23

“We can’t talk about this in front of the church, Jake. It’s creepy. And I have to go to Springfield. Like, now. Walk with me to the car, okay? It’s over there in the lot.”

Jane pointed across the street and took a step off the curb. Fallen leaves padded the pavement, still slick and shiny from the overnight rain. Jake stayed on the sidewalk.

“Jake? You coming?”

“Crosswalk,” he said.

“You’re such a cop,” she said. “You going to arrest me?”

Jake didn’t budge. “Aren’t you late already?”

Jane hesitated, then stomped back to the sidewalk. As they walked to the corner, it was all she could do to keep from tucking her arm through his. Holding on to a cop seemed like an especially good thing. The darkness. The funeral. The Bridge Killer. Arthur Vick? She knew Jake had a gun in his shoulder holster. At this moment, she was grateful for that. She had such a feeling of—wrong.

Lights winked on inside the modest houses lining the street. Some had jack-o’-lanterns on their front porches, candles within showing off exaggerated grins and jagged teeth. Scary was funny on Halloween. But in real life, scary was just plain scary.

“So, listen.” Jane kept her voice low. “You actually think Arthur Vick killed Sellica? Or d’you think Arthur Vick is the Bridge Killer? I thought you said there was no Bridge—”

“There isn’t.” Jake interrupted her. “I’m convinced of that. But I keep thinking about those threatening letters you got after the trial. And it’s crossed my mind that—”

They waited for a lone car to pass, its tires hissing through the damp leaves. Then he gestured, let’s go, and they crossed the two-lane street. The church parking lot was almost full, a waist-high chain-link fence surrounding it, a row of tall metal spotlights down one side cutting through the increasing darkness.

“Jake. You’re scaring me. Crossed your mind that what?”

Jake looked around as they entered the parking lot. Peered through the thick plastic window of an obviously empty attendant stand. Checked behind them.

“What are you looking for? You’re kind of freaking me out.” Jane scrabbled for her keys as they walked. “Here’s the car.”

Jane aimed her keychain at her car door. It clicked open, the inside lights beeped, the headlights popped on and off. Then her phone rang. She turned, her back to the car, facing Jake head-on.

“Jake? That’s gotta be Alex calling. Probably wondering where I am. I don’t mean to push, but what are you trying to tell me? You’re kind of—stalling. I can tell.”

“Okay, listen.” Jake’s eyes swept the parking lot again, then came back to Jane. “We know Sellica was connected to Arthur Vick. Thing is, now we also know he’s connected to another victim.” Jake stopped. His head came up. He put out a hand, reached around her for the door handle. Clicked it open.

“Get in the car,” he said. “Turn on the engine.”

Before Jane could move, the parking lot suddenly got brighter. Lights glinted off the chrome of the outside row of parked cars. Headlights. Jane heard the low rumble of an engine. Getting louder. Closer. Arriving. Slowing.

Jake whirled, facing the street. His hand went inside his jacket. A car pulled into the parking lot and stopped, headlights full on them. He edged in front of Jane, moving her behind him. Her tote bag pushed against her car door, closing it.

It’s a parking lot. Jane tried to make sense of what was happening. Of course someone’s driving in. Who does Jake think this is? If she looked straight at the car, she saw only the glare of headlights. Aimed at them.

She heard the car’s door open. Saw someone, a shadow, getting out. The engine kept running, punctuating the dark.

“Boston Police,” Jake said, his hand still under his coat. “Stop right there, please.”

*   *   *

“You sure no one named Holly Neff has been in here? I’m pretty sure she works for the Lassiter campaign. N-e-f-f. Maybe a volunteer.”

Matt put both palms on the campaign headquarters reception desk and leaned toward the woman behind the phone console. He was pissed he got here so late. Couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep in the damn hotel room. He’d meant to watch the news only for a minute, figuring he might see her in some story about the Senate race. Next thing he knew, it was almost dark out. He lost, what, four hours? After getting on that early plane? So pissed. Luckily the Lassiter campaign office was still open.

The woman’s face was redder than her turtleneck. Like some Time–Life operator, she wore a flip-up microphone attached to her telephone headpiece. For someone who was supposed to be working the reception desk, she was far from receptive. After a few worthless minutes trying to convince her, Matt was about to lose it.

“Don’t you have a staff list or something you can check?” He patted the pockets of his down vest, pulled out the folded newspaper clipping from his wallet. “I have a photo of her. Maybe that would help.”

The woman held up a hand, stopping him. “Sir? Our staff list is private. Our volunteer list is private. I’m sure you can understand it’s all for security reasons.” She offered him a piece of paper, some campaign flyer thing. “If you’d like to volunteer for the campaign? I can help with that. If you’d like some literature on Governor Lassiter, I’ll provide that. But I cannot give information on someone who may or may not work for the campaign. I’m sure you understand.”

The woman, Denise, if that was her nameplate on the desk, was trying to get rid of him. Well, I’m not ready to go.

This was too important. To him. And maybe to Owen Lassiter.

The phone rang. “Excuse me, please.” Then, into the phone, “Lassiter for Senate. May I help you?”

Matt jammed his fists into his vest pockets. He had about ten seconds to make this work. He had to find Holly. He had to stop her.

If the woman in the picture was Holly. It was possible, of course, she wasn’t.

What if he just told this Denise the truth? For a moment, he imagined the endgame. No. The truth was never gonna fly. Shit. She’d think he was a mental case.

But the woman really didn’t seem to recognize Holly’s name. Was she using a phony name? Shit. Of course. That would make this even more impossible.

On the other hand, he’d seen Holly in that campaign event photo, and a few others he’d dug up online. Maybe to find Holly—he just had to find Owen Lassiter. No problemo.

The telephone rang again, a green light flashing. Then another. “Lassiter for Senate, please hold,” the woman said. “Lassiter for Senate, please hold.”

She looked up at him, flustered. “I need to handle the phones now. There’s no one else to help me. They’re all in Springfield at the rally.”

“Great.” Exactly. “Where?”

“Lassiter for Senate, please hold,” she said again, then covered the phone. “It’s on our Web site, sir. But it starts in less than two hours. You’d never make it.”

“Thanks,” Matt said. He pulled out his iPhone. Punched up the Internet as he headed for the door.

Never make it? Denise was so wrong. He’d make it. He had to.