The Other Woman

30

Jake made a show of turning on his BlackBerry, languidly scrolling through a page or two. Olive, hands still clamped over her mouth, hadn’t budged. Vick, arms crossed in front of his chest, Psych 101, hadn’t budged. DeLuca turned the pages of a broadsheet of colorful supermarket coupons as if fascinated by the latest grocery bargains.

“So, checking my notes,” Jake drew out his words, contemplative, all the time in the world. He scrolled some more. It was just the Register’s online edition, but Jerk would never know that. “According to your wife, oh, wait, excuse me, her name is…”

He looked up from the screen, smiling. “Bear with me here.”

“Call my lawyer,” Vick said.

Jake couldn’t hear him. “According to your wife, ah, Patricia, it says here, correct?”

“Lawyer,” Vick said.

“You’re not under arrest, Mr. Vick,” Jake said.

DeLuca looked up, right on cue. “Yet,” he added, then went back to his circular.

“So according to your wife, Patricia,” Jake continued, “on the night of the murder of Amaryllis Roldan, you both were-”

Olive made a little sound, like a squeak.

Vick glared at the girl. “I told you, go.”

She made it just half a step. Her once-white sneaker barely crossing the threshold to freedom.

“I told you, no,” Jake said. No more Mr. Nice Guy. He turned to the girl. “Please give Officer DeLuca your contact information. And please don’t walk to your car alone. Or go anywhere alone. Understand?”

Olive squeaked again.

“Is all this necessary, Detective?” Vick turned back the cuffs of his shirt, revealing a watch that was probably Olive’s salary for a year. Manicured fingers. “It’s late, it’s Saturday night, I still have work to do before I can leave. Can’t this wait until business hours? Call my secretary and I’m sure we can-”

“We’re talking now,” Jake said. “And we’ll be talking for a much briefer time if you simply answer my questions.”

Vick’s face went to ice, then stone. “Here’s how I’ll answer your questions,” he said. He thrust a hand into a pocket of his dark slacks.

DeLuca’s head came up. Jake’s hand went to his side.

Vick smiled, but only out of one side of his mouth. Change jingled inside his pocket. “Lawyer. That’s my answer.”

“One more question,” Jake said. Lawyer, shmoyer. What an asshole. “If you’re not interested in helping, why’d you agree to meet with us?”

Vick barked out a laugh. “Huh. Why? Just curious, Officer. Just wanted to see the faces of the gentlemen who think I’m the Bridge Killer. One word about me in the papers? You’re toast. Both of you. And I’ll sue the city-a-Boston, too. I don’t like it when people lie about me. I’ve got a business to run.”

“Don’t leave town, Mr. Vick,” DeLuca said. Supremely polite. “You either, Miss Parisella.”

“I’m going to ask you to leave now, Officers.” Vick gestured toward the door. “This is my territory. You are now officially trespassing. Do I make myself clear?”

“Like I said.” DeLuca took the circular, crumpled it, and made a two-point toss into a metal wastebasket. “Don’t leave town.”

“Just one more…” Jake looked at the screen of his BlackBerry, which had flickered, refreshed, then changed. For a moment, what he read didn’t compute. Then it did. Suddenly, Jake couldn’t wait to leave.

“We’ll be in touch,” Jake said.

Out the door, into the parking lot. Headed for the car.

“You know that French guy? In the foreign flicks?” DeLuca sauntered toward the cruiser, in no hurry. “The one the chicks love, but who always did it?”

“Something’s happening in Springfield-it’s on the Register Web site.” Jake panicked through his BlackBerry screens, scanning for info. “Get on the radio, D. See what’s going down.”

“Springfield what?” DeLuca clicked open the passenger door, slid into the front seat. “What are you talking about?”

“The Lassiter rally,” Jake said. He turned his entire focus to his keys, turn the key in the ignition, get the car started, get going. Springfield was impossibly far away. What if Jane wasn’t okay? “Just call in. See what they know at HQ. See if Springfield has people at the scene.”

“Scene of what?” DeLuca yanked down his seat belt, turned to check for oncoming traffic as Jake gunned the blue and white cruiser out of the parking lot. “The Lassiter rally? This about-Jane?”

Jake glared at him but didn’t bother to deny it. He paused, fraction of a second, at the exit. Hit the accelerator. “Yeah,” he said. “Jane.”

Kenna Wilkes crossed her legs, luxuriating in the plush upholstered sofa in the ninth-floor presidential suite. She touched the pile of glossy Lassiter brochures stacked beside her. After all, that’s what she’d said she came here for.

She looked at her watch, wondering how it was going at the rally. It would be hot, and crowded, and Owen would be occupied with his campaign routine. She felt the beginnings of a smile, composing her face for the coming performance. She’d tell him he was wonderful, brilliant, compelling. Best ever. He’d believe her.

Her cell phone buzzed. Showtime.

She grabbed the brochures, tucked a little notepad labeled PRESIDENTIAL SUITE into her purse, patted the couch cushions flat, opened the suite’s front door, gave the room one last appraisal. She clicked off the lights and stepped into the hallway. Looked left, looked right, no one there. Trotted down the corridor and into the ninth-floor stairwell.

Leaning for a beat against the cool gray concrete blocks of the stairwell wall, she clutched the slick campaign brochures to her silk blouse and closed her eyes briefly, calculating. So far, so good.

“I’m walking down the steps, Alex. Fast as I can. In the stairwell of the hotel. I’m on floor-” Jane glanced at the painted concrete bricks beside her, saw a green-stenciled number. “-floor six.”

Jane’s heart was still beating too fast. One hand holding the railing, the other her cell phone, she tried to hurry down the stairs and talk at the same time. She pushed closer to the wall, letting a pack of still-buzzing rally-goers elbow by her. “Yeah, it’s nuts here. The stairwells are packed with people trying to get out. They’ve stopped the elevators, even though everyone keeps insisting there’s nothing majorly wrong.”

“So what the hell-Jane, are you okay?” Alex’s voice buzzed over the iffy connection, but the concern in his voice came through. “Is Lassiter okay? The wires said the lights just went out. In the room where the rally was? Or all over the hotel? Why? What’s the story?”

Floor five. “Yeah, well, Alex, I have no idea yet. Sorry, sorry.” Jane stepped out of the way as another group of people, all wearing Lassiter buttons, shoved by her. “No, not you, Alex, people on the steps. Anyway, I don’t know. All the Lassiter people were gone by the time the stupid TV types realized they could click on their battery lights-gosh, it must have been, like, a minute? It seemed like an hour. Terrifying. I mean, people went crazy. I’ve got to admit, it was pretty scary. Everything goes through your mind, you know?”

“Yeah, I bet. So is Lassiter going to have a statement? A news conference or something? Can you get to him, get reactions? And the hotel’s? What did Lassiter do, anyway? Calm everyone down, be a hero?”

Floor four. Jane thought back. “Hardly. I mean, who knows. It was pitch dark. He was in the middle of the ballroom floor, doing his meet and greet thing, rent-a-cops around him, people pushing to get close and-damn.” Kenna Wilkes. Gone again.

“What?” Alex said. “Jane, you sure you’re okay? You’ll be able to get us info and file a story, right? There’s no one else there to cover it.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Jane said. Kenna Wilkes is still in this hotel. She can’t just disappear. “I’m fine. Thanks. I’m-listen. Do me a favor. Look up the name Kenna Wilkes, okay? K-e-n-n-a. Wilkes with an e. There can’t be many people with that name. She’d be like, age twenty-five-ish. Curly hair, blue eyes. Just see.”

“Speaking of look up,” Alex said. “Nothing on that Amaryllis name. Who is that, anyway? Tuck is freaking.”

Ah, problem. Jake. Dead girls. Arthur Vick. “Alex? Later, okay? Let me do this first. I’ve gotta track down the Lassiter people.”

“Great. Call me when you’re ready to file,” Alex said. “I’ll check that name for you. Who’s Kenna Wilkes, anyway?”

Third floor. As Jane swung around the corner to the concrete landing, the stairwell door flew open. She jumped back, barely missed getting slammed by the metal door and run over by the man racing through.

It was Trevor. Trevor Kiernan. He’d know exactly what happened.

“Trevor? Hang on, Alex. Hang on, okay?” Jane recognized the dark-rimmed glasses, the tousled hair, the clipboard. She caught up to him, grabbing his shoulder. “Trevor! It’s Jane Ryland.”

Trevor turned, looking up at her on the step above him. His tie was loose, the collar of his jacket askew, a smudge of what looked like black ink stained his white shirt.

“Jane?” he said. “Jane. Holy crap. You were there?” He paused, adjusting his glasses. Took another step down. “Do you know what happened?”

“Do I? Know what happened?” Jane pointed to herself, taken aback. “That’s what I’m supposed to ask you.”

Trevor shook his head, mournful, staring down at the concrete steps.

“Trevor? You okay?” Jane put the cell phone back to her cheek. “Hang on, Alex. Trevor? Is Lassiter okay?”

“Lassiter’s-fine. Security took him back to his suite. I’m hoping he’ll make a statement soon. We have no idea what happened. The lights just-went out. Then that crazy alarm starts shrieking. Blam.” Trevor flipped a switch in the air, demonstrating. “Blam. Out. Across the entire floor, apparently. The rest of the hotel was fine. Christ, what a friggin’- This completely sucks. A disaster.”

He twisted the corner of his mouth, rueful, then gestured imaginary headlines. “Lights Out for the Lassiter Campaign,” he said. “Can you see it? Gable’s gonna love this. And that’s off the record.”

Jane nodded, listening. Wonder if Alex can hear this?

“Was it like some transformer thing?” she asked. “Or power outage?”

“We don’t know,” he said. “Call me, say, in fifteen. I’ll let you know where the governor is speaking. I’m sure we’ll have something.”

“It would look pretty bad not to.” Jane couldn’t resist. “Lassiter bailing in the middle of chaos, people freaking out. I mean, if it was an accident-”

“It won’t matter what the truth is, you know? It sucks,” Trevor said, interrupting. “If we can’t run a simple rally, I mean, how can we run the country? That’s what they’ll say. You think we’re gonna get any donations after tonight’s fiasco? And Rory’s trying to make Lassiter-”

He stopped. “Never mind. I gotta go.”

He turned and headed down the stairs, waving his clipboard at her. “Fifteen minutes,” he called out. “Or so.”

Jane waited until he was out of sight. “You hear any of that?” she said into the phone. She continued downstairs slowly, wanting the privacy.

“Kind of,” Alex said. “So I’m thinking-it was some random accident? Or like, electricity overload? A circuit thing? You said it was really hot in there.”

Jane shrugged. “The TV guys weren’t with their cameras at the time. Didn’t get any shots. I did, though. With my still camera. I’ll check ’em out, ASAP. See what I got. This whole rally has been a total mess from moment one. I’ll put it all in my story. And there’s a bunch more. But-”

Jane’s phone beeped, an annoying little whine. “Shoot, Alex, low battery. My charger’s in my room. I’ll call you when I get plugged back in.”

“Jane?” Alex said. “Can you still hear me?”

The cell phone blurped out another warning. “For about two more seconds,” she said. She swung open the door marked LOBBY.

“You said to look up Kenna Wilkes.” Alex raised his voice, as if talking more loudly would solve the battery problem. “Who is she?”

Jane paused, considering. She knew the answer, but had zero time to explain it. “She’s the other woman,” she said.

And the phone went dead.