“At approximately oh-five-thirty this morning,” Rivera said, “three joggers along the Fort Point footpath discovered the body of a young white female, approximately twenty-five years old, that’s two-five, in the waters by the Fort Point overpass. As of now, we have no identification, but—”
“So it’s true? Another Bridge Killer victim?” The brunette reporter again. “You think you’re burying the lead here? That makes three victims! And you’re still telling us there’s no serial killer targeting unidentified young women and dumping them in the water near bridges?”
Serial killer? Matt’s mind raced. That’s what they’d been saying on the TV. If the cops thought Holly was a victim of a serial killer, he was home free. Right? Whenever the other killings happened, he sure hadn’t been in Boston.
A window of hope began to open. An escape route. The beginnings of a smile pulled at his mouth, the first time he felt happy since he’d seen Holly’s photo in the online Register.
He might win this round. All he had to do to reclaim his birthright was figure out how to keep Jane Ryland quiet. And thanks to this news conference, he might have been handed the perfect way to do it.
51
“He’s in there, Jake. He’s yelling for a lawyer. But he’s guilty as sin.” Paul DeLuca flipped on the lights, illuminating the dingy interior of room 3, fourth floor of the Nashua Street Jail. Behind the one-way glass, Jake saw a fidgeting train wreck of a man sitting at a long metal table. The suspect took a slug of Mountain Dew from a can, one scrawny leg jiggling, eyes darting ceaselessly from ceiling to floor to window and back. His other leg was shackled to a circular eye-bolt in the floor.
“That guy’s in great shape,” Jake said. “Cranked up?”
“Bad thing to be a junkie,” DeLuca said.
“Worse to be a murderer.” Jake flipped open the red-coded file of documents his partner handed him, scanning photos and arrest records. “You’d think it’d be a problem being a tattoo guy by day and a druggie at night. Think it would make your hands shake, you know? So he did Amaryllis Roldan? Her tattoo?”
“His specialty was the Celtic vines, so says his junkie pal. The one who ratted him out for Roldan when he realized they were both facing twenty-five to life for distribution. Whoever talked first got the deal.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Jake said. “Supe know?”
“Yup. Laney Driscoll even told him about it, but he didn’t want to mention it at the news conference. Not till it’s signed and sealed. Your pal Tuck has it, though. God knows how she finds this stuff out. She was here when I got here.”
“He confess?”
“In a manner of speaking,” DeLuca said. “He insisted he didn’t kill Amaryllis Roldan. Problem was, we hadn’t accused him of anything yet.”
“Gotcha.” Jake closed the file.
“That’s exactly what I said to him,” DeLuca said.
So this was the guy who’d killed the girl Jake had once called Charlestown, “the punk Ophelia,” left her under the bridge battered and bruised, left her to drown. But this guy hadn’t killed Kylie Howarth, of course. Kylie’d done that herself.
Jake watched the suspect yank at the collar of his white T-shirt, then fiddle with the snaps on the front of his orange jail-issue jumpsuit.
“How long’s he been in here? In custody?”
“That’s the first thing I asked, too.” DeLuca tapped the file. “Since last Thursday.”
“So he’s got a perfect alibi for Sellica. And for yesterday.”
“Yeah,” DeLuca said. “You’re looking at an asshole who’s probably not going to see the light of day for a while. He killed Amaryllis Roldan. But if there’s a Bridge Killer, it’s not him.”
* * *
“All I have to do is call and say, ‘May I speak to Kenna Wilkes, please?’” Jane pointed to the phone on Alex’s desk. “I bet they’ll put me off. Transfer me to Sheila King’s office. They must have seen the sketch the cops are handing out, it’s got to be on TV already. They’ll have to make a statement. I mean, the Bridge Killer’s fourth victim works for the man who’s running for Senate. And might be his lover! It’s like—the headline of all headlines. Beyond amazing.”
Jane couldn’t sit still on Alex’s couch one more second. She paced to his closed office door, then back to his desk, arms flailing. “She’s gorgeous. She’s dead. And we can prove she had a … a…” She looked at Alex, needing a word.
“Relationship?” Alex said. He rolled a pencil between two palms. “I have to call Tay Reidy. The publisher has got to be in on this. And the lawyer. And maybe the police.”
“We need to interview Moira.” Jane rooted through her tote bag. She needed to make a list. “We need a reaction from Eleanor Gable. Damn. May I use that pencil?”
Alex swiveled his chair, handing her his pencil with a flourish. “You know, Jane, I’ve got to say. The fifth floor is really pleased with you. I am, too. The way you’ve thrown yourself into this. Team player.” Alex raised an eyebrow, inquiring. “Are you okay with it? Transitioning from your old life?”
Jane blinked, surprised at the personal question. “Well, sure, I’m…” She paused, thinking for a beat, considering precisely what it was she was sure about. “Thanks, Alex. Yes, I’m—feeling like a reporter again.”
“Well, you’ve knocked this one out of the ballpark,” Alex said. “I’m thinkin’ no more six-month tryout. We’ll have to keep the networks from grabbing you away from us, when this thing hits the fan.”
The room was silent for a moment. “It’s a big story,” Jane finally said.
Alex’s intercom buzzed. “Victoria on line two,” a woman’s voice squawked through.
“I’ll call her right back,” Alex said into the speaker. He gave Jane a look. Then held up his left hand. “My wife. Soon-to-be ex-wife.”
“Oh, I’m—” Jane scrambled for the appropriate response. Sorry? Happy? She couldn’t help but look at his fourth finger. Nothing. Hot Alex was suddenly soon-to-be available. Amy would go ballistic. Send her a subscription to Brides magazine.
“Anyway.” Alex waved away the moment, changing the subject. “Back to Kenna Wilkes. We need to work this out. We need to be careful. The election is only eight days away. We can’t accuse—”
“Like I said, we should call the campaign first.” Jane nodded, relieved to be back on track. “See what they say. And who they’re going to say she is.”
“Well, they’d never admit she’s—”
“The other woman,” Jane said. She took out her cell phone. This was such a crossroads. “I know. Amazing. I can’t wait to hear what they do say. I’m calling. Right now.”
52
The shower had been a great idea. Steaming soapy water, coursing over his shoulders, washing away the fear, washing away the memories, washing away that morning’s news conference, washing away everything but his determination. Matt had used all the towels from the hotel’s racks, wrapping himself dry, rubbing away two days of craziness. He’d called in sick to his office, grabbed a take-out lunch from the hotel coffee shop. Now well fed, clean shaven, in pressed Levi’s, shirt and tie, and leather jacket, he knew what he had to do.
He stood in front of Lassiter headquarters, one gloved hand ready to push the revolving doors. He couldn’t make himself do it.
A gaggle of laughing campaign types swarmed ahead of him, young girls with Lassiter buttons on their puffy vests, one wearing a hat with two Lassiter buttons on wires, sticking out like political antennae. “Don’t forget to vote next week,” one girl called as she pushed against the door.
The door revolved and campaign headquarters swallowed them up, leaving Matt standing outside. He reviewed his plan, one more time. Go in. Maybe that Deenie person who’d told him about Springfield would help him. He’d find Owen. Go from there.
Besides, he was here with good news, right? He decided he would promise Owen—his father—he’d keep quiet about their relationship until Owen wanted to make it pub
lic. He wasn’t here to create problems. The way he’d dealt with Holly proved that, right? He wasn’t going to mention that, of course.
He would finally be Matthew Lassiter again. No longer left behind, no longer forgotten, no longer erased from his family. His mother, bitter and divisive, had moved them to Philadelphia and changed their names to Galbraith, but he was really Matthew Lassiter. And he was part of the solution.
He put his hand on the glass and metal door, ready to push through. Then he stopped.
Maybe he should—forget it. Go to one campaign event, get one close-up glimpse of his father, call it even. Maybe now wasn’t the right time to show himself. Election day looming, a tight race, maybe Matt’s very existence would ruin it all, and where would that leave their relationship? Someday they’d meet properly. Someday his father would accept him. Treat him as a real son.
He patted his pockets, wishing for cigarettes. Instead, he felt Holly’s car keys. And the paper with Jane Ryland’s phone number. Reminding him of what happened.
With that, Matt straightened his shoulders, pushed on the metal bar, and stepped inside as the glass door began to turn. Turning point, this is what they mean by that.
The fluorescent lights in the headquarters lobby glinted on the polished marble floors; march music blared through unseen speakers; red, white, and blue bunting draped across the ceiling and looped down the walls. Huge posters of Owen and Moira Lassiter lined one side of the lobby. But it was the front desk that commanded Matt’s attention.
The woman at the front desk was not Deenie Bayliss.
He stared. Felt his heart threaten to break through his chest. Felt every memory of every year of his life and every year of his loss flood back over him, swallow him, suffocate him, overwhelm him.
His lips went dry; he knew his voice would never work.
What was she doing here?
He took a step closer, put both palms on the reception desk. Tried to think of what to say.
“Cissy?” He heard his voice rasp, didn’t sound like himself.
The woman lifted her head.
She had her mother’s eyes. Same as his.
“Hello, Cissy,” he croaked again.
The woman stood slowly, not taking those eyes off him. “No,” she said. “No.”
“Yes,” Matt said. “But—”
She ripped off the telephone headset, put her hands to her mouth, scanning the room. They were alone. She darted from behind the desk, clutched Matt’s arm with a vise of manicured fingers, hissed into his ear.
“You idiot. Get out of here.”
She pulled him through the lobby, stumbling once in her high heels, pushed him into the revolving door, herself right behind him, the door moving fast, spilling them onto the sidewalk. He still towered over her.
She jabbed a forefinger into his chest. Her eyes narrowed; spots of color flamed her cheekbones. “Get out of here. Now. Leave. Oh, my god, you’ll spoil everything. What in hell are you doing here?” She turned away, as if to go back inside, then whirled to face him. “No. I don’t even want to know. Just—go. You didn’t see me, you don’t know me. Good-bye.”
“Five minutes.” He grabbed her arm, thin under the soft black sweater, stopping her. “That’s all. We have to talk. You need to know that—”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need to know anything.”
But she let him draw her into a little alleyway next to the building, into a shadow, out of sight. Cissy needed to know about Holly Neff. What he’d done. Everything. Holly’s plan. It was just as dangerously destructive to his little sister as it was to Owen. Cissy needed to know they were all in it together. A family again. Their father just didn’t know it yet.
With a start, Matt realized what he needed to know.
“Hey,” he said. He didn’t let go of Cissy’s arm. “What are you doing here?”
* * *
“See, Jakey? I told you. She’s not there. She’s supposed to be at the front desk, and she’s not. Look,” Jane whispered, pointing at the window fronting Lassiter headquarters. The Register’s lawyers had insisted Jane call the police with what she knew about Kenna Wilkes. She and Alex had protested, a united front, arguing about breaking news, headlines, and the separation of journalists and law enforcement. Alex had been terrific, supportive, genuinely on her side. Still, they’d lost. And now she was in a position she shouldn’t be in—cooperating with the cops. Making a deal.
With Jake.
Quid pro quo. They’d reveal the identity of Kenna Wilkes, the newest murder victim; the police would give them the exclusive. Not the most desirable situation, but the cards had been dealt. It was a great story, that was for sure, and gave her massive brownie points at the paper. And getting such a good lead on the case might make Jake look good to his superiors. She was the one helping him now. It evened the score.
“So did you call?” Jake peered through the window, cupping his hands along each side of his face to block the light.
“I wanted to. But Alex insisted we come check it out in person. I guess he’s right. Better to gauge the reactions face-to-face.”
“Pretty empty in there,” Jake said. “Guess everyone’s still at lunch. Interesting, though. We know Kenna Wilkes must be a fake name.”
“Yeah.” Shoulder almost touching Jake’s, Jane put her face close to the window, wanting to see inside again for herself. “She pretended to be registered to vote. She was hiding something, that’s for sure. So either she was fooling the heck out of everyone here at Lassiter headquarters—or they’re complicit in whatever she was up to.”
“Or both,” Jake said, turning to her. “Could be her intentions wound up making her some enemies.”
“Which means—you think someone in the Lassiter campaign killed her?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out, right?”
“I love it when you talk cop. Shall we get this show on the road?” Jane smiled, bursting with excitement at what was about to unfold. It was sad, of course. Someone was dead. But in journalism and in law enforcement, you couldn’t ignore the satisfaction of getting to say, case closed. “I can’t believe we’re working on a story together.”
“I could get used to it if you can, Janey. Maybe we could arrange a little after-hours research—”
“Jake, you read me?” DeLuca’s voice crackled over the two-way.
“Loud and clear,” Jake said. He shrugged at Jane. “Two seconds.”
“You someplace secure?” DeLuca said.
“Not exactly.” Jake’s eyebrows raised. “Stand by one, D.”
Jane pointed to herself, then to the front door. She mouthed the words, I’ll go in.
Hell, no, Jake mouthed back. He grabbed her wrist. Letting go, he put a finger to his lips, signaling her to keep quiet.
“Go ahead, D,” he said into the radio.
“You know that search warrant you asked for? For Patti Vick’s studio?”
Patti Vick? Jane leaned in, eyes widening. They’d searched Arthur Vick’s wife’s studio? Jane knew from her stories it was in one of the Fort Point buildings. Near where Kenna was found. She struggled to make sense of it. Was Arthur Vick connected to Kenna Wilkes, too?
“Why did—?” she whispered.
Jake glared at her, warning her to keep quiet. “Copy that.”
“You have the address?”
“Ten-four.”
“Then you better get over here.”
53
“She threatened me,” Matt said. Standing in the alley, he held out both hands to his sister, pleading his case. Trying to make her understand. The October sun barely filtered through the narrow space between buildings. Cissy must be freezing in that thin sweater. She was calling herself Kenna Wilkes, she’d said, but she was Cissy Galbraith to him.
He told his sister, fast as he could, about Holly, and B-school, and what he’d revealed to her, and what happened after he saw Holly’s photo in the paper. “She was going to ruin my life. And yours, too, Cissy.
And, most important, our father’s life.”
“So you killed her? Are you crazy?” Cissy ignored his explanations, frowning with disbelief. She put her hands on top of her head, took a few steps away from him, farther down the alley, then turned back, hands outstretched. “Please tell me it was an accident. We can go to the police. We can tell them you snapped, or she threatened you, or she tripped, or she—”
“Yes, yes, of course it was an accident.” She has to understand. “I didn’t mean to. I hadn’t planned to. I only wanted to stop her. She was sabotaging our father’s campaign. She was going to ruin him, make it look like he was having an affair with her. And I couldn’t have that happen. I couldn’t!”
“You idiot,” Cissy said.
Her head was shaking back and forth, like their mother’s used to whenever she was upset. He hated that. He wished she would stop it. He wished she would listen to him. “Cissy, that’s not all.”
“Oh, dear god, what else?” Cissy looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get back inside. They’ll be freaking, wondering where I am. And I have my own—ah. So what, Matt, what now?”
“She told a reporter. Jane Ryland, at the newspaper. Mailed her a bunch of stuff, incriminating-looking stuff, about Holly and our father. Holly has photos. Of the two of them together. And now Jane Ryland has them.”
“Holly Neff? And Owen Lassiter?” Cissy’s forehead furrowed, as if she were deciphering a secret code. “Jane Ryland?”
“Yes, and so you’ve got to be ready. Any time now, this Jane Ryland could show up at Lassiter headquarters. When she does, it means all hell’s about to break loose. We have to stop it.”
“Holly Neff? And Owen Lassiter?” Cissy said the names again, deliberately, syllable by syllable, like she couldn’t quite make them compute.
Matt raised his hands, frustrated. Doesn’t she get it? “The pictures aren’t real, you know? They never really—I mean, he didn’t even know her. Let alone have a torrid affair with her. But she said the media would buy it all, instantly, and wouldn’t get to the real truth until it was too late. And she’s right, you know? The more he denied it, the more they wouldn’t believe it. The headlines and speculation alone would— What?” Matt stopped, midsentence, baffled. Cissy was suddenly smiling. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
The Other Woman Page 24