Olive looked between them, back and forth. Settled on Jake. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Don’t know what, Olive? Don’t know if you know her? Or don’t know whether she worked here?”
“Nothing,” Olive said. “I don’t know anything.”
“I think that’s unlikely, Miss-? What’s your last name?” Jake took out a notebook and clicked open his ballpoint. “And I’ll need your current address.”
“How long’ve you worked here, Olive?” DeLuca took a step forward, getting in her space, one hand on the counter. “You like your job? You think you’re gonna keep it by covering up for your boss?”
“Am I under arrest?” The girl’s eyes went hard.
“You got some experience with that, miss? Being arrested?” DeLuca was doing bad cop. “Easy for me to find out.”
“Don’t mind him,” Jake said. Good cop. “Listen, Olive, you need to answer our questions. Truthfully. About Sellica. About Amaryllis. You can talk to us here, or down at the station.”
“Or she can tell you to get the hell out of here.”
The door had opened behind Olive. Arthur Vick held on to the knob with one hand, his other propped against the doorjamb. Tie loose, French cuffs hanging, one lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. His shirt pocket was monogrammed with an elaborate AV.
Guilty, Jake thought. Of something. Vick looked just like his TV ads. Only-guiltier.
“You hear me, Officers? Think I didn’t hear everything you said? You’re out of line, you two.” Vick waved a flat palm, dismissing. His gold wedding band caught the light. “Miss Parisella, you can go. You’re done here. You don’t have to say a word to them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vick,” she said. She half lifted a partition in the counter and started to duck underneath it.
“Not so fast, Miss Parisella.” Jake raised a hand. The girl stopped, still bent over, and backed out from under the counter.
She looked at Jake, daggers. Then at Vick, pleading. She kept one hand on the semiraised partition. Half in, half out.
“Arthur Vick? I’m Detective Jake Brogan. And this is my associate, Paul DeLuca. We had an appointment, I believe?” Jerk thought he was Mr. Big. Jake would let him have it, both barrels. What was true didn’t actually matter at this juncture. “I assume you’d be eager to have your staff help us catch a serial killer. Before he strikes again. Before he kills another one of your employees. Like Miss Parisella here.”
Olive gasped. She dropped the partition. It clunked into place and she jumped at the echoing sound, putting both hands to her mouth. Now Jake could see only her eyes.
This girl was terrified.
29
“Kenna! Kenna Wilkes!” Jane could almost reach out and touch her. She could see the ringlets in her cloud of shining hair, the sparkle of her just-too-big chandelier earrings as they caught the lights. Lassiter had chosen this moment to do his man-of-the-people, down-into-the-crowd move. Which, Jane now knew, was not so spontaneous as it had appeared when she first saw him try it back in Boston. Lassiter’s sudden proximity made the rallyers explode into another wave of adulation. Kenna couldn’t possibly hear Jane’s voice, not even yelling as loud as she did. One more time. “Kenna!”
But the woman was moving, weaving steadily forward through the audience of boater hats and signs on sticks. No matter how Jane almost-pushed into the churning crowd, she couldn’t manage to get any closer than three people away. When she reaches the stage, she’ll be trapped. I’ll catch up, and I’ll nail her. Game over.
Odd, though, Jane thought, heading toward her quarry. Almost too easy. Moira drops the bombshell. I get sent to Springfield. Gina tells me about Kenna. And there she is. The old “too good to be true” thing they warned you about in J-school. No valuable story came easy. And this one-well, almost had.
I cannot be wrong again.
Damn it. Not wrong again. Just wrong.
The music blared; the crowd sang along, some locking arms, gleeful, almost marching in place. If I hear “Yankee Doodle Dandy” one more time… And there she was. Kenna. Almost close enough to-
“Kenna!” Jane yelled, and felt her voice get swallowed by the din.
The woman kept heading for the stage. Not so fast, sister.
Jane took two quick steps forward, found an open space, powered ahead. She reached out and touched Kenna on the shoulder. “Hey!”
Kenna whirled, turned to face her. She was, as Gina said, totally gorgeous. Luminous eyes, high cheekbones, all lip gloss and big lashes. A pear-shaped diamond nestled at her throat. She looked at Jane, skeptical, a flash of annoyance darkening her porcelain features. Then it disappeared, replaced by a blazing smile.
“Jane? Jane Ryland?” she said. She moved toward Jane as if coming in for a close-up. “From TV? I can’t believe you’re actually here. How perfect!”
Well, well, Jane thought. She recognizes me. And if she thinks I’m still on TV, fine.
“Yes.” Big smile. “I’m Jane Ryland. How lovely of you to recognize me. Are you Kenna Wil-?”
The woman leaned closer, her mouth almost touching Jane’s ear.
Jane’s nose wrinkled at her dense perfume, Opium, maybe, or Angel.
“Isn’t Owen Lassiter wonderful? I mean, wonderful? I’ve seen him a million times. Look at him, oh, now he’s way over there! I can’t wait to vote for him. I wish I could vote for him a million times.”
I wish I had my notebook out, Jane thought. And my camera. But there’s time. This girl’s all mine now.
“Well, that’s so interesting, because-” Jane took a step back from her, assessing. She’d expected some level of pursuit, not to have the elusive Kenna latch on to her like some local news groupie. But that could be useful.
“Are you covering the rally? Where’s your photographer? Do you need a sound bite?” Kenna actually fluffed her hair, and though her glistening lipstick was flawless, she swirled her tongue over her upper teeth. Suddenly she paused, mid-preen. She blinked a few times. “Um, Jane? Wait. Were you looking for me?” She tapped her own chest with a pink fingernail. “Why?”
“Why was I looking for you?” Okay, then. Jane was going to have to face this sooner rather than later. “Well, I- Ow!”
“Here he comes, here he comes!” Some guy with a sweat mustache jabbed Jane in the back, gesturing and pointing as he yelled. She turned. So did Kenna. So did everyone else.
All eyes focused on Owen Lassiter. His elegant face was flushed with heat but radiating confidence, one hand raised, the other manhandled by voters needing one more handshake or one more autograph. The swirl of people ebbed and flowed around him as the pod of security, candidate in the middle, crabbed across the floor. The crowd seemed to change shape and density, swelling and pushing, cheering and noise and outstretched arms, heat rising from the pack. Bodies jockeyed for position, for access. Jane stood her ground, ignoring the shoves and the shoulders and the jostling.
The candidate was heading right for them. What would he do when he got to Kenna? How would he greet her? This was about to be a real moment.
No way could they keep some look from their eyes, no matter how they tried to fake it. Monica Lewinsky. You could tell from that photo, the one with the beret and the rope line, she had a secret. They had a secret. You could tell how excited she was, touching her fantasy man in front of a crowd with the whole world watching. Only the two of them knowing what was really going on.
Exactly what was about to happen now. A charade.