60

“Do you have any idea who this man is?” Jake showed Barbara Bellafiore the framed photo from Holly Neff’s dresser. It showed Holly with a youngish guy, both wearing gray Red Sox sweatshirts and navy baseball caps. “Did Miss Neff tell you his name?”

“’Scuse me, Jake?” Darrell “Humpty” James knocked on the doorjamb of apartment 43. He was already wearing his purple nitrile gloves. Humpty’s search team—Officer Kim lugging her trace evidence kit and Big Joe laden with his camera equipment—trooped behind him into Holly’s living room.

Humpty scanned the array of photographs covering two walls, shot Jake a mother-a-gawd glance. “Okay if we start? We looking for anything in particular?”

“DeLuca’s in the back.” Jake cocked a thumb toward the first bedroom. “He’ll give you the lowdown.”

The building manager, two-page warrant now in hand, watched the search team tramp through. “At least she didn’t die here,” Barbara said, almost to herself. “Won’t be a problem to rent the place again.”

Jake figured that didn’t need a response.

“Ma’am? We don’t have much more for you. Just this.” Jake held up the framed photo again. Hard to see the guy’s face, his baseball cap low on his forehead, mirrored sunglasses. His arm looped over Holly’s shoulders. Background looked like a park or something, a lake. Could be anywhere. Before Jake removed the framed photo from Holly’s dresser, he’d taken a snap of it with his phone. “Just confirming. Miss Neff told you he was her boyfriend, but didn’t say his name?”

Barbara shrugged, folded the warrant into thirds, and stuck it into the waistband of her skirt. “Wish I could remember,” she said. “But—no, I don’t think so. Names, you know. Why would I remember?”

“I understand, ma’am. If it comes to you—” Jake handed her his business card. “—you call me, okay? Or if anyone comes by asking you about her? You’ll let me know.”

“I could stay, you know. Help.” The building manager craned her neck, looking toward the bedrooms where DeLuca and the others would be digging through drawers and burrowing into closets. Joe’s flashbulbs popped. “Maybe they need—”

“We’re fine, ma’am,” Jake said. Death always had a strange effect on the living. Barbara had been shocked, of course, initially. Took her about ten minutes to start rerenting the victim’s apartment. Now she wanted to poke through Holly’s personal property. Jake put a hand under the woman’s elbow, escorting her to the door. “We’ll inform you when we’ve completed the search. Thank you so much for your help. I’m sorry for the loss.”

“The? Oh. Yeah.” Barbara looked as if she’d just remembered why they were all here. Touched the warrant in her waistband. “Thank you.”

Jake reached for his BlackBerry as the woman—eyes glued to the search team—backed toward the door. People. He cued up his photo of Holly and the boyfriend. Punched in Jane’s e-mail, typed a message. “U recognize?”

He paused, thumb over the Send key, considering.

*   *   *

Jane faced the corner of the Lassiter headquarters lobby, trying for privacy on her cell phone call.

“I know, Alex, but what was I supposed to do? I tried, but I can’t demand to go upstairs into Lassiter’s office with them, you know? To see what’s in that book that was circled?”

Not many people were around. Jane had watched the curved streetlights glow into intensity, glaring now through the lobby’s front windows. Headlights flashed by on Causeway Street.

“Maitland promised to tell you what was in it?” Alex said. “Oh, like that’ll happen.”

Her face probably reflected the same skepticism. This stinks.

“Yeah, I agree. Whatever’s in there, they’re never going to tell me. Like I said, they’re insisting they have no idea who the woman is.” Jane shrugged, even though Alex couldn’t see her. “I say, we go with this no matter what. We have the photos, we have the sketch. They match. If the campaign bigwigs insist they don’t recognize her, then fine, we quote them. We’re running the sketch of her on the Web site already, right?”

“Yup. We put it up after the news conference.”

“No one’s called in to say they recognize her?”

“Nope.”

“I wonder about that. I mean, if she’s from around here—”

“Jane?” Alex interrupted. “Hang on a second.”

Jane kept the phone to her ear, examining the now-quiet headquarters lobby. The reception desk, empty. A phone console and a chair. Where Kenna sat. Empty.

Jane’s fingers itched to open a desk drawer or two. See what she could find out about Kenna. Find out about Kenna. A memory struggled to emerge, something about … Oh. She clamped the phone between her ear and shoulder, pulled her laptop from her bag.

Since Kenna was upstairs, no reason why she couldn’t use her desk, right? She perched on the edge of Kenna’s chair to indicate she was not really sitting there, just visiting. Flopped open the laptop, punched in her code. She hadn’t found a second, yet, to look up the address Trevor gave her. This was a perfect time. The site flickered open.

Town of Deverton. Assessor’s office. Click. 463 Constitution. Last sale, five years ago. Click. Current assessment. Click. $567,000. Owner. Click. The screen flashed.

And she saw the name.

“Jane? You still there?”

“Alex, yeah, I’m here. Listen to this. You know that—”

“Wait, Jane, let me tell you something first.”

“But this is—”

“Jane? They’ve got the ID of the victim. The police. They have the ID of the Fort Point body. Tuck found out.”

The computer screen popped to black. Jane hit Enter to bring it back, staring at it, unseeing.

Was this a good thing? To have the victim’s identity? No matter what Tuck knew, Jane had the line on the campaign connection. The photos were sent to her, not Tuck. The Lassiter relationship story—whatever it was—also belonged to her. Not Tuck. Or was Tuck about to pull the whole rug out from under her? Would Alex let that happen?

“What’s her name?” Jane managed to ask. At least she was right here at campaign central. Once she knew the name, she could quickly ask about it. Someone here would have to recognize her. Have heard of her.

“Don’t know. Tuck’s on her way to get it,” Alex said. “She’s not sure how long it’ll take.”

“Are we running a story that there’s an ID? In the online edition?”

“Not yet,” Alex said. “Got to have one more source. Tuck’ll call as soon as she has it. Jane? Wait. My other line. Maybe this is her. Hang on.”

Jane pressed her lips together, chin in hands, elbows on desk. Nothing to do now but wait.

And think. Jake knows about this. He has to. And he must have realized the same thing I did. This victim, whatever the heck her name turns out to be, is connected with the campaign. The minute I hang up, I’m calling him. On his cell. Forget protocol.

“Nope, not Tuck.” Alex was back on the line. “Anyway. Jane. Your turn. What’s happening on your end?”

Jane watched the elevator lights come on. Heard the mechanism clunk and slide. On the way down. Could be Kenna and Maitland. If so, that meant right now, instantly, she and Alex had to figure out how to handle her discovery.

“Alex. Listen. You remember I told you Kenna Wilkes—”

“Or whatever her name is,” Alex interrupted.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s the point.” The elevator whirred, the sounds getting louder. Closer. “That Kenna Wilkes or whatever-her-name-is was not registered to vote in Massachusetts, but yet Lassiter met her at some house in Deverton, where she supposedly lived? Where Trevor Kiernan thought she was registered to vote?”

“Yes, sure, I remember.”

The elevator doors slid open. Jane leaped from the chair, grabbed her laptop, ready to make excuses. But no one got out. The doors slid closed again. Heart racing—what am I afraid of?—she picked up where she’d left off.

“Here’s the scoop: I looked up the owner of that address. And the house belongs to—” Jane checked the screen one more time. The indisputable key to Kenna Wilkes was still there, clearly shown in digital black-and-white. Jane took a deep breath. “—Eleanor Gable.”