Jane felt for her camera-where was it?-keeping close watch on Kenna. This was a shot she could not miss.
Kenna whirled, raising her hand in the air, waving. “Governor!” she called out. She looked at Jane, eyes shining, color high on her cheekbones. “He’s coming this way, Jane! Isn’t it perfect?”
With a quick motion, the woman unzipped a black patent leather shoulder bag. And pulled out a silver camera. She clicked a button on the top, checked a reading, then held the camera out to Jane. “Will you take our picture?”
“Take your-?”
“Now!” Kenna said. She pushed the camera at Jane, then grabbed Lassiter’s arm, tucking her hand through the crook of his elbow. Looked up at him, all eyelashes and adoration. The security guards didn’t seem to mind. Probably knew all about her.
“It’s so hot, isn’t it?” Kenna’s voice turned innocent-sounding, as if she were merely commenting on the stifling room. “Do you have time for just one picture, Governor? This is Jane Ryland taking it!”
Wow. They’re good at this. Hot? Puh-leeze.
“Hello again, Governor,” Jane said. “This is quite a-”
A security guard, pushed too hard by Lassiter’s sea of admirers, lurched forward, pushing Kenna into the candidate’s arms. They both laughed, tipping into each other, clambering for balance.
Jane clicked the shutter.
And clicked it again. Got it.
Then she swore. Damn. This was Kenna’s camera. She jabbed it into her blazer pocket, yanked open her bag, grabbed her own camera. Hurry.
Kenna regained her equilibrium, still clinging to the governor’s arm. Looking up at him. Lassiter was smiling, indulgent, patting her arm. Jane aimed and clicked. And one more time. It would be something, at least. And maybe she could get Kenna to e-mail her a copy of the laughing picture. Kenna seemed to like the spotlight well enough.
Jane watched, fascinated, as Kenna uncurled herself from the candidate. Did she whisper something, too low for Jane to hear? Did she slip something into his pocket? Is this how they communicated, maybe? How they arranged their next rendezvous?
The entourage moved on, leaving Kenna, face flushed and lifting the mass of curls off her neck, watching after Lassiter and crew as they paraded through the rest of the room.
“Jane!” she said. She let her hair down, held out a hand, moving closer. Urgent. “Did you get a good picture of us? You did, right? You have my camera, right? I need to get one more shot.”
“Sure, Kenna,” Jane said, holding it toward her. Yeesh. This girl was kind of-out there. Jane struggled to keep the amusement from her face, though Kenna, riveted on the entourage, would never have noticed. “But could you-?”
Kenna grabbed the camera, locked on Lassiter, and began to move across the floor toward him. Jane zigzagged after her, determined. She needed to talk to this gal, and she was not going to let her get away again.
And then, she couldn’t see her at all. Or anything. Someone screamed, back of the room, and so did everyone, everyone, as the sweltering room went pitch black. A Klaxon, something, wailed, some alarm, shrieking, earsplitting. Insistent. Jane blinked, blinked again, terror rising in her throat. The crowd, spooked, stampeding, pushing her forward in the dark. She stumbled ahead, trying to keep her balance. Why weren’t the lights-? The music was still blaring, how could that be? The entrance doors must be closed, because there was no light. Shouldn’t they be open? Should she try to get out? Or stand her ground? What were you supposed to do? What if it were worse outside than inside?
The screams, high-pitched, terrified, sounded louder than the music, louder than the alarms. “Call nine-one-one!” someone yelled. “Doesn’t work!” someone else shouted. “We gotta get out of here!”
She couldn’t see anything. Not anything.
Was there another way out? Maitland had said something about the back entrance-Jane, whirled, squinted in the darkness, tried to get her bearings. Nothing.
“Governor, Governor, this way, this way…” A new voice called out, insistent, commanding, “Everyone, stay calm! It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s just the lights…”
This is a story. Possibly a big story. Jane held up her camera, clicked and clicked the flash. For a split second each time, she could see terrified faces, people shoving and pushing. She clicked again, caught a woman crying, people with cell phones out, their greenish glows giving a weird phosphorescent light. And why wasn’t anyone-? Didn’t the TV cameras have battery lights? Why were they still off? She looked both ways, as if there were both ways, but nothing existed except a chaos of arms and hands and bodies, and heat and screaming and darkness.
30
Jake made a show of turning on his BlackBerry, languidly scrolling through a page or two. Olive, hands still clamped over her mouth, hadn’t budged. Vick, arms crossed in front of his chest, Psych 101, hadn’t budged. DeLuca turned the pages of a broadsheet of colorful supermarket coupons as if fascinated by the latest grocery bargains.
“So, checking my notes,” Jake drew out his words, contemplative, all the time in the world. He scrolled some more. It was just the Register’s online edition, but Jerk would never know that. “According to your wife, oh, wait, excuse me, her name is…”
He looked up from the screen, smiling. “Bear with me here.”
“Call my lawyer,” Vick said.
Jake couldn’t hear him. “According to your wife, ah, Patricia, it says here, correct?”
“Lawyer,” Vick said.
“You’re not under arrest, Mr. Vick,” Jake said.
DeLuca looked up, right on cue. “Yet,” he added, then went back to his circular.
“So according to your wife, Patricia,” Jake continued, “on the night of the murder of Amaryllis Roldan, you both were-”
Olive made a little sound, like a squeak.
Vick glared at the girl. “I told you, go.”
She made it just half a step. Her once-white sneaker barely crossing the threshold to freedom.
“I told you, no,” Jake said. No more Mr. Nice Guy. He turned to the girl. “Please give Officer DeLuca your contact information. And please don’t walk to your car alone. Or go anywhere alone. Understand?”
Olive squeaked again.
“Is all this necessary, Detective?” Vick turned back the cuffs of his shirt, revealing a watch that was probably Olive’s salary for a year. Manicured fingers. “It’s late, it’s Saturday night, I still have work to do before I can leave. Can’t this wait until business hours? Call my secretary and I’m sure we can-”
“We’re talking now,” Jake said. “And we’ll be talking for a much briefer time if you simply answer my questions.”
Vick’s face went to ice, then stone. “Here’s how I’ll answer your questions,” he said. He thrust a hand into a pocket of his dark slacks.
DeLuca’s head came up. Jake’s hand went to his side.
Vick smiled, but only out of one side of his mouth. Change jingled inside his pocket. “Lawyer. That’s my answer.”
“One more question,” Jake said. Lawyer, shmoyer. What an asshole. “If you’re not interested in helping, why’d you agree to meet with us?”
Vick barked out a laugh. “Huh. Why? Just curious, Officer. Just wanted to see the faces of the gentlemen who think I’m the Bridge Killer. One word about me in the papers? You’re toast. Both of you. And I’ll sue the city-a-Boston, too. I don’t like it when people lie about me. I’ve got a business to run.”
“Don’t leave town, Mr. Vick,” DeLuca said. Supremely polite. “You either, Miss Parisella.”
“I’m going to ask you to leave now, Officers.” Vick gestured toward the door. “This is my territory. You are now officially trespassing. Do I make myself clear?”