The Other Woman

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Her source was dead, her reputation battered, and a bad guy—who might be a serial killer—hated her. She was in a cookie-cutter hotel room with unreliable electricity and no toothbrush, and she had a story to write. Welcome to Jane World.

  “Yeah, Jakey, I’m fine. My phone died at one point. My guess? Someone turned out the lights. A mistake, maybe? Or—I don’t know.” Jane quickly filled him in on the rest. “But at least I get to write it for the paper. My first story, right? Once I find out the deal. Where are you, anyway?”

  “Mickey D’s. HQ confirmed Springfield was no problem. So DeLuca and I are getting—hang on.” Jake paused. “He’s back in the car. Says hi. Anyway, all good. I was only checking.”

  Jake’s voice had gone professional. He must trust DeLuca somewhat, though. And Jane had to admit, Amy knew about Jake. Whatever there was to “know.” Amy was doing her best to wean them apart. It’s a lose–lose, sister, she’d warned. Other fish in the sea.

  Okay, Jane could be professional, too. Even though she liked this fish. “Can D hear me?” Jane asked.

  “Unclear at this point,” Jake replied.

  Ah. So Jane whispered. “Amaryllis Roldan.”

  * * *

  “Yup, I can hear her.” DeLuca stashed the two mediums, light, two sugars, into the molded black plastic cup holders between them on the console, then backhanded Jake’s leather jacket. “Not at all ‘unclear.’ She wanna whisper sweet nothings?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s clear, brother,” Jake said. Then, into the phone, “Talk to you later, Jane.”

  That was close. Jake pulled out of the lot, heading back to HQ. Then again, maybe there was one more place they needed to check out.

  DeLuca leaned in, punched on the car’s radio. “News,” he said.

  A staticky radio-announcer voice blasted through the cruiser.

  “Hey!” Jake said.

  “Gimme a break,” DeLuca said, turning down the volume.

  “—and now, a very annoyed Governor Lassiter and his campaign team, just beginning to struggle in the polls, have left Springfield for the night. In other news—”

  DeLuca punched off the radio. “So Lassiter leaves town,” he said.

  Jake glanced at him, then back to the clamor of Saturday night traffic. Boylston Street and Mass Ave.—the busiest intersection in Boston. Coffee shops, music stores, fast food. Kids in packs, cars honking, some guy playing the sax on the corner, nobody in the striped crosswalks.

  He hoped no one would walk home alone tonight across the Mass Ave. Bridge.

  “So?” Jake said.

  “Ver-ry senatorial.”

  “Yeah, hardly a profile in courage.” Jake stopped as the light turned yellow, watched three cars accelerate from behind him and bang through it.

  “Wanna hit the lights and siren?” DeLuca asked.

  “Just about,” Jake said. The light turned red. One more jerk went through. “But listen, we know where Arthur Vick is, right?”

  “Huh? He’s at his store. ‘Working,’” DeLuca added, making air quotes with his long fingers. Difficult, because he was also holding his coffee. “Probably banging—”

  Jake hit his turn signal, rolled his eyes. “He’s at the store. And that means Mrs. Vick is home alone.”

  “Or dead.”

  “Which would give Vick a pretty good alibi, wouldn’t it, wise guy? So what I’m saying,” Jake continued, watching the light and feeling for his coffee, “is maybe it’s time to pay Patricia Vick a little surprise visit. At home.”

  “It’s like, almost ten o’clock at night.”

  “I have a watch,” Jake said. And the light turned green.

  * * *

  “It’s almost ten o’clock at night! You kidding me, Trevor?” Jane wailed into the phone, peering out the window of her hotel room at the spotlit parking lot, half-thinking she might actually see the governor’s car, the courage mobile, heading away from any news conference, official statement, or responsibility-taking. “He’s leaving? Not going to say a word? I’ve been waiting here in my room, all this time—I gotta tell you, Trevor, that seems—”

  She stopped. Gave a mental shrug. She was a reporter. Whatever happened, that’s what she’d write. “Okay. Are you gonna have a statement, at least?”

  A car was pulling out of the lot, she noticed, almost at the road. Then another set of headlights came on in a parking space near the hotel. Two cars leaving. Campaign cars? But she could hardly run down and stop them. On the phone, Trevor Kiernan was still in full-blown excuse-making mode.

  “Listen, Jane, I’m so sorry, what can I tell you, it’s out of my hands. But, yeah, we do have a statement coming,” he said. “Call ya back in thirty seconds.”

  The phone went dead.

  Jane pressed her forehead against the chilly window. The first car was booking toward the highway, the second car now at the stop sign. Lassiter types who’d been at the rally, probably. Off to spin their yarns of the disaster of an evening they’d witnessed firsthand.

  Now she had to go back downstairs, hope people were still in the bar hashing it over, get some eyewitness sound bites. She raised one forefinger, correcting herself. Not sound bites, interviews. And demand reaction from the hotel management. Lucky her boots were still on.

  It’d be fun to tell her dad about her first newspaper story. And Amy. Steve and Margery. Wonder if the other Channel 11 people would notice it? Come to think of it, they couldn’t put this story on the air. They hadn’t sent a crew. She felt the beginnings of a smile. She’d scooped them. The new door was opening. Score one for Team Jane.

  “This is Jane.” She clicked on her phone before the ring even finished. Tucking it between her cheek and her shoulder, she yanked her laptop from her tote bag so she could take down Trevor’s certain-to-be-weasly statement. She eyed the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. She’d better get a move on.

  “Jane?”

  Woman’s voice. Not Trevor.

  “Yes? This is Jane.” Like I said.

  “This is Moira Lassiter. Do you know where my husband is?”

  34

  “Where the hell are we? What time is it?”

  From her vantage point in the backseat of the campaign’s SUV, Kenna Wilkes saw Owen Lassiter’s head jerk awake. He looked across the front seat at Rory, driving, then back at her, then squinted ahead into the blackness of the Mass Pike unspooling in front of them. Seat-belted into the darkness of the backseat, she didn’t have to hide her smile. This could be interesting.

  “Ah, Governor, you’re awake,” Rory said.

  “How long was I sleeping?” Owen rubbed his face with both hands, then blinked, looking at his watch. Three cars, high beams switched on, zoomed by. Passing them going east toward Boston, one eighteen-wheeler, lights dotting its double-long trailer. They had a long way to go. “It’s almost two in the morning?”

  The glow from the dashboard readouts spotted Owen’s face with flickering shadows. A car went by, and for an instant, its headlights illuminated him, full view. He looked confused. Exhausted. Older.

  “Kenna. Mrs. Wilkes. You’re okay?” Owen said.

  Kenna raised a hand. “Just fine, Governor. How about you? You’ve really been sleeping.”

  “Rory? What’s the deal here?” Owen looked around, a baffled owl in pinstripes. He peered at his watch again. “Two? How’d it get to be two?”

  Rory kept his eyes on the road. “Well, you fell asleep soon after we left Springfield. Perhaps that scotch you—”

  “Damn. That rally. Any word from the brain trust at the hotel?”

  “Nope. Told them we’d call in the morning.” Rory flipped a hand. “But let’s write it off, Governor. What are we gonna do, sue? Farther away that whole fiasco gets, the better. At least Boston TV wasn’t there.”

  “That Jane Ryland was, though. From the newspaper.” The governor leaned back in his bucket seat, propped one foot on the dashboard. “But I guess she’s—”

  “Yeah,” Rory said
.

  Jane Ryland. Reporter. Kenna tucked that name away.

  “Anyway, I fell asleep? We should have been home hours ago.”

  “Well, you were so peaceful, and frankly I was a little tired myself, so we pulled over at a rest stop, Kenna got us some coffee, and I worked on some campaign stuff, lost track of time, I guess till the caffeine kicked in. All we need, the next senator from Massachusetts in a car accident because his driver fell asleep. Right? So we’re running a little behind, timewise.”

  “Moira will think—,” the governor began.

  She sure will, Kenna thought.

  “No, she won’t,” Rory interrupted. “If she picked up my message, it only confirms you’re in Springfield. If she didn’t get the message, she’d check your schedule and find out you were in Springfield. And after—what happened, it was too late to call and tell her about your, uh, change of plans. It’s not like there’s anything she could do.”

  “She might have seen it on the news, Rory. She’ll be a basket case, worrying. Why’d you let me fall asleep before calling her?”

  “Governor, listen. You know she doesn’t stay up for the news anymore. She’ll sleep blissfully until tomorrow—when you’ll surprise her by arriving so early. She’ll be delighted. What does it matter if you were sleeping in a hotel in Springfield or in a car on the Mass Pike?”

  Owen patted his pockets. “I’m going to call her now. Tell her what’s going on.”

  “Sure, do that,” Rory said. “But you’ll scare the hell out of her when the phone rings and wakes her up.”

  Owen stopped his search. “I suppose that’s true.”

  Rory drove a few moments, then yawned. Hugely. He put one hand over his face, and gave his head a quick shake.

  Owen put a hand on his arm. “Want me to drive?”

  “Lord no, you’re more tired than I am.” Rory yawned again. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Dammit, Rory, this is dangerous. Silly. We’re scheduled to be out of town, so let’s find the next reasonable place and catch some sleep. You’re exhausted. I’m exhausted. Here’s a Worcester exit. There’s got to be a, whatever. Hotel. Motel. Mrs. Wilkes? What say you? You’re certainly having an adventure.”

  Kenna yawned, eyes wide over the prayerlike hands that covered her mouth. “Whatever you say, Governor.” She lowered her hands. “I must admit, the idea of bed is very, very tempting.”

  * * *

  Maybe Arthur Vick killed Sellica, Amaryllis Roldan, and “Longfellow” merely as practice. As a setup. All to get ready for his real goal—to kill his wife.

  To get her to stop talking.

  Jake managed a straight face as he watched Patti Vick—Patricia Auriello Vick, age fifty-three, born Charlestown, Massachusetts, housewife, married to A. Vick for thirty-three years, no living children, no registered pets, according to Sergeant Nguyen in the Records Department—tuck into her second supersized single malt. It was the only thing that interrupted her blow-by-blow recitation of the years of “blissful” marriage to the “self-made” “wonderfully generous” guy who was her “first love” and “best friend.”

  DeLuca hadn’t been cool with the “let’s chat with Pat” program as they knocked on the Vicks’ front door, warning, “It’s so late, she’ll probably shoot first and we won’t be alive to ask questions later.” Mrs. Vick had at first gone pale, asking if there was anything wrong. After they assured her they were only night-shift detectives who needed to ask her a couple questions, Patti “with an i” had acted as if the late-night arrival of two cops on her almost-suburban doorstep was exactly what she’d been waiting for. “I never sleep,” she told them. Now, here the two of them were, facing a tracksuit-wearing fireplug on a triple-wide sectional. Listening to Patti Vick tell all.

  Not that she was saying anything relevant. But Jake took another sip of his second water on the rocks. The enough-rope theory. Let them talk. Sometimes they talked too much.

  And, Jake reminded himself, he believed—because Jane had sworn it under oath on the witness stand—this woman’s husband had been paying Sellica Darden for sex. And a few days ago, probably killed her. And probably killed Amaryllis Roldan before that.

  Mrs. Vick was living in some kind of dreamworld. Or she was a pretty good liar. Or a drunk. Or all three. He’d let her talk.

  “Interesting,” DeLuca was saying. Not that Patti-with-an-i needed encouragement.

  It did seem that she worshipped at the altar of Arthur. After Jake’s initial foray into Sellica Darden territory—which Patti had dismissed as “all lies and televisional sensational stuff” from “that horrible girl on Channel Eleven,” Mrs. Vick’s commentary about her husband had been all positive. He could do no wrong. Anything she ever wanted, she got. Yes, he was busy, but there were rewards. Now she was showing off the huge and incomprehensible oil-painted canvases hanging frame-to-frame on the living room’s too-crowded walls.

  “All mine,” she said, jabbing her chest with a manicured finger. Her husband let her “do her art.” She was an insomniac, she revealed. But he let her “have an atelier” so she could “find herself.”

  “Yes, I know, there’s a bit too much of myself to ‘find’ these days.” Patti poked one dark red fingernail into an ample thigh. “But that’s what happens when your husband owns a grocery store, right? Artie always told me, even in high school, he liked that I was big-boned. ‘Not some little fairy girl,’ he’d say. ‘You’re my real woman.’ He’d say.”

  DeLuca took a dramatic sip of water, waving the floor to Jake.

  “You ever hear the name Amaryllis Roldan?” Jake said. Might as well get this wrapped up. They could always come back.

  Patti’s eyes went up, searching from one corner of the ceiling to the other, then back. “Ah, no. Why? Who’s that?”

  “Who chooses the women in your husband’s commercials?”

  “Aren’t they great?” Patti perked up. “We’re here for twenty-four and, if you need it, more.”

  “Ma’am?” Jake prodded her. The wife of a murder suspect singing TV jingles in the middle of the night. What they don’t teach you at the academy. “The women?”

  “Oh, my goodness, no idea. That’s all business stuff. At Artie’s office.”

  “So, finally.” DeLuca looked at his watch, then at Jake. “Your husband has a habit of working this late, ma’am?”

  “Even on Saturday nights?” Jake put in.

  Sunday morning, really. When “Longfellow” and Roldan had been killed.

  “Oh, yes, he—” Patti stopped, then looked at Jake, wary, like, wait a minute. She took a sip, then wagged one finger at him, midswallow. “Oh, I know what you’re real-ly asking, Detectives. Is that why you’re still here? Well, I can answer that one, easy peasy. The nights those poor girls were killed, my Arthur was most certainly not working late. In fact, he was with me.”

  35

  “Do I know where your husband is?” Jane’s eyebrows went up, trying to figure out exactly what to say to Moira Lassiter. I mean, why not call him and ask him, you know? The nightstand clock taunted her. She had expected this to be the call from Trevor, dictating the campaign’s statement. What was taking him so long? She had to write her story. But she couldn’t dump Moira. And why didn’t Moira know where her own husband was? “Mrs. Lassiter? I mean, I saw him at the event, of course, earlier this evening. Here in Springfield. Did you try to call him?”

  Jane had a thought. “Oh, I get it. You’re worried about the rally situation. Did you see something about it on TV? It’s all fine. Nobody hurt, everyone accounted for.” As far as I know. Jane checked the clock again, semi-panic setting in. “I’m actually still waiting for a statement from the campaign. I could call you directly, if you like, when I find out more. After I file my story.”

  “The ‘situation’? At the rally?” Mrs. Lassiter’s voice lost its usual confidence. “What situation? I’ve been asleep since nine. Is something wrong? I tried to call, of course, but Owen didn’t answer his—”
r />   Jane’s call-waiting beeped in. It had to be Trevor. She had to make her deadline.

  “Mrs. Lassiter, I’m incredibly sorry. Nothing’s wrong. Hold on one second, though, okay?” Jane clicked the button. “This is Jane.”

  “Jane? Trevor. Sorry to take so long, but—”

  “Listen, Trevor, ah, do you know where—?” Jane paused, thinking of Moira on the other line. She could simply have Moira talk to Trevor. On the other hand, wouldn’t Trevor wonder why Moira was calling her? And what if Trevor were in on whatever was happening? If anything was happening. No. She had to keep everyone and everything separate until she figured out whose side everyone was on. “Never mind. Do you have the statement?”

  “Yup, I’ll read it to you. Ready? ‘We are deeply—’”

  “Trevor? Hang on. One second. I’ve got to … ah, hang on.” She didn’t wait for a reply. Clicked back to Moira.

  “Mrs. Lassiter? Please forgive me, I’m on a crushing deadline. Governor Lassiter is fine, I last saw him with his entourage—” And the other woman you’re wondering about, which she didn’t say. “Now Tre— Someone from the campaign is calling me with a statement. I’m completely sure it’s fine. Do you want me to ask them to have the governor call you?”

  “But what happened?” Moira Lassiter pleaded.

  “The lights went out. During the rally. They’re back on now.” Jane was talking as fast as she could. She couldn’t afford to lose Moira. But she couldn’t miss her deadline. “It was briefly, you know, surprising. But nothing big. Really. Listen, let me promise to call you back, in the morning. Hang on, okay?” She clicked. “Trevor? One second.”

  Back to Moira. “I’ll call you in the morning. Don’t worry. But—why don’t you just call your husband?”

  She heard Moira sigh. “I’ll try his number again. But this isn’t the first time. You need to know that. It’s not the first time I’ve not known where he is. Call me tonight, Jane. Tonight.”