The Other Woman Page 5

“I’m sorry?” She looked at the newcomer, a handsome-enough guy, her age, with a briefcase. A jacket and tie. No overcoat. Lawyer, maybe.

  “Aren’t you Jane Ryland? I’m Trevor Kiernan from the—”

  “See ya, Miss Ryland,” Jake said. Professional. He stepped farther away from her, backing up, raising a hand in good-bye. “Off to keep Boston safe.”

  “Hang on, Detective Brogan. Please.” Jane took a step toward him, needing him to stay. She turned to the stranger, trying to juggle the two men. She couldn’t let Jake leave.

  “Can you give me a moment, Mr., um, Keerman? Yes, I’m Jane Ryland, but I’m so sorry, I just need to finish a quick—”

  “It’s Kiernan.” The man picked up his phone, reading the screen as he talked. “From the Lassiter campaign. Did you call our office about an interview with Mrs. Lassiter?”

  What? “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said again, flustered now. Damn. She hadn’t recognized him. Trevor Kiernan. The campaign mogul. Kennedy School wunderkind. Insider. He’d orchestrated Lassiter’s vaunted neighborhood meet and greets. She looked where Jake had just been. Gone. Dammit. Why did everything good have to happen at the same time? “Of course, yes, sorry, I wasn’t expecting—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, and Lassiter supporters, a big Boston welcome to the Lassiter for Senate…” A booming voice paraded through the loudspeakers, cutting Jane off midsentence. She moved closer to Kiernan, straining to be heard over the escalating clamor.

  “—I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Yes, I’d love to interview Mrs. Lassiter. Can we do that? Can you—?”

  “In five minutes…” The loudspeaker voice now competing with the cheering crowd and the trumpeting music and the whicker of a helicopter hovering over the Esplanade. “In just five minutes, Lassiter One will be landing right behind us, and you’ll all be able to…”

  “Listen, Ms. Ryland.” Kiernan leaned in, his voice insistent. He’d put his briefcase on the grass, straddling it. “You’ve been around long enough to know the drill. You want an interview? You gotta go through our press office.”

  “But I did.” Didn’t the left hand know what the right, et cetera? If they couldn’t even communicate about a simple interview, this campaign must be in more disarray than she’d figured. “I mean, yeah, I did call Mrs. Lassiter. But I absolutely talked to Sheila first.”

  “Sorry? Can’t hear you.” Kiernan moved closer to her. “You what?”

  The chopper was buzzing the crowd, dropping confetti in a multicolored snowfall across the green. Billows of red, white, and blue caught the wind and floated onto hats and hairdos, covering the picnickers with color and sending the crowd into a crescendo of cheers.

  “Called. The press office. Sheila.” Jane moved as close as she could and still be polite, their heads almost touching. They stood eye to eye, his intensely brown, the same chocolate as the faint pinstripes in his suit jacket. A snippet of red and white landed on his shoulder. Jane waved away confetti as she tried to talk, raising her voice over the escalating commotion. “Sheila said no. That Mrs. Lassiter was taking a break. What’s that about, anyway? Where is she?”

  “Taking a break?” Kiernan’s eyebrows went up. Still straddling his briefcase, he pulled out a white card from a jacket pocket. “Here. Call me. After the rally. She’s not ‘taking a break.’”

  “O-wen Las-si-ter!” The voice reverberating through the public address system might have been introducing a conquering hero, or world champion of something.

  Jane and Kiernan turned, catching glimpses of the now-spotlighted stage through dozens of waving signs. The candidate, both arms raised in victory, strode to his place behind the flag-bedecked podium. A massive VOTE LASSITER FOR SENATE banner unfurled behind him. He tipped up the microphone, as if he were taller than anyone predicted.

  Then with a how can I resist? grin, Owen Lassiter went to the front of the stage, leaning over the edge to shake hands with the delirious supporters who’d pushed to the front row. Blue-uniformed police, arms linked, tried to keep the crowds back, but Lassiter waved them away.

  “You going to win this?” Jane watched Kiernan watch his boss work the crowd.

  Without taking his eyes off the candidate, Kiernan cocked his head toward the stage and took Jane’s arm.

  “Come with me.” He moved them quickly through the crowd, bringing her with him, dodging through the crush of supporters. “Up close. Watch what’ll happen in about five minutes. Then you tell me if we’re gonna win.”

  * * *

  Kenna could wait. For as long as it took.

  “Mr. Maitland?” The rabbity woman behind the desk on the third floor of the Lassiter campaign office spoke into her headset. “She says she’s a ‘Mrs. Kenna Wilkes,’ insists she has an appointment.” The woman turned pages in a spiral notebook. “But there are no appointments on the daily.”

  Today Kenna was all soft curls and wispy tendrils. Under her trench coat, a demure pink sweater set and a not-so-demure black pencil skirt that stopped just north of her knees. She figured Maitland would appreciate her expensive boots. Any man loved high heels. Oh, yes. She could wait.

  “He’s not answering, Mrs. Wilkes. Mr. Maitland doesn’t see anyone without a—”

  The door behind the secretary’s desk swung open.

  Standing in the doorway, a pudgy, middle-aged guy in a rumpled off-the-rack suit held out a hand, gesturing Kenna toward him.

  “She’s fine, Deenie.” The man crossed in front of the secretary, eyes only for Kenna. “Mrs. Wilkes. The governor said you’d be arriving today. Welcome. I’m Rory Maitland.”

  Kenna watched him look her up and down. “Delighted, Mr. Maitland.”

  “Deenie, this is Mrs. Wilkes, a—” Maitland paused, as if searching for the right words. He rubbed a hand across what was left of his hair. “—a special friend of Governor Lassiter. She’s volunteered to help on the campaign. And the governor has asked us to make her feel at home. Mrs. Wilkes, this is Deenie.” He pointed to the nameplate on her desk: DENISE BAYLISS.

  “Oh, please call me Kenna,” she said. Flicking a glance at Maitland, she targeted the receptionist with a dazzling smile. “I cannot wait to get started. I hope you’ll help me?”

  “Help you? Get started?” Deenie turned to Maitland, questioning. Back to Kenna. Then back to Maitland. “Get started with what?”

  Kenna touched a newly French-manicured fingernail to her single strand of pearls. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought Governor Lassiter had promised I could—”

  Maitland interrupted. “And the governor would be delighted if you could start today. How about trying the welcome desk, downstairs in the main lobby? Sit right up front. Meet everyone who comes in.”

  “I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” Kenna said. “The welcome desk sounds lovely.”

  “The welcome desk is not as easy as it looks, Mr. Maitland.” Deenie was frowning.

  “You know what, Denise? I’ll just take her downstairs myself,” Maitland said. Case closed. “I’d like to get Mrs. Wilkes in place before everyone gets back from the rally.”

  Maitland approached the door to the corridor. He turned to Kenna. “Ready? You’ll be the first person everyone sees when they arrive at campaign headquarters. Hope you don’t mind being the new girl.”

  The new girl? That was one way of putting it. “Actually,” she said, “I’d love to run over to that rally first. See it all firsthand? Then come back later?”

  She looked at Maitland expectantly. Deenie must be beyond confused.

  “Wonderful.” He beamed, as if Kenna had the most brilliant idea ever. “In fact, here’s an idea. I’ll walk over to the Esplanade with you.”

  Maitland gestured Kenna through the door, then turned back to the secretary.

  “Mrs. Wilkes will be back after the rally.” He stabbed a stubby finger toward the girl, now barricaded behind her desk. “Remember, Deenie, the governor says we’re to give her anything she needs.”

  9

  “Hey! Y
ou two. Ya don’t see the ropes?” The cop, a tank in sunglasses, waved off Kiernan and Jane, shepherding them away from the Esplanade stage. “This is as far as the both of you go.”

  Clutching her tote bag under one arm, Jane was banged and buffeted by Lassiter supporters grabbing their chance for an up-close moment with their political choice. They’d pushed themselves against the metal-stanchioned rope line, where a row of officers in blue, arms linked, stood between them and the huge wooden platform. A lofty half dome, intricately paneled, formed a partial ceiling over the flat of the stage.

  Mammoth video screens gave a larger-than-life view to the people stuck far in the back. Sousa marches at mega-decibels blasted over the sound system.

  Lassiter himself, his head and shoulders leaning precariously over the left edge of the stage, reveled in the spotlight, waving, using one hand to shake the outstretched palms of the increasingly demanding crowd.

  Impossible to get any louder. “Crazy,” Jane whispered. She was only half joking. The event was verging on out of control. “Maybe we should—”

  “Campaign staff!” Trevor Kiernan stepped in front of her, almost shouting to be heard, showing the scowling blue uniform a collection of plastic-laminated badges on the lanyard around his neck. “I’m good to go through. And she’s press. She’s with me.”

  He turned quickly, drew her forward. “Jane! Got a pass? Show the man.”

  “Lass-i-ter. Lass-i-ter.” The crowd’s chanting grew louder as a crush of bodies pressed toward the stage. A few toddlers rode high on their parents’ shoulders. One pinafored girl, her little Lassiter baseball cap askew, dissolved in tears as her dad pushed to get closer.

  Jane held up the new bright blue plastic badge she wore on an aluminum-linked chain. It showed her photo and the insignia of the Massachusetts State Police. “Channel— I mean, Boston Register. Okay?”

  “Yikes,” she said, trotting after Kiernan. “Is it always like this?”

  He hurried her past a bank of temporary wooden risers, television cameras on tripods lined one end to the other, set up to hold the reporters covering the event. She tried to pick out Channel 11’s camera, see who they’d assigned, but couldn’t. Well, tough. Now I’m getting even closer than they can.

  She followed Kiernan up three concrete steps at the side of the stage. He punched in a passcode on an electronic lock, then led her through a door hidden in the black-painted wall. The backstage entrance led to a shadowy concrete-walled corridor. Up a few more narrow stairs, around a corner, and—the daylight blasted her, so bright and surprising, she stumbled backwards. Hidden behind the curved proscenium wall, they had the candidate’s eye view of the crowd. And that view, Jane realized, must be intoxicating.

  The colors. The signs. The cheering throng of voters. Adoring. Pulsing closer. Demanding attention. Calling his name. Some held their cameras high above their heads, capturing whatever memories they could.

  “Watch,” Kiernan said. “I’ll stay right here. Off the record, right?”

  “Ah, sure,” Jane replied. What the hell?

  Above her head, lofty metal poles held banks of spotlights and draping loops of wires. Thick cables, wrapped in duct tape, snaked across the concrete floor. It was darker here, the explosive light outside turning backstage into background.

  People stood in groups of twos and threes. Campaign workers, Jane figured, insider enough to have special passes. Most clutched files or clipboards, plastic water bottles. Some wore suits and heels, others jeans. All wore Lassiter buttons. All eyes fastened on the candidate.

  Jane could see only Lassiter’s back, moving slowly to the other side of the stage. The police linked themselves in a wavering blue line.

  “Hey, Trev, goin’ great, man. Almost time. Gotta love it.” A harried-looking man with a clipboard gave Kiernan a thumbs-up, then disappeared behind the flashing red and green lights of the elaborate sound system.

  Kiernan pointed to Lassiter. “Okay, Jane. Any second now.”

  * * *

  “’Scuse me, ’scuse me, ’scuse me.” She was late, she was late. The subway ride had taken too long and the walk from Park Street station had taken too long, and her darling new kitten heels kept catching in the Esplanade’s thick grass. Would she be too late? How did this happen? She’d planned it so perfectly.

  Holly elbowed her way closer to the Esplanade stage, hardly noticing the bodies surging around her, her eyes on the prize.

  Owen Lassiter. On the stage, hand outstretched, that smile. She promised to be here. And now she was. Everything would be okay. Happy endings.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She forced a smile of her own, relieved, needing to stay polite as she edged through, some guys looking her up and down, as always. She ignored them. As always.

  The wooden reporter’s thing was set up to the left of the stage this time. Perfect. She aimed herself in that direction, propelled toward the cameras. Still photographers were posted there, too, she knew. Good. She had her own camera, out and ready to go. Too risky to leave it in its pouch.

  Almost there. Almost time.

  * * *

  “Lucky you could get away.” Kenna slid her hand through the crook of Maitland’s elbow as a black-suited security guard waved them toward the back entrance to the big stage. “I’d never have gotten up here this close without you.”

  “No problem.” Maitland guided her past a phalanx of rent-a-guards, then up close to one side of the stage.

  “We going up there?” Kenna asked. The sun was hot, almost too hot to keep her coat on. Should have left it with Deenie. “Could we go backstage? Maybe I could chat with Owe—the governor—when he’s finished.”

  Maitland looked at his watch, then seemed to listen. He smiled. “It’s already ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy,’” he said.

  “Huh? Yankee—? Come on. You can get me closer.”

  “We’re too late to go backstage.” He draped his arm across her shoulders, guiding her. “But come this way. You’ll see.”

  * * *

  “What?” Jane asked. Trevor stood next to her, elbow to elbow, backstage. “Watch what?”

  “Now,” Kiernan repeated.

  She heard a roar from the crowd. Suddenly Lassiter was gone.

  She couldn’t take it in fast enough, had to stand on tiptoe, craning her neck to see. The music so loud, so thundering that Jane could feel the stage beneath her vibrating, had changed to a bass-pounding “Simply the Best.” Cameras flashed. The crowd cheered, erupting in delight. More blizzards of confetti, this time spewing into the air from containers circling the green. TV photographers yanked their cameras from their tripods. Reporters dashed forward, jumping down from the wooden risers of the press pen, pushing toward the action.

  Lassiter had leaped off the stage onto the grass. No longer above the people, he was now part of them. One of them. On their level. Blue uniforms surged to surround the candidate, linked arms in a protective circle, Lassiter in the center, moving away from the stage, deeper into the crowd. Every arm reached for him; every camera aimed at him. Every person wanted him.

  She and Kiernan stepped to the edge of the stage, watching the spectacle. She stole a quick look at him. “You kidding me?” she said. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  He smiled, one eyebrow raised. “Couldn’t resist, I guess. Such a man of the people. Gotta give ’em what they want, right?”

  Jane could catch only glimpses of Lassiter’s face, smiling, radiant, accepting their devotion, embracing the rush. The crowd was in love. The candidate must know it. And he’d just proved he loved them back.

  “Now. You tell me,” Kiernan said. “We gonna win this?”

  Jane dug into her tote bag, eyes still on the crowd, scrounging by feel for her camera. Found it. She brought it out, and in one motion aimed and clicked.

  “Hey, you can’t use that.” Kiernan put a hand on her forearm. “No unauthorized photos. You’re here off the record. Remember?”

  “Had to try,” Jane said. She dropped the
camera back into her bag. With a dramatic flourish, she zipped it closed. “See? All gone.”

  She probably hadn’t gotten anything usable anyway. And someone else must be covering for the Register. Lassiter’s ring of blue moved across the green. The people around him surged closer, some ducking under the police to snag a photo with the candidate. A sea of red, white, and blue. And Lassiter green.

  And then, red. A red coat.

  Jane didn’t need to check Archive Gus’s photo to make sure. That was her. Heading steadily toward Lassiter. By herself? If I try to get down there, through all those people, I’ll lose her. I’d never make it.

  “Hey, Trevor—” Jane couldn’t take her eyes off the crowd, but maybe she didn’t need to get any closer. Damn it, why had she zipped her camera away? She yanked open her bag. There’s no more off the record.

  Where was Kiernan? She risked a look behind her. In a backstage corner, deep in conversation with a clipboard guy. She called his name, waving. “Trevor! Can you come here? For one second?”

  Jane looked back at the crowd. The red coat was moving toward the candidate.

  Back at Trevor. Walking, seemed like slow motion, toward her.

  Back at the crowd. Jane squinted through the sun’s glare, as if the very desire to see would make her vision stronger. And there was the coat. Yes. And then—the girl was—taking it off? Now she was just a woman in a white—

  “Jane? What’s up?” Trevor appeared at her side.

  “See that woman? In a … a white blouse? At about ten o’clock from Lassiter? Curly hair? Youngish? Tallish?” She pointed at the spot—I can’t lose her—looking at Trevor for only a brief second, then back at the crowd.

  Trevor was laughing. “You’re kidding me, right? There are thousands of women.” He touched her shoulder, getting her attention. No longer smiling. “Is there a problem? Jane? Do we need to—?”

  “No, it’s fine, just look, really.” Jane jabbed the air with a finger. “Now she’s right next to him. Holding up a camera? See?”

  Trevor leaned forward, following the direction of her finger. “Yeah, I see her. So?”