Wait. Maybe Kenna was still here. It was only nine thirty in the morning.
She picked up the phone, punched zero.
“Front desk. Good morning, Miss Ryland. What can we do for you?”
That still creeped her out, how they could tell who was calling.
“Is Gina on this morning?” Jane asked.
“One moment, please.”
Good.
“This is Gina. Good morning, Miss Ryland. I trust you enjoyed your stay.”
Her voice was guarded, formal. Jane followed suit.
“Yes, lovely. I’ll be checking out momentarily, if you could prepare my bill. May I ask, did-‘my friend’ check out, too?”
Jane heard some keyboard clicking.
“Yes, ma’am, that appears to be correct. Around ten last night.”
A moment of silence.
“They all checked in together,” Gina continued, whispering. “The big guy. The other guy. And your friend. They all checked out together, too.”
“We should drop Mrs. Wilkes off at that lovely home in Deverton first.” Owen Lassiter, rested and chatty, sat in the front seat of the SUV. Kenna occupied her usual spot in the back. Watching. Listening. Taking it all in.
They were two exits away from Boston, midmorning Sunday, after coffee and baskets of pastries in the dining room of the Worcester Sheraton. He’d shaken fifty hands during breakfast, Kenna calculated. Signed autographs, gotten fawned over by hotel workers and guests. He’d introduced her and Rory as “campaign staff.”
“When’s little Jimmy getting back from his grandparents?” Owen asked her.
Kenna wondered if he’d called Moira. Didn’t matter. There was the truth-truth, and there was her truth. Poor Moira would never be quite certain which was which.
“Governor, that’s so kind of you. But your home is closer, isn’t it, than mine? Jimmy’s fine, still at his Gran’s. Please don’t worry about me.” She prattled ahead. “And I know Mrs. Lassiter will be happy to see you. Finally. After all the commotion.”
Rory gave a thumbs-up, agreeing. “We’re taking you straight home, Governor. You told Moira ten thirty. We don’t want to keep her waiting. We don’t want her to worry, right?”
Kenna fingered her newest acquisition, a sleek pink plastic bottle of shampoo from the Worcester Sheraton. You never know. She fluffed her hair and slid on her tortoiseshell sunglasses, very Jackie O.
Moira stood at the front door, waiting. Kenna could see her silhouette behind the glass, framed by white crown molding and curling ivy. As they pulled into the curve of the driveway, Mrs. Lassiter stepped outside. That icy blond hair, somehow coiffed perfectly even on a Sunday morning. White turtleneck, some kind of fuzzy white vest. Fuzzy boots. The woman looked like frosting on a cake. Like meringue. Like money. She held a mug.
She raised it, saluting their arrival, as the SUV stopped. But she didn’t move from the porch. Didn’t come out to meet her husband, not even halfway.
“Thanks, Rory. Thanks, Kenna. You’re both good sports,” Owen said. “Ror, you’ll call me about the rest of the day. And any update on the developments in the lights thing.”
Rory started to say something, but the governor stopped him with a palm.
“Check it out. I don’t like it. And then we’re clear till tomorrow, right? Monday morning meeting, then-”
“It’s all good, Governor,” Rory said. “Go in. The election’s coming. It’ll be your last day off for a while.”
“If we win.”
“We’ll win.”
The governor clicked open his door, and Rory popped the hatchback where the overnight bags were stowed.
Kenna hopped out, came around behind the car. Why not? No reason for her to sit in the backseat after Owen was gone, right? She smoothed her jeans over her rear, then gave a little stretch, making sure her black turtleneck came just a bit untucked. Oh, such a long car ride.
She waved at Moira, breezy and casual. And closed her door. She glanced over to see what Moira and her husband were doing. Moira was gesturing at her. Kenna put a hand up to her cheek, as if to hide her face. Why not.
“All set?” Rory asked, turning on the ignition.
“Oh, yeah,” Kenna said. “Set and match.”
39
“Score one for the new kid,” Alex told her, making a mark in the air. “Fifth floor loves it.”
At work on a Sunday. He was taking his job seriously, Jane figured. Or maybe it was easier for him to hang out here in his office than at home. Maybe he was using work as an excuse. Or an escape.
Today he was weekend casual in a black T-shirt under a cashmere-looking zipper-neck black sweater. His usual jeans. Hot Alex, Jane thought. He was, indeed. Especially now that he was praising her story.
“Oh, terrific. Thanks,” Jane said, taking a seat on his couch. She was tired, but never too tired for pats on the back. Soon she’d be home. “Remember, I’ve got those other photos of Kenna Wilkes. When I get to my desk, I’ll download ’em. Send ’em to you.”
“Great,” Alex said. “But right now you need to- Well, wait. Let me confirm. Your pictures are definitely of the same woman who’s in Gus’s archive photos, right?”
“Yes, no question.” Jane nodded. “Kenna Wilkes is her name. I’m pretty sure… well, yeah, it has to be. You know? She was there, at the rally, the woman in the photo. That’s what my source at the hotel said her name was. And my source also confirmed Kenna Wilkes checked out the same time the governor checked out. Question is, who the heck is she? I Googled, and ZabaSearched, got pretty much nothing. Did you?”
“Well, not me, I didn’t have time to do it myself. But I told Tuck to look into it.” Alex moved his wireless silver mouse across his desk. Jane couldn’t see what was on the computer screen. At least she was learning not to take his multitasking personally. Workaholic or not, why was he here on a Sunday? She glanced at the third finger, left hand. Still no ring. But he didn’t seem unhappy. No way, of course, to ask what was going on in his personal life. She rewound to what he’d just said.
“You told Tuck?” Jane tried to follow his reasoning. “To check on Kenna Wilkes? How come?”
Alex stopped his mouse and looked up at her, surprised. “On the phone yesterday, you told me the name Amaryllis Roldan. And later, Kenna Wilkes. Since I knew you’d talked to Jake, I thought they were both connected to the Bridge Killer stuff. So I asked Tuck to run them by her sources.”
Jane thought back. “No, Alex. I was at the rally, remember? And I told you, Wilkes was the other woman.”
“Yeah, I know. But I thought you meant the other woman in the bridge killings. See? Roldan, a victim. And Wilkes the other victim. I figured that was what you were telling me.”
“Yikes. And we’re supposed to be in the communications biz.” Jane shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She is who she is. If Tuck comes up with something for my story, great.”
She yawned, the last of her adrenaline departing. She needed coffee. Food. Sleep. How many hours had she slept? Like, four? “Now, if Kenna Wilkes gets murdered by the Bridge Killer, that’d be the ultimate worlds-collide. Anything new on that? I gotta admit, Arthur Vick isn’t my favorite person on the planet right now.”
Alex slapped his laptop closed.
Gave her his full attention, thank you so much.
“Nothing new I know of. Tuck’s out now. Talking to-” He paused. “Whatever she does. Anyway, Jane. She’ll handle the Bridge Killer. Unless you’ve decided to give us more on Sellica?”
“Alex-”
“Kidding. Anyway. You’ve got other fish to fry.”