The Other Woman Read online

  It was only a couple years since he’d seen her. If that was her. Matt clicked the arrow in the center of the picture, zooming in. Closer.

  Crap. It’s her. Is it her? He placed the plus-sign directly over her face, his heart racing. Clicked his mouse, making the photo bigger. Her face blurred from black-and-white to gray. No help.

  Her attitude. Her stance. That wild blond hair, knockout body, curves obvious under those almost too-tight skirts she always wore. She’d wanted to be a model, she’d admitted, but the big agencies told her she was too short. Maybe I can just model for you … privately, she’d teased him. With that same smile he now saw in the photo. Back in B-school, after the library closed, walking by the river, she had—he remembered it, perfectly—thrilled him. Then terrified him. He thought she was out of his life.

  The bustle and buzz of his office faded. He vaguely heard see-ya-tomorrows, saw lights flipping off in the glass cubicles down the hall, the ticker go dark. The markets were closed, the gang headed home. Not him. Not now.

  Maybe there were other photos. Maybe it was by chance. Maybe it was someone who looked like her. His keyboard clattered as he typed in the search.

  Lassiter. Rally. Boston. Search images. Click.

  A gallery of wide shots popped up on his flat computer screen. He’d have to check one at a time. But even if he could tell, what would he know?

  Damn it. This would be fricking impossible.

  Matt yanked at his tie, pulled open the collar button of his pale blue oxford shirt. He felt the prickle of sweat at the back of his neck. Why’d he ever thought this day wouldn’t come?

  What the hell is she doing in Boston? If she was in Boston. He calculated the possibilities. And there were only two: It was a coincidence. Or it wasn’t.

  And if it wasn’t, he was screwed. And he wasn’t the only one.

  Why had he told her? A couple of brews, the sun on the river, that striped blanket. It had been hot for May. She’d stripped off her top, laughing, thrown it across his shoulders, drawing her to him. Surprising him with that little bathing suit thing underneath. They’d come here to study, he reminded her. Marketing finals, big stuff.

  She’d teased, pouted, yanked off his Sox cap and tossed it into the river. When he protested, she’d retrieved it, returning dripping and slick, the sun glistening on her wet skin. “All I want is you, Mattie,” she’d said. “I know I can change your mind. We’re meant to be together. Let me show you.”

  And how could he have said no? Even though it wasn’t her, it never had been, it never would be. It was almost the end of the school year. A month or two before B-school graduation. Why not?

  Later, afterwards, he was—whatever. Wiped out. Might as well have been on drugs. And he’d told her, told her why they couldn’t be together, told her why he couldn’t love her, or anyone. Grief over his mother still raw, he’d told Holly everything. Even about what happened.

  “Your poor mother,” she’d said. Consoled him. “But I can wait. However long it takes.” He remembered her drawing one finger, slowly, down his bare chest, remembered how the finger continued, remembered he couldn’t stand it. And she knew it. Christ, he’d told her. I told her. Even though he’d promised not to. He made her vow to keep their secret.

  “You’ll change your mind about me, when you’re ready,” she whispered. “That’s what I’m promising you.”

  When the semester was over, they graduated, she went—wherever she went. Two frigging years ago.

  He stared at the computer screen, cursor flashing, the pixilated image taunting him. But maybe it’s not her. It was his secret to tell. When he wanted to. If he wanted to.

  A rustle at his doorway. He swiveled his chair, annoyed. The intern took a tentative step into his office. “Matt?”

  Matt raised one hand, waved her away. Pointed to his headset. I’m busy.

  Made another gesture. And close the door.

  “Boston,” he said into the phone. “Round trip. Open return. When’s the next flight? Tonight? First thing tomorrow?”

  * * *

  Do not turn around. Do not turn around. Jane leaned her forehead against the chilly window of the subway car as it motored up into the night landscape of bustling Kenmore Square, racketing her home. She pulled her black wool coat closer, sliding her gloved hands under her sleeves. Absurd, wanting to look behind her. No one was there. What could be safer than the Green Line?

  Arthur Vick was not on the train. She was spooked, that was for sure. But Arthur Vick, with all those grocery stores and TV commercials, picture in all the papers, would never take the T. He didn’t send the letters. He didn’t kill Sellica; he was not the Bridge Killer.

  Right?

  Boston hurtled by. Beacon Street front porches, lights switching on. Rows of brownstones, a spate of restaurants, cars playing beat-the-trolley across the intersections. Friday night, beginning of the weekend rituals. She was almost home.

  Sellica was dead. Her secrets were safe. Jane was alone.

  “There you have it,” she whispered to the window. Her breath made a little fog place on the glass.

  Alex, for now at least, had let her off the hook. Maybe he’ll even turn out to be a good guy. Tuck was assigned the Sellica story. Jane, fighting off stomach-clenching memories, had agreed to give some color from her trial days. No byline. Tay Reidy acquiesced, even giving Jane a regal pat on the back as he made his exit, lawyer in tow.

  Tuck had already added a photo of the Sellica crime scene to the macabre collection tacked to her more-than-half of the bulletin board. How’d she get that, so quickly? Jane had tried to avoid looking.

  Channel 11 hadn’t called back.

  All in all, another fun day in Jane world. And the prospects for tomorrow were no better. In fact, they might be worse.

  She forced a smile. She would go home, put on sweats, have a glass of wine, turn on some Diana Krall. Watch a movie. Call Amy. Go visit Eli for a game of Psychonauts; maybe his mom, Neena, would be up for a chat. See if Mrs. W had some leftovers. Almost home. She was not afraid.

  But Jake. He would go ballistic over tomorrow morning’s headlines. Jane had hung around the newsroom for a while, still bemused over the identity of the real Tuck, who seemed driven but friendly enough. At some point, BRIDGE KILLER CHANGES TACTICS popped up as the headline in the dummy edition. The press room had held the front page for Tuck. As long as there were murders, Miss Tucker Cameron was queen bee.

  The train’s doors hissed open, jolting Jane back to reality. Her stop. Corey Road. She grabbed her purse and tote bag from the train’s gritty floor and clattered down the steps to the street.

  Her mind spiraled around Sellica’s murder. Was there anything she knew that Jake should know? If there were, should she tell him? Could she? She really wanted to talk to him. She really, really wanted to find out what he thought about Sellica. Maybe she could just call him, all business, totally reporter, and say—

  Jane jumped as her cell phone rang. She clutched a hand to her throat, then burst out laughing, the sound disappearing into the night. Lucky no one was here to see how jumpy she was. She looked around, spooked. A police car on patrol, lights off. Sidewalks deserted. Safe. And maybe it was Jake calling.

  The phone rang again. She clicked it on, stepping into the protective glow of a streetlight. It better not be Channel 11 again. Jerks. She missed TV. Missed her old life. But that door was closed.

  “This is Jane.”

  “Jane Ryland?” A woman’s voice. Low, not quite a whisper.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Moira Lassiter. I apologize for phoning so late.”

  Good news? About time. “Oh, Mrs. Lassiter. Thank you for calling. And it’s not so—”

  “Jane?” Moira Lassiter interrupted. “I can’t talk now. About that interview. Let’s do it.”

  16

  “May I help you?”

  Holly Neff stared at the beauty behind the desk. That woman should be, like, on television, not answering p
hones in some campaign office on a Saturday morning. Maybe she was someone’s daughter, had the job because of who she knew or how she looked. It didn’t matter. Holly had to get inside. Upstairs.

  The lobby was completely decorated for the campaign, lots of posters and photos. The music was pretty loud. Groups of people hurried by, holding up badges hung around their necks. Miss Beauty Pageant hardly looked at them.

  Elevator bells dinged, doors opened, people came out, others elbowed their way inside. She had to get upstairs.

  Oh. The woman was waiting for her to answer. Lots of lipstick.

  “Thank you so much,” Holly said. She felt a little strange with all her hair pulled back, and she wasn’t used to not wearing makeup. She’d never go out looking like this, so dowdy and plain—except today. And she wasn’t used to wearing the geeky glasses. Well, it would all be worth it. Holly zipped open one pocket of her carryall, feeling for the folder inside. Her camera was there, too, safe in its pouch. She pulled out a little spiral notebook she’d gotten at the drugstore. It had a picture of an American flag on the front.

  “I’m a very enthusiastic Lassiter supporter.” She held the notebook up so the woman couldn’t miss it. “I’ve been to all the rallies. And I think it’s time I got involved.”

  She looked for a nameplate or a name tag, since you were supposed to call people by their names, but there wasn’t one.

  “I’m—” She paused, remembering her plan. And her secret name. “—I’m Hannah,” she said. Bright smile. Hannah. Then she waited.

  The woman didn’t introduce herself. Whatever. Didn’t matter. Holly knew from her phone calls that the volunteer office was on the third floor. So was the communications department, where the press people were. Owen’s office was the only one on the fourth floor. Holly-Hannah simply had to get upstairs.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. The phone rang, and Holly waited while she answered it, saying, “Lassiter for Senate.” The woman pushed some buttons on the phone console, then looked at Holly again. It seemed like she didn’t love her job.

  “Oh, well, no, I don’t, but this is such an important election, you know?” Holly had practiced what she would say, and it seemed just right. “I do the neighborhood newspaper? I’m like, kind of a neighborhood reporter? I write while my kids are at school. And I’d love to do a story about Governor Lassiter. Maybe I could get a quick tour of headquarters? See what it’s really like inside a campaign?”

  She watched the woman look her up and down. Well, fine, go ahead. Holly looked perfect. She tried not to smile. Perfectly awful. A coat she’d gotten at a cheapo store, an acrylic scarf, stretchy wool gloves. The blonde behind the desk, all that chest showing even under that sweater, hideous. She’d assume she was seeing some nerdy housewife, trying to get out of the house and have a life. As if.

  “If you’d like an interview with the governor,” the woman was saying, “you’ll have to go through our press office. I could take your name and number.”

  The woman yanked a sliding shelf from under the desktop. Holly could see a list of names and phone extensions taped to it, but it was too hard to read upside down. “Or you can contact Sheila King directly. She handles press. Extension 403.” The woman looked up at her. “Do you need to write that down?”

  The blonde’s lipsticky mouth went tight, as if Holly were bothering her. Pretty snippy for a receptionist. The phone rang, then rang again. Holly waited, so patiently, while the woman answered the calls.

  “Lassiter for Senate. Please hold. Lassiter for Senate.”

  It made Holly smile to hear his name.

  “Oh, I don’t need an interview with the governor, gosh no.” Holly tried to look as if the thought had never crossed her mind. “Can I call Sheila King from here? Maybe someone could show me how it all looks, and I could maybe get some shots of it for the paper?”

  Another call came in, then another. The phone woman kept answering, looking more and more annoyed. Another group of somebodies talked as they waited at the elevator, comparing pieces of paper, voices bouncing off the marble walls.

  The woman behind the desk stood up. She was smiling, patting her hair, adjusting that sweater. But she was looking past Holly, beyond her shoulder. The people at the elevator stopped talking, every one of them, and turned the same direction. So Holly had to turn, too.

  And there was Owen Lassiter. Striding through the revolving door and into the lobby. The bustle of the evening swirled into the building with him, the clatter of traffic, the wind, sirens peeling down Causeway Street. His hair was blown, cheeks ruddy, white shirt so white. She could almost feel the force field around him. Two men in suits trotted to keep up, one of them, a youngish man not far behind, carrying a stack of papers.

  Holly’s hand went to her heart. Owen Lassiter. I needed to find him, but he found me! She tried to remember to breathe.

  “Mrs. Wilkes.” The candidate was talking to the woman at the desk. He took her hand in both of his. “Welcome, Kenna. Rory told me you’d be here.”

  Holly thought she saw Mrs. Wilkes blush. Huh.

  The phone rang, but the Wilkes person ignored it, she was so locked in to Lassiter’s greeting. When he let go of her, finally, she didn’t seem to know where to put her hands.

  Then Owen Lassiter himself turned to her. To her! He held out his hand, smiling at her, drawing her in with those eyes. “And who do we have here?”

  Holly almost blushed, seeing him. He would never recognize her.

  Not until she wanted him to.

  “I’m Hannah,” she said. “I’m so delighted to see you.” See you again, she was careful not to say.

  She could almost feel the camera in her bag.

  Perfect.

  When things worked, they just worked.

  17

  “Is it the Bridge Killer? Is it? Oh, Detective Brogan, I’m not sure I can do this now.”

  “Take your time, Mrs. Darden,” Jake reassured the woman on the couch. The low-slung coffee table between them could not have held one more doily-covered plate of cookies or little muffins. “Let me know when you feel up to continuing.”

  Jake sat in the striped wing chair, pretending to read over his notes, while Sellica Darden’s mother composed herself. Leota Darden had made it through about five minutes of Jake’s questions, poised and polite, even offering Jake tea, answering carefully.

  She’d been too distraught to talk last night, so they agreed he’d return first thing this morning. He hoped that wasn’t a mistake.

  Wearing a flinty gray silk dress that ended below her knees and what his mom called sensible shoes, Mrs. Darden had shooed all but one of her other Saturday morning callers down the hall. The woman now sitting beside Mrs. Darden, pinched face and bright red fingernails, gave Jake a dark look. He’d seen it in many other living rooms. It meant, Get out, cop.

  He wished he could. But this was part of the deal. Death. Trying to explain it. Trying to understand it. Intruding on grief. Sitting in people’s living rooms, bringing up exactly what grieving families didn’t want to hear.

  The scent of flowers, heavy-headed dark red roses and masses of carnations, mixed with the fragrance of brewing coffee and burning candles. A black-framed photo of a sleekly stylish young woman wearing a white turtleneck and ropes of pearls was displayed on the mantelpiece, a single white lily in a slim crystal vase beside it.

  The ME’s photos of Sellica that Jake had studied last night were not so attractive. He hoped her mother would never see those.

  He had started with the easy questions.

  Yes, Mrs. Darden told him, her Sellica kept in touch. Yes, she knew what her daughter did for a living. No, she hadn’t mentioned being afraid of anyone.

  He’d ignore her question about the Bridge Killer. But that’s what was haunting him, too.

  What’s more, the newspaper sure as hell isn’t ignoring it. Tuck’s story this morning was total bullshit, speculation and psychobabble. The “Bridge Killer” cas
es aren’t exactly the same—and that proves they’re connected? That girl never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

  “Did Sellica ever mention trouble of any kind?” Jake asked. “Anyone who threatened her? Bothered her? Followed her?”

  But Mrs. Darden was deflating, collapsing, fingers to her forehead. “It is, isn’t it. The Bridge Killer.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Darden.” So much for ignoring it. “But I don’t think there’s a Bridge Killer. And that’s why I need to—”

  The other woman sniffed. “Ridiculous. Of course there is. I read the newspapers. You people couldn’t stop him, and now—” She stopped, giving her head a fretful shake. She clutched at Mrs. Darden’s arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, Leezey. Honey. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m all right, Neesha.” Leota Darden patted her friend’s hand, then rearranged herself on the couch. “It all started when she talked to that reporter. I told her she shouldn’t talk to her. I said to her, ‘Sellica—’”

  “Jane Ryland, you mean, right? Did you ever meet her?” Jake had to interrupt. Jane had never admitted Sellica was her source. But never said she wasn’t. And if Jane’s story had something to do with Sellica’s murder somehow … Jake’s thumbs flew over his BlackBerry as he continued his questions, looking up at her as he typed. “Mrs. Darden? Did you ever meet Arthur Vick?”

  “I most certainly did not,” she said. Her back stiffened. “That man—”

  “Ruined Sellica’s life.” Neesha finished the sentence. She turned to Mrs. Darden. “Well, he did, honey. You know he did. But she’s in a better place now.”

  With that, Leota Darden lost it. She collapsed onto her friend’s shoulder in a flood of sobbing. Neesha glared at him again.

  Can’t you go? she mouthed.

  Probably should have questioned her alone. Too late now.

  “I’m sorry, no, I can’t,” he said. This sucked. But he had no choice. “Take your time, though. It’s okay, ma’am.”

  Jake scanned his BlackBerry screen, letting the women comfort each other, trying to give them some privacy. He scrolled his Google search results into view. Arthur Vick, owner of the Beacon Markets grocery stores, megabucks, big political donor, wife in hiding post-scandal, she was some kind of artist apparently, million-dollar judgment, yadda yadda, Wrong-Guy Ryland. Poor Jane. But it wasn’t so much Jane who was the key. It was Arthur Vick.