She stopped. Tried to read his face. “Jake? What happened? Is this about Kenna Wilkes?”
Jake gave her a funny look. Frowning. “Kenna Wilkes? Why would-?” He cocked his head toward her building. “Can we go in?”
Jane’s eyebrows went up. “Sure, I guess. Is everything okay?” He was scaring her a little. But it had to be about his e-mail. After her initial bafflement, she’d figured he must have gotten the name Kenna Wilkes from Tuck. But why would he e-mail Jane about that? Unless Kenna-somehow-was connected with the bridge killings. Or maybe with Arthur Vick? She tucked her arm through Jake’s, clicking her car locked.
She couldn’t decide if she felt safer with him here, or more afraid. Maybe she was simply exhausted.
“Come in for five minutes. You can tell me what’s going on. Then I have to sleep. I’ve got an interview at five with-well, a work thing. But is everything okay? Are you okay?”
“Sure,” Jake said. “Everything’s fine.”
They climbed the series of narrowing concrete steps to her brownstone in silence, neither of them letting go of the other. Jane turned the lock in the outer door, punched in an alarm code, scooped up the newspaper from the black and white tiled entryway. They climbed two flights of wood-paneled stairway, arm in arm, silent.
“Nice place,” Jake said when she opened the door.
Jane gave her apartment a quick once-over look, relieved she’d put most of her stuff away before she’d headed out to Sellica’s funeral. Gosh, only yesterday. Not too many magazines and newspapers piled on the glass coffee table, only one coffee mug on the end table, only one blazer hanging over the back of a dining room chair. Presentable. She glanced at the cocoa-brown leather couch in her living room, still half-expecting Murrow to leap from her spot and greet her at the door. Poor kitty. She’d had a long and good life.
“Thanks,” Jane said. Weird he’d never been here before. She’d gone to his apartment. That once. That night. She plopped the newspaper on the dining room table and shrugged off her coat. Remembered she was still wearing the same black skirt and turtleneck as yesterday, and hardly had on makeup. Jake was already sitting in the taupe-striped wing chair by the fireplace, fussing with the zipper on his jacket.
What is this all about?
“Listen, Jane,” Jake began. “I’d get nailed for talking to you about this. I just yelled at Tuck for ditching protocol.”
“What did she-?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “But we got some info about one of the victims. A Bridge Killer victim. I mean, not the Bridge Killer. Look. Off the record?”
Jane plonked her head against the back of the couch, hugging a paisley throw pillow. “Jake Brogan. You show up at my apartment. E-mail me a name with no explanation. Tell me about some Amaryllis person without saying why. I think we’re way past off the record, dude.”
“Yeah, gotcha. But, Jane, this is for you, not for the paper. I want you to be careful of Arthur Vick. Seems like all the victims are connected to him. Seems like he’s not a good guy to have as an enemy. And if he’s coming after-”
The doorbell rang, an insistent buzz that cut through Jake’s words. Jane stood, knocking her pillow over the coffee table and onto the tight design of the rug. Her eyes widened, and she shook her head: No idea…
Jake was already at the door. He cocked his head. Made his hand into a puppet. Ask who it is, he mouthed.
43
“Yes?” Jane leaned closer to the door, peering through the peephole. Nothing. Was someone hiding? Flattened against the wall? Crouching? Did they know Jake was there?
“It’s me,” a little voice piped through the door. “Eli.”
Jane collapsed against the doorjamb, holding her head in her hands, trying not to laugh, waving Jake off.
“Hey, kiddo,” she said, swinging open the door. Eli was much too short to show in the peephole. She burst out laughing as he came into the foyer. “What on earth?”
“I’m a zombie anchorman, for trick or treat tomorrow!” he said. “Listen.”
He furrowed his forehead, narrowed his black-rimmed blue eyes, and spoke into what looked like a paper towel roll with a tennis ball on top. “And now, the news of the dead,” he intoned.
“Very cool. Especially the bloody microphone,” Jane said. Halloween. She’d have to ask Mrs. Washburn to do Twizzler duty again. “This is my friend Jake. Jake, this is Eli. Eli’s a pal. Jake’s a police officer.”
“Hey, Eli,” Jake said.
“A real police officer? Do you have a gun?” Eli had apparently forgotten about the news of the dead. “Did you ever shoot anyone?”
“Someday, you wanna come tour the police station?” Jake asked. He’d dropped to a crouch, eye level with the little boy in the open doorway. “I’ll show you how we do target practice.”
“Eli! Are you bothering Jane again?” Eli’s mother was tramping down the one flight of burgundy-carpeted stairs, baby Sam balanced on her hip, his pudgy hand grasping the strap of her rock-star tank top.
“It’s fine, Neen,” Jane called out. “He was just showing…”
Arriving on the landing, Neena Fichera hitched Sam to her other already-slim hip, checked out Jake unabashedly. “Hi,” she said, throwing Jane a look. “Are you-?”
“Neena, super of the building, Jake, um, work colleague of mine.” Jane’s brain was about to fry. Jake was showing an enthralled Eli his handcuffs, chatting as if they were old pals.
Neena raised an eyebrow, gave a quick thumbs-up.
Jane stuck out her tongue. Neen thought Jane was missing the motherhood boat, too. This whole day is out of control. And Eli seemed to have a new hero. How did that happen so fast?
“Come on, Eli, Jane’s busy,” Neena said, scooting him out the door. Sam gurgled, sticking one bootied foot into a pocket of Neena’s cargo pants.
“See you later, Eli,” Jane said. “Great costume.”
Eli turned, ignoring Jane, saluting Jake. “You promise? To show me?”
“Ten-four,” Jake said.
By the time they’d gone, and Jane had closed the door, the afternoon was evaporating. She was exhausted. And craved sleep. But here was Jake, and he was so damn-
“He’s a funny kid,” Jake said, clicking his handcuffs back into place. “He adores you.”
Jake paused, took a step closer. “I see why.”
Jane didn’t move. She could hear him take a deep breath, see him seem to consider…
He reached out a hand, touched her shoulder. “You know we could…”
She had to get this afternoon under control.
“No, we can’t.” She took a step back. “You know that, too, Jake. And you were warning me, I think, about Arthur Vick. That’s why you’re here, right?”
That ought to change the mood. For better or for worse.
“You really think he killed Sellica?” she continued. Determined. “Is he under arrest?”
Jake paused. Stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.
“I see,” he said.
The room was silent. Upstairs, a door slammed.
“Okay,” Jake said. “No. No arrest. We talked to him. He said the L-word. Lawyer. So we’re moving carefully.”
Jane leaned against the white-painted wall, trying to kick her weary brain into gear. “And you said-all three victims? Are connected to him?”
Jake nodded. “Seems like it. Sellica, you know about. The second victim is Amaryllis Roldan. She worked at a Beacon Market. And the first victim had applied for a job at Beacon. But it’s all-it’s still not public. A next-of-kin thing.”