80

Her car wasn’t there. Jake trolled Corey Road for the third time, barely touching the accelerator, just to be sure. Past ivy-covered brownstones, leafless trees, a fedora-wearing geezer walking an overweight collie. No Audi. He drove through the narrow alley in the back of her building. No Audi. She wasn’t home. Maybe at the Register?

That little boy, Eli, was scuffing through piles of fallen leaves on the front sidewalk. His mother stood beside him, pushing a stroller back and forth. But no Jane.

He checked again. No messages on his cell.

Jake flickered a rueful glance at himself in the rearview. She’s got ya, bud, doesn’t she? he thought. And what of it? he answered his own question.

He’d buy her flowers. Deliver them to her in person at the Register. As congratulations on her scoop.

What woman wouldn’t appreciate that?

*   *   *

Should she pick up the phone? If her voice mail was from Jake—and of course it was—she’d have a hard time hiding it. But Alex knew they were pals. Jake had recommended her for this job. Suddenly that wasn’t such a good thing.

Tuck’s empty bulletin board proved why.

But Patti Vick? Confessed? That means Sellica’s death was not a result of her TV story. And that means …

Alex’s cell phone interrupted. He pulled it from his jacket pocket, glanced at the screen. “It’s Ellen. The Register intern. At the hospital. I’ve got her staking out Sarah Lassiter.”

“Is she—?” If Sarah died, they’d never find out what really happened. Owen and Moira Lassiter were at the hospital, been there since last night. Gable and Maitland—who knew. Maybe hiring lawyers.

“Okay.” Alex was checking his watch as he talked to Ellen. “Ten minutes.”

“Sarah Lassiter is awake,” he said. “I need you to get over to Mass General.”

“On the way.” Jane scooped up her belongings. If Sarah was talking, they were about to get some answers.

*   *   *

Jake pulled into Casswell Boulevard, headed his Jeep in the Register’s direction. He shouldn’t have let Jane talk him out of—being together. A relationship. She’d been terrific, last night, in that chaos. No freaking out. No crying. Efficient, competent. And she was the one who’d figured out the Matt thing.

She was a knockout. All there was to it.

A clay pot of white tulips wrapped in crinkling clear cellophane teetered on the seat beside him, trailing a pink ribbon to the floor. She loved tulips.

He stopped at the red light, good cop. He’d never told Jane anything the supe could criticize. They’d simply have to agree to keep their professional and personal lives separate. They could be careful. It could work.

He missed her.

“Brogan? You read?” his radio interrupted.

“Brogan,” he said, pushing the button. He hit the accelerator as the light changed. “Loud and clear, D. What’s up?”

“Sarah Lassiter. You better get over here.”

Jake eyed the flowers. Then he flipped on the lights and siren and banged a U-turn across two lanes of traffic.

Maybe Jane will be at the hospital, too.

*   *   *

“What did Sarah Lassiter say? Where’s Trevor now?” Jane grabbed Ellen by the elbow, recognizing the elaborate braids and wire-rimmed glasses of the Register’s intern. Jane had parked in the Mass General garage, run down two flights of water-stained stairwell, raced past a couple of waiting ambulances, pushed through the glass front doors. Almost got to the elevator. When a security guard stopped her.

Now she was trapped in a windowless holding room with every reporter and photographer on the planet. At least Ellen had made contact with Trevor Kiernan.

Ellen pulled a spiral notebook from the back pocket of her jeans. “Sarah Lassiter? A nurse ran out of her room, freaking. Then all hell broke loose and I got booted down here. Owen Lassiter’s in Sarah’s room, and his wife, too. And about a million cops. I told Trevor Kiernan you were on the way.”

“What’d he say?” Jane had to talk to Lassiter. And Moira. Tell them what she knew. Warn them. They didn’t know about Gable. The other woman.

Ellen shrugged. “He said—thanks. Now, we wait.”

*   *   *

Outside Sarah Lassiter’s room, two uniform cops stood sentinel. Jake knew DeLuca was inside.

Owen Lassiter, arm across his wife’s shoulders, slumped on a low bench against the wall. She must have brought him a change of clothes—last night’s blood-spattered shirt was gone, replaced by a dark blue turtleneck. A tweedy guy holding a clipboard leaned close to Mrs. Lassiter, whispering.

All three looked up at Jake’s arrival. Faces drawn, exhausted.

“Detective,” Lassiter said, standing. “My daughter’s dead. She said she never meant to kill me—she was just—I don’t know. Trying to scare me. But she said I took her mother’s life. And, I suppose, I did.”

Moira made a soft sound, not quite a sob. Her head dropped into her hands.

“And my own son sacrificed his life for mine.” Lassiter’s shoulders went back, a muscle in his jaw working. He reached out a hand, almost caressing his wife’s hair. “We could have worked it out. Now it’s too late.”

Jake remembered that boisterous rally on the Esplanade. Candidate Owen Lassiter. Confetti and crowds and music and adulation. Confident, powerful, promising to save the world. Now he stood only in sorrow, facing a future of second-guessing and certain regret.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jake said.