The door opened. “Jane? Can you come in?” Alex had his hand on the doorknob, his eyes on hers. He looked—worried?
She widened her eyes, silently inquiring. What? She thought he held up a finger, as if to say, Everything is fine. But she couldn’t be sure.
He gestured her inside. At the head of an oval table she recognized Taylor Burleigh Reidy, the paper’s executive editor, in pinstripes and black-framed reading glasses. Another suit she didn’t recognize was flipping the pages of a green leather-covered volume. Next to Reidy sat a—fashion model? Even with her dark hair yanked into a stubby ponytail, no makeup, wearing a denim jacket and black leather skirt, she was cover girl material. Twenty-something, hip, gorgeous. A stick. Next to the girl, an empty chair.
Everyone in the room was looking at Jane.
“I’m Tay Reidy, Jane. Please. Take a seat.” He stood, indicating the empty chair. His trademark silver hair slicked back from his aristocratic forehead, his suit impeccable. A braided rope bracelet circled one wrist. He smiled, waving a hand over the group. “We’re so pleased to have you on board. Right, Alex?”
Alex nodded.
“But we must ask you a favor,” Reidy continued. He pointed to the man beside him, giving him the floor. “And Ethan Geller here, our legal eagle, says it’s legally—how’d you put it, Ethan? Appropriate. Beyond reproach.”
Jane pulled out her chair as Reidy talked and sat down, frowning. Beyond reproach? Appropriate? What is? Every one of her nerve endings turned to high. Everything is fine was so not true. Under the table, her foot tapped.
“Whatever you decide, Jane,” Ethan said. “But you’re not in violation of any law. Either way.”
“It’s an incredible opportunity for us,” Alex said. “And of course, since you’re on our team now, we want to get our show on the road before anyone else calls you.”
“She doesn’t know, Alex. Look at her. She doesn’t know what we’re talking about.” The brunette swiveled her chair to face Jane, then leaned forward, hands on her bare knees. “There’s another Bridge Killer victim. That’s why I texted you, roomie.”
Jane’s heart dropped. Then raced. Roomie? This girl? Is Tuck? Her bewilderment could not be more complete. Another bridge victim? No, she didn’t know. How would she know? And why would they think she’d care?
“Alex?” Jane said. “Did Lassiter’s campaign—?”
“Tuck, why don’t you tell her,” Alex interrupted. “Tuck’s the one who’s breaking the story.”
“It’s Sellica Darden, Jane.” Tuck’s voice was even, almost compassionate. “Her body was found by the Moakley Bridge. The Bridge Killer’s new victim is Sellica Darden.”
13
“She was your source, correct?” Tay Reidy leaned his pin-striped elbows on the conference table, fingers laced, eyes riveted on Jane. “Sellica Darden was who you were protecting. The one who could prove the john was Arthur Vick. This changes everything, of course. You see what a major story this is.”
“You can tell the whole truth,” the lawyer said. “You wouldn’t reveal your source in court, understandable, but now you’re free to do so.”
“You’re the only one who can write it, Jane.” Alex was out of his chair. “You know the facts, you know the background, you know the inside story. Like Mr. Reidy says, you’re on solid legal ground. Sellica’s dead now. You’re fine. You’re free. Right, Ethan?”
Fine? Free? Sellica’s dead? The Bridge Killer? The room was buzzing around her, all these people talking at once, almost as if she weren’t here. How was she supposed to process this? Sellica was dead. And Jane’s life was irrevocably ruined.
“Oh, most assuredly.” The lawyer opened his book to a place marked by a yellow sticky and traced a finger down the page. “Your agreement to keep her name confidential has no power of law, so as a contract issue, it’s not even…”
Jane knew the lawyer was still talking, something about protections and dissolution and shield laws and termination of confidentiality, but her mind, struggling for equilibrium, was full of Sellica Darden. Sellica very much alive, in room 2306 of the Madisonian Hotel.
Odd place to meet, a sleek high-rise in the bustle of downtown Boston. Jane had protested at first, suggesting they find an out-of-the-way coffee shop, or take a walk in a suburban park. She could almost hear Sellica’s insistent voice, its hint of amusement.
“I have friends at the Mad,” she’d told Jane on the phone. “And I’m all about discreet, right?”
The next morning, a key card had been left at Channel 11’s front desk in an envelope marked JANE and PERSONAL in purple Magic Marker. An hour later, Jane, in sunglasses and a baseball cap, had used the key card to click open room 2306. Sellica, voluptuous even in silhouette, had been standing in the window, looking out at the Boston skyline.
Have I ever met a hooker before? The question had crossed Jane’s mind, surprising her. Hooker was probably inappropriate. What did Sellica call herself? Jane realized she hadn’t known what the woman looked like. The photos in the paper had been either mug shots or blurred, and in the snippets of TV video, Sellica was always more sunglasses than face.
The woman in the window had turned, offered a hand. Her narrow charcoal skirt, white shirt, sleek suede pumps, and horn-rimmed glasses looked almost prim, from the dress-for-success handbook. Her chestnut-frosted hair was pulled back, severe. Her lips pale pink. Chunky gold earrings and matching necklace. Jane looked around the room briefly, wondering if Sellica had sent her lawyer instead of showing up in person.
“No, it’s me,” the woman said. She lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Not what you expected ‘the other woman’ to look like?”
Jane had fumbled a greeting, trying to cover her embarrassment. Jumping to conclusions was hardly the way to build confidence. But that day had ended with promises.
Promises Jane knew she had to keep. Even now.
Even now that Sellica is dead. The Register’s conference room seemed to go cold. Jane crossed her arms in front of her, hugging herself against the chill. Sellica was dead. And now, so were Jane’s chances for redemption. She could never prove her story. She would always be Wrong-Guy Ryland. Arthur Vick wins again.
Arthur Vick. Could he have killed—? Jane played out the possibilities, fast forward.
“Jane? You with us here?” Tuck touched her lightly on the shoulder.
Jane blinked, back in the present. Ridiculous. Arthur Vick didn’t kill Sellica. The Bridge Killer did.
“Think it’s doable?” Tuck was saying.
Doable? Jane scanned their faces. Tuck, eyes shining. Tay Reidy. That lawyer. Alex, dressed up for some reason in a dark blazer and striped tie. Everyone seemed to be waiting for her to answer something.
“If you two get started now, we could have it for tomorrow’s edition. Here’s the plan.” Alex gestured with his chunky ballpoint at a list he’d scrawled on his yellow pad. “Jane writes the Sellica backgrounder, Tuck writes the Sellica murder story. Photos, bios, excerpts from the trial transcripts. Recap the other Bridge Killer victims in a sidebar. And we’ll have to get reax from the cops.”
He abruptly stopped his high-speed instructions. “Gotta wonder if the other victims were hookers. You know?”
“You got it, boss,” Tuck said. “Cake.”
“Are you with us, Jane? I’ll take you off the Lassiter thing, of course. Just for a day. Moira hasn’t called, right? Or Gable?” Alex clicked his pen, eager for her answer. “You’ve got police sources, too. Right? You know Jake Brogan. That works.”
“I—” Jane’s voice wasn’t working very well. Her brain was full, churning. Was Sellica a random victim of the Bridge Killer? Or had someone sought her out? And if so, who? And why? Would Arthur Vick kill Sellica? “I think—”
Every eye in the room focused on her.
“Perhaps Jane would prefer to write the story herself?” Tay Reidy interrupted the silence. “Jane, is that why you’re hesitating? It is, after all, your vindication. Pr
oof you were telling the truth, all along.”
“Ethan, that reminds me.” Tuck turned her back to Jane. “What happens to that million-dollar judgment against Channel Eleven when it comes out that Jane was telling the truth?”
The lawyer nodded, picked up his yellow pad. “Yes, indeed. The appeal process. Could be probative. I did some preliminary research on that, and it appears—”
Jane stood, slowly, balancing herself, palms down on the table. The lawyer stopped, midsentence, pad in the air. Tuck pivoted to face her.
“No one knows who my source is. No one. Not even at Channel Eleven.” Jane took a deep breath. She had to sort out her secrets. Her responsibilities. And her future. “I never said it was Sellica Darden.”
“Well, no, but…” Alex was frowning. So was everyone else. “I mean, if not Sellica, then who? It’s pretty obvious. And listen, Jane, promises end with death.”
“They don’t.” Jane collected her notebook and her tote bag, then looked at the door. This decision was going to cost her another job. Perhaps her career. Her father would not believe this. “I promised I would never reveal the name of my source. The fact that Sellica Darden died—was murdered—doesn’t change that. Never means never. If it doesn’t, no one will ever tell me anything again.”
She paused. Good-bye, Register. Hello, unemployment.
“You’d do the same thing,” she said, trying to keep her voice on track. “You would.”
The air went out of the room. Tay Reidy, eyes narrowed, rolled his pen between two palms, the metal clinking against his wedding ring. The lawyer closed his laptop and seemed to be studying the grain of the conference table. Tuck swiveled her chair back and forth, her eyes on Alex.
No one looked at Jane. And then, in an instant, everyone did. And everyone began talking. Alex’s voice was the loudest.
“Are you kidding me?” Alex tossed his notepad onto the polished table. It slid across the glossed surface, stopping, pages splayed, against the law book. “So you’d rather keep this secret? A secret about a dead hooker? Even if—”
“Hey, that’s not fair, Alex.” Jane tried to keep the edge out of her voice. Failed. “I don’t have a choice. You know that.”
Alex dragged his fingers through his hair, then shrugged. “Okay. I’m sorry. I know, it’s—difficult. But, listen, you see our position.”
“Not to mention, of course, it could be critical evidence in a murder case.” Reidy’s voice, arch, cut into Alex’s apology.
“Interesting call, Jane,” the lawyer said. “Unnecessary, I must say.”
Tuck raised a hand, as if asking for permission to talk. “Listen, though. Storywise? Whether Sellica’s the source or not, I mean, does it really matter?”
Alex thumbed the edge of his yellow pad, flipping the pages. Did it again, then again. When he finally looked up, he was nodding. “Okay, I hear ya. I suppose—it doesn’t. We know Sellica was involved in the sex extortion case. She hit up a bigwig for money; he ratted her out. And Arthur Vick sued Jane for saying it was him. So for us to do an inside story about Sellica’s murder? I suppose … we don’t need to know Jane’s source.”
From the depths of Jane’s tote bag, her cell phone trilled. Maybe Moira Lassiter was calling, since the universe loved irony. Or Dad. It rang again.
“Pick up,” Tuck said. “Might be the cops.”
“Or a friend of Sellica’s,” Alex said. “Maybe she left you a note. We’re pushing deadline here.”
The phone rang again.
Tay Reidy nodded at her. “Might as well.”
Maybe it’s Jake. I need to talk to Jake. Jane mentally crossed her fingers as she pawed through her bag, searching for her suddenly too-small cell. Found it.
“This is Jane,” she said.
Everyone leaned forward, eyes wide, waiting. Jane sat back down, the cell clamped to her cheek.
She needed to talk to Jake. But this wasn’t Jake.
“Yes,” she said. “I know that.”
She paused, her lips pressed tight together, her spine rigid, as a wheedling voice from her too-recent-employment past made her an offer.
“You’re kidding,” she said. Her head was shaking no, as if the voice on the other end could see her. “You must be kidding.”
“What?” Alex whispered.
“Who is it?” Tuck reached out a hand as if to bring Jane closer.
“Please don’t ask me to do that. And please don’t call me again.” Jane clicked the phone to black, slamming the door on her career and on her dreams. All to protect a sex-selling criminal who’d lied and cheated and ruined a marriage and was now lying dead in the city morgue.
“What?” Everyone in the room asked it at the same time. Then everyone waited.
“Channel Eleven,” Jane said.
She swallowed hard, then slowly walked to the sideboard at the end of the room. She carefully selected a plastic bottle of water from a silver ice-filled container, twisted off the cap. Turned back to the table.
“They want me to come back. ‘Do the Sellica story,’ they said.” She took a sip, leaning against the sideboard. She didn’t trust her knees.
“But you said you didn’t tell them your source.” Alex took a step toward her, brow furrowing. “You said they don’t—”
“Alex. Stop. They don’t know who it is. But, like you—” She waved her water bottle at the room. “Anyway. They said if I talk, do the big reveal, maybe the court will reverse the ruling, and reverse the million-dollar judgment. If that happens, they said, they ‘might even have an opening for a new reporter.’”
She tried to smile.
“All I have to do, they said, is tell.”
14
Sellica Darden’s murder could mean only one thing.
Maybe two. And they were both disasters.
He needed to talk to Jane.
Jake drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the police department’s undercover Jeep and watched through the windshield. The streetlights, most of them working, barely made a dent in the late afternoon gloom of Hampstead Street. Struggling chrysanthemums made a last stand in the cared-for houses. In others, forgotten bicycles sprawled on crabgrass or frost-heaved driveways. The trees, municipal afterthoughts, had already lost most of their leaves.
At Leota Darden’s house, one of two porch lights allowed Jake to see the faces of those arriving to pay their respects. Surprising that Leota’s daughter had used her real last name. Surprising they hadn’t moved out of town after the Arthur Vick mess. Wonder if the neighbors came to visit after that hit the fan.
Jake watched as the afternoon turned into evening.
Maybe there are three possibilities.
More people arrived at the Dardens’ triple-decker: a man in a Celtics cap and a woman teetering on ridiculous heels, holding hands.
Three possibilities. And all disasters.
Jake slid back the front seat in a futile attempt to get comfortable. The radios glowed, pinpoint lights flashing, their squawk turned down.
Sellica’s body had been found by water, by a bridge. Possibility one, damn it, meant he was 100 percent wrong. There was, in fact, a Bridge Killer. Sellica was his third victim. Which meant some maniac was stalking random women—random?—and killing them. Getting away with it. Holy Christ, a serial killer on the loose in Boston.
But serial killers had patterns. Processes. Habits. Their killings had similarities. And Sellica was an outlier. At least, not the same. He’d spent hours at the crime scene. Looking for something. Anything. Looking for similarities to Charlestown and Longfellow. Hoping there weren’t any. Hoping there were.
Knowing that cops aren’t supposed to hope. They observe. Connect. And find answers.
Sellica’s body lay at the ME’s office, autopsy still under way, but Dr. A’s prelim had found roofies. Maybe it had nothing to do with her job, but why would someone give a hooker a knockout drug? Had some john flipped out? Or was there another reason? Charlestown and Longfellow, tox scree
ns there showed no drugs. Different. Sellica was different.
No bruises—so, yeah, that was the same as Longfellow. But not like Charlestown.
The same. And different.
Possibility two, he was right. No serial. Maybe there were three killers. Three separate incidents. That would be a huge piece of crap to solve.
Possibility three was why Jake had to talk to Jane. Possibility three meant Charlestown and Longfellow were killed by the same person. Fine, he was wrong, there was a Bridge Killer. Which sucked. But possibility three meant Sellica was a separate deal altogether.
Maybe she’d finally hit a john who’d gone too far, doused her with roofies, freaked, pushed her into the water and booked. Or—and here was the biggie. Or, Arthur Vick had decided it was time for a big payback.
A payback bigger than a million dollars.
That’s why Jake had to talk to Jane.
This isn’t across the boundaries we set, because this isn’t personal. This is part of the investigation. Maybe Jane is also a target? I’d want to call her, even if she wasn’t …
He grabbed his phone, then stopped. The call would be on his cell log. And the supe, clearly unhappy with him, must suspect he was the department leak. His shoulders sagged. Jane would be safe for now. No one was getting killed tonight. And the supe was waiting for an update. If he solved the damn case, no one else would get hurt.
Jake opened the Jeep’s front door and stepped into the October evening. Time to visit the victim’s mother. Maybe she’d know something.
Someone sure did.
15
It can’t be. Matt stared at the photo on his desk computer. He was reading the Boston Register, online, as he did every day. A Red Sox fan since he was a kid, he imagined he remembered his dad talking to him about Yaz, and Eck, and Carlton Fisk. Now, a thousand miles away and twenty-some years later, Matt couldn’t shake the Sox habit.
Today it was political news, not sports, that skidded his work to a halt. A picture of a woman at a rally. One face in the crowd. It hit him as hard as a wild pitch.
The Other Woman Page 7
