Well, this was a first. Jane sat in the front row of Mayor Elihu Holbrooke’s news conference, middle seat in the line of dented metal folding chairs set up in the walnut-paneled conference room. She was here without portfolio, except as secret girlfriend of the cute cop now standing cross armed (and freshly shaved, she noted) on the raised carpeted dais and as the secret almost-relative of the woman now charged with the attempted murder of her husband.
Another first: Jane hoped to keep all that knowledge from the swarm of media types now filling the chairs around her. Though Robyn and Lewis Wilhoite’s names were irretrievably public, the cops were calling it “a domestic,” shorthand for “no one else is in danger so we’re done.” No reporters knew about the little girl in the middle of it all.
Lewis would recover, and if there were a trial, he’d certainly testify. Melissa and Daniel had whisked Gracie to Chicago, as already planned, and were working out what to tell her. Jane crossed her fingers, and, as almost Aunt Jane, asked the universe to take care of her new niece.
But City Hall was under siege. The secret taping of the chief of staff’s greenroom and the alleged extortion plot of Bartoneri, Dahlstrom, and Hewlitt had been revealed in a tersely worded press release. The media had been notified to attend a “brief” news conference.
Now the room buzzed with pinging texts and humming cell phones, still photographers checking light levels and elbowing for floor space, a crowded row of TV guys clicking video cameras onto spiky tripods. All the local TV stations sent their big gun reporters, even Channel 3’s Emmy-magnet Charlotte McNally. Jane’s colleagues. Ex-colleagues. She could have skipped this, she supposed. But she couldn’t resist seeing it firsthand.
“Hey, Jane.” Beverly Chorbajian, brandishing her reporters’ notebook, arrived in a waft of musky-rose. “What’re you doing here? Did Marsh Tyson finally get in touch with you? Are you—”
“Long story. Oh.” She pointed, relieved to change the subject from Channel 2. “Here comes Siskel. And Holbrooke.”
Catherine Siskel, black skirt, white shirt, hair pageboyed, and chunky gold earrings, strode to the podium. Jane knew her husband had been murdered just two days ago. How had she switched off her grief? Was it strength? Or denial? Or necessity?
“I’m Catherine Siskel, Mayor Elihu Holbrooke’s chief of staff,” she said. “The mayor will make a short statement. He will take no questions. Bottom line, everything is under investigation. Understood? You ask a question? We’re done. Got it?” She scanned the room over the top of Jane’s head, assessing. “You rolling?”
“Rolling,” a voice from the back.
The silver-haired Brahmin marched to the podium in gray worsted and burgundy tie. Still cameras flashed, their pops of light and clicking motor drives punctuated his movements as he adjusted the microphone, raised his chin, calculated the waiting audience.
He had everything money could buy, his opponents in the mayor’s race had sneered. But he couldn’t buy away the murder that had taken place right under his window. Or the involvement of his own employee. Or the discovery of a dirty cop.
“Almost exactly forty-eight hours ago…” Mayor Holbrooke looked at his watch as if he were actually calculating and not reading from the huge-fonted typed pages Jane could see in front of him. “Our city was hit with a series of terrible crimes. But through the brave and quick-thinking work of our city’s homicide division, we can confidently say the danger is over.”
“How could your own surveillance chief be involved in extortion and sales of sex tapes?” Charlotte McNally stood—how’d she always manage to get the first question?—pointed a thick ballpoint at the mayor. “Did you know of the greenroom camera?”
Siskel flew to the podium, frowning, edged in front of the mayor, both hands waving McNally off. “No questions! I specifically—”
But now more reporters clamored to their feet, one after the other, pelting Holbrooke with demands, their voices overlapping.
“So a police detective was in on it? What’s her status?”
“Can you confirm that your chief of staff’s husband was the Curley Park victim?”
“Who killed Greg Siskel?”
Jane couldn’t bear it. She stood, not exactly looking at Jake. He’d understand. She was doing it for the public’s right to know.
“Does City Hall have surveillance video of the Curley Park stabbing?” she asked.