autograph these? Then I’ll get back to the campaign. You know how busy we are now!”
She smiled, so enthusiastic, handed Moira the envelope. Inside were a stack of eight-by-ten photographs she’d snagged from Sheila King’s press office.
Moira took the envelope in one manicured hand, clearly reluctant.
“What a lovely home you have,” Kenna said, peering around Moira’s shoulder. Kenna patted her hair, reprising the same gesture she’d used the day before in her little driveway drama. She gestured to her own white coat. “I love the all white. As you can see. Would you like me to wait outside while you sign the photos?”
“Oh, no, no, of course not.” Moira seemed to remember where she was. “Come in. Of course. Miss—?”
Kenna stepped into the foyer, taking in the flowers and the affluence and the ease and
the privilege. “Kenna Wilkes,” she said. “Please call me Kenna. Everyone does. I’m new.”
“Ah,” Moira said.
“It must be so difficult that your husband is so rarely home these days,” Kenna went on. That’ll get her. “I only mean, you know, the campaign and all. I’m sure Owen—I mean the governor—misses you out on the campaign trail. Of course, he’s always surrounded by fans and voters and staff. He’s so charming.”
“I’ll only be a moment, signing these,” Moira said. “Who sent you here with these, by the way?”
“Wasn’t that terrible about that rally thing in Springfield?” Kenna continued, ignoring her question. “It’s lucky you weren’t there, you know? And then we had to stay overnight in Worcester, gosh, not exactly the garden spot. Although the hotel was lovely.”
“I’ll get a pen,” Moira said. She patted the pockets of her tailored wool slacks and, finding nothing, pulled out a drawer in an ivory-glazed Parsons table.
The gilt-edged mirror above the table, polished and reflecting the sparkling crystal chandelier overhead, also reflected Kenna’s own smile. And, Kenna noted, Moira’s clearly growing discomfort.
Moira opened a sleek silver pen, clicking the cap to the end, and sat in a white velvet side chair. She pulled the glossy photographs from the envelope and arranged them on her lap.
“I could never keep my house this perfect.” Kenna took a few steps into the foyer. She couldn’t resist pushing it. “My little Jimmy is four now. Do you have children? It’s the best. I can’t imagine life without my son.”
Moira’s pen clattered to the cream and white tiled floor, rolling to a stop against a white-lacquered pot bursting with white chrysanthemums.
“Oh, let me get that for you,” Kenna said. She hurried across the entryway, then stopped, picking up the pen. It probably cost as much as her rent once had, Kenna calculated. It was about time for her luck to change. And she was going to be the one to change it.
She handed Moira the pen, flashing her best smile. “Almost election day, isn’t it exciting?”
“Very.” Moira didn’t look at her as she answered, but with a final flourish of a signature, stacked the photos into an even pile and slipped them back into the envelope. “There you are, Miss…”
“Kenna.”
“Kenna.” Moira stood, brushing down her slacks, then took a step toward the front door. “Could you ask Mr. Maitland to call me, please?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” she said. Not a chance. They arrived at the front door, but Kenna turned for another look at the opulently upscale surroundings. No wonder this woman was … Well, it was only a matter of days, now, until it all changed. If all went as planned. Which Kenna was increasingly certain it would.
Kenna paused, relishing Moira’s attempt to keep her composure. She patted the package of photographs. “Thank you so much for this. I’m sure Mr. Maitland will call you right away,” she said. Big smile. “You take care now. And I’ll be sure to tell the governor you said hello!”
50
“That’s impossible. Impossible.” Jane watched the drawing gradually emerge on Alex’s computer screen. Tuck had e-mailed it to Alex from the news conference—still under way—but Jane didn’t need to see the whole thing. “I know who that is, Alex. I know her.”
“What are you talking about? You know victim four?” He hit Print, and the paper popped from the printer.
Jane grabbed it before it landed in the bin. Stared at the face in the police sketch.
“And you know her, too, Alex. Look, look, look.” She flapped the picture at him, her heart racing with certainty. “It’s Kenna Wilkes. You know. Kenna Wilkes!”
Jane stabbed at the paper so hard, her fingernail tore the page.
Alex took it from her, lifting his glasses to his forehead, examining it. “You think?”
“Are you kidding me? Positively. She’s the woman in the red coat. Lassiter’s girl. Kenna Wilkes. The one I talked to Saturday at the—” Jane clapped both hands to her head, slowly lowering herself to Alex’s couch.
Jane ticked off the points on her fingers, thinking faster than her words could keep up. “I mean, we have the archive photos of her. We have lots of photos of her. I got another one that day at the Esplanade, too. With Lassiter! Then, like I said, I just talked to her at the Springfield rally. And her picture from there—with Lassiter!—is still in my camera, too. So that proves she was connected to the campaign for, like, weeks now. Unbelievable.”
Alex’s eyes were still on the photo. “Let’s stay calm for a moment. Consider all the possibilities. She might have been, you know, a Lassiter supporter, a fan. A political junkie, who happened to be in a few of the photos. Like I told you on day one.”
“No, no, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. That’s why I ran up here as soon as I could get away from the stupid news conference—”
“Tuck,” Alex said. He reached for the phone on his desk. “Gotta call her. She’ll need to—we’ll need to add this to her coverage of the—”
“No!” Jane leaped to her feet, planting her fists on her waist. Tuck? “This is mine, Alex. If anyone’s going to break this story, it’s got to be me.”
Alex raised both palms, gesturing Jane back to her seat on the couch. “There’s enough story for everyone, Jane, okay? If you’re right about this. We need to think it through.”
“If I’m right?” Jane instantly wished her voice hadn’t gone up so high. She willed it back down, willed herself to stay calm. Alex hadn’t meant anything. He was only being careful; that was his job. “I mean, yeah, okay. But listen, listen, that’s why I came in here in the first place. Why I needed to talk with you. According to the voter registration office, there’s no Kenna Wilkes registered to vote in Massachusetts.”
“But couldn’t she be—?”
“There’s more. I went to Rory Maitland’s office at Lassiter headquarters this morning. Trying to find out about Lassiter’s first wife, Katharine, what Gable told me, remember? But then—well, short version. Kenna Wilkes works at the campaign office. For sure. Absolutely. No question.”
Alex leaned back against his desk, staring at her. “She works there? Did you see her?”
“No. And that’s exactly the point.” Jane felt her own eyes get bigger as the realization dawned. Her mind began to juggle what lay ahead of them, and who she’d have to call, and who she’d have to tell, and what this would mean for—Jake. She’d have to let him know she recognized the victim. Wouldn’t she? She yanked herself back to the moment. Kenna Wilkes.
“That’s how I got up to Maitland’s office. She was supposed to be at the front desk this morning, like a receptionist, and she wasn’t there. And people were confused about where she was.”
“And you think she was absent because she was—”
Jane nodded slowly. “Yes. Because she was dead.”
* * *
Standing on the fringe of the press conference, Matt listened to some black cop talking about the “progress” they’d made in a different murder. Apparently some victim they thought was murder turned out to be a suicide. The cops seemed pretty happy about that.
“Kylie Howarth, that’s K-y-l-i-e,” the big guy was saying. “And her next of kin have confirmed…”
The wind off the harbor was picking up, making it harder to hear. The reporters edged up to the podium, scribbling in notebooks they held close to their faces. A couple of squawking seagulls swooped in, perching atop the metal posts studding the railing along the water.
Freaky to be standing here, knowing he was the guy the cops were looking for, waiting to hear if the cops knew it. He’d heard on TV, breaking news, something about them finding another body. That the cops were holding a news conference by the post office. Now he could find out what they knew. If anything.
They hadn’t brought up Holly yet, the discovery of her body. He surveyed the place, wondering if they’d checked all the cars in the parking lot. Holly’s was there, over by the wall. He ha
d the keys. Should he come back later, move the car? What if someone saw him? There were probably surveillance cameras everywhere. Were there?
“At this point,” the cop continued, “we’re considering the Howarth case closed. Not connected to any of the other recent deaths in the city of Boston.”
Other recent deaths? That what this was about?
“So now there’s three bridge killings?” some reporter yelled. A slinky brunette took a step closer to the podium, holding a microphone, her cameraman beside her. “Sellica Darden, Amaryllis Roldan, and our sources say there’s now a new victim. Is that correct?”
A lackey in a pullover tried to step to the microphone, but the big cheese waved him away. “There’s no Bridge Killer, Miss Wu. As we’ve repeatedly told you. The other cases are under investigation, and—”
“Our sources also say there’s a new victim, can you confirm that?” Another reporter pushed to the front. “That hardly means the city is any safer.”
Whatever, Matt thought. Soon as this was over, he’d find Jane Ryland again. He had something even bigger for her.
“Guys? Superintendent Rivera has another statement for you.” The PR flack stretched toward the bank of microphones, leaning in front of his boss. “Hold your questions until he’s finished. Otherwise, we’re done here, and I’ll return your calls as soon as I can manage the time. But it probably won’t be before your deadlines. You catch my drift? Are you ready for the statement?”
Here we go. Matt’s eyes suddenly burned; hot sweat broke out across the back of his neck and behind his knees. Thirsty. Thirsty. He flipped up the plastic top of his water bottle, took a swig.
“What’s this about? You know anything?” A guy with a tape recorder on a shoulder strap muttered at him, adjusting dials on his equipment.
“Uh, no,” Matt said. “You?”
“Nope.” The guy shrugged. “All I know is, some new victim. It was all over TV. Guess we’re gonna hear.”
The Other Woman Page 23