“I do have a point,” Jane said. “And you know what it is. Why was Owen Lassiter’s estranged daughter, who infiltrated his campaign without his knowledge and later apparently attempted to kill him, living at a home you own?”
“Jane, I’m sure I have no idea.” Gable turned to the front door, placed her hand on the polished brass knob. “And if you have any further questions, please contact my—”
A creak from the top of the stairs.
“Ellie?” A voice called down.
A man.
“Just a moment,” Gable called back.
Oh. No wonder Gable was uncomfortable. She had a guy upstairs. So much for the—
“Ellie?” the voice came again, louder.
Jane turned toward the sound. Gable did, too.
“Jane?” Gable took Jane by the arm, ushering her out. “Any more questions, please call my office. It’s been a long day. The election is right around the corner.”
Jane had one foot in the foyer, the other on the front step. And the door began to close behind her.
78
Jane straight-armed the door. Keeping it open. She turned to look inside. Coffee. The picture. She knew where she’d seen it. And she recognized the voice on the stairway. No way she was leaving.
Rory Maitland stood, one hand on the banister, frozen midstep. No longer rumpled and polyester, he now sported khakis and a turtleneck. Beacon Hill casual.
Eleanor Gable whirled to face him, then turned back to Jane. Her nose went up, and she waved toward the stairway. “I’m sure you know Rory Maitland,” Gable said. “We’re discussing whether our campaigns should contact the secretary of state’s office to inquire about postponing the election. Given the ramifications of these difficult events.”
Rory Maitland? At Gable’s house? Discussing?
“Did you find the powder room, Rory?” Gable smiled, gracious hostess.
“I noticed a photo on your wall, Ms. Gable. That one. Third from the bottom.” Jane was not buying Gable’s preposterous explanation. “A beach in Nantucket? The same photo’s also in your campaign office. Funny, there’s one exactly like it on Mr. Maitland’s desk. I blotted spilled coffee from it the other day. Remember, Mr. Maitland?”
“Jetties Beach?” Gable said, eyeing the photograph. “Hardly exotic.”
“You’ve been there, too, Ms. Gable?” Maitland said. He’d almost reached the bottom of the stairs. Loafers with no socks. “Not surprising. Who hasn’t?”
“She was ‘Ellie’ when you called down a moment ago,” Jane said. “And Ms. Gable? I was here before you arrived. Remember? You invited me in? There was no meeting under way. Mr. Maitland was already here. Upstairs.”
“I—,” Gable began.
“We—,” Maitland said at the same time.
Jane rummaged in her purse for her camera. “Let me show you this,” she said, finding the camera, for once, on the first try. She clicked the button. “This is a Lassiter campaign rally on the Esplanade a week ago, remember? There’s Holly Neff, the woman Matthew Lassiter apparently killed. And here’s—see? With his arm around the other woman?”
Jane held up the camera, first to Gable, then to Maitland, who’d moved closer. They examined the screen, then exchanged glances.
Gable spoke first. “And what this has to do with me is … precisely what, Miss Ryland?”
“So? I knew her as Kenna Wilkes,” Maitland said. He shrugged. “A campaign volunteer. One of many.”
“How did you know where Katharine Lassiter was buried?” Jane persisted. “Kenna told you, didn’t she? She hated her father. You two were in it together.”
Jane paused, looking at Gable, then Maitland. Statues. Ice and icier. “Or more likely—you three. Now I see. Ms. Gable, I bet Sarah approached you first. Maybe offering a ready-made scandal? And then you lured in Maitland.”
Maitland crossed his arms in front of his chest. Rolled his eyes. All drama. “That’s ab—”
“Good-bye, Miss Ryland.” Gable put her hand on the front door. With a flourish and a grand gesture, she yanked it wide open.
A puff of chill, Beacon Hill revealed, now almost in darkness. The bustle from Pinckney Street filled the entryway: taxis honking, car door slamming, a distant siren. The old-fashioned wrought-iron gaslights glimmered in the dusk, then glowed bright.
Lights. Jane put her fingers to her lips, realizing. She ignored the open door. “Mr. Maitland? It was you who turned off the lights at the Springfield rally, wasn’t it? Pulled the alarm? Turned up the thermostat? You who put the campaign in such disarray? I’m right. It all makes sense. Because you were working—” Jane pointed at Gable. “—for her.”
Jane shook her head, struggling to grasp this level of deception. “Political consultant, huh? You used Ms. Gable’s Deverton house to insinuate Kenna—I mean Sarah—into the campaign. You both tried to manipulate Moira Lassiter into believing her husband was having an affair. And making it public. When you were the ones who were actually cheating.”
Jane paused, seeing the final possibility. “Was it personal, too? Or only politics?”
Maitland took a step up the stairs, then seemed to think better of it. “You could never prove I was here.”
Gable moved in front of him, blocking him. Hands on hips, charm bracelet jangling. “You’ll hear from my attorney, Miss Ryland. I know your reputation. So does everyone. There’s nothing between me and Mr. Maitland. No one will believe a word you say. And we’ll insist this whole conversation never happened.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. She thought about greed and corruption and power. Thought about her tape recorder, still rolling in her purse. Thought about how quickly she’d need to get the hell out of here if they came at her together.
“I write the facts, Ms. Gable. The truth. And the truth is, your campaign dirty tricks resulted in two horrible and unnecessary deaths. And put your pawn, Sarah, in critical condition. And I think readers—or should I say, voters?—will be fascinated by that whole story. We’ll let them decide what the truth means.”
79
Why didn’t Jane pick up her damn messages? Jake propped his BlackBerry on the Jeep’s steering wheel, the heater humming, the shift in Park. He hadn’t even gotten to give her the word on the Vicks. He hit Redial. “It’s me. Again. By now you’ve heard. Call me.”
Should he head directly to her apartment? He tipped the BlackBerry back and forth on the wheel. Maybe yes, maybe no. Jane was certainly not in danger—Matt was dead, Sarah Lassiter hooked to a bunch of beeping monitors with two cadets and DeLuca guarding her hospital room. Not talking yet, but they’d buzz him if she came to.
She might live, doctors were saying. If she does, maybe she’ll get Patti Vick as a roommate. Jake had to smile. So much for the Bridge Killer.
End of story.
He shifted into Drive, eased out of the cop shop parking lot. Jane’s apartment. Why not?
* * *
That’s odd. Alex’s door is closed.
Jane had dashed up the three flights to the city room, unable to wait another moment for the exasperatingly slow elevator. Her head was full of her story—Maitland a turncoat, working for Lassiter’s opponent, Gable as the other woman—well, she couldn’t actually write all that, not yet.
Now, fidgeting in the waiting area outside Alex’s office, she waved both hands, signaling, trying to get his attention. He had the desk phone to his ear, cord stretched to the limit, pacing. Gesturing. Frowning.
She decided to go ahead, write what she had, a first draft. She had to call—who? Lassiter, of course. And the secretary of state, she was in charge of elections. Could she postpone the whole deal?
And Moira. Who so far wasn’t returning Jane’s calls. Would she play the good wife in all this?
Jane dug in her tote bag for her phone. Damn. Still on mute from this afternoon. She clicked it back on, turning the ringer to extra loud.
The city room was deserted, tomorrow’s first deadline past and the night shift not due for
half an hour. She would have some quiet to get her thoughts together.
She rounded the corner, hoping Tuck wasn’t occupying their chair.
Great. Empty.
She plopped into the swivel in front of the desk, then quickly stood again. She was in the wrong cube. No Bridge Killer crime scene photos pinned across the bulletin board, no Snickers wrappers in the wastebasket, no bulging manila file folders taking up all the room on the desktop.
Jane paused, confused. But her own stuff was there, where she’d left it last night. Her envelope of photos. Her campaign brochures. Archive Gus’s file.
Only Tuck’s possessions were gone. Maybe Jane’s scoop snagged her an office of her own?
A footstep in the corridor. A cough. And then Jane’s phone beeped. A message. Has to be from Jake.
“Jane?” Alex appeared at the cubicle entrance. He draped one arm over the low fabric-covered divider.
Had she ever seen him in a suit and tie before? Hot Alex, indeed. Her phone beeped again. Extra loud.
“Hey, Alex, listen,” Jane said. She stood quickly, smiling, eager to tell the story. Describe every detail. “You won’t believe what I just—”
Alex put up a palm. The twinkle was gone from his eyes. “Two things,” he said. “First, good news. You know about Patti Vick, right? Police released it, five minutes ago.”
“Patti? Vick?” Jane tried to figure out where this was going. Arthur Vick’s wife?
“Confessed to killing Sellica Darden. Revenge. For her husband’s—affair. You see what that means.”
Jane sank back into her desk chair, one hand on the smooth metal desktop, needing to keep her balance. Her knees were not to be trusted.
“Didn’t Jake call you? You don’t know?”
Jane glanced at her phone. It beeped again. Alex had a funny look on his face.
“No, I—” Jane tried to think. She’d clearly missed Jake’s call. Patti Vick? She couldn’t wait to hear every— Wonder if Leota Darden knows. Jane reached for the cell.
“Before you pick that up,” Alex interrupted. “The bad news. We had to fire Tuck. She was seeing Laney Driscoll, the police PR flack. Turns out, he leaked her those crime scene photos. And a lot more. The superintendent just fired him, too. It’s a bad deal. All around. We trusted her, we printed it, we’ll back her in court. First Amendment, all that. But sleeping with a source? Any kind of inappropriate behavior? The Register will not tolerate that.”
Jane’s hand hovered over her cell phone. It beeped again. Insistent. And, since Alex obviously suspected who was calling, potentially career-ending.
80
Her car wasn’t there. Jake trolled Corey Road for the third time, barely touching the accelerator, just to be sure. Past ivy-covered brownstones, leafless trees, a fedora-wearing geezer walking an overweight collie. No Audi. He drove through the narrow alley in the back of her building. No Audi. She wasn’t home. Maybe at the Register?
That little boy, Eli, was scuffing through piles of fallen leaves on the front sidewalk. His mother stood beside him, pushing a stroller back and forth. But no Jane.
He checked again. No messages on his cell.
Jake flickered a rueful glance at himself in the rearview. She’s got ya, bud, doesn’t she? he thought. And what of it? he answered his own question.
He’d buy her flowers. Deliver them to her in person at the Register. As congratulations on her scoop.
What woman wouldn’t appreciate that?
* * *
Should she pick up the phone? If her voice mail was from Jake—and of course it was—she’d have a hard time hiding it. But Alex knew they were pals. Jake had recommended her for this job. Suddenly that wasn’t such a good thing.
Tuck’s empty bulletin board proved why.
But Patti Vick? Confessed? That means Sellica’s death was not a result of her TV story. And that means …
Alex’s cell phone interrupted. He pulled it from his jacket pocket, glanced at the screen. “It’s Ellen. The Register intern. At the hospital. I’ve got her staking out Sarah Lassiter.”
“Is she—?” If Sarah died, they’d never find out what really happened. Owen and Moira Lassiter were at the hospital, been there since last night. Gable and Maitland—who knew. Maybe hiring lawyers.
“Okay.” Alex was checking his watch as he talked to Ellen. “Ten minutes.”
“Sarah Lassiter is awake,” he said. “I need you to get over to Mass General.”
“On the way.” Jane scooped up her belongings. If Sarah was talking, they were about to get some answers.
* * *
Jake pulled into Casswell Boulevard, headed his Jeep in the Register’s direction. He shouldn’t have let Jane talk him out of—being together. A relationship. She’d been terrific, last night, in that chaos. No freaking out. No crying. Efficient, competent. And she was the one who’d figured out the Matt thing.
She was a knockout. All there was to it.
A clay pot of white tulips wrapped in crinkling clear cellophane teetered on the seat beside him, trailing a pink ribbon to the floor. She loved tulips.
He stopped at the red light, good cop. He’d never told Jane anything the supe could criticize. They’d simply have to agree to keep their professional and personal lives separate. They could be careful. It could work.
He missed her.
“Brogan? You read?” his radio interrupted.
“Brogan,” he said, pushing the button. He hit the accelerator as the light changed. “Loud and clear, D. What’s up?”
“Sarah Lassiter. You better get over here.”
Jake eyed the flowers. Then he flipped on the lights and siren and banged a U-turn across two lanes of traffic.
Maybe Jane will be at the hospital, too.
* * *
“What did Sarah Lassiter say? Where’s Trevor now?” Jane grabbed Ellen by the elbow, recognizing the elaborate braids and wire-rimmed glasses of the Register’s intern. Jane had parked in the Mass General garage, run down two flights of water-stained stairwell, raced past a couple of waiting ambulances, pushed through the glass front doors. Almost got to the elevator. When a security guard stopped her.
Now she was trapped in a windowless holding room with every reporter and photographer on the planet. At least Ellen had made contact with Trevor Kiernan.
Ellen pulled a spiral notebook from the back pocket of her jeans. “Sarah Lassiter? A nurse ran out of her room, freaking. Then all hell broke loose and I got booted down here. Owen Lassiter’s in Sarah’s room, and his wife, too. And about a million cops. I told Trevor Kiernan you were on the way.”
“What’d he say?” Jane had to talk to Lassiter. And Moira. Tell them what she knew. Warn them. They didn’t know about Gable. The other woman.
Ellen shrugged. “He said—thanks. Now, we wait.”
* * *
Outside Sarah Lassiter’s room, two uniform cops stood sentinel. Jake knew DeLuca was inside.
Owen Lassiter, arm across his wife’s shoulders, slumped on a low bench against the wall. She must have brought him a change of clothes—last night’s blood-spattered shirt was gone, replaced by a dark blue turtleneck. A tweedy guy holding a clipboard leaned close to Mrs. Lassiter, whispering.
All three looked up at Jake’s arrival. Faces drawn, exhausted.
“Detective,” Lassiter said, standing. “My daughter’s dead. She said she never meant to kill me—she was just—I don’t know. Trying to scare me. But she said I took her mother’s life. And, I suppose, I did.”
Moira made a soft sound, not quite a sob. Her head dropped into her hands.
“And my own son sacrificed his life for mine.” Lassiter’s shoulders went back, a muscle in his jaw working. He reached out a hand, almost caressing his wife’s hair. “We could have worked it out. Now it’s too late.”
Jake remembered that boisterous rally on the Esplanade. Candidate Owen Lassiter. Confetti and crowds and music and adulation. Confident, powerful, promising to save the world. Now
he stood only in sorrow, facing a future of second-guessing and certain regret.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jake said.
81
Jane punched the green button before her cell finished the first ring. She’d heard Jake’s messages, finally. Incredible about the Vicks. But if this was him calling back, she’d have to nip this whole thing in the bud. Right now. She wasn’t going to be the next Tuck.
“Jane Ryland,” she said.
“It’s Trevor Kiernan.”
Oh. Terrific.
“Don’t say a thing. Don’t say it’s me. Come to room 415. It’s a private sitting room. The cops will let you by. Now.”
Trevor, waiting in the hallway, opened the door as Jane arrived. Someone had cracked open the room’s tall windows, revealing a wide-shot view of the Charles River, lights of Cambridge glimmering across the water, gauzy curtains shifting in the evening breeze. Moira Lassiter was a silhouette, framed in the gathering night.
“I’m sorry for the … intrigue,” Moira said. She came into the light, smoothing her already-smooth hair with one hand, adjusting a plush gray sweater across her shoulders. “But I owe you, Jane. I want to clear things up. Off the record?”
Jane nodded. Waiting. A matching floral armchair and love seat flanked a low glass and metal coffee table. A paper cup, tea bag string dangling, bore a print of Moira’s plum red lipstick.
“I’ll leave you two,” Trevor said. The door closed after him with a soft click.
Moira sat on the love seat, tucking the charcoal pleats of her skirt underneath her, and gestured Jane to the chair. “Please.”
She’s already been through so much. Moira and her husband don’t even know the rest. Jane wished she didn’t have to tell them about Gable and Maitland. A knockout story for her. A knockout punch for the Lassiters.
Moira took a tentative sip from her cup, holding the tea bag string with one finger. She looked past Jane, past the flutter of curtains, into the night.
“This all started with me,” she said.
“When you called me.” Jane remembered that day, Moira and her maybe-vodka, the request to find “the other woman.”
The Other Woman Page 34