She was a block from the church. Long black cars pulled up to the front, exhaust pluming from their tailpipes. Clumps of dark-clad mourners gathered on the far street corner, some walking arm in arm. Detail cops in orange webbed safety jackets stopped traffic, allowing people to emerge from their cars unhurried, unthreatened by the busy street. A huge wreath of white flowers and some kind of greenery hung on the front doors.
Jake kept to the shadows. He had a perfect view. What did he expect to see? He’d know when he saw it.
Now Jane was trotting up the wide front steps. She stopped to talk with a woman in a black coat, her face hidden by her broad-brimmed black hat. He saw Jane take the woman’s hands, lean forward. Leota Darden. Did Jane know her from before? Had Jane met Sellica’s mother? Leota had never answered him directly about that.
If Sellica was Jane’s source, maybe she’d told her more about Arthur Vick than Jane reported. Maybe that was key.
Another big question: What if Sellica knew Amaryllis Roldan?
DeLuca was on it now, checking. And if his partner found a connection, it meant there was a Bridge Killer.
And that meant they were all screwed.
Dammit. Arthur Vick? He could picture Vick killing Sellica in some testosterone-fueled revenge move. Maybe an accident, a mistake. But the others? Arthur Vick as Bridge Killer? No. No way. Too much to lose. Too public.
If there was a Bridge Killer, whoever it was, he was nuts. Arthur Vick wasn’t nuts. An egocentric asshole, but not nuts.
Probably not nuts.
Jake checked his watch. The five o’clock funeral didn’t start for another twenty minutes. He watched more mourners arrive and stop to speak with Mrs. Darden, Jane seeming to stand aside. Keeping his eye on the front steps, he hit speed dial.
One ring. Almost two.
“DeLuca.”
“D? About Arthur Vick.”
“You come to your senses, Harvard?” DeLuca’s sarcasm was punctuated by bells ringing and what sounded like-cash registers? Of course. Grocery store. “Gonna let me pick him up?”
“Not yet,” Jake said. “Listen. On the down-low. Let’s check Vick’s alibi. For Longfellow and for Charlestown. I mean, for Miss Roldan. And for Sellica Darden.”
“By ‘let’s,’ you mean me.”
“Ten-four, good buddy.” Jake smiled. D was a good guy. “You getting anything at the grocery?”
“Nada.”
“Anything on Sellica? More on Roldan?”
“Nope. And nope. Like I said. Nada. Roldan’s a nobody at Beacon Markets. Passing through.”
“She know Arthur Vick?”
“Oh. Yeah, they were boyfriend-girlfriend. I just forgot to tell you.” DeLuca paused. “Like I said. Nada. No connection so far.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
Jake hung up the phone, then scrolled his BlackBerry for the notes from this morning’s interview with Leota Darden. The green screen glowed against the glare as the corner streetlight popped on. Something Leota had said. About her daughter and Vick. About the money. He rolled the ball with his thumb, squinting at the screen, working his notes into view. Found it.
“She counted on it, with those other girls, thought it was a way out of the life.” Word for word what Leota said.
What other girls?
Clicking off his BlackBerry, Jake eased closer to the church. Two men in black robes opened both front doors. Golden light from the vestibule spilled out the entryway and over the front steps. He could hear the low murmuring of organ music.
He could go inside. Stand in the back. See who arrived. See if anyone looked like a Bridge Killer. Right. Jake ran his jacket zipper up and down, thinking. Was there someone else Jane hoped to talk to? Who would she come here to see?
He could watch and wait. He reached for the BlackBerry in his jacket pocket. Or. He could ask.
21
Jane felt guilty as hell.
Guilty about Alex. Guilty about Sellica.
But right now, standing on the steps of All Saints waiting for a funeral to begin, she had to ignore her cell phone’s insistent vibration. It was certainly Alex, certainly reacting to the voice mail message she’d left him about the Moira Lassiter bombshell. Moira, intense and persistent, sticking to her story, insisted she was in love with her husband and wanted only to “uncover the truth” to prevent him from making “a career-ending error.”
The fact that Moira divulged her suspicions was almost a bigger story. And if that was vodka in her glass instead of water? Did that make her story more true? Or less? It would sure explain why she suddenly became a nonperson in the campaign. Jane was dying to get into the newsroom. Confer with Alex. Plot their strategy. Figure out how to confirm it all.
Alex would have to admit that her instincts about the other woman had been right, which would be really gratifying. And if it was a drinking thing, fine, his instincts had been right, too. But now Jane had to be here at the church. Guilty or not.
A few TV stations had sent crews to Sellica’s funeral, vulture patrols, looking for mourner-video to “humanize” their coverage of the murder. This part of TV she didn’t miss one bit. Intruding on strangers’ grief to tape a few moments of video sorrow. She watched as a stern-faced minister allowed TV to get a few exteriors, then banished them to across the street. Eventually they gave up, headed off to some other tragedy.
Two black-clad arrivals hugged Mrs. Darden, then entered the church, leaving her alone next to a tall arrangement of pine branches and white chrysanthemums. Jane approached her, took the woman’s gloved hand in hers. Mrs. Darden was all shades of black and soft gray, a fragile sparrow.
“Mrs. Darden, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Jane said. She struggled for the appropriate words. “Sellica was… you must be…”
It was only the second time she’d met Mrs. Darden. The first time, Sellica was alive, and had told her about Arthur Vick. Jane had been pumped for the scoop. Assured Sellica she’d never reveal her as the source. Assured her mother she could keep the secret. It had been exciting, knowing she’d be able to change their lives. As it turned out, change was exactly what happened. Jane got fired. Sellica got killed.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say,” Jane started over, trying not to lose her composure. Sellica’s death had nothing to do with her, logically, but somehow it felt as if it did. Everything bad happened after Super Jane stepped in to make things right. “It’s just-”
“She trusted you, Miss Ryland, and don’t you worry that you let her down.” Leota Darden wore a single white calla lily pinned to her black coat. She touched it briefly with a gloved finger. “My Sellica got herself into trouble. We tried, we all tried, but none of us could help her. Now she’s in a better place. I appreciate you’re here.”
Mrs. Darden’s eyes were rimmed with red, tears threatening, lines on her face deeper than Jane remembered. She clutched Jane’s wrist, pulling her closer. Jane picked up a faint scent of roses, maybe vanilla. Mrs. Darden’s hat brushed Jane’s cheek.
“But, Jane. I need to ask you…”
Jane leaned down, calculating. Ask me what? Maybe Sellica told her something. Dammit. The cell phone. It vibrated again, fuzzing against her thigh. Lucky she’d turned off the ringer. Alex again, no question. She had to ignore him. Had to hear what Mrs. Darden was about to say.
“Will the police care?” Mrs. Darden whispered. Her slim fingers tightened around Jane’s wrist. “Will they find who did this? Or will they think my Sellica deserved it? For the life she had? And what if it was the Bridge Killer?”
Jane almost burst into tears. How could she be so selfish, so self-centered? Of course what Mrs. Darden wanted to say had nothing to do with the Vick case. Nothing to do with her. This poor woman. First, seeing her daughter’s disreputable profession put in the spotlight by a lying, manipulative jerk. Then learning she was murdered, maybe by a serial killer. And today, at her only daughter’s funeral, the grieving mother actually had to worry whether the police cared.