Jane had crossed the busy street in front of the Register’s six-story yellow-brick offices and yanked open the heavy glass door, in the throes of a high-speed mental pep talk. Her lawyers promised they’d appeal the verdict. Maybe Sellica would change her mind. Jane would be vindicated. Channel 11 would clamor to take her back.
And tomorrow she’d be extra nice to Java Jim.
Jane had beeped her new ID card through the security reader, waved to the guard at the front desk, punched the elevator button. Punched it again, for punctuation. She’d tackle this newspaper challenge, same way she’d tackled every tough problem. On her own.
Except now, hearing her first assignment-it seemed semi-impossible. She reached up to worry her hair, a left-over-from-J-school nervous habit, but her hair wasn’t there anymore.
“So, Jane?” Alex came from behind his desk, urging the manila file folder toward her. In tasseled loafers, wire-rimmed glasses, and loosened tie, casually attractive, he still seemed more rumpled-preppy street reporter than influential news executive. His wife-having removed him from Boston’s most-eligible-bachelor list-was some corporate honcho. “Here’s the background I had Archive Gus dig out for you. Lots of photos. Think you can find her?”
No, she wanted to say. I can’t “find” Moira Kelly Lassiter, because she’s not lost. She’s just-home. Apparently not wanting to come out. Plus, Alex was assigning her the candidate’s wife? Like some foofy society reporter? Hardly destined to make headlines.
“Alex, maybe she’s tired.” Maybe she could gently derail this idea. “Maybe Moira doesn’t like campaigning. Not all political wives are willing to keep standing in the background, staring adoringly at their husbands.” Jane pushed up the sleeves of her black turtleneck, glad that Alex also wore jeans. Newspaper work did have its fashion pluses. “I should look into campaign contributions, or that union thing. The crime bill. Profiling Moira Lassiter seems kind of-puff.”
Alex had started shaking his head before she was halfway through her plea. “My other political reporters are covering those angles. But Moira, seems she’s suddenly off the radar. What if it’s a face-lift? Great story. Maybe rehab? Hell of a story.” Alex ticked the ideas off on his fingers. “Exhausted? Bored? Depressed? Sick? Unhappy? All front-page stuff. You’re with me on this, right?”
“Ah, sure, Alex,” Jane said. She put her hand to her hair, took it down. She was the new kid now, and it was key to be a team player. “I’ll make some calls, sniff around, see what I get.”
“We’ll play it up big.” Alex held up two fingers at a harried-looking man who’d arrived outside his glass-walled office. Two minutes, Alex mouthed. He turned back to Jane. “All set?”
“I’ll have to go through Lassiter’s scheduling gorgons. If they say no-”
“That means another door will open, right?” Two red lights flashed on Alex’s desk phone, his intercom buzzed, the man waited in the doorway. “We’re counting on you, Ryland. Find out what’s happened to Moira Kelly Lassiter.”
3
Kenna Wilkes opened the maroon-lacquered front door while the doorbell chimes still echoed through the front hall. On the expansive wooden porch stood the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Elegant. Regal. Silver hair, expensive suit.
Holy shit.
She fussed with her skinny white T-shirt, tucking it into the low-slung waistband of her new jeans, then looked up into those flinty eyes. Governor Owen Lassiter. Former governor.
Over his shoulder, she could see his entourage. A guy wearing khakis and a green LASSITER FOR SENATE button on his oxford shirt hovered behind the candidate, clutching a metal clipboard. A sleek black car was parked at the end of the driveway, headlights on. A blue and silver van with an enormous crimson 11 painted on the side idled across the street.
“Kenna Wilkes? We’d like you to meet Governor Owen Lassiter,” the young man was saying, as if announcing a state occasion. “He’s-”
“Running for the Senate, as you may have heard, Mrs. Wilkes.” Lassiter’s voice, interrupting his campaign aide, came across honey and steel.
Kenna hesitated, then took his hand.
“It’s my Tuesday tour,” Lassiter said. “Hoping to meet registered voters who are still making up their minds.”
He looked at her as if she were the only voter in Deverton.
Kenna had tied her tumbling blond hair away from her face with a thin white satin ribbon. Used a hint of pink lip gloss, a blush of color on her cheeks. Tanned skin peeked between her T-shirt and jeans. Her hand was still in Lassiter’s.
“If you have a few minutes, Mrs. Wilkes, perhaps we can answer your questions about our goals for this state and for this country. Unlike the negativity and fearmongering of the Gable campaign, we want to be a force for good down in D.C.” Lassiter squeezed her hand gently, a gesture she’d find patronizing if she weren’t so fascinated. “With your help, of course.”
She hadn’t been prepared for this. His charisma. His power. She’d been told he’d arrive this afternoon, between three and four, as part of his “Lassiter for Your Neighborhood” meet and greet. She’d seen the candidate on television. But no screen was big enough to contain him.
“Who dis?” Four-year-old Jimmy, Tonka dump truck in one hand and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in the other, toddled into the entryway, then rested his head against Kenna’s thigh.
“He must be the only one in Massachusetts who doesn’t know,” Kenna said, laughing. She took back her hand to tousle Jimmy’s dark curls. She had to get herself and this situation under control. “Still, Jimmy’s only four. Back when you were governor, of course, he wasn’t born yet.”
“Hey, gunner,” Lassiter said. He leaned down, close to both of them. “I’m Owen. Pretty nice truck you got there.”
Kenna breathed a hint of citrus and spice. When he looked up at her, she couldn’t read his expression.
“You’re lucky, Mrs. Wilkes. My wife, Moira, and I don’t have kids.”
Lucky? Not exactly how I’d have described it. She turned on a welcoming smile. “Would you like to come in? It’s not like you’re a stranger.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilkes,” Lassiter said. “We won’t stay long.”
“Kenna,” she said.
“Kenna,” he acknowledged. He turned to his aide. “Trevor? We’ll be-” He looked at Kenna, confirming. “-fifteen minutes?”
Trevor raised the clipboard, apparently a signal to an unseen person in the black SUV. The headlights clicked off. But the door of the Channel 11 van slid open. Kenna could see bare legs and black high heels emerging from the passenger side.
“Mrs. Wilkes?” Trevor said. “Channel Eleven is tracking the campaign today. Would it be all right if they came in?”
Not a chance. “I’d rather not. If it’s not a problem? I’m not really comfortable having our picture taken.” Kenna made fluttery gestures at her hair and jeans.
“No television.” Lassiter frowned briefly at the aide, who performed an exaggerated thumbs-down at the news van. The stiletto-clad legs swung back in; the door slammed. “We’ll talk privately. The two of us.”
His expression softened. “And Jimmy.” Lassiter paused at the sound of Trevor’s jangling cell phone.
“Hold on,” the aide said into the phone. “Governor? Your schedule. Maitland’s found another problem with-”
“Tell Rory I said to deal with it. No more interruptions.”
And he stepped inside.
“See her, Alex? Right there. The tall twenty-something in the red coat.” As if dealing a hand of solitaire, Jane placed the glossy photos on the city editor’s cluttered desk. She stabbed a finger at the fuzzy crimson image. “I found that woman in at least five of the recent photos Archive Gus gave us. I’ve been down in the archive room most of the day, looking for more. Every time she’s behind the rope line, but right in front of the crowd. Look. Down in Cohasset. Up in Lawrence. Way out in Worcester.”