The Other Woman

39

“Score one for the new kid,” Alex told her, making a mark in the air. “Fifth floor loves it.”

At work on a Sunday. He was taking his job seriously, Jane figured. Or maybe it was easier for him to hang out here in his office than at home. Maybe he was using work as an excuse. Or an escape.

Today he was weekend casual in a black T-shirt under a cashmere-looking zipper-neck black sweater. His usual jeans. Hot Alex, Jane thought. He was, indeed. Especially now that he was praising her story.

“Oh, terrific. Thanks,” Jane said, taking a seat on his couch. She was tired, but never too tired for pats on the back. Soon she’d be home. “Remember, I’ve got those other photos of Kenna Wilkes. When I get to my desk, I’ll download ’em. Send ’em to you.”

“Great,” Alex said. “But right now you need to- Well, wait. Let me confirm. Your pictures are definitely of the same woman who’s in Gus’s archive photos, right?”

“Yes, no question.” Jane nodded. “Kenna Wilkes is her name. I’m pretty sure… well, yeah, it has to be. You know? She was there, at the rally, the woman in the photo. That’s what my source at the hotel said her name was. And my source also confirmed Kenna Wilkes checked out the same time the governor checked out. Question is, who the heck is she? I Googled, and ZabaSearched, got pretty much nothing. Did you?”

“Well, not me, I didn’t have time to do it myself. But I told Tuck to look into it.” Alex moved his wireless silver mouse across his desk. Jane couldn’t see what was on the computer screen. At least she was learning not to take his multitasking personally. Workaholic or not, why was he here on a Sunday? She glanced at the third finger, left hand. Still no ring. But he didn’t seem unhappy. No way, of course, to ask what was going on in his personal life. She rewound to what he’d just said.

“You told Tuck?” Jane tried to follow his reasoning. “To check on Kenna Wilkes? How come?”

Alex stopped his mouse and looked up at her, surprised. “On the phone yesterday, you told me the name Amaryllis Roldan. And later, Kenna Wilkes. Since I knew you’d talked to Jake, I thought they were both connected to the Bridge Killer stuff. So I asked Tuck to run them by her sources.”

Jane thought back. “No, Alex. I was at the rally, remember? And I told you, Wilkes was the other woman.”

“Yeah, I know. But I thought you meant the other woman in the bridge killings. See? Roldan, a victim. And Wilkes the other victim. I figured that was what you were telling me.”

“Yikes. And we’re supposed to be in the communications biz.” Jane shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She is who she is. If Tuck comes up with something for my story, great.”

She yawned, the last of her adrenaline departing. She needed coffee. Food. Sleep. How many hours had she slept? Like, four? “Now, if Kenna Wilkes gets murdered by the Bridge Killer, that’d be the ultimate worlds-collide. Anything new on that? I gotta admit, Arthur Vick isn’t my favorite person on the planet right now.”

Alex slapped his laptop closed.

Gave her his full attention, thank you so much.

“Nothing new I know of. Tuck’s out now. Talking to-” He paused. “Whatever she does. Anyway, Jane. She’ll handle the Bridge Killer. Unless you’ve decided to give us more on Sellica?”

“Alex-”

“Kidding. Anyway. You’ve got other fish to fry.”

“Fish?”

“Remember I told you the Gable people called? They’re saying the interview with her has to be today. So head over to Beacon Hill. Ellie Gable will be waiting for you.”

Jane slumped back into the flat cushions of Alex’s couch. “You know I’m happy to,” Jane said. “I really am. But look at me. I’m a mess. I’ve been wearing this same outfit for two days.”

“You look great,” Alex said. “As always.”

“I drove all the way to Springfield,” Jane went on, ignoring the had-to-be-manipulative compliment. “I stayed up till whenever writing the story. Then drove all the way back. I’m wiped. My brain is fried. There’s no way that Gable can-?”

“Your six-month tryout is now five months and three weeks,” Alex said. “Happy anniversary. And here’s your present. The Gable interview’s not till five. So, go home, take a nap. Then show up at Gable’s and get us the scoop.”

“Kenna? Ah, nope.” DeLuca’s voice crackled over the phone, sounding confused. “No, Harvard, the victim’s name’s not Kenna. Listen, you at your desk? I’ll be there in ten.”

He hung up without waiting for Jake to reply.

Jake closed his eyes briefly. Whew. Tuck had almost sucker-punched him, for sure. She’d gotten some tip, one of dozens probably, decided to try it out on him. Who knew how that girl’s brain worked. She wanted there to be a Bridge Killer so desperately, she’d do anything to keep it in the headlines. And keep her name on the front page. It was as much about her career as it was about the truth.

He crumpled Pam’s “says urgent” note off the pad, wrote the name Kenna Wilkes on a clean page. He’d get someone to check it. So far, the name wasn’t anything that would blow up his life. Damn, Tuck.

Jake took a swig of coffee, lukewarm. He put his feet on the desk, pulled his computer onto his lap, opened the folder marked PERSONAL, then the file he’d labeled BRIDGE.

Stared at the screen.

Longfellow was first. The first no-ID body. The one that started this whole Bridge Killer deal. Now DeLuca said they’d gotten a possible name for her. She’d shown no signs of trauma, no tattoos. Cause of death, drowning, according to Dr. Archambault. No shoes. Did that mean anything? No connection with Arthur Vick. So far. Maybe the name would help make the connection. But if she was connected with Vick, that’d be a horse of another color. They’d have to bear down on him. Three for three. That was no coincidence.

Three for three would mean there was a Bridge Killer, and his name was Arthur Vick. Jake scratched his head with both hands, squinching up his eyes. Why would Vick kill-?

Jake thought about Patti Vick, sitting in her suburban living room. Talking about her “best friend.” She’d be rethinking that assessment if they nailed him for this. Wonder if she’d stand by him, all that “good wife” stuff.

He clicked to his next page of notes.

Charlestown, victim two, Amaryllis Roldan. A week later, another Sunday. They’d gotten her ID from the tattoo guy. She’d had bruises, face and back. Cause of death, drowning, again. Sellica’s mother said she’d never heard of Roldan, but Vick certainly had. And that pitiful Beacon Market clerk Olive Parisella.

Sellica Darden. Body three. Not a Sunday. No ID on her, but Sellica Darden had gotten her fifteen minutes of fame. She didn’t need ID. Did the killer know that? Or not? Jake sighed. Cause of death, drowning. But the roofies in her system were outliers. Date rape drug. Who had been her date?

If the killings weren’t connected, maybe no other women were in danger.

If they were connected-well, still, whoever it was might be done.

Or not.

He buzzed his intercom. “Hey, Pam? I’ve got a name I need you to run.”

“Ready, boss.”

“Kenna Wilkes.” He spelled it.

“Loud and clear,” Pam said. “Gimme a few.”

Jake stared at his computer screen, unseeing.

It was Sunday again.

Three dead bodies. And though it was his job to find answers, there were none.