“Fish?”
“Remember I told you the Gable people called? They’re saying the interview with her has to be today. So head over to Beacon Hill. Ellie Gable will be waiting for you.”
Jane slumped back into the flat cushions of Alex’s couch. “You know I’m happy to,” Jane said. “I really am. But look at me. I’m a mess. I’ve been wearing this same outfit for two days.”
“You look great,” Alex said. “As always.”
“I drove all the way to Springfield,” Jane went on, ignoring the had-to-be-manipulative compliment. “I stayed up till whenever writing the story. Then drove all the way back. I’m wiped. My brain is fried. There’s no way that Gable can-?”
“Your six-month tryout is now five months and three weeks,” Alex said. “Happy anniversary. And here’s your present. The Gable interview’s not till five. So, go home, take a nap. Then show up at Gable’s and get us the scoop.”
“Kenna? Ah, nope.” DeLuca’s voice crackled over the phone, sounding confused. “No, Harvard, the victim’s name’s not Kenna. Listen, you at your desk? I’ll be there in ten.”
He hung up without waiting for Jake to reply.
Jake closed his eyes briefly. Whew. Tuck had almost sucker-punched him, for sure. She’d gotten some tip, one of dozens probably, decided to try it out on him. Who knew how that girl’s brain worked. She wanted there to be a Bridge Killer so desperately, she’d do anything to keep it in the headlines. And keep her name on the front page. It was as much about her career as it was about the truth.
He crumpled Pam’s “says urgent” note off the pad, wrote the name Kenna Wilkes on a clean page. He’d get someone to check it. So far, the name wasn’t anything that would blow up his life. Damn, Tuck.
Jake took a swig of coffee, lukewarm. He put his feet on the desk, pulled his computer onto his lap, opened the folder marked PERSONAL, then the file he’d labeled BRIDGE.
Stared at the screen.
Longfellow was first. The first no-ID body. The one that started this whole Bridge Killer deal. Now DeLuca said they’d gotten a possible name for her. She’d shown no signs of trauma, no tattoos. Cause of death, drowning, according to Dr. Archambault. No shoes. Did that mean anything? No connection with Arthur Vick. So far. Maybe the name would help make the connection. But if she was connected with Vick, that’d be a horse of another color. They’d have to bear down on him. Three for three. That was no coincidence.
Three for three would mean there was a Bridge Killer, and his name was Arthur Vick. Jake scratched his head with both hands, squinching up his eyes. Why would Vick kill-?
Jake thought about Patti Vick, sitting in her suburban living room. Talking about her “best friend.” She’d be rethinking that assessment if they nailed him for this. Wonder if she’d stand by him, all that “good wife” stuff.
He clicked to his next page of notes.
Charlestown, victim two, Amaryllis Roldan. A week later, another Sunday. They’d gotten her ID from the tattoo guy. She’d had bruises, face and back. Cause of death, drowning, again. Sellica’s mother said she’d never heard of Roldan, but Vick certainly had. And that pitiful Beacon Market clerk Olive Parisella.
Sellica Darden. Body three. Not a Sunday. No ID on her, but Sellica Darden had gotten her fifteen minutes of fame. She didn’t need ID. Did the killer know that? Or not? Jake sighed. Cause of death, drowning. But the roofies in her system were outliers. Date rape drug. Who had been her date?
If the killings weren’t connected, maybe no other women were in danger.
If they were connected-well, still, whoever it was might be done.
Or not.
He buzzed his intercom. “Hey, Pam? I’ve got a name I need you to run.”
“Ready, boss.”
“Kenna Wilkes.” He spelled it.
“Loud and clear,” Pam said. “Gimme a few.”
Jake stared at his computer screen, unseeing.
It was Sunday again.
Three dead bodies. And though it was his job to find answers, there were none.
40
Holly walked out of the post office, minus the package, Matt noted. Wonder what she’d mailed? She popped in her earbuds again, pulled off her cap, and messed around with her hair. She yanked the cap back on. Then readjusted her earbuds.
Geez. Get on with it.
He waited for her to get back in her car so he could follow her. His plan seemed eminently reasonable. He’d see if she went anywhere interesting or useful. Lassiter HQ, for instance. If so, play it by ear from there.
If she simply went home, also useful. Because in that case, he’d leave. He knew where she lived, right? He could go back to his hotel, catch a nap, shower, and come back in the morning. See where she went. It wasn’t like she was gonna leave Boston overnight.
Shit. Instead of turning right to get to her car, still parked in that spot by the fence, she was coming his way. He ducked, as if he were looking for something on the floor. He reached for the glove compartment, flipped it open, fingered out a map, unfolded it in front of his face. Sitting up, he sneaked a look around it.
Holly stood by the water, one ankle raised on the waist-high railing between her and the canal below. He saw her head bend to her knee, bob a couple times. Then she switched legs. Head to knee again. Stretching? Duh. She was going running.
Matt peered over the map, watching Holly put her slim body through a series of stretches and curls. Almost as if she were dancing for him, showing off in her skintight running suit, moving to the music he imagined must be on her iPod. She raised each leg, one after the other, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, lowering her head to her knee. She leaned back against the metal-railed fence, arms straight, arching her body toward him; then she turned and arched the other way. She turned her back to him… Is she teasing? Does she know I’m here? She can’t- Then she touched her toes, palms flat to the ground. She put her hand on one heel, then stretched her leg out, in full splits, standing right there, not twenty feet from him, no idea he was watching this performance.
Matt could almost hear her music. Almost forgot to hold up the map. Holly’s head lolled back as she stretched her neck, eyes closed; then she rolled her head from side to side. She was drinking it in, enjoying it. She must be. The sun on the water, the seagulls, her body.
She thinks she’s alone.
Holly unzipped the hooded jacket she was wearing and shrugged it from her shoulders, revealing a sleeveless black top. Made of that same stretchy stuff as her pants. She adjusted her earbud string and tied the jacket around her waist. He could see her chest, the swell of her curves more maddening than he remembered.
With a shake that was almost a shiver, Holly jogged along the sidewalk away from him and turned right across the bridge.
Matt could hardly breathe. She was-dangerous.
Another plan began to form. A new plan. A better plan.
He’d be ready for Holly when she returned.
“So we made it through Saturday night at least, ya know?” DeLuca’s silhouette appeared at Jake’s office door, a Dunkin’s extra large cup in one hand. His partner raised it, toasting. “No new bodies. Maybe the Bridge Killer’s decided to fold his tents.”
Pam’s voice buzzed through the intercom. “Jake, DeLuca’s here.” D never waited to be announced.
“You’re a sick person, D. And there’s no Bridge Killer.” Jake typed the name Kenna Wilkes into his BlackBerry. Just in case. Looked up at DeLuca as he sent it to himself.
“Can’t believe you’re here plugging away.” DeLuca lounged in the doorway. “You can’t work all the time.”
“You can if there’s a serial killer on the loose,” Jake said.