55

“So who are these women, Mr. Vick?” Jake dealt a hand of five-by-seven photographs across the oil-paint-spattered table in Patti Vick’s studio. Ground level, triple-sized sliding windows showed off a panorama of the Fort Point Channel, with a perfect view of the post office parking lot where the supe held his press conference a few hours earlier. “Fort Point”—the victim who isn’t Kenna Wilkes—had been found in eyeshot of here. So had Sellica. That proximity, combined with Vick’s connection to three of the victims, was why the judge had quickly granted Jake’s request for a search warrant for the place.

Jake didn’t recognize any of the faces. The photos DeLuca’d just found in a desk drawer had no names on the backs, no photographer credits. Just twenty-something women, smiling and not-smiling, all in a row. No Roldan, no Howarth, no Sellica, no Fort Point. DeLuca had whispered that disappointing info to him. Jake’s own examination confirmed it.

“You’re asking me? About photos you found in my wife’s studio?” Arthur Vick barely turned his head, not moving from his post at the window, voice oozing boredom. “How would I—?”

“Detective Brogan?” Henry Rothmann, his gray pinstripes a counterpoint to Vick’s pressed jeans and monogrammed crew neck sweater, sidled up in front of his client, as if to prevent Vick from seeing the photographs. “I must interrupt here, because—”

“Well, your wife’s paintings, the ones in your living room, are somewhat, shall we say, nonrepresentational?” Jake ignored the lawyer’s attempts to derail his questioning. “Not portraits. So I’m wondering if you’d know why she’d be collecting photos of young women. Any thoughts? And, since she is your wife and all, I’m curious as to whether you know any of them. The girls in the photos.”

Two uniforms were posted outside. Two veteran detectives from Jake’s unit worked the back rooms, continuing the search. Stacks of canvases leaned against beige cement-block walls. Tubes of paint lined an industrial metal-and-bolt wall-unit of shelves. Bouquets of paintbrushes soaked in liquid-filled containers. The place reeked of turpentine and oil. So far, nothing unusual for an artist’s studio. Nothing incriminating.

Still, Jake was intrigued by the photos. Because they were in Patti Vick’s studio didn’t mean they were hers, obviously. But what had Sellica Darden’s mother told him? All those other girls wanting to be in commercials. Something like that.

“Detective Brogan.” Rothmann was moving closer to Jake and signaling Vick to stay back. “As a show of good faith, my client is willing to stipulate that some of those women may have auditioned for his television commercials. But he doesn’t know how the photos got here.”

Rothmann ran a hand across his forehead. “Now. Let me ask you, Detective. What if these are girls from the ads? Any of them reported missing?”

Which was, of course, the problem. If there had been a photo of the Fort Point victim—who is not Kenna Wilkes, Jake remembered with another pang of regret—or of Roldan, or Sellica, this would be the slam dunk, and Jake could pull out his handcuffs. But so far, so nothing.

“We done here?” Arthur Vick made a big show of pulling out a cell phone and thumbing some keys.

“We’re not, as a matter of fact,” Jake said. Pompous ass. “You ever have, say, ‘auditions’ here? Bring any of the commercial wannabes to this studio? Do you have keys to the place?”

“Detective Brogan?” Darrell James, a veteran homicide cop the squad called “Humpty,” appeared in the hallway. A black vest of body armor, emblazoned POLICE, covered his big-and-tall sports jacket. He’d ripped open the Velcro side-straps so the vest hung on him like a bulky bib.

Between two purple rubber-gloved fingers, Humpty dangled a clear plastic Baggie. “Jake? You might want to take a look at this.”

*   *   *

“Jane? You okay?”

How long have I been sitting like this? Jane’s legs were almost numb from balancing against the building. She stood, smoothing her coat, every muscle complaining.

“Oh, hi, Trevor.” She was so bummed about the lawsuit, she’d let it distract her from the Kenna thing. What am I missing? “I’m fine, thanks. Just, ah, thinking.”

“Are you scheduled for a meeting?” Trevor said, arriving at the front door. His canvas briefcase slung crosswise over his navy pea jacket. “Something I can help you with?”

“Well, no, I … well, wait. Yes, actually. You can.” Trevor. The campaign insider. Kenna. The campaign mystery woman. “Do you know a Kenna Wilkes?”

“Kenna Wilkes?” Trevor gestured toward the lobby. “The woman who sometimes sits at the front desk? Receptionist? Sure. I know her. Kind of.”

He glanced at the lobby again, then back at Jane. “Why? Is there a problem?”

“Oh, no, of course not. I just met her, she’s very nice, and I was curious—” Jane had to untangle her thoughts. Every link in the chain so far reassured her this was, somehow, still a story. The name Kenna Wilkes was on the hotel register. Gina, the hotel clerk, had said Wilkes was with the campaign. But Jake’s research had proved there was no real person named Kenna Wilkes. Trevor might provide the next link. “—Do you know how she connected with the Lassiter campaign? And when?

“I’m researching,” she added, trying to come up with something Trevor might believe, “you know, a possible story on campaign volunteers. Who they are. Why they care. The new politics.”

Trevor’s face relaxed, as if this was something he could buy in to. “Oh, okay. Yeah. I was with the candidate when they met. Part of my neighborhood meet and greet project. She’s like a—war widow. Pretty sad.” Trevor aimed a forefinger at Jane, as if she’d had a brilliant idea. “You know, she’d be a great story. Has a little son, volunteered to help, very enthusiastic. Patriotic. And come to think of it, Jane, Channel Eleven was covering the campaign in Deverton that day, maybe you could— Oh, sorry.”

Trevor grimaced. Fumbled with his jacket buttons. “You don’t work there anymore. My bad.”

Perfect. Now I have the upper hand.

“No, that’s okay,” Jane said. Kenna Wilkes didn’t exist on paper. But in real life, she did. So who was she? “You get her name from a list of registered voters?”

A trio of college kids wearing Boston University sweatshirts trooped up the sidewalk, each holding a grease-spotted fast-food bag. “Hey, Trev,” one said. “You coming to the get-out-the-vote thing?”

“Yup, be right there. Hold the fort.”

“She’s on the voter registration list?” Jane repeated as the kids went inside. “Or how’d you find her?”

“Well, that’s easy enough to check.” Trevor unzipped his briefcase, pulled out a clipboard. He flipped the creased pages of a yellow pad, muttering. “Here it is. Notes from that day. I have her at 463 Constitution Lane.”

Jane wrote the address in her notebook as Trevor continued.

“Let’s see. Nope, she wasn’t on my voter list. Turns out Kenna Wilkes was—Jane? You with me here?”

But Jane had already closed her notebook. She could see straight again. And she was seeing a good story. She needed her camera.

“Just a sec, Trevor. I need to ask you something.”

Yanking it from her tote bag, she clicked through the photos, searching for the best one of the woman in the red coat—okay, she wasn’t in the red coat in these pictures, but whatever. Maybe her name wasn’t Kenna Wilkes. But she was connected to the campaign. She’d been at all those campaign events.

Now she was dead. That was a story, no matter what her name was. What’s more, someone in Lassiter headquarters must know it.

And might already be working to cover it up.

Jane flashed through the photographs as fast as the camera would change shots—the Esplanade, I haven’t looked at that one recently—until she hit the Springfield rally and the picture of the woman falling into Lassiter’s arms. Whoa. That snap was going to make a knockout front page.

“See this woman, Trevor?” She held up the camera, angling it to keep the little square screen out of the sun’s glare. “Do you know who she is?”

*   *   *

“Whatcha got, Humpt—I mean, Darrell?” Jake waved the detective over, watching Vick take a step or two backward toward the studio’s sliding glass windows. He saw DeLuca straighten, sidle closer to the suspect.

“We’d like to see what you think you found, Detectives.” Rothmann moved toward Jake. “We’re allowed to examine whatever you remove.”

“Like hell you—,” DeLuca muttered.

“Mr. Rothmann?” Jake interrupted his partner, even though he agreed with him. “We allowed you to be here during the search. We didn’t have to, as you are well aware. But under no circumstances are you allowed to ‘examine’ what we collect. You’ve got plenty of experience with this. You were given a copy of the warrant. You’ll be able to see the evidence at the appropriate time. Which is—not now. Are we clear on that?”

Jake took the Baggie from the detective, turned his back on Rothmann, and peered through the clear ziplock bag, smoothing it over the brown plastic container inside. A medicine bottle, white screw top, with a typed prescription label from the CVS pharmacy indicating the contents were for PATRICIA A. VICK. FLUNITRAZEPAM. TAKE 2 PRN FOR SLEEP.

“We’re done, Henry.” Arthur Vick grabbed a leather jacket from the back of a paint-speckled chair. “I’m out of here.”

“Not so fast.” Jake gave back the Baggie, nodding in salute to the officer. He kept his voice low. “Make sure this is listed properly on the return, then let’s get it to the lab A-sap. The rest of us will finish up here.”

“Will do, Detective.” Humpty took the evidence bag and headed out the door. Jake saw him give a behind-the-back thumbs-up to DeLuca.

“As for you, Mr. Vick?”

“As for me, what?” Vick pulled a plaid muffler from one of the jacket sleeves, looping it around his neck. He shoved his arms into the jacket and gestured a hand at the lawyer. “You coming?”

“You’re coming, Mr. Vick. Downtown.” Jake reached under his jacket and unclicked his handcuffs from the carrier. “Whether your attorney comes along is up to you. But, Arthur Vick? You’re under arrest for the murder of Sellica Darden.”