51

“He’s in there, Jake. He’s yelling for a lawyer. But he’s guilty as sin.” Paul DeLuca flipped on the lights, illuminating the dingy interior of room 3, fourth floor of the Nashua Street Jail. Behind the one-way glass, Jake saw a fidgeting train wreck of a man sitting at a long metal table. The suspect took a slug of Mountain Dew from a can, one scrawny leg jiggling, eyes darting ceaselessly from ceiling to floor to window and back. His other leg was shackled to a circular eye-bolt in the floor.

“That guy’s in great shape,” Jake said. “Cranked up?”

“Bad thing to be a junkie,” DeLuca said.

“Worse to be a murderer.” Jake flipped open the red-coded file of documents his partner handed him, scanning photos and arrest records. “You’d think it’d be a problem being a tattoo guy by day and a druggie at night. Think it would make your hands shake, you know? So he did Amaryllis Roldan? Her tattoo?”

“His specialty was the Celtic vines, so says his junkie pal. The one who ratted him out for Roldan when he realized they were both facing twenty-five to life for distribution. Whoever talked first got the deal.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Jake said. “Supe know?”

“Yup. Laney Driscoll even told him about it, but he didn’t want to mention it at the news conference. Not till it’s signed and sealed. Your pal Tuck has it, though. God knows how she finds this stuff out. She was here when I got here.”

“He confess?”

“In a manner of speaking,” DeLuca said. “He insisted he didn’t kill Amaryllis Roldan. Problem was, we hadn’t accused him of anything yet.”

“Gotcha.” Jake closed the file.

“That’s exactly what I said to him,” DeLuca said.

So this was the guy who’d killed the girl Jake had once called Charlestown, “the punk Ophelia,” left her under the bridge battered and bruised, left her to drown. But this guy hadn’t killed Kylie Howarth, of course. Kylie’d done that herself.

Jake watched the suspect yank at the collar of his white T-shirt, then fiddle with the snaps on the front of his orange jail-issue jumpsuit.

“How long’s he been in here? In custody?”

“That’s the first thing I asked, too.” DeLuca tapped the file. “Since last Thursday.”

“So he’s got a perfect alibi for Sellica. And for yesterday.”

“Yeah,” DeLuca said. “You’re looking at an asshole who’s probably not going to see the light of day for a while. He killed Amaryllis Roldan. But if there’s a Bridge Killer, it’s not him.”

*   *   *

“All I have to do is call and say, ‘May I speak to Kenna Wilkes, please?’” Jane pointed to the phone on Alex’s desk. “I bet they’ll put me off. Transfer me to Sheila King’s office. They must have seen the sketch the cops are handing out, it’s got to be on TV already. They’ll have to make a statement. I mean, the Bridge Killer’s fourth victim works for the man who’s running for Senate. And might be his lover! It’s like—the headline of all headlines. Beyond amazing.”

Jane couldn’t sit still on Alex’s couch one more second. She paced to his closed office door, then back to his desk, arms flailing. “She’s gorgeous. She’s dead. And we can prove she had a … a…” She looked at Alex, needing a word.

“Relationship?” Alex said. He rolled a pencil between two palms. “I have to call Tay Reidy. The publisher has got to be in on this. And the lawyer. And maybe the police.”

“We need to interview Moira.” Jane rooted through her tote bag. She needed to make a list. “We need a reaction from Eleanor Gable. Damn. May I use that pencil?”

Alex swiveled his chair, handing her his pencil with a flourish. “You know, Jane, I’ve got to say. The fifth floor is really pleased with you. I am, too. The way you’ve thrown yourself into this. Team player.” Alex raised an eyebrow, inquiring. “Are you okay with it? Transitioning from your old life?”

Jane blinked, surprised at the personal question. “Well, sure, I’m…” She paused, thinking for a beat, considering precisely what it was she was sure about. “Thanks, Alex. Yes, I’m—feeling like a reporter again.”

“Well, you’ve knocked this one out of the ballpark,” Alex said. “I’m thinkin’ no more six-month tryout. We’ll have to keep the networks from grabbing you away from us, when this thing hits the fan.”

The room was silent for a moment. “It’s a big story,” Jane finally said.

Alex’s intercom buzzed. “Victoria on line two,” a woman’s voice squawked through.

“I’ll call her right back,” Alex said into the speaker. He gave Jane a look. Then held up his left hand. “My wife. Soon-to-be ex-wife.”

“Oh, I’m—” Jane scrambled for the appropriate response. Sorry? Happy? She couldn’t help but look at his fourth finger. Nothing. Hot Alex was suddenly soon-to-be available. Amy would go ballistic. Send her a subscription to Brides magazine.

“Anyway.” Alex waved away the moment, changing the subject. “Back to Kenna Wilkes. We need to work this out. We need to be careful. The election is only eight days away. We can’t accuse—”

“Like I said, we should call the campaign first.” Jane nodded, relieved to be back on track. “See what they say. And who they’re going to say she is.”

“Well, they’d never admit she’s—”

“The other woman,” Jane said. She took out her cell phone. This was such a crossroads. “I know. Amazing. I can’t wait to hear what they do say. I’m calling. Right now.”