* * *
“You’re either in it with me, brother, or you’re dead,” Cissy said. “And don’t you see? I’m trying to protect you! If he quits the campaign, right now, that means no one will ever know what you did! It means you and I leave town together. Or—we don’t. Your call.”
With a roar that came from his very soul, Matt threw himself at his sister, knowing about the gun, knowing it was a risk, knowing he might—
* * *
“No!” Sarah saw her brother’s body come toward her, his bulk and his arms and his hands, waving, he was trying to stop her, but she’d just been tormenting Owen, wanting to scare him. She would never have actually shot—
“No, Matt, stop! I wasn’t really going to—”
Her body recoiled with Matt’s weight—she saw the bookshelves tilt by, then the ceiling, shuddered from the recoil of the gun, too, suddenly hot in her hand, then felt Matt heavier, heavier on top of her, and he wasn’t moving anymore and—
She scrambled to her feet, frantic, panicked, suffocated, pushing Matt’s body away, saw her father come toward her— Is that my own scream?
Then he was—her arm was twisted, twisting?
He was taking her gun? No! She needed to get it back. This wasn’t supposed to—
And it fired again.
75
“You hear that?” Jane yanked open the stairwell door, Jake not two steps behind her. She was winded, running up the three flights in high-heeled boots. Hearing the sound—unmistakably a gunshot, then another—propelled them both down the hall.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“A speakerphone?” Jane frowned even more, confused by the sounds coming from an open doorway. They were steps away. Breathing hard, she showed him a door, whispering. “That’s Lassiter’s private office. The only office on this floor.”
From inside the room, a man’s voice, anguished, called out. “Send an ambulance, now! Someone’s been shot! I’m trying to—”
Jake grabbed her, whirling, pinning her flat to the corridor wall, her back pressing tight against the bricks. “Do not move,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. She saw his gun come out of his jacket. “I’m not kidding, Jane. Do. Not. Move.”
* * *
Two more steps to the door. Jake needed to call for backup. But there wasn’t time. Still, if someone inside was calling 911, they weren’t afraid of the cops. One good sign, at least.
Weapon drawn, Jake pressed himself against the brick wall directly outside the open door. He cocked his head at Jane. Get back. Get back!
He could hear cries from inside. A man’s voice. A woman’s. “Ambulance is on the way, sir.” The flat monotone of the operator crackled over the speakerphone. “Two minutes.”
Jake pointed his gun into the room and immediately stepped inside. “Police, freeze!” he yelled, scanning the wood-paneled room in an instant, corner to corner, ceiling to floor. Windows, closed. Desk, empty. Glass-fronted shelves. Lassiter posters. American flag. “Police! Do not move!”
Two bodies on the floor. And Owen Lassiter, kneeling. No one else.
“Hello? Sir?” The dispatcher’s voice, concerned, crackled through the silver speaker of the desk phone. “Is someone else there?”
The candidate, his white shirtsleeves splattered red, bent over a woman lying face up on the jewel-toned pile of the oriental rug, a cascade of blond across her face, pearls dangling, bare legs stretched out toward the door. She wore one black shoe. Lassiter held tan cloth of some kind against the woman’s chest, the light-colored fabric rapidly changing to crimson.
A man’s body lay nearby, splayed, motionless. White male, no gun in anyone’s hand, Jake catalogued. A desk blocked Jake’s view of the man’s face, but he could easily see the darkening bloom in the center of a once-pale-blue shirt. The man’s khakis were streaked with mud. Mud? His loafers were muddy, too.
Did Lassiter shoot two people? Where’s the damn gun? Jake kept his weapon on Lassiter, yelling toward the speakerphone on the desk. “Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD on the scene, Dispatch. Requesting backup. And medical. We have a person down. Two. Do you have a twenty on this location?”
“Copy that, Detective,” the voice came back. “On the way. Are you secure?”
“Help me, Detective. Please help me.” Lassiter wiped his forehead with one hand, leaving a dark trail across his skin and staining his gray hair. “She’s bleeding, too much, too fast. I’m using my suit jacket to—”
“Detective?” The dispatcher’s voice. “Please respond. Over.”
“My son is dead.” Lassiter’s voice was a pitiful croak. “My daughter shot him, and now she’s dying. It was an accident. An accident. But it’s all my fault. I tried to take it from her—”
A once-shiny silver gun—a .22—lay in a dark stain on the rug, almost under the couch.
Jake kept his weapon chest high, edging farther into the room. He kicked the .22 out of Lassiter’s reach. “We are secure, Dispatch,” Jake called out. “Repeating the request for backup. And a medic. Pronto.”
“Copy,” the voice said. “ETA is in one minute.”
“Black button under the desk,” Lassiter said. “Opens the front door. Lets them in.” He didn’t take his eyes off the woman. Tears streamed down his face, landing on hers. “I was trying to take the gun from her. It was an accident.”
“Jane!” Jake called, loud as he could. He needed to unlock the front door for the EMTs. Needed to check on the man, whoever it was. And to see if he could assist Lassiter. “Janey! Need your help in here.”
The woman on the floor stirred, then with a thin gasp, opened her eyes.
Christ. Jake wasn’t ready for that. He aimed his weapon at her, then lowered it. The amount of red on the rug meant she was unlikely to fight back.
“All your selfish fault,” the woman hissed at Lassiter. Her eyes closed again.
“Kenna Wilkes.” Jane’s voice from the doorway. “That’s Kenna Wilkes.”
“My wife,” Lassiter whispered. “I need to call my wife.”
76
“It’s so quiet in here. It’s usually blaring some Sousa thing, you know?” Jane, whispering, leaned closer to Alex. The lobby was crowded with sleepy-eyed reporters and photographers, some clutching paper cups and Tuesday’s morning paper, others lugging lights and tripods. “The campaign posters and stuff are still up, though.”
“You think he’s going to quit?” Alex also kept his voice low. “I had to see this. Quarter to eight. Can you believe they called it for this early?”
Three rows of folding chairs faced a portable lectern set up in front of the elevators. Behind them, a wooden riser for television cameras. The reception desk was empty. A week before the election, and the front-runner’s headquarters reeked of bad news.
She and Alex had done it. Scoop of the year. Both had stayed in the Register city room till dawn, side by side, slugging down coffee and banging out the front-page wall-to-wall blockbuster. Now both were running on caffeine and adrenaline, Jane’s coat still spotted with mud but the lump on her head tamed with Advil.
She craned her neck, checking the competition. “See everyone reading the Register?”
Sliding into the seat next to Alex, Jane pulled her own copy of the morning paper from her tote bag. Banner headlines—biggest the paper had used since the mob thing—proclaimed ELECTION TRAGEDY. Underneath, CANDIDATE’S ESTRANGED DAUGHTER CHARGED WITH MURDER IN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT.
According to sources close to the story, Matthew Lassiter Galbraith was killed in an attempt to prevent the now-hospitalized victim, Lassiter’s estranged daughter, from murdering their father. Lassiter campaign officials insist …
Jane knew every word by heart.
Tuck had the byline on the sidebar story. CANDIDATE’S SON SUSPECT IN BRIDGE KILLING, with the subhead—“Now Victim in Lassiter Shooting.” Archive Gus’s photos of Holly Neff were arrayed across the jump page. Exclusive.
Police have no m
otive in the slaying of Holly Neff, age 25, who recently moved to Massachusetts from Pennsylvania. Sources say Neff’s apartment contained numerous photos of Senate candidate Owen Lassiter, estranged father of the deceased Matthew Lassiter Galbraith, as well as several photographs of Neff and her alleged murderer. The Register’s investigation proves the victim was a regular attendee at Lassiter events, although campaign officials insist …
Jane dropped the paper to her lap, crumpling the pages, and jabbed Alex with an elbow.
“You know what kinda kills me, Alex? It’s really my investigation, you know? So funny, after all that, Tuck winds up with the woman-in-the-red-coat story.” Jane flipped the newspaper to the front page, pointed to the headline. “But there’s no Bridge Killer. And I still don’t agree with ‘assassination.’”
“It’s exactly what happened,” Alex said. He turned toward her, draping his arm across the back of her chair, keeping their conversation private. “Like the cops said. Lassiter thinks Kenna—Sarah, whatever—had lured him to the office to kill him, after years of being taught to hate him. That’s assassination.”
Jane risked a bit of an eyeroll—they were pals now, after all. Practically. “We’ll see, though, if she recovers enough to talk.” She read her story yet again.
Lassiter campaign officials would not comment on the incident, or on the candidate’s relationship to the woman known as Kenna Wilkes—who reportedly worked as a campaign volunteer. Sources do confirm the woman is actually Sarah Lassiter Galbraith, the candidate’s daughter from his first marriage. She remains in critical condition and under police surveillance at Mass General Hospital.
Jane looked up from the paper. “What’s wrong?”
Alex, now on his feet, was scanning the room. Frowning. “Five minutes till the press conference. Our photog isn’t here.” He patted his jacket pockets, found his cell.
“I’ve got my camera.” Jane unzipped her tote bag. “Worst comes to—damn. Memory card full. I’ve got to delete some stuff.”
Good-bye pigeons. Good-bye Amy in Nantucket—yikes, I have to call her. The guy who wasn’t Fabio in front of Saks. Her car parked at the broken meter. Good-bye—wait.
Jane clicked the little zoom lever, pushing the snapshot into a close-up. It was that day at the Esplanade rally, when Trevor took her backstage, and she’d seen the red-coat girl in the crowd. She’d managed only that one snap before Trevor cut her off. She hadn’t needed to look at it again. And now …
“Hey. Check this out.” Jane held the camera with both hands, showing him the screen.
Alex clicked off his cell. Muttering. “The guy’s looking for a parking place. I mean, every place is a parking place if you’re press. What, Jane?”
“It’s a photo I took. At my first Lassiter rally. There’s Holly Neff, right? But look who else is in the shot.” She clicked the photo to a tighter close-up. “The woman? That’s Kenna—I mean, Sarah Lassiter. And the guy with his arm draped around her? That’s—”
“Ladies and gentlemen, are we ready?”
Jane looked up at the lectern, where an exhausted-looking man in a tweed jacket and rumpled chinos, ID cards dangling from a webbed lanyard, adjusted one of the microphones.
“That’s Trevor Kiernan at the mic,” Jane whispered. “Alex, before this starts. See who’s with her in this photo?”
“We’ll have a brief statement, but we will not be taking any questions.” Kiernan placed a clipboard on the lectern. A barrage of megawatt television lights clicked on, spotting the podium and glaring on the art deco elevator doors behind it. “We will not be doing any interviews.”
Looks like a guy emceeing his own funeral.
“Understood?” Kiernan locked eyes with Jane for a split second, then glanced across the crowd. “Statement, then good-bye. Got me?”
“Trevor!” a guy in the front row stood, holding up a hand. “Where’s Governor Lassiter? Is he going to stay in the race?”
“Any word on his daughter’s condition?” The woman next to him wasn’t going to be scooped. “Why was he estranged from his own children?”
That started the torrent.
“Is Lassiter under arrest?”
“Is Owen going to drop out?”
“Has Eleanor Gable called you?”
“So much for ‘no questions,’” Jane whispered to Alex. “But I must say, I can’t wait to talk to Gable. The Kenna—I mean Sarah—connection. The Deverton house. You know?”
Alex, ignoring her, had Jane’s camera almost to his nose, his glasses balanced on his forehead. Staring at the photo.
The burnished silver of the elevator doors vibrated, the lights pinged to green, the doors slid open.
“But this is—,” Alex said. He turned to Jane, pointing a forefinger at the photo.
A man emerged from the elevators, into the spotlights. Took his place at the lectern.
“Rory Maitland,” Jane whispered.
“Rory Maitland,” Kiernan announced, “will now read the candidate’s statement. Then we’re done.”
77
“Why didn’t she just kill her husband, you know, Harvard? If she thought she could get away with it?”
Jake and DeLuca stood at the end of a dim hallway at the Nashua Street Jail. The women’s unit—different from the men’s only because of the sign—held mostly punks and angry crank heads. Patti Vick would not enjoy this slumber party.
This was the end of the line, Jake always thought. Layered with fear and wrong decisions.
The last of Patti Vick’s obscenities floated down the jail hallway, her shrill voice bouncing off the walls. Two matrons, one on each side, ignored her protests as they led her away. The woman had confessed. Jake got the whole damn thing on tape.
Her husband was out on bail. Facing a complicated and unpleasant future.
“Well, she told me she’d thought about it,” Jake said. “Killing him.”
“Yeah?” DeLuca stuffed his fists into his jacket pockets.
“Yeah. But she figured it’d be too obvious if she killed him. It’s always the spouse, everyone knows that. Plus, if her husband was dead, she thought she’d lose the million bucks. From his judgment against Jane, you know? She thought if he was in Cedar Junction for life, she’d still get the money. Vick had Sellica’s private phone number, of course. So Patti pretended to be some secretary, told Sellica her big-shot boss was auditioning for a photo spread, they’d heard about her via the grapevine, they were shooting it at the studio—you can figure out the rest. And Sellica had never seen Patti, you know? Clever Patti wrote some nasty notes to Jane, too, after the trial. Figuring they’d make her husband look guiltier.”
“So Patti does away with Sellica, sets up her cheating husband, and keeps the money.” DeLuca pursed his lips, nodding. Then he frowned at Jake. “Is that even how it works?”
“Nope,” Jake said. “If he died, she would get the money. If Vick were found guilty of Sellica’s murder, the missus probably wouldn’t. How dumb is that? Guess Patti could have asked a lawyer for clarification. But that’d be one iffy conversation.”
The two stood in silence for a moment. In the distance, a clang of metal.
“Jane know about this?” DeLuca finally said.
The day’s second bright spot.
“Nope.” Jake took out his phone. He wished he could tell her in person. He’d love to see that smile. Then he’d inform Leota Darden. “I’m calling her right now.”
* * *
“Owen Lassiter says he’s staying in the race.” Jane caught Eleanor Gable as the candidate walked up the front path of her Beacon Hill home. “So there are a couple of things I need to ask you.”
Instead of continuing the interview on the sidewalk, neighbors peering from brownstone windows, Gable invited Jane inside. “Five minutes,” she declared.
But standing in her high-ceilinged foyer, Gable made no move to invite Jane any farther inside. Five minutes. An interview in the entryway. Fine with Jane. She had only three questions.
First, the easy one.
“We’re still working on your profile piece, of course. But because of last night— Well, I’m sure you heard Owen Lassiter’s statement,” Jane said. Her tote bag hung from her shoulder, the tape recorder rolling in an outside pouch. “I’m taking notes by tape, okay? So Lassiter said ‘tragic personal circumstances beyond my control do not diminish my public responsibility to stay in this race.’ What’s your reaction?”
“The voters will decide about that, Jane.” Eleanor Gable slouched off her camel-hair coat, turned her back to hang it in the hall closet. She didn’t offer to take Jane’s coat. “And now if you’re finished?”
“Two more questions,” Jane said. “There’s a house at four-six-three Constitution Lane in Deverton. You own that, correct?”
Gable, minus her usual hail-fellow demeanor, glanced upstairs, as if she wanted to get away. She tossed her head, her pale hair swinging across one cheek, then back into place. “Yes, if that’s the address of my family’s Deverton property. One of many. I’m sure you know that, Jane. That’s hardly a random question.”
Ball to Jane’s court. Fine.
“And do you have a tenant in that house now?”
An almost-laugh. A glance at a thin lizard-strapped watch. “Jane, please. If you have a question, just ask it.”
“Owen Lassiter visited a woman at that house.”
“Visited? A woman?” Gable raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should discuss that with him.”
“Well, I could, I suppose, but he’s at the hospital with her right now. Kenna Wilkes. As I’m sure you are aware.”
“His daughter. ‘Long-lost daughter,’ as your article this morning so eloquently described her.” Gable glanced up the stairs again, a double-tall mulberry-walled gallery, silver-framed photographs covering it floor to ceiling, edges aligned and almost touching. “Miss Ryland, do you have a point?”
Jane followed Gable’s glance upstairs. Was someone up there? Or was she just signaling Jane to leave? The photos on the wall reminded Jane of—coffee? Why? She must really need sleep.
The Other Woman Page 33