The Other Woman

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Moira shook her head, her lips tight. “No, Jane, long before that. Years before that.”

  Jane nodded, transfixed.

  “We were—in love. And just trying to be happy,” Moira said. “Owen had a miserable marriage. His wife was a constant battle. She’d … Well, who knows what she might have done. When he finally left, he was distraught. Inconsolable. But it was out of necessity, you know? Then, it got worse. She kept the children from him. Every time he tried to see them, she’d prevent it. Threatened him, sent him away. One day she just disappeared with them. Owen was devastated. She’d told him, again and again, Sarah and Matt loathed him. Apparently, Sarah actually did.”

  Moira moved a hospital-issue paper napkin on the table, set her teacup on top of it. Her chest rose, then fell, her sweater draping as her shoulders momentarily sagged.

  Jane had a thousand questions. But this wasn’t the time to ask them.

  “Sarah—Kenna, she called herself.” Moira crossed her legs, crossed her arms, protecting herself. “All this time she was—taunting me. Making me suspect my own dear husband. That whole Springfield charade, Owen told me all about it. Last night in her hospital room, even with all those tubes, Sarah said she wanted to hurt me, and then hurt Owen. The way we hurt her.”

  She took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

  “But during the campaign? Owen never, ever did anything wrong. Now, both his children are dead. Because of me. Because all those years ago, I was—the other woman.”

  She reached out, touching Jane’s arm with one graceful hand, her brown eyes brimming with tears. “You can choose your sin, Jane,” she whispered. “But you cannot choose your consequences.”

  82

  “This one belongs to you, Jane.” With a flourish, Alex handed her the first copy of Wednesday’s morning paper. “It’s a long way from Wrong-Guy Ryland, I must say.”

  Jane stood up from her spot on Alex’s couch, bowing dramatically as she accepted the bulldog edition. Both of them were wired on two lattes each after yet another all-nighter in the Register newsroom.

  “Talk about wrong,” Jane said. “The cops found an incredible stash of photos in Holly’s apartment. Apparently, she’d been stalking Lassiter for weeks, putting together her own political campaign to humiliate him, make him look like a womanizer. And I just found another batch of them in my mailbox, forwarded from Channel Eleven. From her, I guess. Her scheme could have worked, I bet. If Matt Lassiter hadn’t—ah.”

  Jane sank back on the couch, folded newspaper in hand, leaning her head against the worn upholstery, propping her blue-jeaned legs on the coffee table. Thinking about Moira. “And Lassiter did absolutely nothing wrong during the campaign, you know? It’s terrible. Greed. Deception. Power. The whole thing.”

  “But a helluva story,” Alex said.

  “Got to admit.” Jane opened the paper, held up the front page.

  Jane’s story, headlined SENATE RACE SCANDAL—CONSULTANT CONS CANDIDATE IN ELECTION DOUBLE-CROSS, covered the entire front page above the fold. Below, the follow-up to Patti Vick’s arrest—minus Tuck’s byline—rated one paragraph and a jump. Jake was right. There is no Bridge Killer. Or, actually, there are four.

  Alex plonked his feet on his desk, tilting in his chair. “Secretary of State Doniger insists she can’t call off the election. So next week, people will either choose a sleaze for senator, or vote for a dupe who can’t tell that his closest ally is actually working for the other guy.”

  “The other woman, you mean.” Jane read her story yet again, scanning for the highlights. It was all highlights. Seduction. Betrayal. Murder. Jane had worked through the night, trying to make sense of all that had happened. Choosing exactly the right words so her story could explain it, clear and objective.

  “The dupe—I mean Lassiter—is gonna win, at least,” Jane said. “Trevor’ll get to go to Washington, if he hasn’t quit, you know? But Gable’s jeered wherever she goes now. Talk about toast. Got to love Maitland’s quote, though, that he and Gable ‘did nothing illegal.’”

  “He can tell that to the grand jury.” Alex, as usual, started reading his e-mail while he talked. “Our court guy says the target letter’s in the mail. Maitland’s finished, you know? His backroom double-dealing led to murder, after all. And Gable’s already turning on him. Alleges he was stalking her, sending her love notes. Which she destroyed, of course, conveniently. Geez. When he rats her out, can you imagine the mess?”

  He suddenly leaned closer to the computer screen. “Oh. Holy shit. Body in a hotel room.”

  “Where? Who?” Jane’s phone trilled from the pouch of her fleece hoodie. She flipped open her cell. Didn’t get a chance to say a word before the whisper on the other end.

  “Janey? It’s me.”

  Jake. Just hearing his voice, Jane knew she must look guilty. But Alex was deep into a phone conversation of his own. She’d have to let Jake know the score.

  “Yes, this is Jane Ryland, what can I do for you?” she said.

  * * *

  Jake watched Humpty unspool the yellow plastic tape across the hotel room door. Penthouse of the Madisonian. High-class, high-priced, and now, a crime scene.

  He could tell from her voice Jane was not alone. DeLuca had filled him in on the fiasco with Laney Driscoll and Tuck. Jane must know about it, too.

  “I understand, Miss Ryland,” Jake said. Telegraphing, I get it. “And we’ll have to follow up on that. But to let you know. Body was just discovered at the Madisonian Hotel. Looks like suicide. It’s Rory Maitland.”

  A sharp intake of breath on the other end. He could picture her, twisting her hair, mind racing, assessing who might hear her.

  “I know you can’t talk,” he said. “But, Jane? On the way out? Check the Register’s front desk. Something there for you.”

  He clicked off the phone.

  Janey would finally get those tulips. And, Jake hoped, she’d understand the card he’d tucked inside.

  * * *

  “Dead body in a hotel room, our stringer reports,” Alex said. He had flipped open his laptop, now talking to Jane and typing at the same time. “No ID? Damn. Hang on a second, Jane. I’ve gotta find someone to cover this thing.”

  “I’ll go,” Jane said. Thanks, Jakey. How can I stay away from him? She stood, brushing down her jeans. “Got my trusty notebook, got my trusty tape recorder, cell phone all charged. Who knows what story may be unfolding. Right?”

  “No mistake about that,” Alex said. He paused, slowly closed his laptop. “Jane?”

  He looked at her so intently, she took a step backward. His eyes were softer than she’d remembered. And that smile was one she’d never seen.

  “Yes?”

  “Jane, listen. I want to tell you—you’ve really rocked this.” He swallowed, adjusted his glasses. Smiled again. “We’re a good team, you and I, don’t you think?”

  Hot Alex. He only means “a good team” professionally, right? I won’t mention this to Amy.

  Not a bad way to start the day. Seven in the morning, a front-page exclusive, and praise from her boss. Her dad would be proud, too, wouldn’t he? She couldn’t wait to tell him. Maybe her sister’s wedding would even be—fun. Now another big story was in the works. After that? That was the joy of reporting. And of life. You never knew.

  Mom was right. One door closes, another door opens. Maybe I can even help Tuck find a new job. Kind of—karma. I know what it feels like to get the rug pulled out.

  “Thanks, Alex,” Jane said. “Yeah. We are a good team. And I’m really—”

  Her cell phone was ringing. Extra loud. She couldn’t ignore it, not with Alex watching. Wonder what Jake left at the front desk?

  “Go ahead, pick up,” Alex said, gesturing. “Might be—”

  “Jane Ryland,” she answered.

  “Jane-ster. It’s Bart Finneran at Channel Eleven. Congratulations on that story. You’re really knocking ’em dead.”

  “Ah,” Jane said. She stared at the floor. />
  “What?” Alex said.

  “Here’s the scoop, kiddo. With the Vick arrest?” Finneran continued. “Lawyers tell me it’s a done deal now. Appeal over. Judgment vacated. Like it never happened.”

  “Ah,” Jane said again. Kiddo. What a creep. But the judgment was—gone? The whole million-dollar mess?

  “What?” Alex said again.

  “I guess you’re speechless, huh?” Finneran said. “Don’t blame ya, kiddo. It’s all over, Jane.”

  Jane remembered his studio-trained voice, his movie-star face, how he’d lied to her as he fired her. Her hand clutched her phone. Her voice was not working.

  Alex watched her, waiting.

  “Anyway, Jane”—Finneran was still talking—“we’re hoping you’d like your job back. Like none of this ever happened. You’ll be our superstar. Big-time. What do you say?”

  My job back. Exactly what I’d thought I wanted.

  But I was wrong.

  Jane paused. Waited a beat. What to say? The perfect response would be wry and knowing. Brief and memorable. So cleverly dismissive, Finneran would go back to his overstuffed office and his overpaid cronies and say, That Ryland. I offered her the moon, and you know what she told me?

  Jane could think of that perfect line. She would. Maybe while drinking a latte at her city room desk, maybe while hashing it over with Amy, maybe while sharing a clandestine glass of wine with Jake.

  But she knew what the line would mean.

  “What I say is—no thank you,” she said. Then, she couldn’t resist. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong girl.”

  With one decisive click, she hung up.

  “What?” Alex said. “You okay?”

  “Yup.” And it was true. She was fine. “That was Channel Eleven. They want me back.”

  She saw Alex’s eyes widen. “But you—we—”

  “I know,” she said. Jane smiled as she picked up her tote bag. I have a story to cover. “They obviously made a mistake.”

  Read on for a preview of

  Truth be Told

  By

  Hank Phillipi Ryan

  Available in October 2014 by Tom Doherty Associates

  A Forge Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7653-7493-6

  Copyright © 2014 by Hank Phillipi Ryan

  1

  “I know it’s legal. But it’s terrible.” Jane Ryland winced as the Sandovals’ wooden bed frame hit the tall grass in the overgrown front yard and shattered into three jagged pieces. “The cops throwing someone’s stuff out the window. Might as well be Dickens, you know? Eviction? There’s got to be a better way.”

  Terrible facts. Great pictures. A perfect newspaper story. She turned to TJ. “You getting this?”

  TJ didn’t take his eye from the viewfinder. “Rolling and recording,” he said.

  A blue-shirted Suffolk County sheriff’s deputy—sleeves rolled up, buzz cut—appeared at the open window, took a swig from a plastic bottle. He shaded his eyes with one hand.

  “First floor, all clear,” he called. Two uniforms comparing paperwork on the gravel driveway gave him a thumbs-up. The Boston cops were detailed in, they’d explained to Jane, in case there were protesters. But no pickets or housing activists had appeared. Not even a curious neighbor. The deputy twisted the cap on the bottle, tossed away the empty with a flip of his gloved hand. The clear plastic bounced on top of a brittle hedge, then disappeared into the browning grass.

  “Oops,” he said. “I’m headed for the back.”

  “That’s harsh,” TJ muttered.

  “You got it, though, right?” Jane knew it was a “moment” for her story, revealing the deputy’s cavalier behavior while the Sandovals—she looked around, making sure the family hadn’t shown up—were off searching for a new place to live. The feds kept reporting the housing crisis was over. Tell that to the now-homeless Sandovals, crammed—temporarily, they hoped—into a relative’s spare bedroom. Their modest ranch home in this cookie-cutter neighborhood was now an REO—“real estate owned” by Atlantic & Anchor Bank. The metal sign on the scrabby lawn said FORECLOSED in yellow block letters. Under the provisions of the Massachusetts Housing Court, the deputies were now in charge.

  “Hey! Television! You can’t shoot here. It’s private property.”

  Jane felt a hand clamp onto her bare arm. She twisted away, annoyed. Of course they could shoot.

  “Excuse me?” She eyed the guy’s three-piece pinstripe suit, ridiculous on a day like today. He must be melting. Still, being hot didn’t give him the right to be wrong. “We’re on the public sidewalk. We can shoot whatever we can see and hear.”

  Jane stashed her notebook into her tote bag, then held out a hand, conciliatory. Maybe he knew something. “And not television. Newspaper. The new online edition. I’m Jane Ryland, from the Register.”

  She paused. Lawyer, banker, bean counter, she predicted. For A&A Bank? Or the Sandovals? The Sandovals had already told her, on camera, how Elliot Sandoval had lost his construction job, and they were struggling on pregnant MaryLou’s day care salary. Struggling and failing.

  “I don’t care who you are.” The man crossed his arms over his chest, a chunky watch glinting, tortoiseshell sunglasses hiding his expression. “This is none of your business. You don’t tell your friend to shut off that camera, I’m telling the cops to stop you.”

  You kidding me? “Feel free, Mr.—?” Jane took her hand away. Felt a trickle of sweat down her back. Boston was baking in the throes of an unexpected May heat wave. Everyone was cranky. It was almost too hot to argue. “You’ll find we’re within our rights.”

  The guy pulled out a phone. All she needed. And stupid, because the cops were right there. TJ kept shooting, good for him. Brand new at the Boston Register, videographer TJ Foy was hire number one in the paper’s fledgling online video news department. Jane was the first—and so far, only—reporter assigned.

  “It’s a chance to show off your years of TV experience,” the Register’s new city editor had explained. Pretending Jane had a choice. “Make it work.”

  Pleasing the new boss was never a bad thing, and truth be told, Jane could use a little employment security. She still suffered pangs from her unfair firing from Channel 11 last year, but at least it didn’t haunt her every day. This was her new normal, especially now that newspapering was more like TV. “Multimedia,” her new editor called it.

  “We’re doing a story on the housing crisis.” Jane smiled, trying again. “Remember the teenager who got killed last week on Springvale Street? Emily-Sue Ordway? Fell from a window, trying to get back into her parents’ foreclosed home? We’re trying to show—it’s not about the houses so much as it is the people.”

  “ ‘The people’ should pay their mortgage.” The man pointed to the clapboard two-story with his cell phone. “Then ‘the cops’ wouldn’t have to ‘remove’ their possessions.”

  Okay, so not a lawyer for the Sandovals. But at least this jerk wasn’t dialing.

  “Are you with A&A? With the bank?” Might as well be direct.

  “That’s not any of—”

  “Vitucci! Callum!” The deputy appeared in the open front door, one hand on each side of the doorjamb as if to keep himself upright. He held the screen door open with his foot. His smirk had vanished. The two cops on the driveway alerted, inquiring.

  “Huh? What’s up?” one asked.

  “You getting this?” Jane whispered. She didn’t want to ruin TJ’s audio with her voice, but something was happening. Something the eviction squad hadn’t expected.

  “Second floor.” The deputy pulled a radio from his belt pouch. Looked at it. Looked back at the cops. His shoulders sagged. “Better get in here.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Unending gratitude to:

  Kristin Sevick, my brilliant, hilarious, and gracious editor. Thank you. The remarkable team at Forge Books: the incomparable Linda Quinton, indefatigable Alexis Saarela, and Seth Lerner for the cover of all covers (and I know I’ll never beat yo
u in Scrabble). Copy editor Eliani Torres, who had me laughing all the way through the copyediting with her yellow highlights. (Sometimes, I repeat words. Thank goodness she noticed.) Talia Sherer, who shares my passion for libraries. Brian Heller, my champion. The inspirational Tom Doherty, who makes it all happen. What a terrifically smart and unfailingly supportive team. I am so thrilled to be part of it.

  Lisa Gallagher, a wow of an agent, a true goddess, who changed my life.

  Francesca Coltrera, the astonishingly skilled independent editor, who lets me believe all the good ideas are mine. Editor Chris Roerden, whose infinite care and skill and commitment made such a difference. You both are incredibly talented. I am lucky to know you both—and even luckier to be able to work with you.

  The artistry and savvy of Madeira James, Charlie Anctil, Patrick O’Malley, and Nancy Berland. The expertise, guidance, and friendship of Dr. D. P. Lyle and Lee Lofland and Cathy Pickens. And the wizardry of Carol Fitzgerald.

  The inspiration of David Morrell, Mary Jane Clark, Jim Huang, Marianne Mancusi, Suzanne Brockmann, Kaye Barley, Carla Neggers, and Robert B. Parker.

  Sue Grafton. And Lisa Scottoline. And Lee Child. Words fail me. (I know, a first.)

  My dear posse at Sisters in Crime. Thank you. And at Mystery Writers of America, the dolphin gang: Reed Farrel Coleman, Jessie Lourey, Larry Light, and Margery Flax.

  My amazing blog sisters. At Jungle Red Writers: Julia Spencer-Fleming, Hallie Ephron, Rosemary Harris, Roberta Isleib/Lucy Burdette, Jan Brogan, Deborah Crombie, and Rhys Bowen. At Femmes Fatales: Charlaine Harris, Dana Cameron, Kris Neri, Mary Saums, Toni Kelner, Elaine Viets, and Donna Andrews. At Lipstick Chronicles: Nancy Martin and Harley Jane Kozak, who brought us all together.

  Ken Schanzer and Jim Flug and Tom Sussman and Terry Straub, my political mentors from way back.

  My dear friends Amy Isaac, Mary Schwager, and Katherine Hall Page; and my darling sister, Nancy Landman.

  Dad—who loves every moment of this. (Mom—Missing you, and using cucumbers.)