Jake clicked the radio mic back into place, moved DeLuca out of the way as he pulled his leg in and closed the door. He buzzed down the window.
“—and now,” DeLuca repeated, cocking his head toward Lassiter headquarters, “all we gotta do is find some dish who’s apparently got an inside with the candidate, and have her give up the guy who killed Holly Neff. And we are four for four.”
“Told you there was no Bridge Killer,” Jake called as DeLuca headed for his car. “See you downtown, D. Time for you and me to rain a little reality on one Mr. Arthur Vick.”
DeLuca peeled out, full speed ahead, beeping his horn in salute. But Jake sat in his front seat, staring out the windshield, more than Arthur Vick on his mind.
Matt No-Last-Name. Approached Jane at the news conference. Showed up at Lassiter headquarters exactly when she did. Now he was whereabouts unknown.
Who the hell is Matt? What if the guy who killed Holly Neff was now looking for Jane?
* * *
So near but yet so far. Jane sat in her front seat, car in Park, engine idling, staring at the CLOSED sign in front of Poplar Grove Cemetery. She’d devoured the last of her peanut butter crackers and was starting on a pack of gum unearthed from the bottom of her tote. She tried Moira again. Nothing.
Now she was contemplating the tiniest bit of trespassing. No locked gate in front of her in the driveway, no gate at all. No chain, no barrier, no nothing. Above her a massive cast-iron arch loomed, twisted metal letters spelling POPLAR GROVE. Beside her, a very small plastic sign with press-on letters spelling CLOSED FOR HALLOWEEN.
What if I hadn’t seen it? Jane tried out a few excuses: It was dark. I was looking the other way. The sign is smallish.
But what if there were some alarm thing, that as soon as she crossed some barrier would trip, blaring bells and sirens, announcing her illegal entry to some goons lurking who knew where? Unlikely, though, in a cemetery, right? People were supposed to go in. That was the whole point. And the place was lit up—sorta. She could see a winding tree-lined lane, a fork in the graveled access road leading up each side of a grassy rise. Spotlights revealed curving rows of headstones and grave markers, shadowed statues of angels and crosses and sleekly marbled obelisks. Like Mom’s, she thought, then pushed it out of her mind. That lectern thing a little beyond the arch must be the locator map. The place was actually kind of—peaceful. Not creepy-scary. Just empty.
Empty.
Traffic whizzed by behind her. No one cared. No one was stopping. All she had to do was pull in. She wasn’t going to hurt anything. It wasn’t that illegal.
She shifted into Drive.
* * *
Matt drove half a block past the gate, turned into a side street, and made a U-turn. At the cemetery entrance, he turned off his lights and shifted into Park. He was freezing. Sweating. Having a heart attack. His chest hadn’t felt so tight, so constricted since—since the last time he was here. Cissy was enraged he’d added “Lassiter” to the headstone on the Galbraith family plot. Hadn’t spoken to him at the funeral, or after, because of it. But Lassiter was his birthright. It was their history. It was the truth.
He’d visited the grave only a few times since, walking up that little hill, using the big angel as the landmark. His mother’s headstone, pink marble, stood in the shadow of the angel’s wings. He owed her a visit, he knew. But this was too … too much.
His chest clutched again. What was Ryland doing here?
Exhaust plumed from her tailpipe. Her car didn’t move.
And then it did.
66
So far, so good. Jane drove in, creeping along, gripping the steering wheel, shoulders tensed for the blare of alarm bells. But nothing happened. She did a quick scan for security cameras, saw nothing. It was easy to check the locator. Easy to see the diagrams in the dimly warm lights tucked into trees and staked along the paths. Easy to find the name Katharine Lassiter. Section D, Row 23.
When she arrived at the right place, one frustrating glitch. She couldn’t see the headstone from her car. But this would take only two seconds.
Leaving her car running and door open, Jane crunched through fallen leaves and gooshed through mud, glad she’d kept her rubber wellies stashed in the backseat, a leftover-from-TV habit.
Row 23. Up two rows, then down three headstones, picturing the map at the entrance. She carried the flashlight from her console, all powered up and batteries fine. Her cell phone, not so much, still charging in the car. You can’t win them all.
The night air hit, hazy and sodden with leftover rain. Clammy. She pulled her coat closer. Tree branches bowed and bent in the light wind; wisps of clouds scudded across the navy sky. Alone in a cemetery. On Halloween. Shut up. She wouldn’t think about scary stuff; that would be stupid. She could still hear occasional cars on the road. Her own, ready to roll, was right there.
She mentally whistled a happy tune. Not afraid. She’d be here only two seconds.
* * *
If he drove in right behind her, she’d hear the car. Matt watched Jane’s brake lights go on, then off, saw her Audi pull in through the arched gateway, stop at the locator. Watched her get out, check the diagrams, get back in the car.
Where was she going? It was an incredible coincidence that whoever’s grave she was visiting was in the same cemetery as his mother’s. Still, that could leave Matt alone with her. He hoped his mother would understand what he needed to do. He needed his life back. Damn Holly, he thought again. But family came first. Time to prove he was a real Lassiter.
He watched Jane turn left, toward his angel, then head slowly up the rise. Matt shifted, touched the gas pedal, eased into the cemetery driveway.
Her car was a couple hundred yards up the access road, still heading toward the angel. Where the hell is she going? Will she get out of the car? If he followed in his car, she’d hear it. He stopped, backed up, pointed his car’s nose toward the exit. Turned off the ignition and opened the door. Closed it as quietly as he could.
* * *
What was that? Jane stopped at the end of Row 23. Stood absolutely still, muscles taut across her shoulders. She didn’t want to use her flashlight—what if someone saw the beam? Plenty of light without it. The flashlight was merely backup, in case she needed to read something. The moon, almost full, appeared through the tips of the waving poplars as the rain clouds parted. Constellations glistened into view, Orion. The Dippers. The sound didn’t happen again. Probably a squirrel. An owl.
Three headstones to go. Jane took one step, her dark green boots barely crunching in the close-clipped brown grass. Paused. Nothing. The first headstone was for a Walter Galbraith, born … it didn’t matter. She took another step. Paused, eyes closed, listening as intently as her ears would manage. Opened her eyes. Nothing. Another step.
What was that? She stopped, one hand to her throat. For sure, that was an owl. Go.
The third headstone was the one she cared about.
It looked like marble. Polished, pink marble. Lighter than its neighbors, waist high, gracefully curved across the top, almost glowing a bit in the combination of moonlight and spotlight. One more step and she could read it. She paused. Listened. Nothing.
She took the step.
And there was the inscription. KATHARINE FLANNERY GALBRAITH LASSITER, it said, the elegant letters etched deep into the stone.
BORN OCTOBER 21, 1956
DIED APRIL 14, 2010
Smaller letters below. Jane risked the flashlight, played the thin yellow beam across the words carved into the pink stone.
BELOVED MOTHER OF SARAH (BORN 1989) AND MATTHEW (BORN 1987)
Jane stared at the names.
Then she heard the sound.
* * *
It can’t be. Matt took one last stride, crouched behind the big angel, sneaked his head around the curve of her alabaster wing to watch Jane take a few tentative steps toward his mother’s grave. She took one step, then stopped. Then another. She looked right at him. Didn’t she
? He darted into the cover of the lofty wings, forehead pressed against the deep grooves in the sleek white stone. Had she seen him?
Jane looked away. She hadn’t. She took another step.
That reporter is visiting my mother’s grave. She knows.
This friggin’ clinched it. Ryland had Holly’s damn photos. Of course, she figured Holly was sleeping with his father. Having an affair. No one would ever believe it wasn’t true. No matter what anyone said. His father would be ruined. Ruined.
He put one hand on the angel’s cool skin, trying to stay calm.
If this woman had half a brain, she would soon know exactly who he was. But in a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter. His father’s future was at stake.
The carved pink marble of his mother’s headstone still seemed different from the other headstones, somehow. Stood out from them, always had. Secretly, he’d thought it his mother’s light shining through.
Jane was taking another step.
Matt could see her car, just down the lane, door open. Holly’s photos had to be in there. He’d seen the manila envelope under her arm when she left Lassiter headquarters, and she hadn’t gone anywhere else. Matt pursed his lips, calculating time and distance and weight.
Jane took another step.
Matt knew exactly what she was about to see. His name.
It was time.
67
“Unacceptable. Unacceptable!”
Henry Rothmann practically frothed at the mouth. In interrogation room C, Styrofoam cups littered the yellowing burn-pocked table and Arthur Vick did not look like a happy camper. His lawyer, tie askew and once-slick hair now tufted above each ear, was also a member of the unhappy camp.
Jake knew the news he was about to deliver would make them even more unhappy.
“Mr. Vick? Your wife is here,” Jake said. He nodded at Rothmann. “I’m afraid we’ll have to get your statement before we allow you to see her, however.”
“Unacceptable! You arrested my client at approximately one P.M. today. It is now ten P.M. You—absurdly—charged him with murder. According to case law, Commonwealth versus Rosario, my client must be arraigned before a judge or magistrate, without unnecessary delay, and clearly this is—”
“Ah, yes,” DeLuca said. He leaned against the wall, dramatically dismayed. “Thing is—”
Jake shot him a look. “Mr. Rothmann, you are, of course, correct. However, by the time we all arrived here at headquarters, and we contacted the magistrate, it was well past closing time for the court. As a result, your client is scheduled to be arraigned in Suffolk Superior Court at nine tomorrow morning. That, I’m afraid, is the best I can do.”
“That’s—” Rothmann flapped his yellow legal pad at Jake. “Preposterous. And a clear violation of the speedy trial decision.”
“Feel free to explain that to the judge,” Jake said. “Tomorrow. As for your client, we’ve got him on motive, means, and opportunity. He knew the victim, he had access to the drugs that incapacitated her before her death, he had proximity to the location of the deceased.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.” Arthur Vick’s voice growled, rising from deep in his throat. His shirt had come untucked. His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot. A splotch of coffee stained his once-pristine sweater. “This is bull. Complete bull. I never did anything.”
“I’m so interested to hear your story, Mr. Vick, all you know about Sellica Darden,” Jake said. How the mighty hath fallen. He flipped open a folding chair and sat down, facing the defendant. “You’re facing life without parole, you know. In Cedar Junction. Maximum security. Where your clothes will still be monogrammed. But with DOC. Department of Correction. In case your lawyer has not informed you.”
“And your colleagues will not be pretty girls,” DeLuca put in. “Though they may think you are kinda cute.”
Rothmann planted himself in front of his client. “Not a word, Arthur,” he said. “Do not. Open. Your mouth.”
Jake smiled, pleasant, infinitely patient. “Your call. No problem. I’ll go see what Mrs. Vick has to tell us.”
* * *
Jane could hear her own breathing. The muck of the soft ground under her boots, the tips of her fingers cold even through her gloves. Matthew. Matt. The guy from the news conference was Katharine Lassiter’s son. Owen Lassiter’s son.
Why was that a secret?
She snapped off the flashlight, tucked it under her arm, and crouched low to the ground, flapping her coat underneath her to keep it from dragging in the mud. Stared at the headstone. She reached out, touched the letters. So not only had Owen Lassiter been married once before, but he also had kids. They’d be Moira Lassiter’s stepchildren. Certainly standard practice these days—everyone had stepkids. Why were they out of the picture?
And why did Matt—was he Matt Lassiter?—show up at the police news conference? He’d said he had a story for her. And then—he’d been with Kenna Wilkes.
“So now you know.”
Startled at the voice, Jane stood, too quickly, wobbled off balance, falling against the pink marble. Crying out, she tried to catch herself, one rubber boot sliding in the slick grass, one hand clutching at the air, the flashlight dropping from under her arm.
No use. Her ankle wrenched under her weight. She landed, hard, on the ground, splotches of cold dampness instantly soaking through her wool coat. Breaking her fall with one hand, her wrist slammed the hard stone of the next grave.
She looked up to see—Matt?
Matt was making no move to help her. He stood, looking down at her, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “And since you know, that’s a problem,” he said. “Even my father doesn’t know. That I’m here. Who I am. And he’s not going to know. Until I tell him. Not you.”
“Matt?” She smiled, trying not to act as terrified as she was. Lassiter doesn’t know he has a son? Wait—“doesn’t know—that I’m here,” Matt had said. So Lassiter knew Matt existed, just not that he was in Boston.
Why does that matter to him? What in hell is this guy doing at the cemetery? How does he know I’m here? He must have—followed me?
She eyed her car. Time to get out of here. Fast. “What a surprise. Guess I lost my footing there.”
Matt stared at her, silent.
Not good. Not good. She was down, and small. He was up, and big. And not talking. She leaned forward, planting her glove in the wet grass, trying to clamber to her feet. She could see well enough. Her flashlight was right over there.
Her car. With her phone. Over there.
She heaved herself to her feet—but Matt was already moving forward, fast, pushing her back. Both hands, strong, angry, pushing her, and she fell back again. Cold cold cold and hard. It hurts, my head, oh, no … tears came and a jag of lightning in her head, and—
“Why are you—?” But her voice wasn’t there, she needed help, this wasn’t good, he is Lassiter’s son and now he … why would he—? The news conference. Holly Neff? The woman in the photo. His girlfriend, Jake had said. But maybe that was wrong. What if Matt killed Holly Neff?
Her phone was ringing, in her car. She had to, had to, had to get up … or—
“Matt.” Her voice struggled to be heard. But he was coming at her again, his face hard and angry and focused and not seeing her, not seeing her … she had to get him to—she shifted, gritting everything, raising herself on one elbow. She felt something crawl across her hand, her hair was cold, her head splitting, she had to think.
He was Lassiter’s son. And Matt was angry she knew that. Why? Maybe because of Holly’s death? Would he figure Jane suspected him, since he’d approached her at the news conference? But the cops had never said Holly’s name. He couldn’t know she knew it. So the best thing—would be to pretend she had no idea about Holly. Change the subject. Take away his fear.
“Matt!” Her voice was so loud now, so strident, so shrill, it hurt her own ears. Her head was throbbing, it hurts so much. She struggled for calm, needing to reach him, distract him, misdirect
him. Talk fast. Convince him. Otherwise, she would be his next victim. And no one knows where I am.
“Yes, you’re so right,” she told him. “But, listen, Matt, I already knew who you were. That’s why I’m here, confirming it. It’s not a secret, it’s wonderful! And, listen, Matt. I’ve already told your father. Less than an hour ago. Kenna heard me. She was there for the whole thing. I told your father—‘your son is in Boston.’ So he already knows. He knows!”
68
“I’m afraid your husband won’t be coming back for … a while,” Jake said.
Patti Vick, legs crossed and clutching a bulging pocketbook, didn’t get up as Jake greeted her. She’d settled in the armchair in the duty officer’s room, filling the gray upholstery with coat and shawl and purse, not an inch of chair visible. Tattered “Wanted” posters and a calendar, last month’s, were the room’s only decoration.
A white-bordered clock, slow, Jake noticed, ticked reluctantly over a pitted wooden desk. Just after ten.
“What will happen now?” Patti Vick snapped open her purse, took out a little pink notebook. She clicked open a bright green ballpoint pen. “Does he have a chance?”
“Have a chance?” Jake hadn’t heard that one before. Some spouses of murder suspects went ballistic, furious at their partners for screwing up, getting caught, or leaving them all alone. Others sobbed uncontrollably, shocked, sad, terrified, lost in confusion or surprise or, sometimes, a haze of drugs.
Patti Vick was a new one.
“Let me ask you.” Jake leaned against the cinder block wall, arms crossed, in front of a poster showing a guy he’d captured. He’d give this a try, why not? Even though Patti Vick would probably clam up. Certainly that lawyer had filled her in on the three rules of talking to police: don’t, don’t, and don’t. “What do you think about Sellica Darden?”
“She was such a—” Patti Vick shrugged, her purple shawl tipping off one sweatered shoulder. “I mean, in that world she lived in? Probably dozens of people had her in their sights. It coulda been anyone. You know what she was.”
The Other Woman Page 30