20

“You were so patient with her, Governor Lassiter. Don’t you think so, Rory? No wonder you’re doing so well in the polls.” Kenna Wilkes turned to the candidate, smiling as she closed his office door behind that Hannah person. Gone at last. Now it was just the three of them. Hannah’d asked some pretty ridiculous questions in what she called her “interview” for her pitiful neighborhood paper. But all good, actually, since Rory had suggested Hannah interview her as a typical volunteer. Brilliant. He’d taken her picture with the governor, too.

“Always happy to spread the word, Kenna,” Owen said. “And happy you could join us for the interview.” The governor was concentrating on a stack of papers Rory placed in front of him. Not on her. Still, there was time.

Lassiter signed something, closed the folder. “So, Maitland. Weren’t we going to Springfield later this afternoon? It’s what I told that young woman.”

“Still on, Governor, but postponed a bit. Snafus with the hotel, but it’s all fine now.” Rory shot Kenna a look. “In fact, Mrs. Wilkes volunteered to help with the event. To get a feel for the campaign. Right?”

“Happy to,” Kenna said. Understatement of the century. “Jimmy’s at his grandparents this weekend for Halloween. I’d adore to come.”

Rory was still talking. Didn’t wait for Owen to respond.

“She’ll pass out name tags, flyers, that sort of thing? She can ride with us. We’ll leave as soon as you’re done. It’s gonna be a late one, Governor. Maybe too late to get back to Boston tonight. We should stay over.”

Rory lifted his briefcase onto the governor’s desk, pushing a hefty leather-bound book out of the way. Snapping the locks, he took out a sheaf of papers. “Our internals show we can hit it out of the ballpark in Western Mass. See? Here, and right here. What I’m hearing, the Gable people are ignoring it.”

But Lassiter seemed to remember she was in the room. Now, instead of focusing on Rory and his poll numbers, Lassiter focused on her. Kenna felt him raking her with those eyes. What was he seeing? What did he want? He stared at her, hard, as if he were about to say something.

What would it be? As she waited, her mind sampled the possibilities, one delicious idea at a time.

Maybe he would finally send Rory away. And she’d get what she wanted. It wouldn’t take long; then everything would be different. She crossed her arms in front of her, holding in her hopes, trying not to smile.

A buzzer sounded on Lassiter’s phone console. Startled, he pretended he wasn’t staring at her.

“Sir?” The receptionist’s staticky voice came through the speaker. “You need to leave for Springfield soon.”

Kenna glanced at Rory. He rolled his eyes at the phone console. “Under control, Deenie,” he said, raising his voice at the speaker. “Mrs. Wilkes will be joining us.”

“I should call Moira,” Lassiter said. He patted the breast pocket of his pin-striped suit jacket and pulled out a flat silver cell phone. “She’s expecting me for dinner. No hope of that now, right?”

Did he chance another look at her? Kenna touched her hair, allowed herself the trace of a smile. Oh, yeah. Call Moira. Just do it.

“Good idea, Rory. Let’s stay overnight in Springfield,” Lassiter continued. His cell made a soft trill, turning on. “I’ll let Moira know I won’t be home.”

*   *   *

“Jane!” She couldn’t hear him, not from this distance, but he’d recognize that walk anywhere. Bundled in her black coat, that gray scarf she loved flying out behind her, her head down in the darkening Saturday afternoon. She must be here for Sellica’s funeral.

Jake threw a BPD placard in the windshield, banged open the door of his unmarked cruiser, and took off after her. She was already across Cumberton Ave. Headed for All Saints Church, had to be. Question was, why.

“Jane!” Getting closer now, headed up Harrison Street, almost to the crosswalk, Jake called her name again, raising his voice. A chunky city bus wheezed between them, erasing Jane briefly from view. A siren whirled in the distance. Damn. He would never catch her before she got to the church. He took off, in a flat run, then stopped. In the middle of the crosswalk. Wait a minute.

He stared at her vanishing form. Maybe he could learn more if she didn’t know he was here. He hated to spy on her, but that was why she’d put the brakes on their relationship, right? Insisted their jobs would get in the way. Maybe she was right. Like now.

Jake hung back, letting her get ahead. He felt like an idiot, tailing Jane. But Sellica Darden had been murdered. Maybe Jane knew something she wasn’t telling.

She was a block from the church. Long black cars pulled up to the front, exhaust pluming from their tailpipes. Clumps of dark-clad mourners gathered on the far street corner, some walking arm in arm. Detail cops in orange webbed safety jackets stopped traffic, allowing people to emerge from their cars unhurried, unthreatened by the busy street. A huge wreath of white flowers and some kind of greenery hung on the front doors.

Jake kept to the shadows. He had a perfect view. What did he expect to see? He’d know when he saw it.

Now Jane was trotting up the wide front steps. She stopped to talk with a woman in a black coat, her face hidden by her broad-brimmed black hat. He saw Jane take the woman’s hands, lean forward. Leota Darden. Did Jane know her from before? Had Jane met Sellica’s mother? Leota had never answered him directly about that.

If Sellica was Jane’s source, maybe she’d told her more about Arthur Vick than Jane reported. Maybe that was key.

Another big question: What if Sellica knew Amaryllis Roldan?

DeLuca was on it now, checking. And if his partner found a connection, it meant there was a Bridge Killer.

And that meant they were all screwed.

Dammit. Arthur Vick? He could picture Vick killing Sellica in some testosterone-fueled revenge move. Maybe an accident, a mistake. But the others? Arthur Vick as Bridge Killer? No. No way. Too much to lose. Too public.

If there was a Bridge Killer, whoever it was, he was nuts. Arthur Vick wasn’t nuts. An egocentric asshole, but not nuts.

Probably not nuts.

Jake checked his watch. The five o’clock funeral didn’t start for another twenty minutes. He watched more mourners arrive and stop to speak with Mrs. Darden, Jane seeming to stand aside. Keeping his eye on the front steps, he hit speed dial.

One ring. Almost two.

“DeLuca.”

“D? About Arthur Vick.”

“You come to your senses, Harvard?” DeLuca’s sarcasm was punctuated by bells ringing and what sounded like—cash registers? Of course. Grocery store. “Gonna let me pick him up?”

“Not yet,” Jake said. “Listen. On the down-low. Let’s check Vick’s alibi. For Longfellow and for Charlestown. I mean, for Miss Roldan. And for Sellica Darden.”

“By ‘let’s,’ you mean me.”

“Ten-four, good buddy.” Jake smiled. D was a good guy. “You getting anything at the grocery?”

“Nada.”

“Anything on Sellica? More on Roldan?”

“Nope. And nope. Like I said. Nada. Roldan’s a nobody at Beacon Markets. Passing through.”

“She know Arthur Vick?”

“Oh. Yeah, they were boyfriend–girlfriend. I just forgot to tell you.” DeLuca paused. “Like I said. Nada. No connection so far.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

Jake hung up the phone, then scrolled his BlackBerry for the notes from this morning’s interview with Leota Darden. The green screen glowed against the glare as the corner streetlight popped on. Something Leota had said. About her daughter and Vick. About the money. He rolled the ball with his thumb, squinting at the screen, working his notes into view. Found it.

“She counted on it, with those other girls, thought it was a way out of the life.” Word for word what Leota said.

What other girls?

Clicking off his BlackBerry, Jake eased closer to the church. Two men in black robes opened both front doors. Golden light from the vestibule spilled out the entryway and over the front steps. He could hear the low murmuring of organ music.

He could go inside. Stand in the back. See who arrived. See if anyone looked like a Bridge Killer. Right. Jake ran his jacket zipper up and down, thinking. Was there someone else Jane hoped to talk to? Who would she come here to see?

He could watch and wait. He reached for the BlackBerry in his jacket pocket. Or. He could ask.