61

Kenna followed Rory up the rickety metal stairway. She’d punched the button for the elevator, but Rory had waved her off, saying the back elevator was broken, repair guy was coming tomorrow. Fine. Almost there.

“So you really have no idea about the book on Owen’s desk?” Kenna said. Such a pain to climb steps in high heels. Men had no clue.

“No.” Rory turned to look back at her over his shoulder. He frowned. “Do you?”

“No, of course not,” Kenna said. That was basically the truth. She was as curious as he was about where this was going.

Rory stopped at the landing, halfway up. Narrowed his eyes at her. Questioning.

She waved him to keep climbing. “Really. No.”

He grabbed the railing, taking two more steps. “But I’m thinking about that woman,” he said, stopping again. “No idea who the frig she is. But she’s dead, and if she’s somehow connected with the campaign, so’s Lassiter. Dead, I mean.”

“I guess it’s not politically correct to have a murdered girl connected to the candidate.” Kenna’s heel caught on an opening in the latticed metal of a step, and she yanked it out with a muttered curse. “Gary Condit. Didn’t do much for his career. Even though he had nothing to do with Chandra Levy’s death.”

“Owen’s going to flip,” Rory said. They were on the landing. “He’ll be back in his office after tonight’s event. I’ll wait till then to tell him.”

Rory clanked open the door, waving Kenna through. The long hallway had been walled off with temporary barriers to keep Lassiter’s office private and secure. “We’ll have to call Sheila King to handle the press. This is a new one, I gotta say. Right before the election. Incredible.”

Kenna knew it was frumpy Hannah who’d taken the private-office snapshot. She’d been in the room that day. Maitland, too, though he obviously didn’t realize it. But what was the deal with the book? Matt hadn’t told her about that little surprise.

They entered the private office. And there it was. Just like in the photo. Owen’s desk, and the big book on the corner.

Kenna watched as Rory picked up the thick leather-bound volume. It looked like an old law book or some such, pale yellow binding, cracking spine, raised red and black letters.

“You think there’s a legal decision about Owen, something like that?” Kenna tried to figure what Holly might have known. “Maybe it’s marked? Why would Owen keep that particular book on his desk?”

“Christ if I know. Mass Code of Laws.” Rory turned the book over, examined the back. Turned it right side up again. “Let’s see if there’s anything obvious, then decide how to handle it.”

She watched Rory open the front cover. Nothing. Open the back cover. Nothing. He held the book by its binding, shaking and flapping the pages above the desk.

A piece of paper floated out, slipped off the edge of the desk, and onto the oriental rug.

Kenna moved to pick it up. Rory was faster.

He stood, paper in hand.

“My, my,” he said.

She couldn’t stand it. “What is it?”

Rory turned the page to face her.

Her eyes widened. This was— She never would have predicted.

A photograph of a woman. The same woman in Ryland’s pictures. The same woman in the police sketch. Holly Neff.

Except in this photo, she wasn’t dead. Far from it.

Here, it was only her. And not much else. She was skin and lace and legs and hair and gloss and breasts and pouting lips. Oozing lust. Oozing promise.

And on the photo, across one extended leg and just touching a scrap of black lace lingerie, an inscription.

Kenna took the photo in hand, read it out loud.

“‘To Owen, with all my admiration and gratitude … after a wonderful afternoon. Here’s to many more.’ Then it says, ‘xoxo. Holly Neff.’”

Kenna looked at Rory.

“Xoxo,” he said. “Who the hell is Holly Neff?”

She handed him the photo, shrugged like, who knows? “Jane Ryland is waiting downstairs.”

“Let her wait,” he said.

I have a better idea, Kenna thought.

*   *   *

“Eleanor Gable? That house belongs to Eleanor Gable?”

Jane closed her laptop as she listened to Alex’s astonishment.

“Yes. Can you believe it? Eleanor Gable’s the owner. Even though we know she lives on Beacon Hill—I was just there, you know? The assessor’s records prove she’s owned the Deverton house for years.”

The lobby was still deserted. After seven o’clock, people must be at dinner, or home. The elevator doors had opened again once or twice, but no one got out. That meant Kenna and Maitland were still upstairs. With whatever they’d found. “So, Alex, why was Kenna Wilkes at Gable’s house? And who the heck is she?”

“Here’s what you do,” Alex told her. “Go to Gable headquarters. Don’t call. Just go. See what she has to say.”

“Okay.…” Jane stared at the scuffed floor. Was that the way to handle it? She stowed her laptop, hefted her tote bag to her shoulder, paced to the front window, then back to the desk. “But Kenna and Maitland are supposed to come down here. Tell me what’s in the book.”

“Oh, forget that,” Alex said. “You think for one minute they’re going to? If they do show up, it’ll only be to inform you there was nothing in the book. No question. We’ll never know the real deal.”

That part she agreed with. “True. But I think we should see. This woman’s dead, after all. Gable’s house in Deverton is going to be there whether we confront her about it tonight or tomorrow. And what’s there to confront her about, really? Someone who happens to volunteer for the Lassiter campaign is living at her house? So what?”

Each was silent for a moment. She could almost hear Alex thinking about her question. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Lassiter’s book. What could be in it?

Maitland and Kenna promised to tell her. If they weren’t coming down, she would go up. She strode to the elevator, confident. Nodding in solidarity with her own decision, she punched the green button.

“Alex? I’m going to push them about the book. But the Gable house—don’t we have to go to Lassiter first?” And someone else has to be told. The candidate’s wife. She thinks Kenna Wilkes is the other woman. That means— “And tell Moira? That someone working in the campaign could be in cahoots with Owen’s opponent?”

Jane heard the elevator’s gears and pulleys shift into motion.

Go with what you’ve got. That’s what she learned in journalism school. What they had were multiple photos of a dead woman with Owen Lassiter, and a photo of a book in Lassiter’s private office that someone—whoever mailed her the photos of Red Coat—had circled. If the campaign mucketies insisted they’d found nothing, and the murder victim had no connection with the campaign or the candidate, fine. Say so. Readers—voters—could decide who was telling the truth.

Elections had been lost after the smallest of scandals. This one could be massive.

“One thing at a time,” Alex said. “Call me as soon as—”

Jane poked the Up button again.

And jumped back, startled, as the elevator doors began to slide open.

*   *   *

“You listening?” Kenna had hissed into her cell phone. “I’ve got zero time. I’m in an elevator at Lassiter headquarters. Jane Ryland is down in the lobby. She’s asking questions about Holly Neff, but she’ll be leaving soon. Out the front door. Then meet me here at headquarters at eleven tonight. Fourth floor. Got me?”

“I understand. Did she say Holly’s name? Does she have the photos?”

“Yes, she has the photos. No, she apparently doesn’t have her name.”

The elevator bell pinged at floor one and eased to a stop. She clicked off the phone.

“Yet,” Kenna said.