The Other Woman

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “I’ll call you, okay?” Jane arrived at the campaign HQ. She had to go in. Right now. “I promise. Today.”

  As Moira hung up, Jane pushed through the revolving doors. Pushed away thoughts of Moira, for the time being at least, and focused on the photo mystery. No one was at the reception desk. Hmm. Wonder where Kenna-whatever-her-name-really-is went? But not having to talk her way inside certainly made Jane’s life easier. She yanked her tote bag securely up and over her shoulder, then poked the elevator button with one finger. She poked it again to make sure.

  Poor Rory Maitland. He was not going to be happy to see her again.

  * * *

  “I think I saw a movement in the back. Inside the apartment. Could be trouble.” DeLuca took a step toward Holly Neff’s open door. “We better check it out.”

  “You did not,” Jake said. He didn’t move from his spot in the hallway.

  “You saw something?” Barbara Bellafiore shepherded her pack of lapdogs toward the door. “Is there gonna be a problem? Do I need to call the—? Oh, right, you are the cops.”

  She turned to Jake, the dogs wrapping themselves around her legs. “Is Holly Neff in trouble?”

  Jake watched DeLuca edge closer to the door. A goddamn open door, an open door to the apartment of the latest victim in a string of murders that—even though unconnected, he was certain—had made his life miserable for the past month. He was as tempted to go into that apartment as anything he’d ever been tempted to do in his entire life.

  Yet, it would take only one phone call to get the warrant allowing them to look inside, legally. Anything inside now would still be there after they got a judge’s signature. Anything they saw before that would get tossed out of a murder trial. That made the decision a no-brainer.

  “DeLuca, I mean it.” Jake knew his partner was craning his neck, trying to look inside without looking like he was looking.

  “Officer?” Barbara touched his arm with a key. “About Holly Neff?”

  The dogs had gone quiet, looking up at their mistress. Her eyes were wide as the little pug’s.

  “Holy shit,” DeLuca said. He winced. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Don’t even—” Jake turned to him, frowning. What if DeLuca actually did see something wrong? “What? This had better be good.”

  “The place is full of Lassiter stuff,” DeLuca said. “Like—”

  “Oh, I can help you with that,” Barbara said, perking up. “You should see what’s inside her apartment! You wouldn’t believe it.”

  All Jake needed to hear. A witness describing what was inside? That was legal.

  “Ma’am?” Jake took out his BlackBerry, cued up his notes. Turned his back on the door, waving DeLuca to do the same. “How would you describe what’s inside?”

  “She must be some kind of photographer,” Barbara said. “There’s ten million pictures of Owen Lassiter. And lots of ’em with him and her. Okay, not really ten million, but lots. Holly and Owen Lassiter.”

  DeLuca scratched his cheek with two fingers. “Was Owen Lassiter himself ever here? You ever see him?”

  Barbara shook her mass of curls. “No. But I suppose—”

  “Don’t ‘suppose,’ ma’am,” Jake said. “Just what you know for sure. You never saw Owen Lassiter here, correct? Did Miss Neff have a boyfriend at all?”

  Barbara’s curls bobbed again, this time up and down. “Oh, yes, she did. But he was never here. That I saw. She said he was … I don’t know. ‘Away,’ I think she said.” She brightened. “But she has his picture, you know? Inside. I could show you.” She took a step toward the door, arm outstretched, dogs jumping to all fours to follow.

  “Bingo. That’s a suspect.” DeLuca took a step toward the open door. “Probable enough cause for me. Thanks, Miss—”

  “Those pictures ain’t going anywhere,” Jake interrupted. Have to give D credit for trying. “Go call Judge Gallagher. Now. Tell her the deal. She’ll give us the warrant. Then we can go in. Signed, sealed, and legal.”

  “Boy Scout,” DeLuca said. He flipped open his phone, dialing.

  “I’ll go to the car, report this to the supe.” Jake gestured at the open door. “And the identification of Holly Neff. Ma’am? Can you lock the door again, please? Absolutely no one is to go inside. Detective DeLuca will stay and make sure.”

  By the time Jake got to the car, he’d filled in the supe, promised to head back to HQ for the follow-up paperwork, and been told Arthur Vick was in holding room 6, conferring with his lawyer. “Sadly,” as the supe had put it, no bail hearing could be scheduled any time soon. Jake signed off, smiling. Then he punched another number on his speed dial.

  He had to talk to Jane.

  Only that afternoon, at Lassiter headquarters, Jane was certain the fourth victim was a person calling herself Kenna Wilkes, a woman connected to the campaign. Meeting Kenna Wilkes, indisputably alive, blew that theory to hell. Now, it appeared that Jane was wrong about the name but right about everything else. The victim was connected to the Lassiter campaign. That escalated Holly Neff’s murder into a complicated political nightmare.

  Damn. Jane’s voice mail.

  He couldn’t risk leaving a detailed message. Or any message at all. He heard the beep.

  And he hung up.

  * * *

  Why does my phone always ring at the worst times? Jane let it go to voice mail, ignoring it as she faced down Rory Maitland. She stood on one side of his glass-topped desk, extending her arm, a photo of the girl and Owen Lassiter between two fingers. She’d been given ten minutes, so she didn’t even take off her coat.

  Rory stayed barricaded behind the desk, as if repelled by what he saw. This picture was of the woman and Lassiter at some outdoor rally, his arm around her shoulder, sunlight spotlighting her obvious pleasure.

  The rest of the photo collection still lay in Jane’s tote bag, still in the manila mailing envelope, safely beside her on the floor of Maitland’s office. She didn’t need to reveal her whole hand at once.

  “So?” Jane said. She moved the photo closer to him, offering it, but he made no move to take it. “You’ve seen, what, six snapshots now? Of this woman with the candidate?”

  “So?”

  Jane could tell he was struggling to keep a poker face, but she saw his nose twitch briefly, as if he smelled something unpleasant.

  “Mr. Maitland? Let me put it this way. I’m writing a story about this for the paper. This woman is clearly connected to the campaign.”

  “I’m not sure I’d use the word clearly.” Maitland crossed his arms over his pale blue oxford shirt, his red-striped tie crinkling underneath. “Or, connected.”

  “Whatever word you’d use,” Jane said. “Our story—”

  “Story about what?” Maitland interrupted. “You wanted to show me photos. I agreed to see you, you’ve shown me. So what? Is this about the volunteer story you pitched to Trevor Kiernan?” He pushed the red button on his desk intercom. “Deenie. Ten minutes is up. What’s my next appointment?”

  Jane laid the photo on Maitland’s desk, face up. Then dug into her tote bag.

  “Mr. Maitland? Before you call in the troops? Let me show you this.” Jane placed another picture on the desk. “This is the police artist’s sketch of the fourth bridge victim. Released just a few hours ago. I’m sure you’ve seen it on all those televisions of yours. Look again.”

  She pointed her forefinger at the sketch, then at the snapshot. “Look at this. And then this. Now do you see why I’m asking?”

  Maitland stood, placing his palms wide apart, flat on his desk. His eyes on the pictures.

  “Deenie’s gone for coffee, Mr.—” A voice from behind, at the office door. Jane turned to see who was interrupting.

  Kenna Wilkes.

  59

  Jane Ryland is in Rory’s office. That could not be a good thing. Luckily Kenna had been in the press room when the reporter showed up. As soon as she heard who’d arrived, she raced upstairs, sent Deenie for coffee, and s
taked out Rory’s office for herself.

  Jane had to be showing Rory the photos Holly sent, just as Matt predicted. She couldn’t believe her brother’s crazy ex—or whatever she was—had geeked herself up as that mousy Hannah woman, gotten inside that way. But she, Kenna, was the only one besides Matt who knew that. So no problem there, at least. Matt, now packing to leave town, told her Holly had never been to Lassiter headquarters as herself.

  “Kenna, come in. This is Jane Ryland, a reporter for the Register. Jane, this is—”

  “We’ve met,” Kenna said with a smile, entering and standing in front of the bank of darkened televisions. She looked at Rory for direction, got nothing. “Hello, Jane.”

  “Kenna, Miss Ryland is preparing a story on campaign volunteers. Pitched it to Trevor. And she asked him whether you’d be interested in participating. Tell why you’re involved in the Lassiter campaign.”

  My, my. One door closes, another opens.

  Kenna’s smile was genuine this time. “Well, of course,” she said. She perched on a chair, crossing one leg over the other, flapping closed the front slit of her black pencil skirt. In full interview mode. “This close to the election, I’m delighted for the public to hear how wonderful Owen Lassiter is. How beneficial he’ll be for Massachusetts. Much more effective than that Eleanor Gable. And I think—”

  “So, Jane, let’s arrange for you two to connect at some point, later.” Rory cleared his throat, interrupting. He came out from behind his desk, moving toward the door.

  Ah. Got it. Kenna stood quickly and turned in the same direction. “Miss Ryland? Come to my desk downstairs and arrange a time. Maybe at—” She looked at Rory. “My house?”

  “One moment, please.” Ryland was frowning. Holding that piece of paper. “I was asking you, Mr. Maitland, about this sketch. So since Miss Wilkes is here, let me ask her, too. Do you recognize this woman?”

  The reporter held up what looked like one of those police drawings. Pencil. Black and white. She’d never seen that face before. Still, she feared it had to be the real Holly Neff.

  The truth was one thing. What Kenna needed to say was another.

  “Just if you’ve seen her before,” Jane said, moving the picture closer to her. “Around the campaign. Or anywhere.”

  “I’ve never seen that woman, no,” Kenna said. True-ish enough.

  Besides, what did it matter what she told a stupid reporter? It wasn’t like it was the cops. She’d have to talk with Matt. Get their stories straight.

  “How about this person?” Jane held up a photograph.

  Now what? This was clearly one of the photos Matt warned her about. The same woman with Owen Lassiter, smiling, arm in arm. Ryland had apparently received Holly’s little gift. The reporter was “sharing” it, exactly as Matt feared. But Kenna just might have figured out how to make it all work. Because, thanks to big brother Matt, she knew what to expect.

  The fly in the ointment, potentially, was Rory. How he’d handle this. But his truth was, he’d never knowingly met Holly. Hannah didn’t count.

  It was up to Kenna. She took the photo from Jane. Holly and Lassiter at some rally. “No,” she said. “I’ve never seen her.”

  “How about this one?” Jane held up yet another photo.

  Holly and Owen arm in arm on the Boston Esplanade. Funny, she and Rory had been there that day. Her first day on the job. “No,” she replied. Oh, so baffled. “Who is she?”

  “Miss Ryland, I don’t know where you’re going with this.” Rory stepped in front of Kenna, as if to steer her out of the room. “I told you, that person is not connected with the campaign. Every photo you’ve shown includes dozens of people, they’re clearly taken at public events. The candidate is on his way to one of them this very minute, in fact. We hope there’ll be Lassiter supporters there. We actually invite them. We even encourage them to take photos.”

  Kenna stood back, taking it in. Rory’s sarcasm was making this even better.

  “Someone’s sent you pictures of the candidate at public events. That’s pretty darn newsworthy, Miss Ryland.” Maitland held out an arm, dramatically showing Jane the door. “I know where you can get a whole lot more, exactly like that. In the newspaper. Every day. We done?”

  I hope not, Kenna thought. We’re just getting to the good part.

  * * *

  “You’re so right, Mr. Maitland, they are public places. But look at this photo,” Jane said. She pulled out another snapshot. Showed it to Maitland, then to Kenna, then back to Maitland. She was taking a chance with the next question. “It appears to be in the candidate’s office. Lassiter’s personal desk. Doesn’t it? That’s hardly a public place.”

  Jane waited, taking in the silence. Maitland and Kenna—who is she, anyway?—exchanged glances.

  “Look here, in the reflection of the glass display case. You can see the person taking the photo. Hard to tell, certainly, but it could be the same woman.”

  No one was correcting her.

  “And since it is the governor’s private office, who took this photo? And how did the person who sent it to me get this photograph without having some connection to the governor?”

  Maitland gave a snort, dismissive. “I beg you. The number of people who are brought to his fourth-floor private office to meet—”

  “Exactly,” Jane said. “Who brought her? Cards on the table. This woman is dead. She’s connected to the campaign. She knows Owen Lassiter. If you don’t know who she is, I’m sure someone on your staff does. Whoever took her into the governor’s fourth-floor office. I’m not leaving until someone tells me her name.”

  Kenna was edging toward the door. Maitland raised a hand to stop her, gave a half shake of his head. What is that about?

  “And while you’re considering that, one more thing.” Jane displayed the picture in front of her, one hand holding the corner, the forefinger of the other pointing to a certain place on the photo. “See this big book on the governor’s desk? There’s a Magic Marker circle around it. Why?”

  60

  “Do you have any idea who this man is?” Jake showed Barbara Bellafiore the framed photo from Holly Neff’s dresser. It showed Holly with a youngish guy, both wearing gray Red Sox sweatshirts and navy baseball caps. “Did Miss Neff tell you his name?”

  “’Scuse me, Jake?” Darrell “Humpty” James knocked on the doorjamb of apartment 43. He was already wearing his purple nitrile gloves. Humpty’s search team—Officer Kim lugging her trace evidence kit and Big Joe laden with his camera equipment—trooped behind him into Holly’s living room.

  Humpty scanned the array of photographs covering two walls, shot Jake a mother-a-gawd glance. “Okay if we start? We looking for anything in particular?”

  “DeLuca’s in the back.” Jake cocked a thumb toward the first bedroom. “He’ll give you the lowdown.”

  The building manager, two-page warrant now in hand, watched the search team tramp through. “At least she didn’t die here,” Barbara said, almost to herself. “Won’t be a problem to rent the place again.”

  Jake figured that didn’t need a response.

  “Ma’am? We don’t have much more for you. Just this.” Jake held up the framed photo again. Hard to see the guy’s face, his baseball cap low on his forehead, mirrored sunglasses. His arm looped over Holly’s shoulders. Background looked like a park or something, a lake. Could be anywhere. Before Jake removed the framed photo from Holly’s dresser, he’d taken a snap of it with his phone. “Just confirming. Miss Neff told you he was her boyfriend, but didn’t say his name?”

  Barbara shrugged, folded the warrant into thirds, and stuck it into the waistband of her skirt. “Wish I could remember,” she said. “But—no, I don’t think so. Names, you know. Why would I remember?”

  “I understand, ma’am. If it comes to you—” Jake handed her his business card. “—you call me, okay? Or if anyone comes by asking you about her? You’ll let me know.”

  “I could stay, you know. Help.” The buil
ding manager craned her neck, looking toward the bedrooms where DeLuca and the others would be digging through drawers and burrowing into closets. Joe’s flashbulbs popped. “Maybe they need—”

  “We’re fine, ma’am,” Jake said. Death always had a strange effect on the living. Barbara had been shocked, of course, initially. Took her about ten minutes to start rerenting the victim’s apartment. Now she wanted to poke through Holly’s personal property. Jake put a hand under the woman’s elbow, escorting her to the door. “We’ll inform you when we’ve completed the search. Thank you so much for your help. I’m sorry for the loss.”

  “The? Oh. Yeah.” Barbara looked as if she’d just remembered why they were all here. Touched the warrant in her waistband. “Thank you.”

  Jake reached for his BlackBerry as the woman—eyes glued to the search team—backed toward the door. People. He cued up his photo of Holly and the boyfriend. Punched in Jane’s e-mail, typed a message. “U recognize?”

  He paused, thumb over the Send key, considering.

  * * *

  Jane faced the corner of the Lassiter headquarters lobby, trying for privacy on her cell phone call.

  “I know, Alex, but what was I supposed to do? I tried, but I can’t demand to go upstairs into Lassiter’s office with them, you know? To see what’s in that book that was circled?”

  Not many people were around. Jane had watched the curved streetlights glow into intensity, glaring now through the lobby’s front windows. Headlights flashed by on Causeway Street.

  “Maitland promised to tell you what was in it?” Alex said. “Oh, like that’ll happen.”

  Her face probably reflected the same skepticism. This stinks.

  “Yeah, I agree. Whatever’s in there, they’re never going to tell me. Like I said, they’re insisting they have no idea who the woman is.” Jane shrugged, even though Alex couldn’t see her. “I say, we go with this no matter what. We have the photos, we have the sketch. They match. If the campaign bigwigs insist they don’t recognize her, then fine, we quote them. We’re running the sketch of her on the Web site already, right?”