18

Sitting in her car, just outside the gated entrance of the Lassiters’ asphalt expanse of a driveway, Jane adjusted the rearview mirror and leaned across the steering wheel, checking her lipstick. Then reality hit. This interview was for a newspaper, not TV. Didn’t really matter what she looked like.

This is easier, right? No lights, no cameras, no wires or microphones or cranky photographers. Those days were over. All because of Sellica Darden. Jane blew out a breath, her memories crashing into one another. Forgetting about lipstick, she stared out the windshield, unseeing. Sellica’s funeral was later this afternoon.

Why did she feel so guilty about Sellica’s death?

A lone car trundled by on the street behind her. PRIVATE DRIVE, the sign down the block warned. The Lassiters’ white-columned Georgian stood almost at the end of the cul-de-sac.

If she attended Sellica’s funeral, out of respect, would it telegraph that she’d been Jane’s source?

It would. Wouldn’t it?

First things first. Moira. Five minutes till her one o’clock interview.

Maybe she should go inside, whip out Archive Gus’s photos and say: Mrs. Lassiter? Do you know this woman in the red coat? She was photographed near your husband at this rally, and this one, and this one. Does this concern you at all?

Jane laughed out loud, imagining it. Played out the whole impossible scene, making dramatic faces in her rearview. “Well, yes, Mrs. Lassiter. The reason I ask is that from my research, it appears your husband may be—”

She scratched her head, pretending to consider. How would she put that? Having an affair? Being unfaithful? Seeing another woman?

She’d also have to ask if the affair was why Moira was suddenly off the radar. “So, Mrs. Lassiter, is that why you’ve been hiding? And oh, by the way, who else knows about the affair?”

Obviously there was no tactful way to bring this up. Plus, Alex would kill her.

Mrs. Lassiter opened one side of the double front door herself, before Jane even touched the brass lion’s-head knocker. Wearing a white jewel-necked sweater, white cardigan tied around her neck, and sleek black pants, she was a silver blond lady of the manor, framed by the white-trimmed moldings and the still-green ivy twining up an arched trellis.

Jane knew from her research Moira Lassiter was an ex-ballerina, small company, but still. That took training, and devotion, and self-restraint. Single-mindedness. And a solid sense of her own body. She’d reportedly met Owen at a—

“Jane? So nice to see you again.” Moira Lassiter reached out a graceful hand, then stepped back into her entryway, ushering Jane in. No hovering servants or housekeepers. A well-kept but low-key foyer, with a not-quite-extravagant display of all-white chrysanthemums in front of a gilt-edged mirror, polished black and white tiles on the floor. Not ostentatious. Confident. Established.

Moira herself took Jane’s coat, draping it over the back of a cream-on-white wing chair beside an arch in the entryway.

“We have tea in the living room.” She pushed the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows, revealing a triple-strand pearl bracelet and tanned arms. Her fingernails were polished but pale. “I’m glad you could see me this morning on such short notice.”

Jane followed her through the archway. I’ll let her make the first move. “Of course, Mrs. Lassiter. I’m so happy you decided to chat.”

The book-lined living room, fire crackling in a white-brick fireplace, polished white baby grand piano, dozens of photographs in silver frames, looked as if someone had just plumped all the white-on-white couch pillows and disappeared. A flowered china tea service, delicate and gilt edged, lay jewel-like in the center of a mahogany coffee table. Lemons, pumpkin-glazed cookies, honey. Two diminutive silver spoons.

Jane perched on the edge of a sleekly white club chair.

Moira settled directly opposite her, centered on the pillow-lined couch—so slight, she barely made a dent in the cushions. Her gold wedding ring, with a modestly massive diamond engagement ring above it, glittered in the firelight.

She didn’t say a word.

Jane’s spiral reporter’s notebook was burning a hole in her purse. But now was not the time to get it out. She couldn’t figure this. Maybe Moira was waiting for her to begin?

“So shall we—?” Jane began

“So, Jane,” Mrs. Lassiter spoke at the same time.

“Oh, sorry,” Jane said. Not an auspicious beginning. “Please. Go on.”

But Mrs. Lassiter seemed to be studying her hands. If there were a clock, Jane could have heard it tick. A cinder popped against the fireplace screen. Mrs. Lassiter looked up.

Is she on the verge of tears?

“So, Jane,” Mrs. Lassiter said again. “This is somewhat difficult. But I know I can count on your discretion. I’ve followed your investigative work from the beginning, and I’ve always felt—your heart is in it. You authentically care about doing the right thing. That’s why, even under all the pressure, you protected your source in that prostitution case. Your station was hit with the million-dollar judgment, correct? But you never told. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes, I never—” Jane paused, thought for a second. “I mean no, I never revealed my source.”

“That proves you’re trustworthy,” Mrs. Lassiter went on, nodding. “And that’s why I called you. Because now I—I need your help.”

Jane waited, blinking. She needs my help?

“Can we be off the record?” Mrs. Lassiter continued. “You don’t use this in the paper until I say you may?”

Just what I need. Kiss of death. I can know something that I can’t use. Of course, if I say no, she won’t tell me, and then I won’t know it. At least it’s not another source thing. Whatever she tells me, at least I can discuss it with Alex. So here we go again.

“All right, Mrs. Lassiter. Off the record. But let’s have an understanding of what that means. I’ll go with the story only if I can confirm it on my own. I won’t do that without letting you know. I won’t connect the source of the information with you. And I’m going to tell my editor. Are you comfortable with that?”

The other woman took a sip from a crystal glass of ice water, carefully put the glass on a coaster. She moved the spoon on the right closer to the one on the left. Moved it back.

“Here’s the problem, Jane,” she said. “I think my husband may be having an affair.”

*   *   *

“Black. Two sugars.” Jake slid across the cracking black wannabe-leather upholstery of the corner booth at Cuppa Joe’s. Why is the guy behind the counter wearing a—? Oh. Halloween coming up.

DeLuca now had about three minutes before he was late. Why’d he always cut it close? Today wasn’t the day to push it. Sellica Darden’s funeral started in two hours. Jake needed to get there early and grab a parking spot in the front of All Saints so he could check out the arrivals. For whatever that was worth.

The vampire-waiter sloshed a pale cup of coffee in front of him, then pointed with a black-polished fingernail to a crusted container of sugar, kernels of rice sprinkled inside it. Lucky for him I’m not the health squad, Halloween or no. Jake tipped a flow of sugar into his coffee, monitoring for rice.

Sellica’s funeral. Did the Bridge Killer attend the funerals of his victims?

Dammit. Jake stirred so hard, coffee sloshed into the saucer. There is no Bridge Killer.

Even so. There was no way to know whether the bad guy would show up for the first two victims. Because there had been no funerals yet. Because the cops—his guys—had gotten exactly nowhere, still waiting for ID. The victims were waiting in the morgue. In a couple of days, someone’d have to make a decision.

Jake took an unrewarding sip.

But Sellica, she had ID. Her face. Oh, sure, her purse was gone, like the others. Anyone else, it’d be another investigation to figure out her identity. But Sellica Darden, her fifteen minutes weren’t up. Had the killer realized Sellica didn’t need a driver’s license for her name to be known? Or did he hope she’d be anonymous, too?

“Yo. Harvard.” Paul DeLuca slid into the booth, opposite Jake. DeLuca was all points—nose, elbows, cheekbones, ears. Everything too long, too sharp. His beat-up leather jacket hung on him like a deflated basketball. He examined the bottom of the salt shaker, which dumped a pile of salt on the table. He threw some over one shoulder, swiped the rest onto the floor.

“Yo, dropout.” Jake completed their now-ritual. He let his language slide a bit with DeLuca. Can’t beat ’em, join ’em. They’d been partners two years. “Whatcha got for me?”

“Well, funny you should ask. I got—” DeLuca pulled a tattered spiral notebook from inside his jacket. Thumbed a few pages, then stopped. Gave Jake a look. “Guess.”

“Gimme a break,” Jake said.

“Amaryllis Roldan.”

“What?” Jake looked at his partner. Baffled.

“Who, you should say. Amaryllis Roldan is a who.”

“Who what?” Jake said. This was not funny.

“She’s Charlestown, Jake. Bridge Killer number two. The tattoo? Some moke in a Hyde Park shop recognized it. From that, we snagged her address. Outta town, but they knew she’d come to Boston to make it big, whatever. No family connections here. They knew of, at least.”

“You sure? It’s her? Amaryllis—”

“Roldan. Yup. ME’s confirming now. But it’s a sure thing.”

“Motive?”

“Zip.”

“Family?”

“Checking.”

“Job?”

“Yeah,” DeLuca said. “That, we got.”

DeLuca flipped through the pages of his notebook and consulted something. Scratched his nose, as if seeing his notes for the first time. “Clerk at Beacon Markets. The one in Brighton. Started, like, a week before she was killed. How a-friggin’-bout that?”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. Good call, Harvard. Second store we hit.”

“Supe know?”

“Yup. He says keep a lid till it’s confirmed. Gotta dig up next of kin. All that.”

Jake paused, processing. Amaryllis Roldan. The victim had a name. It was a start. A good start. And she was connected with Arthur Vick. Had to be.

“Harvard?” DeLuca was sliding the salt shaker back and forth, like a hockey puck, between his palms. It scraped across the pockmarked tabletop.

“Yeah?”

“So now what?” He caught the shaker in one hand. “We gonna pick up Arthur Vick?”