The Other Woman

56

Trevor Kiernan had insisted he didn’t recognize the woman in the photo on Jane’s camera. Which was either the truth, or the beginning of the big lie. Now Jane had another plan. She had to talk to Alex, of course, but he’d been on the phone, so she headed for her desk at the Register, hoping Tuck wasn’t there. She needed some alone time.

No Tuck. Score one for Jane. She sat down, flipped open her laptop, punched up the Deverton assessor’s office. Affluent communities had property info online, thank goodness, so what Jane needed to confirm would be a few clicks away. While her computer was thinking, Jane dug out her notebook and found the page with Kenna Wilkes’s address.

“You avoiding bill collectors or something, roomie? You’ve got mail.”

Tuck stood at the cubicle entrance, one arm around a stack of brown envelopes and magazines.

“Hey, Tuck.” So much for alone time. “Mail?”

Tuck plopped the pile of mail on their desk, a few stray envelopes sliding onto the floor. “Yeah, it’s like e-mail, but it comes on paper. Through the U.S. Postal Service. Goes to the mailroom. Where you’re supposed to pick it up. Unless your cubemate is nice enough to get it for you. Which she is. Once.”

Jane scooted her laptop to one side and rolled her chair back, giving Tuck some space. “Mailroom?” She shrugged, thinking back. She picked up a few of the envelopes, examining them. Junk. “No one told me about the mailroom.”

“Now they have,” Tuck said. She dragged a rolling chair from an adjacent cubicle. Swiveled it backward and straddled it, one cowboy boot on either side of the seat, her short jeans skirt climbing up her thighs. Today she wore a Bruins cap, her ponytail swinging behind. “So, you must be psyched.”

“Psyched?”

“Yeah, roomie. About your pal Arthur Vick.”

“Oh, yeah, they’re searching his wife’s studio. Pretty interesting.” May he rot in hell, she didn’t say. Jane picked up another stack of mail. Junk, junk, junk. No wonder no one had told her about the mailroom, she didn’t need to know. No one used mail anymore. She looked up. “What? Did they find something?”

“So you don’t know? That they arrested him for Sellica’s murder?”

Jane dropped her head into one hand, propping it up with one elbow on the desk. She turned to Tuck, disbelieving. “Are you-?”

“Horse’s mouth,” Tuck said. She wiggled her fingers toward the desktop computer. “Can I get in here, roomie? I need to write the story about the studio, the proximity to the crime scenes, and Arthur Vick’s connection to three of the victims. The cops found roofies there, too. But that’s off the record. Bummer. But bye-bye, Arthur, don’t you think?”

An e-mail popped up on Jane’s computer. From Alex. Jane read the subject line: NOW.

“Ah, Tuck, listen, I’ve got to go talk to Alex.” She flapped her computer closed. Alex can wait thirty more seconds. “They found roofies? In Vick’s studio?”

“So says my source. Remember, the ME found them in Sellica’s tox screen?” Tuck nodded, lofting one leg over the chair back and taking Jane’s place at the desk. “Mrs. Vick had them as sleeping pills, apparently. They’re saying her husband must have used them to knock Sellica out before he killed her. But I’m not allowed to go with it. They’re keeping that tidbit back.”

Jane clutched her laptop to her chest, trying to remember to breathe.

“Roomie? You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just thinking…”

Tuck, smiling, put a palm up toward her. “High five, sister. If Arthur Vick killed Sellica Darden, that pretty much also kills his testimony that he had no relationship with her.”

Jane held up her own palm, slowly, and touched it to Tuck’s. Exactly what she’d been thinking but afraid to say out loud. Could it be true?

From the sliding glass window of Patti Vick’s studio, Jake could see the blue and white cruiser, Arthur Vick in the backseat and two uniforms in the front, crossing the Harbor Street bridge on the way downtown. Behind them, at the wheel of his ridiculous sports car, a probably still-fuming Henry Rothmann.

“The happy couple,” DeLuca said.

Jake stared across the water, remembering the parking lot press conference mere hours before. He squinted at the parking lot. “D?” he said. “I have a thought.”

“Alert the media,” DeLuca said.

“Come with me.” Jake ignored the wisecrack. “Vick and his pal can stew downtown for a while.”

It was two minutes away, less. Jake turned his Jeep into the post office parking lot, driving past the cars parked along the railing.

“What’re you thinkin’?” DeLuca asked from the seat beside him.

Jake jammed the shift into Park, flipped on his wig-wags. “I’m thinkin’-that one.”

Opening his door, he pointed to a white car with several orange parking tickets under the windshield wiper. The car had been there, with one ticket, during the press conference. It was still there. Why hasn’t the owner moved it?

“It’s what happens in the news business, you know?” Alex said. “Until it’s in the paper, it’s not wrong. It’s reporting. Right?”

Jane nodded. Alex was taking the Kenna Wilkes thing pretty well. She perched on the edge of his couch, tentative, almost afraid to say anything for fear of upsetting the balance. The Arthur Vick arrest had just about steamrolled everything else in her mind. She had to call Sam Shapiro, because Arthur Vick’s arrest was proof she was right. Right? Vick would have to admit he and Sellica had a connection. Exactly the opposite of what Vick had testified under oath. Wouldn’t the judge be compelled to grant their appeal? Overturn the judgment?

Wouldn’t he be obligated to make it all go away? Her million-dollar albatross?

Alex glanced at his computer monitor, then adjusted the screen so Jane could see it. “Tuck’s already got the Arthur Vick story working. Here’s her draft for the e-version. ‘Grocery Magnate Arrested for Call Girl Murder.’ That’ll be the headline. We’re putting it up as soon as we get another confirmation.”

Alex leaned against the side of his paper-strewn desk. “How are you about this, Jane? Seems…” He blinked a few times, thinking. Toasted her with his striped paper cup of coffee. “Pretty huge. For your appeal.”

Jane put her elbows on her knees, chin in hands, staring at her own black leather boots. Ten minutes ago, she’d been trying to unravel the identity of a murder victim, trying to keep her job at the Register, trying to figure out how she was going to pay for a lawyer to defend herself against a million-dollar judgment. With the Vick arrest, everything changed. Didn’t it?

“One step at a time,” she said aloud. She stood, picking a bit of couch lint from her black wool skirt and adjusting the stretchy black belt over her turtleneck. “We’ll see about that. The appeal. But the Kenna Wilkes situation-”

“Yeah. As you said, we still have the photos of whoever the victim actually is.” Alex paused, contemplating. “Someone at the Lassiter campaign must know her, right?”

“You’d think.” Alex was talking about what happened next. So Jane’s job was safe. He really was a pretty thoughtful guy. He’d stuck by her. Trusted her.

Alex took a sip of coffee, then gestured his cup toward the door. “So, ace reporter, why aren’t you on your way over there to find out who the victim really is?”