The Other Woman Page 9

  “See if L and C”—Jake’s shorthand for Longfellow and Charlestown—“connect with A Vick.” Jake banged out a reminder e-mail to himself, and hit Send. Maybe the other victims worked at grocery stores. He’d have the guys do a photo array at Beacon Markets. Maybe Arthur Vick used his employee files to track down his victims. Possible.

  Maybe Arthur Vick’s grocery stores were not the only place the victims worked for him.

  “Detective? I’m so sorry.” Leota Darden dabbed her reddened eyes with a shredding tissue. “I know you’re doing your job. I’m better now, thank you.”

  “Tea?” Neesha stood, edging between the couch and coffee table. “I’ll go get you tea.”

  She did not offer any to Jake.

  “Arthur Vick,” Jake said as Neesha left the room. “We were talking about Arthur Vick. Did Sellica mention anyone who was missing? Someone she knew from her—work?”

  “You’re thinking of the other Bridge Killer victims? You think they did what she did? No, Sellica never mentioned anything like that. Poor things.” Mrs. Darden leaned back against the softly flowered cushions, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she sat up straight, planted her hands on her hips.

  “Detective Brogan. Arthur Vick promised my Sellica she could be in his grocery store commercials. She counted on it, with those other girls, thought it was a way out of the life. All she wanted was what he promised her. He promised her! Then he turned on her. Dragged her into court. And she, she…”

  “She fought back by talking to Jane Ryland. Correct?”

  One white candle hissed as it sputtered out, a wisp of smoke rising toward the ceiling. Jake leaned forward, needing to hear what would come next.

  “Sellica was ordered by a judge not to tell,” Mrs. Darden whispered. “But she did. She did tell. Now she’s dead. Now Arthur Vick is even richer.”

  * * *

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are…”

  Matt tuned out the staticky voice coming from the plane’s public address system. His fingers worried the iPhone in his hand. The flight attendant had caught him using it during takeoff, almost confiscated it. Now he had to wait till the damn plane landed till he could call. He’d already programmed in the number.

  Resting his forehead against the window, he peered at the whitecaps on Boston Harbor. He could feel the plane descending. Almost there. One hand curled around his phone. Almost time. He had to be here in person. He’d call first, because he was curious, then get up close and personal. See her. If it was her. And find out what the hell she was doing in Boston.

  Do not ever, do not ever, ask about your father. He could hear his mother’s voice, words interrupted by puffs on those cigarettes. Picture her, so beautiful and so sad, sitting across from him at their kitchen table, one of her hands, thin and drawn, covering his smaller one. Do not look for him, do not go to him, do not ask me about him.

  It had been one of her rituals, almost like their grace before meals. His sister Sarah—he called her Cissy—had been too young to understand. But he remembered enough to miss his dad. Couldn’t understand why he was gone. Why his mother felt so bitter about him. Why she’d tried to erase him from their family.

  And then, while he was in grad school, she’d erased herself. Cissy always blamed their father. Hated their father. Before their mother killed herself, hate was what she taught them.

  Do not look for him, do not go to him, do not ask me about him. But how could Matt resist? It was his father. And eventually, he learned everything he could about him. Then that day in B-school, he had stupidly revealed all of it.

  The rumble of the landing gear jolted Matt from his memories. He slugged down the last of his second Bloody Mary, wincing at the pepper, then hid the two little empty bottles in the seat pocket in front of him. Even the drinks hadn’t helped him calm down. Eyeing the overhead rack where he’d stashed his coat, he calculated how quickly he could yank off his seat belt. He had to get out. He had to know.

  If she was in Boston, there had to be a reason. And it could not be a good one.

  18

  Sitting in her car, just outside the gated entrance of the Lassiters’ asphalt expanse of a driveway, Jane adjusted the rearview mirror and leaned across the steering wheel, checking her lipstick. Then reality hit. This interview was for a newspaper, not TV. Didn’t really matter what she looked like.

  This is easier, right? No lights, no cameras, no wires or microphones or cranky photographers. Those days were over. All because of Sellica Darden. Jane blew out a breath, her memories crashing into one another. Forgetting about lipstick, she stared out the windshield, unseeing. Sellica’s funeral was later this afternoon.

  Why did she feel so guilty about Sellica’s death?

  A lone car trundled by on the street behind her. PRIVATE DRIVE, the sign down the block warned. The Lassiters’ white-columned Georgian stood almost at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  If she attended Sellica’s funeral, out of respect, would it telegraph that she’d been Jane’s source?

  It would. Wouldn’t it?

  First things first. Moira. Five minutes till her one o’clock interview.

  Maybe she should go inside, whip out Archive Gus’s photos and say: Mrs. Lassiter? Do you know this woman in the red coat? She was photographed near your husband at this rally, and this one, and this one. Does this concern you at all?

  Jane laughed out loud, imagining it. Played out the whole impossible scene, making dramatic faces in her rearview. “Well, yes, Mrs. Lassiter. The reason I ask is that from my research, it appears your husband may be—”

  She scratched her head, pretending to consider. How would she put that? Having an affair? Being unfaithful? Seeing another woman?

  She’d also have to ask if the affair was why Moira was suddenly off the radar. “So, Mrs. Lassiter, is that why you’ve been hiding? And oh, by the way, who else knows about the affair?”

  Obviously there was no tactful way to bring this up. Plus, Alex would kill her.

  Mrs. Lassiter opened one side of the double front door herself, before Jane even touched the brass lion’s-head knocker. Wearing a white jewel-necked sweater, white cardigan tied around her neck, and sleek black pants, she was a silver blond lady of the manor, framed by the white-trimmed moldings and the still-green ivy twining up an arched trellis.

  Jane knew from her research Moira Lassiter was an ex-ballerina, small company, but still. That took training, and devotion, and self-restraint. Single-mindedness. And a solid sense of her own body. She’d reportedly met Owen at a—

  “Jane? So nice to see you again.” Moira Lassiter reached out a graceful hand, then stepped back into her entryway, ushering Jane in. No hovering servants or housekeepers. A well-kept but low-key foyer, with a not-quite-extravagant display of all-white chrysanthemums in front of a gilt-edged mirror, polished black and white tiles on the floor. Not ostentatious. Confident. Established.

  Moira herself took Jane’s coat, draping it over the back of a cream-on-white wing chair beside an arch in the entryway.

  “We have tea in the living room.” She pushed the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows, revealing a triple-strand pearl bracelet and tanned arms. Her fingernails were polished but pale. “I’m glad you could see me this morning on such short notice.”

  Jane followed her through the archway. I’ll let her make the first move. “Of course, Mrs. Lassiter. I’m so happy you decided to chat.”

  The book-lined living room, fire crackling in a white-brick fireplace, polished white baby grand piano, dozens of photographs in silver frames, looked as if someone had just plumped all the white-on-white couch pillows and disappeared. A flowered china tea service, delicate and gilt edged, lay jewel-like in the center of a mahogany coffee table. Lemons, pumpkin-glazed cookies, honey. Two diminutive silver spoons.

  Jane perched on the edge of a sleekly white club chair.

  Moira settled directly opposite her, centered on the pillow-lined co
uch—so slight, she barely made a dent in the cushions. Her gold wedding ring, with a modestly massive diamond engagement ring above it, glittered in the firelight.

  She didn’t say a word.

  Jane’s spiral reporter’s notebook was burning a hole in her purse. But now was not the time to get it out. She couldn’t figure this. Maybe Moira was waiting for her to begin?

  “So shall we—?” Jane began

  “So, Jane,” Mrs. Lassiter spoke at the same time.

  “Oh, sorry,” Jane said. Not an auspicious beginning. “Please. Go on.”

  But Mrs. Lassiter seemed to be studying her hands. If there were a clock, Jane could have heard it tick. A cinder popped against the fireplace screen. Mrs. Lassiter looked up.

  Is she on the verge of tears?

  “So, Jane,” Mrs. Lassiter said again. “This is somewhat difficult. But I know I can count on your discretion. I’ve followed your investigative work from the beginning, and I’ve always felt—your heart is in it. You authentically care about doing the right thing. That’s why, even under all the pressure, you protected your source in that prostitution case. Your station was hit with the million-dollar judgment, correct? But you never told. Isn’t that true?”

  “Yes, I never—” Jane paused, thought for a second. “I mean no, I never revealed my source.”

  “That proves you’re trustworthy,” Mrs. Lassiter went on, nodding. “And that’s why I called you. Because now I—I need your help.”

  Jane waited, blinking. She needs my help?

  “Can we be off the record?” Mrs. Lassiter continued. “You don’t use this in the paper until I say you may?”

  Just what I need. Kiss of death. I can know something that I can’t use. Of course, if I say no, she won’t tell me, and then I won’t know it. At least it’s not another source thing. Whatever she tells me, at least I can discuss it with Alex. So here we go again.

  “All right, Mrs. Lassiter. Off the record. But let’s have an understanding of what that means. I’ll go with the story only if I can confirm it on my own. I won’t do that without letting you know. I won’t connect the source of the information with you. And I’m going to tell my editor. Are you comfortable with that?”

  The other woman took a sip from a crystal glass of ice water, carefully put the glass on a coaster. She moved the spoon on the right closer to the one on the left. Moved it back.

  “Here’s the problem, Jane,” she said. “I think my husband may be having an affair.”

  * * *

  “Black. Two sugars.” Jake slid across the cracking black wannabe-leather upholstery of the corner booth at Cuppa Joe’s. Why is the guy behind the counter wearing a—? Oh. Halloween coming up.

  DeLuca now had about three minutes before he was late. Why’d he always cut it close? Today wasn’t the day to push it. Sellica Darden’s funeral started in two hours. Jake needed to get there early and grab a parking spot in the front of All Saints so he could check out the arrivals. For whatever that was worth.

  The vampire-waiter sloshed a pale cup of coffee in front of him, then pointed with a black-polished fingernail to a crusted container of sugar, kernels of rice sprinkled inside it. Lucky for him I’m not the health squad, Halloween or no. Jake tipped a flow of sugar into his coffee, monitoring for rice.

  Sellica’s funeral. Did the Bridge Killer attend the funerals of his victims?

  Dammit. Jake stirred so hard, coffee sloshed into the saucer. There is no Bridge Killer.

  Even so. There was no way to know whether the bad guy would show up for the first two victims. Because there had been no funerals yet. Because the cops—his guys—had gotten exactly nowhere, still waiting for ID. The victims were waiting in the morgue. In a couple of days, someone’d have to make a decision.

  Jake took an unrewarding sip.

  But Sellica, she had ID. Her face. Oh, sure, her purse was gone, like the others. Anyone else, it’d be another investigation to figure out her identity. But Sellica Darden, her fifteen minutes weren’t up. Had the killer realized Sellica didn’t need a driver’s license for her name to be known? Or did he hope she’d be anonymous, too?

  “Yo. Harvard.” Paul DeLuca slid into the booth, opposite Jake. DeLuca was all points—nose, elbows, cheekbones, ears. Everything too long, too sharp. His beat-up leather jacket hung on him like a deflated basketball. He examined the bottom of the salt shaker, which dumped a pile of salt on the table. He threw some over one shoulder, swiped the rest onto the floor.

  “Yo, dropout.” Jake completed their now-ritual. He let his language slide a bit with DeLuca. Can’t beat ’em, join ’em. They’d been partners two years. “Whatcha got for me?”

  “Well, funny you should ask. I got—” DeLuca pulled a tattered spiral notebook from inside his jacket. Thumbed a few pages, then stopped. Gave Jake a look. “Guess.”

  “Gimme a break,” Jake said.

  “Amaryllis Roldan.”

  “What?” Jake looked at his partner. Baffled.

  “Who, you should say. Amaryllis Roldan is a who.”

  “Who what?” Jake said. This was not funny.

  “She’s Charlestown, Jake. Bridge Killer number two. The tattoo? Some moke in a Hyde Park shop recognized it. From that, we snagged her address. Outta town, but they knew she’d come to Boston to make it big, whatever. No family connections here. They knew of, at least.”

  “You sure? It’s her? Amaryllis—”

  “Roldan. Yup. ME’s confirming now. But it’s a sure thing.”

  “Motive?”

  “Zip.”

  “Family?”

  “Checking.”

  “Job?”

  “Yeah,” DeLuca said. “That, we got.”

  DeLuca flipped through the pages of his notebook and consulted something. Scratched his nose, as if seeing his notes for the first time. “Clerk at Beacon Markets. The one in Brighton. Started, like, a week before she was killed. How a-friggin’-bout that?”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah. Good call, Harvard. Second store we hit.”

  “Supe know?”

  “Yup. He says keep a lid till it’s confirmed. Gotta dig up next of kin. All that.”

  Jake paused, processing. Amaryllis Roldan. The victim had a name. It was a start. A good start. And she was connected with Arthur Vick. Had to be.

  “Harvard?” DeLuca was sliding the salt shaker back and forth, like a hockey puck, between his palms. It scraped across the pockmarked tabletop.

  “Yeah?”

  “So now what?” He caught the shaker in one hand. “We gonna pick up Arthur Vick?”

  19

  “Your husband may be having an affair?” For a billion dollars, Jane could not have predicted that Moira would be the one asking her about it, not the other way around. Moira Lassiter’s bombshell landed square in her lap, and now she had about zero seconds to figure out what to do with it. But there it was. Even off the record, it couldn’t be unsaid. “Mrs. Lassiter? Ah—I’m so sorry. I’m not quite sure how to respond.”

  Moira’s hands seemed steady as she poured steaming golden tea into one delicate cup, then the other. She gestured one of them to Jane. “Sugar?”

  “Mrs. Lassiter?” Was Moira—in denial? On medication? Crazy? If she was blurting out stuff like that to strangers, no wonder she was home. Maybe the campaign bigwigs had grounded her. Perhaps not a bad plan.

  But what was Jane supposed to do with this? What they don’t teach you in journalism school.

  “Please, call me Moira.” The candidate’s wife smiled and reknotted the soft sweater draped around her shoulders. Ignoring her tea, she took another sip of her water. “Now that I’ve given you ‘the scoop.’”

  “Well, that’s, ah, an understatement,” Jane said. Questions jockeyed for the front row. Red-coat woman? Someone else? Moira didn’t look nuts. But certainly the biggest question of all was her motive. Why on earth would she divulge such a suspicion? To a reporter? “Might I ask—why would you tell me that?”
>
  “Because—because I’m not sure it’s true. But how am I supposed to find out? It’s not like someone’s sending me photos. I can’t ask Owen, of course. Because true or not, he’d deny it. They always deny it. And the more they deny it, the truer it seems.”

  Jane took a sip of tea. Moira had a point.

  “I’ve seen those other wives. Hillary. Jenny Sanford. Silda Spitzer. Maria. You can picture them, all those news conferences and awkward interviews,” Moira went on. “My heart went out to them. They’d believed in their husbands. Trusted them. Supported them. Devoted their lives to them. And then, in one headline, or one video clip, it’s all … just over.”

  Jane nodded. Kept silent. Maybe this will make sense in a minute.

  “But it always comes out, doesn’t it?” Moira fiddled with her pearl bracelet. “They all think they’re the ones who’ll manage to keep it quiet, manage to have their careers and their women, too. But they can’t. They can’t. If my husband is having an affair, you media people are going to find out sooner or later. And it’s not only Owen’s life that’ll be ruined. My life will be ruined, too.”

  She narrowed her eyes at Jane.

  “After being married almost twenty-two years, giving up my career, being the candidate’s wife and the governor’s wife and then the businessman’s wife and now the candidate’s wife again, and always in the background, my life becomes the footnote. Well. I won’t have it.” She took a sip of her water, seemed to be considering.

  “For instance,” she went on. “Where is Owen now? His campaign schedule has him out in Springfield. Until recently, I’d have been there with him. The crowds loved me. Loved our marriage. Loved us together. But oh, somehow, not anymore. Now, according to Mr. Rory Maitland, I’m no longer needed.”