63

Who the hell is Holly Neff? And who the hell is Kenna Wilkes? Talking on the phone while driving a stick shift in Boston evening traffic. Fine, she could handle it. She had to call Jake. And Moira. And damn it, she had to find out about the Deverton connection. Maybe Kenna didn’t even know who owned the house. But she had to call Alex first.

Jane punched in the number, pulled out of her space, waited two rings, filled Alex in at light speed.

“N-e-f-f,” she repeated. She pictured Kenna. Her pleading eyes. “I can’t say how I know. I’m on my way to the newsroom, so I’ll start checking her out when I get there. Can you stand it? Sexpot photos of a murdered woman, the campaign connection, Lassiter’s involvement. The package of photos. Amazing. See you in, like, ten.”

She shifted into second, making the curve onto Merrimack. Frowned. Alex was telling her to—what? She weighed the pros and cons as she listened to her boss. The light turned red. Now he was talking about—what?

“Sorry,” Jane interrupted. “Traffic. You said they’re appearing together? Gable and Lassiter? Where?”

The light changed as Alex explained. Traffic snarling, drivers snarling, maybe the Boston Garden had basketball tonight. “I’ll never get all the way to Porter Square in time,” Jane argued after Alex finished his instructions. “Traffic sucks, it’s starting to rain, it’s going to be a mess.”

Jane turned left, heading over the Charles River on the Longfellow Bridge, its salt-and-pepper turrets illuminated against the now-dark sky. Kylie Howarth’s body was found down there. Poor Kylie.

Alex’s voice buzzed through the car. Lassiter and Gable, some Chamber of Commerce thing. The Register had a reporter there, covering it, but Alex’s brilliant idea was—

“Wait,” she interrupted again. “Say I go to this event. Am I supposed to confront Gable about the Kenna house? Or confront Lassiter about the sexy photo and his relationship with a murdered mistress?”

Alex didn’t answer right away. Jane’s tires clunked over the metal reinforcements as she reached the end of the bridge, her headlights too close to the guy in front of her because someone else was hugging her tail. It was misting now, not really rain, but she flipped on her windshield wipers. A mess for trick-or-treaters. Checking her rearview, she saw her own face mottled light and dark in the flickering shadows. Gable as saboteur? Lassiter as philanderer? The candidate connected to a murder? Some election this is turning out to be.

“I see what you mean,” Alex said. “We have this, exclusive, right? I guess if we have to wait on this story, we have to wait.”

“What about our deal with the police? This means we actually do have a confirmed identity of the dead—”

“Get yourself to the event, let me know when you’re there,” Alex said. “I’ll call Tay Reidy and the lawyers, then call you with an update. It’s touchy. What we can say, what we can’t. The victim’s name. The political angle.”

“Gotcha,” she said. “Moron! Pick a lane!” Jane slammed on her brakes, yanked the wheel. “Sorry, Alex, it’s just—Boston drivers in the rain. Tailgating as a way of life. You know. Anyway. Call me.”

She barely clicked off the phone when it rang again.

“Hey, Janey.”

She touched a hand to her hair, remembered Jake couldn’t see her. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey, you.”

She could almost feel his touch. How could that be?

“You driving?” he said.

“Slowly,” Jane replied. “I’m headed to cover a political thing. It’s in Porter Square, but I’m only by the Science Museum, and it’s raining. It’s like a contest for who can drive the slowest.”

With a start, she remembered what she knew. What she had to tell him.

“Listen,” she said. “About this morning. The Fort Point victim.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “That’s why I’m calling. You listen, okay? I need to e-mail you a photo. But don’t look at it while you’re driving. Can you pull over?”

“Photo?” It could not possibly be the Holly Neff lingerie shot. That would be— She looked at the dashboard clock. Almost nine. She would never get to Porter Square in time. “Of what?”

“Pull over, okay? I’m sending it to you by e-mail. You’ll see why.”

“Two seconds,” she said, eyeing the road in front of her. She knew a strip mall with a parking lot—and a Dunkin’ Donuts—about two blocks ahead. “But while whatever it is flies through cyberspace, let me tell you what I’ve confirmed. First of all, the Fort Point victim turns out to be a woman named— Listen, do we still have our deal? I tell you the name, you give us the story?”

Silence on the other end. Had she blown it? Maybe the cops were about to have a big news conference, reveal the scoop, before Jane could get the big byline. But Jake couldn’t know about the Lassiter connection. Even if the cops gave out Holly’s name, only Jane would have the political angle.

Moira would—

“Janey? How soon till you can pull over?”

“Getting there.” She flipped on her right blinker, crossed in front of a battered Honda, turned into the Dunkin’s lot. A couple of other cars also turned in behind her, probably on a caffeine hunt. She pulled under a light, her wipers sloshing in the now more-than-drizzle, left the engine running. “Okay, all set. I’ll hang up, check the photo, call you back. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Just look at the picture,” Jake said.

*   *   *

Where the hell is she going? Matt almost said the words out loud. He yanked the steering wheel, careened into the parking lot, banged a hard left as Jane Ryland’s car turned right. She couldn’t get out of the lot without him seeing her.

He chose a spot in the corner by the exit, clicked off his headlights, left the motor running. The radio, low, played some impenetrable jazz. Matt’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. He’d checked out of the hotel. Put his suitcase in the trunk. If he had to, he could take the late train to New York. Get an early plane home from there.

Jane was still in her car, interior light making her a fuzzy silhouette. Looked like she was—texting. Or looking at something. Wasn’t going for coffee.

Cissy had told him to follow her, right? But what was he supposed to do when she got where she was going? Cissy’d hung up so quickly, and didn’t answer when he called her back.

He had to plan.

Number one, if Jane still had Holly’s photos with her, the ones of Holly and Lassiter, he could get them back. Did she bring all of them? Had she copied them? Problem. He’d figure that out when the time came.

Two, Jane would connect the woman in those photos with the Fort Point victim—that’s what police called Holly at this morning’s news conference. So Jane knew she was dead. Problem.

And three, because of Holly’s deceptive photos, Jane would definitely assume the dead woman was connected with his father. Eventually with Matt himself. Big, big problem.

He squeezed the steering wheel with both hands, not taking his eyes off the woman in the front seat of the Audi.

Matt had to stop Jane Ryland. He was certain Cissy would agree.