“Cool if it were sa-bo-tage.” Alex gave the word a spy-movie accent.
“You’ve watched too many thrillers,” Jane said, eyeing the bathroom. Darn this cord. She tried to yank off her boots, toe to heel, without putting down the phone. No luck.
“I’m serious,” he said. “What if it’s a Gable thing? You know? It could be-‘Lightgate.’” Alex was laughing. He could actually be pretty funny, though she hadn’t seen him smile much recently. Maybe his wife was back. Or gone. Bathroom.
“Alex? I’ll call you, okay?”
“-to know what Lassiter thinks,” Alex continued.
“Alex? My call-waiting just kicked in. Missed what you said. Gotta go. This might be Trevor.”
“-is that? And don’t let me forget to update you on the Gable interview. It’s gotta be soon. This week, they’re saying.”
“Alex? I’ll call you.” She clicked. “This is Jane.”
“Janey?”
“Jake? Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” Jake was almost sputtering. “You’re the one who was in the-what the hell was it, anyway? Were you there? Are you okay? I tried to call you earlier, but you didn’t answer. So I figured-not good.”
He was truly wonderful. Maybe they could just… Jane plopped on the edge of the flowery bedspread, stared at the tight-woven shag of the unfortunate carpeting. Here she was, goofy over a gorgeous cop who was totally off-limits. Reluctantly intrigued by a married man, her boss, also totally off-limits. Waiting for a call from a professional contact, kind of adorable, ditto totally off-limits.
Her source was dead, her reputation battered, and a bad guy-who might be a serial killer-hated her. She was in a cookie-cutter hotel room with unreliable electricity and no toothbrush, and she had a story to write. Welcome to Jane World.
“Yeah, Jakey, I’m fine. My phone died at one point. My guess? Someone turned out the lights. A mistake, maybe? Or-I don’t know.” Jane quickly filled him in on the rest. “But at least I get to write it for the paper. My first story, right? Once I find out the deal. Where are you, anyway?”
“Mickey D’s. HQ confirmed Springfield was no problem. So DeLuca and I are getting-hang on.” Jake paused. “He’s back in the car. Says hi. Anyway, all good. I was only checking.”
Jake’s voice had gone professional. He must trust DeLuca somewhat, though. And Jane had to admit, Amy knew about Jake. Whatever there was to “know.” Amy was doing her best to wean them apart. It’s a lose-lose, sister, she’d warned. Other fish in the sea.
Okay, Jane could be professional, too. Even though she liked this fish. “Can D hear me?” Jane asked.
“Unclear at this point,” Jake replied.
Ah. So Jane whispered. “Amaryllis Roldan.”
“Yup, I can hear her.” DeLuca stashed the two mediums, light, two sugars, into the molded black plastic cup holders between them on the console, then backhanded Jake’s leather jacket. “Not at all ‘unclear.’ She wanna whisper sweet nothings?”
“I’ll tell you what’s clear, brother,” Jake said. Then, into the phone, “Talk to you later, Jane.”
That was close. Jake pulled out of the lot, heading back to HQ. Then again, maybe there was one more place they needed to check out.
DeLuca leaned in, punched on the car’s radio. “News,” he said.
A staticky radio-announcer voice blasted through the cruiser.
“Hey!” Jake said.
“Gimme a break,” DeLuca said, turning down the volume.
“-and now, a very annoyed Governor Lassiter and his campaign team, just beginning to struggle in the polls, have left Springfield for the night. In other news-”
DeLuca punched off the radio. “So Lassiter leaves town,” he said.
Jake glanced at him, then back to the clamor of Saturday night traffic. Boylston Street and Mass Ave.-the busiest intersection in Boston. Coffee shops, music stores, fast food. Kids in packs, cars honking, some guy playing the sax on the corner, nobody in the striped crosswalks.
He hoped no one would walk home alone tonight across the Mass Ave. Bridge.
“So?” Jake said.
“Ver-ry senatorial.”
“Yeah, hardly a profile in courage.” Jake stopped as the light turned yellow, watched three cars accelerate from behind him and bang through it.
“Wanna hit the lights and siren?” DeLuca asked.
“Just about,” Jake said. The light turned red. One more jerk went through. “But listen, we know where Arthur Vick is, right?”
“Huh? He’s at his store. ‘Working,’” DeLuca added, making air quotes with his long fingers. Difficult, because he was also holding his coffee. “Probably banging-”
Jake hit his turn signal, rolled his eyes. “He’s at the store. And that means Mrs. Vick is home alone.”
“Or dead.”
“Which would give Vick a pretty good alibi, wouldn’t it, wise guy? So what I’m saying,” Jake continued, watching the light and feeling for his coffee, “is maybe it’s time to pay Patricia Vick a little surprise visit. At home.”
“It’s like, almost ten o’clock at night.”
“I have a watch,” Jake said. And the light turned green.
“It’s almost ten o’clock at night! You kidding me, Trevor?” Jane wailed into the phone, peering out the window of her hotel room at the spotlit parking lot, half-thinking she might actually see the governor’s car, the courage mobile, heading away from any news conference, official statement, or responsibility-taking. “He’s leaving? Not going to say a word? I’ve been waiting here in my room, all this time-I gotta tell you, Trevor, that seems-”
She stopped. Gave a mental shrug. She was a reporter. Whatever happened, that’s what she’d write. “Okay. Are you gonna have a statement, at least?”
A car was pulling out of the lot, she noticed, almost at the road. Then another set of headlights came on in a parking space near the hotel. Two cars leaving. Campaign cars? But she could hardly run down and stop them. On the phone, Trevor Kiernan was still in full-blown excuse-making mode.
“Listen, Jane, I’m so sorry, what can I tell you, it’s out of my hands. But, yeah, we do have a statement coming,” he said. “Call ya back in thirty seconds.”
The phone went dead.
Jane pressed her forehead against the chilly window. The first car was booking toward the highway, the second car now at the stop sign. Lassiter types who’d been at the rally, probably. Off to spin their yarns of the disaster of an evening they’d witnessed firsthand.
Now she had to go back downstairs, hope people were still in the bar hashing it over, get some eyewitness sound bites. She raised one forefinger, correcting herself. Not sound bites, interviews. And demand reaction from the hotel management. Lucky her boots were still on.
It’d be fun to tell her dad about her first newspaper story. And Amy. Steve and Margery. Wonder if the other Channel 11 people would notice it? Come to think of it, they couldn’t put this story on the air. They hadn’t sent a crew. She felt the beginnings of a smile. She’d scooped them. The new door was opening. Score one for Team Jane.
“This is Jane.” She clicked on her phone before the ring even finished. Tucking it between her cheek and her shoulder, she yanked her laptop from her tote bag so she could take down Trevor’s certain-to-be-weasly statement. She eyed the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. She’d better get a move on.