68

“I’m afraid your husband won’t be coming back for … a while,” Jake said.

Patti Vick, legs crossed and clutching a bulging pocketbook, didn’t get up as Jake greeted her. She’d settled in the armchair in the duty officer’s room, filling the gray upholstery with coat and shawl and purse, not an inch of chair visible. Tattered “Wanted” posters and a calendar, last month’s, were the room’s only decoration.

A white-bordered clock, slow, Jake noticed, ticked reluctantly over a pitted wooden desk. Just after ten.

“What will happen now?” Patti Vick snapped open her purse, took out a little pink notebook. She clicked open a bright green ballpoint pen. “Does he have a chance?”

“Have a chance?” Jake hadn’t heard that one before. Some spouses of murder suspects went ballistic, furious at their partners for screwing up, getting caught, or leaving them all alone. Others sobbed uncontrollably, shocked, sad, terrified, lost in confusion or surprise or, sometimes, a haze of drugs.

Patti Vick was a new one.

“Let me ask you.” Jake leaned against the cinder block wall, arms crossed, in front of a poster showing a guy he’d captured. He’d give this a try, why not? Even though Patti Vick would probably clam up. Certainly that lawyer had filled her in on the three rules of talking to police: don’t, don’t, and don’t. “What do you think about Sellica Darden?”

“She was such a—” Patti Vick shrugged, her purple shawl tipping off one sweatered shoulder. “I mean, in that world she lived in? Probably dozens of people had her in their sights. It coulda been anyone. You know what she was.”

“What was she?” Jake asked. Not his place to warn her about “could be used against you.” Patti Vick wasn’t under arrest. She could make her own decisions.

“Puh-leeze,” the woman replied. She fingered one of her hoop earrings. “My husband is no killer. Okay, he’s no saint. I know that. I live with that. All those girls, the commercials, I know what goes on. Who knows how far she pushed him. Maybe someone else was there, you know? Tried to rip my Artie off. Some sleazy friend of hers. Roofing her up. Now my husband’s up the creek for it.”

Jake paused. One name on his mind. Jane Ryland. And the trial that almost cost her her career. Jane was right. I knew it. He kept his voice casual, not wanting to lose Patti Vick. “Must have been difficult for you. How long had your husband ‘known’ Sellica Darden?”

Patti slid one arm through the strap of her purse, holding the voluminous leather bag to her ample chest. He could almost see her calculating dates.

“I don’t know.” She swallowed. “Not before the reporter trial. Of course.”

“Of course.” Bull, Jake thought. “So, you let him use your studio? Did he have a key?”

Patti shrugged, looked relieved. “He paid the mortgage.”

Jake blinked. Remembering the search. Remembering what they’d found. “You ever paint portraits, Mrs. Vick?”

“Huh?”

“Why were there photos of women in your studio?”

“Oh, those.” Patti closed her notebook. Waved him off. “Arthur’s. From his commercials. He gave them to me. I paint from them sometimes.”

“I see. And you have trouble sleeping?”

“Oh, yes, it’s terrible.” Patti raised a plump hand to her forehead, woe is me. “Sometimes not a wink.”

“You ever sleep at the studio?”

“At the studio?”

“Yes, ma’am. I asked if you slept at the studio. We didn’t see a bed there.”

“Well, um, I suppose I…”

Jake’s phone didn’t ring. But he pretended it did. “Excuse me for a moment, ma’am.”

He took the BlackBerry from his jacket, pushed a random button, put it to his ear. “Detective Brogan,” he said. He paused, nodding, as if someone were telling him something portentous. “Yes, I’ll tell her. Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Tucking the phone away, he shook his head, so very full of regret. “Bad news, I’m afraid, Mrs. Vick.”

Patti stood, eyes wide. Her shawl fell to the chair. “Bad news?”

“Your husband’s confessed,” he said. “If you’ll wait right here? We’ll come back and get you. I know you’ll want a moment to say good-bye.”

“He—?” Patti sank into her chair, blinking furiously, one hand fluttering to her throat. “But…”

“Stay right there. I’ll send someone to sit with you,” Jake said. “And then I’ll be back. I promise.”

*   *   *

“He knows?”

Jane—freezing, wet, heart pounding—watched Matt process what she’d told him. She could see his brain at work. Assessing. Deciding. What she’d said was not true, of course. But sometimes the only way to suck the power from a secret is to tell it.

Jane shifted one leg carefully, knowing she might have only one chance to get to her feet. She had to get away. He’d certainly killed Holly Neff. He’d certainly kill her, too. The chunky black flashlight was almost within her grasp. Her only possible weapon. If she could reach …

She waved a hand to distract him, get him used to motion. Trying to engage him. “I’m a reporter, Matt, right? I find out things. I dug out birth records, you know? This is such good news, isn’t it?”

She kept her eyes locked on his, adjusting her arm underneath her. I have to get up. Without startling him into action. The back of her head throbbed; her neck and shoulders ached. Not only with pain, but also with the tension of pretense.

“In fact, I was hoping to bring you two together. A big wonderful family story, like a reunion. You know? Right before the election. Father and son. Didn’t anyone tell you? Maybe your…” Jane paused. The letters engraved on the headstone. Two children. “Your sister?”

She saw him swallow. Both hands—empty—came out of his pockets.

“Tonight at headquarters, his private office,” Matt whispered. His eyes looked off in the distance. “At eleven. Is that when you—?”

“Yes, yes, exactly.” Jane nodded. Whatever. “When Governor Lassiter gets back from his event. It’ll be wonderful. So we really have to—”

“No,” Matt whispered. “No.” A cloud floated over the moon, deepening the shadows on his face. He pointed to Jane, one accusing finger. “I know you had photos. She told me you showed photos to—”

“Oh, gosh, ridiculous, huh?” Jane was almost on her feet. Smiling. Lying. Playing for time. “My editor thinks those are Photoshopped, can you believe it? Fake as can be. Wherever they came from, who knows. What some people won’t do to get attention.”

Matt took a step back. Considering? Believing her?

Jane put one hand on the pink marble. Slowly, slowly, hoisting herself to her feet. Thinking, for a yearning fraction of a thought, of her own mother. How much she still missed her. Loved her. Maybe—

“You must have loved your mother very much,” she said. Hoping she was right. Watching his eyes. Hearing his ragged breathing. Cars murmured past on the street outside the cemetery. A tentative wind rustled through the bare branches.

Matt was nodding.

“She’d want you to be happy,” Jane continued. Keeping her voice quiet. Not wanting to break the spell. “Tonight at eleven. Right? I can help you—”

“Do not move!”

The voice split the darkness, blinding lights blasted her, the glare so instantly intense she staggered backwards, almost falling again, grabbing the grave marker behind her, scraping one hand on the rough stone.

“Do not move, do not move, stay right there.” A grating voice bellowed over—over what?

Jane struggled for balance, shading her eyes, squinting, looking for—loudspeakers? Her hand was bleeding now, she could feel it, but that was okay, whoever this was would protect—

Footsteps, running, movement in the trees, more shadows. “This is security, we see you, do not move! We see you, and you’re now under arrest. Damn kids! Put your hands in the air! Now! Now! Now!”

The loudspeaker voices continued, threatening, commanding, piercing the quiet. Two silhouetted figures, men, came into view. One ducked behind the angel, as if taking cover. The other approached, cautious, holding something in his hand. A gun?

Matt gave her a terrified look. Whirled. And bolted.

“Yes, yes, I’m here, don’t shoot!” Jane yelled, waving both arms. Both guards were headed right for her. She pointed at Matt, still running, now almost to a car parked by the exit. “Stop him!”