The Other Woman Page 11

  “Jake Brogan. You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me. What’re you doing here?”

  “What are you?”

  He came up right beside her, standing shoulder to shoulder, closer than an acquaintance should. She loved how his sandy hair curled over his chunky black turtleneck. Loved how he smelled of citrus and pine. Loved how his jeans … Shut up.

  “Just paying my respects,” Jane said. Though no one was watching, she edged away, putting some space between them. For her own good. “I’m leaving, actually. I have to go to Springfield. A work thing.”

  He moved forward, closing the space, eyeing her. “I can’t get used to your hair, Janey. But I think I like it. Anyway, I was phoning you. What work thing? You still following Lassiter?”

  Jane waved a dismissive hand. She couldn’t tell Jake about the Moira thing. But now she had to find out if Jake knew about her and Sellica. How could she ask without giving herself away? And even if he knew … “No biggie. So, like I said. What’re you doing here?”

  Jake shrugged back, imitating her.

  She narrowed her eyes. Adding it up. “Oh. You’re doing the Bridge Killer. Oh.” She took a quick look to see if anyone was aware of their conversation. Kept her voice low. “You think Sellica is a victim, don’t you? Does that mean now you think there is a Bridge Killer? And he—might be here?”

  She looked around again. Seemed unlikely, unless the Bridge Killer was a middle-aged woman. Someone’s grandmother. Or a priest.

  “Jakey?” She dared to touch the sleeve of his leather jacket. No harm in that. “Really. Tell me.”

  “Listen. I bet I can get you to Springfield on time. Want me to drive you in the cruiser?” Jake covered her hand with his, held them together against his jacket. “Lights and siren. Very sexy. Very fast. You know you love it.”

  “You’re an idiot.” I do, though. Love it. Wish we could … but no. She took her hand away, laughing. “No thanks, bub. I’d like to get there in one piece. Plus, you’re working. I’m working. I have to go.”

  “Jane. Hang on a minute. Listen.” He turned to her, straight on. His face had hardened. No more teasing. “Can we go off the record?

  Jane laughed again, couldn’t help it, poked him in the side with a finger. “What else is new? Our whole life is off the record.”

  “Seriously. Walk with me.” Jake gestured toward the sidewalk.

  “Okay, I’m walking. I’m walking seriously.” Side by side but separate, they walked together down the steep front steps. No more mourners arriving. The detail cops had gone.

  She heard a sound, saw a change in the light. She turned, and saw the church doors closing. The service must be starting.

  “Jake, it’s—” She stopped. “Do you need to go in?”

  “Nope. I’m done here. Listen. Like I said. Can we go off the record?”

  At the bottom of the steps, they stood on the sidewalk, alone. From inside the church, a spotlight bloomed, illuminating a multicolored rose window. Splotches of crimson and indigo appeared on the lawn and pavement and parked cars, coloring the twilight.

  “Fine. Okay, Detective Brogan. Off the record.” Jane rolled her eyes, all drama. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets. It was getting colder. And much darker. She was grateful for the streetlights. She wished she could stay with Jake, maybe sneak a dinner, talk awhile, someplace where no one would notice them. But there was no choice. She had to leave. “What’s up?”

  “Ever hear of an Amaryllis Roldan?”

  “Who’s that?” Jane flipped through her mental address book. “R-o-l-d-a-n? I’m pretty sure I don’t know an Amaryllis anything. Who is she?”

  “Just do this my way, for once. Sellica ever mention that name to you?”

  “Why would Sellica and I have talked?” Jane looked up at him. “Listen. I lost my bosses a million bucks for not telling my source, and now they’re my ex-bosses. Why would I discuss it with you?” She paused. They were alone. “Adorable as you are, Jakey. So who’s Amaryllis Roldan?”

  Jake smiled, acknowledging, but his mind was obviously somewhere else. He fiddled with the heavy metal zipper of his leather jacket, zipping one side up and down as he always did when thinking. The zipping stopped.

  “Here’s the deal: I know Sellica was your source.”

  This is it. Jane opened her mouth. Then closed it. No. It didn’t matter what he knew. She’d made a promise.

  Plus, if Jake really respected me, he shouldn’t be trying to get me to break that promise. Right? This is the essence of the “Jake and Jane” problem. Proof that a relationship can never work. I’ll never know whether he really cares about me, or about his case.

  “Jake. I don’t care what you say you know.” Jane unwrapped her gray silk scarf, doubled it, then looped it back around her neck. “Or what super-secret cop methods you think you can use to get me to say something. I’m done talking about Sellica Darden. Done. I’m going to Springfield. And you should go find the Bridge Killer, or whatever it is you’re really supposed to be doing.”

  She adjusted her shoulder bag, half turned, ready to walk away.

  “Janey.”

  “What? Why are you pushing me? You know I can’t talk about this. Why are we having this conversation?”

  “Think, okay? Why am I here? Why would I care about Sellica being your source?”

  Jane turned all the way back, considering. She felt her eyes widen. “Arthur Vick,” she said. “You think it’s Arthur asshole Vick.”

  Jake nodded. Barely. But that was a yes.

  Jake is the one telling secrets. “Yeah,” Jane whispered. “I think it’s him, too.”

  22

  Bat out of hell. That’s how fast Holly had to drive to get to Springfield in time. She winced, apologized to herself in the rearview mirror as she waited for the stoplight to change. But bat out of heck didn’t make sense. Besides, there was no one to tell on her for saying bad words. At least she looked like regular Holly again. New makeup, no geeky glasses, her hair puffed up, as it should be. Much better. Except she had to hurry. She had to really hurry.

  She should have left sooner. But she had to pack and she had to organize and she had to get ready and there was no way to make it happen any faster.

  The light must be broken. It had been red too long. Way too long. She clenched her fingers around the steering wheel. Other cars zoomed across the intersection in front of her. They were getting to go where they needed to. Why wasn’t it her turn? She wanted to honk her horn, but that would draw attention to her, and she didn’t want that. But what if the light was broken? Maybe she should—

  The light changed. Green, thank goodness. Holly shifted into Drive and pushed the accelerator, lurching her rental car through the intersection. She always put it in Park when she stopped, especially on a hill, just in case. This car also had a little digital clock on the dashboard; she loved it, the little numbers changing as she drove, like having a timer. But now her timer showed she would be late.

  “Drive. Drive. Drive.” She said it out loud. The words sounded reassuring. Owen himself had told her he was going to Springfield. Obviously he told her that on purpose. He wanted her to join him. It was an invitation. Owen invited her. And she was accepting.

  Yes, he thought she was Hannah, the little housewife. And that made it even better. Owen was going to be so surprised.

  “So very surprised.” She said that out loud, too.

  Both hands on the steering wheel, ten o’clock–two o’clock, she rounded the curve onto the entry ramp of the Massachusetts Turnpike. Just keep going straight, the man at the gas station told her, all the way to Springfield. The New Englander Hotel, where Owen told her the event would be, was right by the highway.

  She had her camera, safely in a black patent leather bag. She had her best coat and a very cute hat.

  She’d mailed the first parcel. The second one was wrapped and ready to go. She’d already left her little gift in Owen’s office. They’d find it soon enough.

&
nbsp; It had been so easy to get inside the campaign office. Like playing dress-up. Who would ever think frumpy little Hannah was not who she seemed?

  She caught a glimpse of herself in her mirror. She looked happy.

  Soon, everyone’s lives would be very different. Owen Lassiter’s, that was for sure. For sure, for sure. Eventually, her own, too. Soon her life would be perfect.

  23

  “We can’t talk about this in front of the church, Jake. It’s creepy. And I have to go to Springfield. Like, now. Walk with me to the car, okay? It’s over there in the lot.”

  Jane pointed across the street and took a step off the curb. Fallen leaves padded the pavement, still slick and shiny from the overnight rain. Jake stayed on the sidewalk.

  “Jake? You coming?”

  “Crosswalk,” he said.

  “You’re such a cop,” she said. “You going to arrest me?”

  Jake didn’t budge. “Aren’t you late already?”

  Jane hesitated, then stomped back to the sidewalk. As they walked to the corner, it was all she could do to keep from tucking her arm through his. Holding on to a cop seemed like an especially good thing. The darkness. The funeral. The Bridge Killer. Arthur Vick? She knew Jake had a gun in his shoulder holster. At this moment, she was grateful for that. She had such a feeling of—wrong.

  Lights winked on inside the modest houses lining the street. Some had jack-o’-lanterns on their front porches, candles within showing off exaggerated grins and jagged teeth. Scary was funny on Halloween. But in real life, scary was just plain scary.

  “So, listen.” Jane kept her voice low. “You actually think Arthur Vick killed Sellica? Or d’you think Arthur Vick is the Bridge Killer? I thought you said there was no Bridge—”

  “There isn’t.” Jake interrupted her. “I’m convinced of that. But I keep thinking about those threatening letters you got after the trial. And it’s crossed my mind that—”

  They waited for a lone car to pass, its tires hissing through the damp leaves. Then he gestured, let’s go, and they crossed the two-lane street. The church parking lot was almost full, a waist-high chain-link fence surrounding it, a row of tall metal spotlights down one side cutting through the increasing darkness.

  “Jake. You’re scaring me. Crossed your mind that what?”

  Jake looked around as they entered the parking lot. Peered through the thick plastic window of an obviously empty attendant stand. Checked behind them.

  “What are you looking for? You’re kind of freaking me out.” Jane scrabbled for her keys as they walked. “Here’s the car.”

  Jane aimed her keychain at her car door. It clicked open, the inside lights beeped, the headlights popped on and off. Then her phone rang. She turned, her back to the car, facing Jake head-on.

  “Jake? That’s gotta be Alex calling. Probably wondering where I am. I don’t mean to push, but what are you trying to tell me? You’re kind of—stalling. I can tell.”

  “Okay, listen.” Jake’s eyes swept the parking lot again, then came back to Jane. “We know Sellica was connected to Arthur Vick. Thing is, now we also know he’s connected to another victim.” Jake stopped. His head came up. He put out a hand, reached around her for the door handle. Clicked it open.

  “Get in the car,” he said. “Turn on the engine.”

  Before Jane could move, the parking lot suddenly got brighter. Lights glinted off the chrome of the outside row of parked cars. Headlights. Jane heard the low rumble of an engine. Getting louder. Closer. Arriving. Slowing.

  Jake whirled, facing the street. His hand went inside his jacket. A car pulled into the parking lot and stopped, headlights full on them. He edged in front of Jane, moving her behind him. Her tote bag pushed against her car door, closing it.

  It’s a parking lot. Jane tried to make sense of what was happening. Of course someone’s driving in. Who does Jake think this is? If she looked straight at the car, she saw only the glare of headlights. Aimed at them.

  She heard the car’s door open. Saw someone, a shadow, getting out. The engine kept running, punctuating the dark.

  “Boston Police,” Jake said, his hand still under his coat. “Stop right there, please.”

  * * *

  “You sure no one named Holly Neff has been in here? I’m pretty sure she works for the Lassiter campaign. N-e-f-f. Maybe a volunteer.”

  Matt put both palms on the campaign headquarters reception desk and leaned toward the woman behind the phone console. He was pissed he got here so late. Couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep in the damn hotel room. He’d meant to watch the news only for a minute, figuring he might see her in some story about the Senate race. Next thing he knew, it was almost dark out. He lost, what, four hours? After getting on that early plane? So pissed. Luckily the Lassiter campaign office was still open.

  The woman’s face was redder than her turtleneck. Like some Time–Life operator, she wore a flip-up microphone attached to her telephone headpiece. For someone who was supposed to be working the reception desk, she was far from receptive. After a few worthless minutes trying to convince her, Matt was about to lose it.

  “Don’t you have a staff list or something you can check?” He patted the pockets of his down vest, pulled out the folded newspaper clipping from his wallet. “I have a photo of her. Maybe that would help.”

  The woman held up a hand, stopping him. “Sir? Our staff list is private. Our volunteer list is private. I’m sure you can understand it’s all for security reasons.” She offered him a piece of paper, some campaign flyer thing. “If you’d like to volunteer for the campaign? I can help with that. If you’d like some literature on Governor Lassiter, I’ll provide that. But I cannot give information on someone who may or may not work for the campaign. I’m sure you understand.”

  The woman, Denise, if that was her nameplate on the desk, was trying to get rid of him. Well, I’m not ready to go.

  This was too important. To him. And maybe to Owen Lassiter.

  The phone rang. “Excuse me, please.” Then, into the phone, “Lassiter for Senate. May I help you?”

  Matt jammed his fists into his vest pockets. He had about ten seconds to make this work. He had to find Holly. He had to stop her.

  If the woman in the picture was Holly. It was possible, of course, she wasn’t.

  What if he just told this Denise the truth? For a moment, he imagined the endgame. No. The truth was never gonna fly. Shit. She’d think he was a mental case.

  But the woman really didn’t seem to recognize Holly’s name. Was she using a phony name? Shit. Of course. That would make this even more impossible.

  On the other hand, he’d seen Holly in that campaign event photo, and a few others he’d dug up online. Maybe to find Holly—he just had to find Owen Lassiter. No problemo.

  The telephone rang again, a green light flashing. Then another. “Lassiter for Senate, please hold,” the woman said. “Lassiter for Senate, please hold.”

  She looked up at him, flustered. “I need to handle the phones now. There’s no one else to help me. They’re all in Springfield at the rally.”

  “Great.” Exactly. “Where?”

  “Lassiter for Senate, please hold,” she said again, then covered the phone. “It’s on our Web site, sir. But it starts in less than two hours. You’d never make it.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said. He pulled out his iPhone. Punched up the Internet as he headed for the door.

  Never make it? Denise was so wrong. He’d make it. He had to.

  24

  He had to move Jane out of the way. Get her out of the headlights. What if Arthur Vick wanted to scare Jane, make her miserable? What if he’d sent her those ugly letters, and now … what if Vick thought Mrs. Darden had told Jane something about him and Sellica?

  “If I say get down, do it,” he hissed. He eased in front of her, his hand on his holster. So close to Jane, he could feel her body tremble. “I mean it.”

  At the parking lot entrance, the new arrival was s
till a shadow. Car engine chugging. Headlights blasting. Whoever it was could see them. No way out of that. He couldn’t see them for shit.

  The person took a step toward them. Both hands out.

  No gun. Probably.

  Jake clicked his weapon another fraction out of the holster. “Boston PD,” he said. “State your business. Now.”

  “Don’t shoot, Jake,” the silhouetted voice said.

  A woman? Laughing? His mind struggled to process it.

  “You’d never live it down if you killed a reporter,” the woman said. “Tell him, roomie.”

  “Oh, my god,” Jane whispered. “It’s Tuck.”

  “Tuck?”

  “Tuck!” Jane’s voice cut through the darkness. “You kidding me?”

  Jake felt Jane’s body relax. He tried to take a step forward, but she had grabbed the back of his jacket. Shaking loose, Jake stomped out from between the cars, one finger jabbing the air. “Tuck, you incredible moron. I could have—” Jake stopped. Slapped his hands against his sides. “What’s the matter with you? You got a death wish?”

  “Hey, I’m just covering the funeral, and I’m late.” She gave an elaborate shrug, both hands in the air. “Trying to park. Is that suddenly illegal? Whoa, you two. You look like— Am I missing something here?”

  “Holy crap, Tuck.” Jake was shaking his head. “You’re the last person I thought…”

  “Holy crap, Tuck,” Jane said at the same time. “I about had a heart attack. How’d you know we were here?”

  “Didn’t,” Tuck said. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Alex thinks you’re on the way to Springfield. To the Lassiter thing.”

  “Just came to pay my respects,” Jane said. She looked at Jake. “And I met up with Detective Brogan. By chance.”

  “I see,” Tuck said. She looked at him, then at Jane, then back at him. “Gotcha.”

  Her headlights had clicked off, and now he could see her, jeans and a leather jacket, slim leather boots, a black cap yanked over her hair.