“’Scuse me, ’scuse me,” she muttered. Maybe on tiptoe she’d go faster. Using the wall for balance and hugging her purse to her chest, she edged closer to the press platform. Lassiter was onstage, palms down, trying, not terribly hard, to quiet the continuing cheers.
It was way too hot. Way too crowded. Jane made it to the end of the first wall. Took a deep breath. The press riser was just ahead, only about a million people blocking her way there. Three television cameras on tripods poked up from the wooden platform, logos from the Western Mass stations. No one from Boston. At least it was a foot or so off the ground, so once up there she could get a better view. Maybe even breathe.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m so proud to be your candidate.” Lassiter’s voice boomed through the speakers, making the one mounted in the corner above Jane rattle with the volume and intensity. Cheers erupted-so loud, the wall behind her started shaking.
Spooked, she turned, stepped away. And backed into someone.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, voice raised, almost tripping on her own feet to turn around. She pointed to the press riser, then her press pass, apologizing. “It’s so crowded. Just trying to get to the-”
A young woman in a Lassiter boater, too much jewelry, and a row of multicolored campaign buttons looked her up and down. “You’re still on TV?” she said. “I thought you-”
“C’mon, Melissa, we need to get closer.” A prepped-out young man, also in Lassiter hat and button array, grabbed the young woman by the arm, drawing her through the crowd.
No red-coat girl. No one she recognized.
“Thank you so much for being here,” Lassiter’s voice picked up again. “I know you agree with me, this election…”
Two more steps to the riser. She dumped her tote bag on the platform, then, grateful for her flat boots, hauled herself up. Three camera guys grabbed their tripods and turned to her, glaring. “Watch it, we’re rolling tape,” one scolded. “You’re shaking the whole thing.”
“Sorry,” she said again. Damn. “My bad.” She tried not to move as she dug into her tote bag for a notebook and pencil. As long as the cameras were rolling, she was stuck up here.
And there was the woman she’d been searching for. There she absolutely is.
Smack in the center of the crowd, head bobbing, arms raised in applause, edging toward the front. There was no mistaking that curly hair, that high-wattage smile. Even without the coat, Jane knew that face from the photos.
And now she also knew her name. Kenna Wilkes. The other woman.
Jane jumped from the platform, ignoring the hostile yelps from the photogs behind her. “Sorry,” she called out. Not looking back. Headed across the room, eyes on the curly-haired prize.
“Sorry, press, sorry, sorry,” she repeated, not caring, squeezing behind some people, in front of others. Everyone else was focused on Lassiter. She focused on the curly hair, moving forward, toward the podium. Jane scrabbled in her purse, unseeing, trying to get at her little camera.
She wasn’t losing her this time.
“Recalculating. When possible, please make a legal U-turn.” Incredible, in-frigging-credible. For fifty cents, Matt would throw the frigging GPS and its robo-voice out the car window. No doubt the rental company would charge him out the ass for it.
Matt yanked the steering wheel, floored the accelerator, and swerved his midsize across three lanes of the Mass Turnpike for the exit. The traffic had been total hell, some moron had a flat in front of him, a lane closed, construction, every friggin’ possible obstacle. A blast of horns behind him protested his abrupt move. He flipped them the finger. Assholes.
How hard could it be to get to Springfield, for godsake? You can’t miss it, the rental car kid told him. Straight out the Pike, get off when the GPS tells you. He’d gotten the last car in the lot, the kid said, and Matt had hardly listened to the rest of the spiel about insurance and return policies as he signed the papers, grabbed the keys, hit the road. Now it was pitch dark, he’d been driving for frigging hours in the boonies, and the GPS was sending him god knew where, anywhere but the New Englander Hotel.
“Recalculating.” The GPS voice, taunting, sounded like something from a bad spy movie. Like the universe was trying to keep him from doing what he had to do. Trying to keep him from protecting Owen Lassiter.
But the universe was not gonna win. He was. It was his turn.
28
“She’s his wife. She’s not gonna tell the truth if it’s gonna get her husband nailed for murder.” Jake yanked open his cruiser door and stepped into the Beacon Market parking lot.
“True dat.” DeLuca tossed his coffee cup in a trash can, then followed Jake toward the entrance of the store’s Brighton location.
Nighttime, spotlights, metal shopping carts scattered like tumbleweeds across the yellow-stenciled pavement. Not many cars at this time on a Saturday night. But Arthur Vick’s grocery stores were always open. “We’re here for twenty-four and, if you need it, more,” his chorus of store clerks sang in those annoying ads.
“But she says her husband was with her on the nights of both murders,” DeLuca continued. “Plus Sellica’s. That’s Patricia Vick’s story. And she’s stickin’ to it.”
“They always stick to it.” Jake shrugged. “Until we prove they’re lying. Then it’s adios, hubby, nice to know ya.”
The glass double doors swished open. Tinkling buy-me-now Muzak and a wind chill factor of forty hit them as they entered. Glaring fluorescents, buzzing, made it instant daytime. That stale meat smell. Vegetables. A guy with a mop pretending to do the stain-streaked flooring.
“See why Vick’s such a moneybags,” DeLuca muttered. “Low overhead.”
“He gonna be here? Or who?” Jake looked around. Glad he got most of his food from the pizza place near his apartment. Jane loves pizza. He shook off the thought. She’d be fine. Especially if Vick was on his way here. “What’d he tell you?”
“He said eight P.M. Here. That’s now.”
Jake waved toward the counter. “After you. But I don’t see Vick.”
“Maybe this lovely young lady will know.” DeLuca cocked a thumb at a clerk with almost-orange hair. She was leaning against a cash register, black-rimmed eyes staring at the empty aisles.
“Miss?” Jake flipped his badge wallet open, closed it, put it away. “I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston Police. This is my associate, Officer DeLuca. And you are?”
She touched the name tag on her electric blue smock. “Olive.”
“Olive. In a grocery store.” DeLuca smiled at her. “You get that a lot?”
“Don’t mind him, miss,” Jake said. Good cop. “We’re looking for Mr. Vick. Have you seen him tonight?”
“Is this about the change machine?” the girl said. Almost a whine. A silver ring pierced her lower lip. “It’s broken, that’s all. Sometimes it doesn’t work right. I only know because-”
“Miss?” Jake interrupted. He could hear DeLuca trying not to laugh. “It’s not about the change machine, okay? It’s about Sellica Darden.”
Jake saw the girl’s face go wary. She even took a step back, away from them. DeLuca cleared his throat softly. Jake shot him a glance. I get it.
“So you know her.” Jake scratched an ear. Casual, casual. “How? She work here, with you? How about Amaryllis Roldan?”