25

“What was that name?” Jane said it aloud, willing her brain to remember. She eyed the stupid eighteen-wheeler she was trying to pass. He was hogging the fast lane on the Mass Pike, and if he didn’t move his ass to let her by, she’d be late. She checked the digital clock on her dashboard. Ouch. Even later than she already was.

A huge latte in her cup holder and a last-resort drive-thru burrito in her lap—dinner—she watched for her chance. She tapped a finger on the steering wheel, replaying the conversation. Jake had said a name, a woman’s name. She even spelled it. And he had told her the other victim was connected to Arthur Vick. She had to remember.

Hitting the accelerator, she eased her TT into the middle lane, gunned it to eighty, then zoomed in front of the truck. The big rig behind her got smaller and smaller. Oh, yes, she’d make it in time.

So. The name. Amber something. Amber Rowan. No. Not exactly Amber.

Maybe she should call Jake. He’d tried to tell her something, she could tell, but she bet he couldn’t say it in front of Tuck. If only they’d had time to finish their conversation.

Jane took a bite of burrito, not bad, actually, since she was completely starving, then peeled down the paper wrapper with her teeth. She knew she could dredge up the name. It was in there somewhere.

What was it? And what did it mean?

From the depths of her tote bag beside her on the front seat, she heard the trill of her phone. Jake, maybe. She laid the burrito back onto its waxed paper wrapper, flipped the yellow cheese bits off her coat, then hit the hands-free button on the center console.

“This is Jane.”

“Alex.” His voice squawked through the speakers. “You in the car?”

“Yup,” Jane said. Thank goodness she was on the way. “I tried to call you, right? You got my message?”

“Yup,” Alex said. “You almost there? You get the info about the event? At the New Englander Hotel, Gus says. You know where that is?”

“Yup.” Jane had taken a bite of burrito, forgetting she was on the phone. She tried to talk around it. “What’s the scoop?”

“Huh? You’re breaking up.”

“Yeah, sorry.” She swallowed. “Headed west on the Mass Pike. Reception stinks.” She regretfully moved the burrito to the seat beside her. It would be inedible cheesy glue in about ten seconds. “Anyway, what’s the plan?”

“There’s some kind of rally, I have Gus checking on the deets. Apparently the candidate’s staying overnight. Moira tell you that? She’s still home, right?”

“Yeah, far as I know, she’s home. No, she didn’t tell me that. Pretty interesting.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Gus made you a reservation at the hotel, just in case. Hope you have a toothbrush.”

A toothbrush? Whatever. She’d manage. It wasn’t like she was going to Siberia. “Sure. No prob. So—”

“Hang on, my other line. Can you hold a sec?”

Jane reached for the burrito. “Sure.”

Alex had a point about the overnight thing, although if Lassiter were trying to hide some assignation, he’d cook up a big plan, right? Make it all look plausible? No surprises? Or maybe surprises were good. How would she know what a cheating husband would do? Maybe she should ask Alex. He was the one who might be having—

“I’m back. Sorry.” Alex sounded glum. “Where were we? Oh yeah, Moira didn’t know.”

Jane swallowed again, quickly. “Yeah, well, what do you think someone having an affair would do?” Lucky he couldn’t see her face. Then again, maybe it was Alex’s wife who was cheating. Not him. That’s why he was so upset these days. Maybe that had been his wife on the phone, telling him she had to be out of town, suddenly, overnight. Although this was not the time to be thinking about Alex’s marital problems. “They’d have some elaborate explanation set up, right? Not tell the wife at the last minute they suddenly had to be out of town.”

Alex didn’t answer.

“Alex? You there?”

“Yeah, someone at the door. Hang on.”

Jane strained to translate the sounds coming over the speakers. Frustratingly, the transmission was all fuzz and muffle. And some jerk driving a souped-up Dodge took that very moment to honk at her. Jane gave him the look. Idiot.

“So, Jane.” Alex’s voice, back on the line, sounded different. “You were at Sellica’s funeral? How come? I had no idea you were going. Tuck’s here. Says she saw you.”

Did she, now? Thanks, sister. “Ah, yeah, just paying my respects.”

“Why?” Alex asked. “That’s not your assignment, Jane. You wanted nothing to do with it. Since she’s not your source, of course.”

Jane could do without the sarcasm. Time to change the subject. Get back in Alex’s good graces. Her “six-month tryout” at the Register had barely begun, and newspaper jobs were disappearing faster than … “Listen, Alex. I’m getting close to Springfield, so gotta wrap up. But Jake was there at the funeral, too. And he’s on the Bridge Killer thing.”

“Yes, I already know that. From Tuck. Because Tuck is covering the Bridge Killer case. Just as she was assigned. And Jake told Tuck—”

Alex’s voice disappeared. Then returned. “But we’re going with it anyway. Tuck says she’s sure Sellica’s a Bridge Killer victim.”

“Sorry, Alex, my call waiting beeped in. The voice mail picked up. I missed what you said.”

“I said: Jake’s telling Tuck that Sellica’s death is not connected to the others. But Tuck thinks the cops are lying. Water, bridge, female, no ID. So the Register is going with Sellica as the third victim. The only one who’s identified. Not that it has anything to do with you. As you’d be the first to say.”

If she was a reporter in her next life, she was never ever having anything be off the record. Never. Or maybe, in journalism hell, everything was off the record. Journalism hell, where you knew a bunch of amazing stuff that you could never tell anyone. Maybe that was now.

“Jane? You hearing me?”

“Yes, I’m hearing you. Listen, Alex.” She crossed her fingers, hoping this wasn’t a mistake. But Alex was clearly angry with her, seemed to have already forgotten she was the one who brought him the Moira scoop. Anger was not good for her job security.

A quarter mile till the exit. Now or never. Never was probably the wiser choice. But now was what she decided.

“Let’s put it this way. I hear there might be an ID on one of the Bridge Killer victims.”

“Yeah, duh. Sellica,” Alex said.

“No, Alex. Not Sellica.” Jane paused. “The other woman.”

Roldan, her brain announced. Roldan. Amaryllis Roldan.

“An ID? What other woman? Which one?” Alex demanded. “How do you know? Who’s the victim?”

Jane yanked the car onto the exit ramp, sloshing latte through the narrow hole in the cup lid. The burrito rolled onto the floor. The New Englander Hotel was around the next curve, barely visible behind a stand of giant pine trees.

“I don’t know,” she said. And she didn’t really, she only knew Amaryllis Roldan was a name that Jake told her, off the record. She didn’t know who that was. Or why Jake asked her about it. But he’d said the name, and the word victim, and the name Arthur Vick, and it was all connected. Somehow. “Get Tuck to ask someone at the cop shop about it. But not Jake, okay? Not Jake.”

She pulled into the hotel parking lot. Searched for a spot among the wall-to-wall cars, many plastered with Lassiter bumper stickers. I’ve gotten into trouble before for not telling. Will I get into trouble now for telling? This was exactly why she and Jakey couldn’t be together. It was impossible to sort out responsibilities and priorities and—sure, Jake had said “off the record.”

But why would he tell her in the first place, if he didn’t want her to do something about it?

She was going to tell. And hope she wasn’t blowing up her life.

“Amaryllis Roldan,” she said. A chill went down her back. “But remember, Alex. The name didn’t come from me.”