“You ever hear the name Amaryllis Roldan?” Jake said. Might as well get this wrapped up. They could always come back.
Patti’s eyes went up, searching from one corner of the ceiling to the other, then back. “Ah, no. Why? Who’s that?”
“Who chooses the women in your husband’s commercials?”
“Aren’t they great?” Patti perked up. “We’re here for twenty-four and, if you need it, more.”
“Ma’am?” Jake prodded her. The wife of a murder suspect singing TV jingles in the middle of the night. What they don’t teach you at the academy. “The women?”
“Oh, my goodness, no idea. That’s all business stuff. At Artie’s office.”
“So, finally.” DeLuca looked at his watch, then at Jake. “Your husband has a habit of working this late, ma’am?”
“Even on Saturday nights?” Jake put in.
Sunday morning, really. When “Longfellow” and Roldan had been killed.
“Oh, yes, he-” Patti stopped, then looked at Jake, wary, like, wait a minute. She took a sip, then wagged one finger at him, midswallow. “Oh, I know what you’re real-ly asking, Detectives. Is that why you’re still here? Well, I can answer that one, easy peasy. The nights those poor girls were killed, my Arthur was most certainly not working late. In fact, he was with me.”
35
“Do I know where your husband is?” Jane’s eyebrows went up, trying to figure out exactly what to say to Moira Lassiter. I mean, why not call him and ask him, you know? The nightstand clock taunted her. She had expected this to be the call from Trevor, dictating the campaign’s statement. What was taking him so long? She had to write her story. But she couldn’t dump Moira. And why didn’t Moira know where her own husband was? “Mrs. Lassiter? I mean, I saw him at the event, of course, earlier this evening. Here in Springfield. Did you try to call him?”
Jane had a thought. “Oh, I get it. You’re worried about the rally situation. Did you see something about it on TV? It’s all fine. Nobody hurt, everyone accounted for.” As far as I know. Jane checked the clock again, semi-panic setting in. “I’m actually still waiting for a statement from the campaign. I could call you directly, if you like, when I find out more. After I file my story.”
“The ‘situation’? At the rally?” Mrs. Lassiter’s voice lost its usual confidence. “What situation? I’ve been asleep since nine. Is something wrong? I tried to call, of course, but Owen didn’t answer his-”
Jane’s call-waiting beeped in. It had to be Trevor. She had to make her deadline.
“Mrs. Lassiter, I’m incredibly sorry. Nothing’s wrong. Hold on one second, though, okay?” Jane clicked the button. “This is Jane.”
“Jane? Trevor. Sorry to take so long, but-”
“Listen, Trevor, ah, do you know where-?” Jane paused, thinking of Moira on the other line. She could simply have Moira talk to Trevor. On the other hand, wouldn’t Trevor wonder why Moira was calling her? And what if Trevor were in on whatever was happening? If anything was happening. No. She had to keep everyone and everything separate until she figured out whose side everyone was on. “Never mind. Do you have the statement?”
“Yup, I’ll read it to you. Ready? ‘We are deeply-’”
“Trevor? Hang on. One second. I’ve got to… ah, hang on.” She didn’t wait for a reply. Clicked back to Moira.
“Mrs. Lassiter? Please forgive me, I’m on a crushing deadline. Governor Lassiter is fine, I last saw him with his entourage-” And the other woman you’re wondering about, which she didn’t say. “Now Tre- Someone from the campaign is calling me with a statement. I’m completely sure it’s fine. Do you want me to ask them to have the governor call you?”
“But what happened?” Moira Lassiter pleaded.
“The lights went out. During the rally. They’re back on now.” Jane was talking as fast as she could. She couldn’t afford to lose Moira. But she couldn’t miss her deadline. “It was briefly, you know, surprising. But nothing big. Really. Listen, let me promise to call you back, in the morning. Hang on, okay?” She clicked. “Trevor? One second.”
Back to Moira. “I’ll call you in the morning. Don’t worry. But-why don’t you just call your husband?”
She heard Moira sigh. “I’ll try his number again. But this isn’t the first time. You need to know that. It’s not the first time I’ve not known where he is. Call me tonight, Jane. Tonight.”
“Absolutely, Mrs. Lassiter. I really-”
“I’ll wait for your call.” And she hung up.
Jane held out both arms, head back, briefly pleading with the universe for a tiny break. “Trevor, I’m ready,” she said. She scooted up against the bed’s wooden headboard, arranged a pillow behind her, adjusted her laptop, and clicked open a new page. Jane Ryland, newspaper reporter. Take this, Channel 11. “Okay, go.”
The next time the phone rang, Jane jerked awake so quickly, her head hit the slats of the headboard.
“Huh?” she said. The sky was pinkish outside her window… Oh, Springfield. The hotel. The rally. She’d sent her story, just in time, she remembered that. Alex loved it, and then- The phone rang again. Her laptop was still on, but flashing a silent slide show of Jane’s photos of her mom and the Emmys and a funny shot of a pigeon eating a piece of pepperoni. She grabbed for the phone, still bleary and half-confused.
“This is Jane.” She squinted at the digital clock. Her eyes were stinging-her contacts were going to be impossible to get out. Hotel. No contact lens solution. Five A.M.?
“Jane? This is Moira Lassiter. I was waiting for your call.”
Jane clapped a palm to her forehead. Trying to force her brain into gear.
“Oh, my goodness, Mrs. Lassiter.” She licked her lips, wished for some water. “I must have fallen asleep after I sent the story. I’m so-”
“What are you keeping from me, Jane?” the woman interrupted. “Are you in on this cover-up, too, now? The hotel told me Owen-and his ‘staff,’ as they so carefully put it-left there hours ago. If he were coming home, he’d already be here with me. But it’s now five in the morning. Owen is not at the hotel in Springfield. He’s not answering his cell. And he is most assuredly not home.”
“I’m not keeping anything, Mrs. Lassiter. Of course not. As I said, I meant to call you, but I must have…” Jane took a deep breath, trying to adjust to the bitterness in Moira’s voice, her own lack of sleep, and the impossibility of figuring out what was going on. She tried for diplomacy. “When you called the governor’s staff, what did they tell you?”
“Call who, Jane? That Maitland person, who only knows the truth as he creates it? Sheila King, who informed you so erroneously that I was ‘taking some downtime?’ Which of his minions would you suggest I trust to tell me the truth?”
“Well, I-” It was on the tip of Jane’s tongue to cut to the chase. To outright ask, Do you know the name Kenna Wilkes? But it seemed precipitous, to name a name that would forever, no matter what, true or not, taint the woman’s reputation, and the candidate’s, and Moira Lassiter’s. But Jane could barely get in an “uh-huh” as Mrs. Lassiter kept talking. The woman couldn’t possibly be drinking at five in the morning. Could she? Isn’t this what Martha Mitchell had done back in Watergate days, drunk-dialing reporters, ratting out her Attorney General husband? But that wasn’t about another woman.
“They’re all covering for him,” Moira was saying. “No point in my calling any of them. ‘Yes, Mrs. Lassiter, I’ll check, Mrs. Lassiter.’ It’s like calling a bunch of bobblehead dolls. All bobbling to whatever Owen and Rory tell them. So, Jane. Did you see anyone suspicious? Did you see the other woman?”