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-”