82

“This one belongs to you, Jane.” With a flourish, Alex handed her the first copy of Wednesday’s morning paper. “It’s a long way from Wrong-Guy Ryland, I must say.”

Jane stood up from her spot on Alex’s couch, bowing dramatically as she accepted the bulldog edition. Both of them were wired on two lattes each after yet another all-nighter in the Register newsroom.

“Talk about wrong,” Jane said. “The cops found an incredible stash of photos in Holly’s apartment. Apparently, she’d been stalking Lassiter for weeks, putting together her own political campaign to humiliate him, make him look like a womanizer. And I just found another batch of them in my mailbox, forwarded from Channel Eleven. From her, I guess. Her scheme could have worked, I bet. If Matt Lassiter hadn’t—ah.”

Jane sank back on the couch, folded newspaper in hand, leaning her head against the worn upholstery, propping her blue-jeaned legs on the coffee table. Thinking about Moira. “And Lassiter did absolutely nothing wrong during the campaign, you know? It’s terrible. Greed. Deception. Power. The whole thing.”

“But a helluva story,” Alex said.

“Got to admit.” Jane opened the paper, held up the front page.

Jane’s story, headlined SENATE RACE SCANDAL—CONSULTANT CONS CANDIDATE IN ELECTION DOUBLE-CROSS, covered the entire front page above the fold. Below, the follow-up to Patti Vick’s arrest—minus Tuck’s byline—rated one paragraph and a jump. Jake was right. There is no Bridge Killer. Or, actually, there are four.

Alex plonked his feet on his desk, tilting in his chair. “Secretary of State Doniger insists she can’t call off the election. So next week, people will either choose a sleaze for senator, or vote for a dupe who can’t tell that his closest ally is actually working for the other guy.”

“The other woman, you mean.” Jane read her story yet again, scanning for the highlights. It was all highlights. Seduction. Betrayal. Murder. Jane had worked through the night, trying to make sense of all that had happened. Choosing exactly the right words so her story could explain it, clear and objective.

“The dupe—I mean Lassiter—is gonna win, at least,” Jane said. “Trevor’ll get to go to Washington, if he hasn’t quit, you know? But Gable’s jeered wherever she goes now. Talk about toast. Got to love Maitland’s quote, though, that he and Gable ‘did nothing illegal.’”

“He can tell that to the grand jury.” Alex, as usual, started reading his e-mail while he talked. “Our court guy says the target letter’s in the mail. Maitland’s finished, you know? His backroom double-dealing led to murder, after all. And Gable’s already turning on him. Alleges he was stalking her, sending her love notes. Which she destroyed, of course, conveniently. Geez. When he rats her out, can you imagine the mess?”

He suddenly leaned closer to the computer screen. “Oh. Holy shit. Body in a hotel room.”

“Where? Who?” Jane’s phone trilled from the pouch of her fleece hoodie. She flipped open her cell. Didn’t get a chance to say a word before the whisper on the other end.

“Janey? It’s me.”

Jake. Just hearing his voice, Jane knew she must look guilty. But Alex was deep into a phone conversation of his own. She’d have to let Jake know the score.

“Yes, this is Jane Ryland, what can I do for you?” she said.

*   *   *

Jake watched Humpty unspool the yellow plastic tape across the hotel room door. Penthouse of the Madisonian. High-class, high-priced, and now, a crime scene.

He could tell from her voice Jane was not alone. DeLuca had filled him in on the fiasco with Laney Driscoll and Tuck. Jane must know about it, too.

“I understand, Miss Ryland,” Jake said. Telegraphing, I get it. “And we’ll have to follow up on that. But to let you know. Body was just discovered at the Madisonian Hotel. Looks like suicide. It’s Rory Maitland.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. He could picture her, twisting her hair, mind racing, assessing who might hear her.

“I know you can’t talk,” he said. “But, Jane? On the way out? Check the Register’s front desk. Something there for you.”

He clicked off the phone.

Janey would finally get those tulips. And, Jake hoped, she’d understand the card he’d tucked inside.

*   *   *

“Dead body in a hotel room, our stringer reports,” Alex said. He had flipped open his laptop, now talking to Jane and typing at the same time. “No ID? Damn. Hang on a second, Jane. I’ve gotta find someone to cover this thing.”

“I’ll go,” Jane said. Thanks, Jakey. How can I stay away from him? She stood, brushing down her jeans. “Got my trusty notebook, got my trusty tape recorder, cell phone all charged. Who knows what story may be unfolding. Right?”

“No mistake about that,” Alex said. He paused, slowly closed his laptop. “Jane?”

He looked at her so intently, she took a step backward. His eyes were softer than she’d remembered. And that smile was one she’d never seen.

“Yes?”

“Jane, listen. I want to tell you—you’ve really rocked this.” He swallowed, adjusted his glasses. Smiled again. “We’re a good team, you and I, don’t you think?”

Hot Alex. He only means “a good team” professionally, right? I won’t mention this to Amy.

Not a bad way to start the day. Seven in the morning, a front-page exclusive, and praise from her boss. Her dad would be proud, too, wouldn’t he? She couldn’t wait to tell him. Maybe her sister’s wedding would even be—fun. Now another big story was in the works. After that? That was the joy of reporting. And of life. You never knew.

Mom was right. One door closes, another door opens. Maybe I can even help Tuck find a new job. Kind of—karma. I know what it feels like to get the rug pulled out.

“Thanks, Alex,” Jane said. “Yeah. We are a good team. And I’m really—”

Her cell phone was ringing. Extra loud. She couldn’t ignore it, not with Alex watching. Wonder what Jake left at the front desk?

“Go ahead, pick up,” Alex said, gesturing. “Might be—”

“Jane Ryland,” she answered.

“Jane-ster. It’s Bart Finneran at Channel Eleven. Congratulations on that story. You’re really knocking ’em dead.”

“Ah,” Jane said. She stared at the floor.

“What?” Alex said.

“Here’s the scoop, kiddo. With the Vick arrest?” Finneran continued. “Lawyers tell me it’s a done deal now. Appeal over. Judgment vacated. Like it never happened.”

“Ah,” Jane said again. Kiddo. What a creep. But the judgment was—gone? The whole million-dollar mess?

“What?” Alex said again.

“I guess you’re speechless, huh?” Finneran said. “Don’t blame ya, kiddo. It’s all over, Jane.”

Jane remembered his studio-trained voice, his movie-star face, how he’d lied to her as he fired her. Her hand clutched her phone. Her voice was not working.

Alex watched her, waiting.

“Anyway, Jane”—Finneran was still talking—“we’re hoping you’d like your job back. Like none of this ever happened. You’ll be our superstar. Big-time. What do you say?”

My job back. Exactly what I’d thought I wanted.

But I was wrong.

Jane paused. Waited a beat. What to say? The perfect response would be wry and knowing. Brief and memorable. So cleverly dismissive, Finneran would go back to his overstuffed office and his overpaid cronies and say, That Ryland. I offered her the moon, and you know what she told me?

Jane could think of that perfect line. She would. Maybe while drinking a latte at her city room desk, maybe while hashing it over with Amy, maybe while sharing a clandestine glass of wine with Jake.

But she knew what the line would mean.

“What I say is—no thank you,” she said. Then, she couldn’t resist. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong girl.”

With one decisive click, she hung up.

“What?” Alex said. “You okay?”

“Yup.” And it was true. She was fine. “That was Channel Eleven. They want me back.”

She saw Alex’s eyes widen. “But you—we—”

“I know,” she said. Jane smiled as she picked up her tote bag. I have a story to cover. “They obviously made a mistake.”