8

It was disconcerting to feel so anonymous. Here she was, in the midst of hundreds of Lassiter supporters, all from Boston probably, and not one of them recognized her. With her hair chopped, without the Channel 11 TV camera beside her, and wearing her cropped Levi’s jacket, black turtleneck sweater dress, and flat black boots, Jane could be a professor stealing a break from her classes at Emerson College. Or a Back Bay art collector, shopping the Newbury Street galleries.

The light turned green. Jane and the Lassiter crowd crossed Beacon Street, trooping up the steep ramp to the pink stucco pedestrian bridge over Storrow Drive. College-age kids, mostly girls, some wearing green LASSITER FOR SENATE baseball caps, iPod buds in their ears. Young mothers pushing complicated strollers, one carrying a crayoned sign reading LASSITER 4 YOUR KIDS. Beacon Hill matrons with heirloom hats and predictable shoes. Everyone with LASSITER FOR SENATE buttons, some more than one. So far, no gorgeous woman in a red coat.

Jane checked her watch. The rally was scheduled to start in half an hour. She’d called Gable HQ, as Alex instructed. They hadn’t called back. Plenty of time to scout.

The crowd began its descent from the arched bridge onto Boston’s Esplanade, a verdant stretch of still-green grass and fading willow trees on the banks of the Charles River. To the right rose the Longfellow Bridge with its salt-and-pepper shaker-shaped turrets. To the left, the Boston University Bridge. Across the whitecapped water, past the sailing J-boats and mallards, the pillared halls of MIT.

Jane felt a hard jab at the small of her back.

“Don’t move. Or it’ll be the last thing you do. And do not scream.”

She felt the man’s soft breath in her ear. Then his hands clutched her, hard, holding both her shoulders. His body pressed insistently against her. The crowd around her blurred into a mass of color. All she could see was the Longfellow Bridge on one side, the BU Bridge on the other. The Charles in front of her. A river, by a bridge.

No one was noticing them.

Is this how he began?

In the middle of a campaign rally?

She clutched her pen and whirled, trying to escape his grasp, ready to poke and kick and—and why not scream? She saw his face.

He was laughing.

“You incredible idiot.” Jane stamped a foot, then softly kicked Detective Jake Brogan in one blue-jeaned shin. “I thought you were the stupid Bridge Killer. I could have stabbed you, or screamed, or, or—”

“Yeah, but I’m a cop. Who you gonna scream for? I’m already here.” Jake smiled, the same caught-in-the-hall-without-a-pass smile that successfully extricated him from annoyed females and detention halls ever since he’d been the preteen heartthrob of Boston’s tony Back Bay. Jane was first exposed to his wattage at a Boston Police Department news conference, where she’d pushed him for details of a murdered city councilor’s financial skullduggery. He’d avoided the question. And after the news conference, he asked her out to dinner. She declined. He continued to ask. She continued to say no. Until, one night, when she didn’t.

“And now I might have to arrest you for assaulting a police officer.” Jake tucked her arm through his, just for a moment, holding her close. “Taking you into custody might not be a bad thing, come to think of it.”

Jane whapped him with her notebook and untangled herself from his grasp as they walked toward the rally. She pulled her jacket back into place. “Like I said, you’re an idiot. First, there’s a million people here. You know we agreed about this. We’re friends, only friends. Second, I’m working. Third, well, there is no third. We discussed this. I’m a reporter, and you’re a—”

“We discussed it on my couch,” Jake interrupted again. A squawk from the loudspeakers brought a groan from the crowd; then the Sousa blared again. “After a few glasses of pinot and my famous burgers. Before you decided to keep your clothes on, if I remember correctly.”

As if she could forget. He was verging on irresistible—tawny hair, green eyes, leather jacket, his own gorgeous cop cliché. Harvard education. Prominent family. Devoted to his work. He’d even rescued a golden retriever, Diva, whose tawny fur and cajoling eyes made them copies of each other.

Jake and Jane. She’d thought about it more than she liked to admit.

But Mr. Perfect’s job was the deal-breaker. Dating a potential source? She couldn’t believe she’d let herself come so close to such a career-complicating decision. One minute more on his couch, one second more, and she’d never have been able to change her mind.

If they were … together? Both their careers would be over. She’d never be able to cover the crime beat. No one would believe he wasn’t feeding her confidential stuff. He’d know things he couldn’t tell, and so would she. They’d never quite trust each other.

So they’d agreed—reluctantly, longingly, as one magical summer night became the reality of the next morning—that they’d have to remain just pals. And, because appearances mattered, to the rest of the world they’d be acquaintances. Professional. Separate.

Even though she could still feel his touch, there’d be no Jake and Jane.

“Thanks again for calling me with the lead on the Register job,” she finally said. She turned to him, drawing a finger, gently, briefly, down the front of his jacket. The battered cordovan leather was sleek and soft. “Thanks for calling them. You saved my sanity. I was pretty sad there, for a while. And hey. Thanks for sending all the pizza. And for staying away while I was trying to figure things out.”

“You took a huge hit, Janey. Pizza. Least I could do.” He gave her that twinkle. “And even with your clothes on, we’re still friends.”

Jane rolled her eyes, hit him with her notebook again. “Enough with the clothes.”

“But listen, seriously,” Jake went on, ignoring her. “Sellica ever call you? Admit she was your source? I can’t believe she walked, and you’re the one who got nailed. Any more ugly letters from—whoever it was? I know you think it was Arthur Vick. I also know you know you should hand them over to us.”

“Good try, Sherlock. You know I can’t talk about that.” No letters had arrived recently, anyway. And TV reporters always got mail from cranks and wackos. If you didn’t, you weren’t doing your job.

Jane scanned the crowd. Realized she was looking for Sellica. Stupid. Sellica Darden would call her, get in touch, someday. She has to. “But, Jake. How’d you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t.” Jake waved toward the Charles, waggling his fingers as if announcing the title of a bad horror movie or a tabloid headline. “Bridge Killer.”

“You think there’s a Bridge Killer?” Jane’s voice changed, all business now. Jake was pretending to kid her, but this was new. News. The cops never said Bridge Killer. They’d dodged every question about serial and pattern. But if Jake was assigned here, even calling the guy the Bridge Killer, that meant the cops knew a whole lot more than they were telling.

Jake was walking again, toward the river. Jane trotted to keep up with him. “Jake, wait. You think he takes his victims during the day? You think he’d do it here, with all these people? All these cameras?”

She grabbed his sleeve, stopping him. “Do you guys have pictures of him? At political rallies or something? How do you know it’s him? Are you getting photos from the Lassiter people? Is he connected with the campaign?”

“Hey. Since when are you covering this story, Miss Jane? I thought it was that Tucker kid. And listen, since it’s your paper now, tell your editor for me—it’s a cheap shot, all that crap about ‘police deny serial killer.’” Jake looked down at her, his face now shadowed with annoyance. “The more they play up how the brass denies it, the more it looks like there’s some cover-up. There’s no cover-up. Why can’t the truth just be the truth?”

“Jane Ryland? Are you Jane Ryland?”

Jane took a step back, startled at the interruption. She saw Jake do the same thing, in one quick move, keeping a respectable distance. Acquaintances.

“I’m sorry?” She looked at the newcomer, a handsome-enough guy, her age, with a briefcase. A jacket and tie. No overcoat. Lawyer, maybe.

“Aren’t you Jane Ryland? I’m Trevor Kiernan from the—”

“See ya, Miss Ryland,” Jake said. Professional. He stepped farther away from her, backing up, raising a hand in good-bye. “Off to keep Boston safe.”

“Hang on, Detective Brogan. Please.” Jane took a step toward him, needing him to stay. She turned to the stranger, trying to juggle the two men. She couldn’t let Jake leave.

“Can you give me a moment, Mr., um, Keerman? Yes, I’m Jane Ryland, but I’m so sorry, I just need to finish a quick—”

“It’s Kiernan.” The man picked up his phone, reading the screen as he talked. “From the Lassiter campaign. Did you call our office about an interview with Mrs. Lassiter?”

What? “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said again, flustered now. Damn. She hadn’t recognized him. Trevor Kiernan. The campaign mogul. Kennedy School wunderkind. Insider. He’d orchestrated Lassiter’s vaunted neighborhood meet and greets. She looked where Jake had just been. Gone. Dammit. Why did everything good have to happen at the same time? “Of course, yes, sorry, I wasn’t expecting—”

“Ladies and gentlemen, and Lassiter supporters, a big Boston welcome to the Lassiter for Senate…” A booming voice paraded through the loudspeakers, cutting Jane off midsentence. She moved closer to Kiernan, straining to be heard over the escalating clamor.

“—I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Yes, I’d love to interview Mrs. Lassiter. Can we do that? Can you—?”

“In five minutes…” The loudspeaker voice now competing with the cheering crowd and the trumpeting music and the whicker of a helicopter hovering over the Esplanade. “In just five minutes, Lassiter One will be landing right behind us, and you’ll all be able to…”

“Listen, Ms. Ryland.” Kiernan leaned in, his voice insistent. He’d put his briefcase on the grass, straddling it. “You’ve been around long enough to know the drill. You want an interview? You gotta go through our press office.”

“But I did.” Didn’t the left hand know what the right, et cetera? If they couldn’t even communicate about a simple interview, this campaign must be in more disarray than she’d figured. “I mean, yeah, I did call Mrs. Lassiter. But I absolutely talked to Sheila first.”

“Sorry? Can’t hear you.” Kiernan moved closer to her. “You what?”

The chopper was buzzing the crowd, dropping confetti in a multicolored snowfall across the green. Billows of red, white, and blue caught the wind and floated onto hats and hairdos, covering the picnickers with color and sending the crowd into a crescendo of cheers.

“Called. The press office. Sheila.” Jane moved as close as she could and still be polite, their heads almost touching. They stood eye to eye, his intensely brown, the same chocolate as the faint pinstripes in his suit jacket. A snippet of red and white landed on his shoulder. Jane waved away confetti as she tried to talk, raising her voice over the escalating commotion. “Sheila said no. That Mrs. Lassiter was taking a break. What’s that about, anyway? Where is she?”

“Taking a break?” Kiernan’s eyebrows went up. Still straddling his briefcase, he pulled out a white card from a jacket pocket. “Here. Call me. After the rally. She’s not ‘taking a break.’”

“O-wen Las-si-ter!” The voice reverberating through the public address system might have been introducing a conquering hero, or world champion of something.

Jane and Kiernan turned, catching glimpses of the now-spotlighted stage through dozens of waving signs. The candidate, both arms raised in victory, strode to his place behind the flag-bedecked podium. A massive VOTE LASSITER FOR SENATE banner unfurled behind him. He tipped up the microphone, as if he were taller than anyone predicted.

Then with a how can I resist? grin, Owen Lassiter went to the front of the stage, leaning over the edge to shake hands with the delirious supporters who’d pushed to the front row. Blue-uniformed police, arms linked, tried to keep the crowds back, but Lassiter waved them away.

“You going to win this?” Jane watched Kiernan watch his boss work the crowd.

Without taking his eyes off the candidate, Kiernan cocked his head toward the stage and took Jane’s arm.

“Come with me.” He moved them quickly through the crowd, bringing her with him, dodging through the crush of supporters. “Up close. Watch what’ll happen in about five minutes. Then you tell me if we’re gonna win.”

*   *   *

Kenna could wait. For as long as it took.

“Mr. Maitland?” The rabbity woman behind the desk on the third floor of the Lassiter campaign office spoke into her headset. “She says she’s a ‘Mrs. Kenna Wilkes,’ insists she has an appointment.” The woman turned pages in a spiral notebook. “But there are no appointments on the daily.”

Today Kenna was all soft curls and wispy tendrils. Under her trench coat, a demure pink sweater set and a not-so-demure black pencil skirt that stopped just north of her knees. She figured Maitland would appreciate her expensive boots. Any man loved high heels. Oh, yes. She could wait.

“He’s not answering, Mrs. Wilkes. Mr. Maitland doesn’t see anyone without a—”

The door behind the secretary’s desk swung open.

Standing in the doorway, a pudgy, middle-aged guy in a rumpled off-the-rack suit held out a hand, gesturing Kenna toward him.

“She’s fine, Deenie.” The man crossed in front of the secretary, eyes only for Kenna. “Mrs. Wilkes. The governor said you’d be arriving today. Welcome. I’m Rory Maitland.”

Kenna watched him look her up and down. “Delighted, Mr. Maitland.”

“Deenie, this is Mrs. Wilkes, a—” Maitland paused, as if searching for the right words. He rubbed a hand across what was left of his hair. “—a special friend of Governor Lassiter. She’s volunteered to help on the campaign. And the governor has asked us to make her feel at home. Mrs. Wilkes, this is Deenie.” He pointed to the nameplate on her desk: DENISE BAYLISS.

“Oh, please call me Kenna,” she said. Flicking a glance at Maitland, she targeted the receptionist with a dazzling smile. “I cannot wait to get started. I hope you’ll help me?”

“Help you? Get started?” Deenie turned to Maitland, questioning. Back to Kenna. Then back to Maitland. “Get started with what?”

Kenna touched a newly French-manicured fingernail to her single strand of pearls. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought Governor Lassiter had promised I could—”

Maitland interrupted. “And the governor would be delighted if you could start today. How about trying the welcome desk, downstairs in the main lobby? Sit right up front. Meet everyone who comes in.”

“I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” Kenna said. “The welcome desk sounds lovely.”

“The welcome desk is not as easy as it looks, Mr. Maitland.” Deenie was frowning.

“You know what, Denise? I’ll just take her downstairs myself,” Maitland said. Case closed. “I’d like to get Mrs. Wilkes in place before everyone gets back from the rally.”

Maitland approached the door to the corridor. He turned to Kenna. “Ready? You’ll be the first person everyone sees when they arrive at campaign headquarters. Hope you don’t mind being the new girl.”

The new girl? That was one way of putting it. “Actually,” she said, “I’d love to run over to that rally first. See it all firsthand? Then come back later?”

She looked at Maitland expectantly. Deenie must be beyond confused.

“Wonderful.” He beamed, as if Kenna had the most brilliant idea ever. “In fact, here’s an idea. I’ll walk over to the Esplanade with you.”

Maitland gestured Kenna through the door, then turned back to the secretary.

“Mrs. Wilkes will be back after the rally.” He stabbed a stubby finger toward the girl, now barricaded behind her desk. “Remember, Deenie, the governor says we’re to give her anything she needs.”