“So Vick could have-,” Jane began. She gestured him back to the living room. Might as well sit down. Sleep seemed unlikely at this point.
“Yeah. So. We don’t know.” He sat on the couch, next to her.
She picked up a paisley pillow. Made it a barrier between them.
“Janey, here’s my point.” Jake leaned toward her, elbows on knees. “If it was Arthur Vick-well, I thought you should-be aware. Cautious.”
Jane stared at him, her fingers sliding through the pillow’s silky fringe.
“Tuck’s already sniffing around him,” Jake went on. “Listen, are they gonna put Vick’s name in the paper as a suspect? After what he did to you?”
“No idea.” She blew out a breath, considering. It’d be interesting to see what Alex decided about that. “But-wait. Tuck. Did she ask you about Kenna Wilkes? Is that why you e-mailed me that name?”
“E-mailed you the name Kenna Wilkes?” Jake looked confused. “I never e-mailed you. How do you know that name?”
“Well, first off, because-” Jane pushed up the sleeves of her turtleneck, checked her watch. Doomed. “Listen. You want something to drink?”
The sugar maple outside her kitchen window had given up the last of its leaves, and a fat squirrel scuttled up a bare branch. The redwood bird feeder she’d rigged up was empty. Jane sighed. The bird feeder was more for Murrow than for me. She took the silver kettle to the sink, turned on the water. “Tea? Yes, no?”
Jake sat at the round table by the window, elbows on the yellow-checked tablecloth, examining her little terra-cotta pot of delicately blooming paperwhites.
“Sure. But Kenna Wilkes, Jane.”
“Well,” she said over the running water. “First, you e-mailed me the name. But I figured-” She turned off the water and turned on the stove. “-I figured Tuck asked you about her. Thing is, I had asked Alex to find out about her. For a whole nother story. He apparently misunderstood. But then, when you e-mailed me, I thought there might be something more.”
“Like I said. I didn’t.” Jake pulled out his BlackBerry.
Jane found two chunky mugs, rummaged in the cabinet for tea bags. “Sure you did. Too late for English Breakfast. How about Calm?”
“Damn,” Jake said.
“Huh?” Jane said. She pulled out two colorful boxes. “Okay. I have other kinds.”
She turned to show him, but he was staring at his BlackBerry.
“I meant to send the name to myself,” Jake said. “I guess I hit JA, then screwed up when DeLuca came in. Hit the wrong button. And it got sent to you. The next one on my contacts list.”
The teakettle whistled. “Funny,” she said, pouring steaming water into the mugs. “You had me thinking she was involved in the bridge killings. That’d be weird.”
She put a mug in front of Jake, added a spoon and a folded napkin, pushed the sugar bowl toward him. She leaned against the kitchen counter, holding her own mug with both hands.
“Well, Kenna Wilkes doesn’t exist, far as I can see,” Jake said, stirring.
“Sure she does,” Jane said. “I’ve seen her.”
Jake took a tentative sip. Put his mug back on the table. “Well, you saw someone. But there is no Kenna Wilkes. Not that my assistant can find, anyway.”
“Really? You looked her up in your woo-woo secret police files, whatever you guys have? Why?”
“Yup. We did. What’s she to you, anyway? When Tuck mentioned her name, I thought she was a bridge killer victim. So I-”
“Kenna Wilkes isn’t a bridge killer victim. She isn’t dead.”
“Well, whatever. That’s what I thought at the time. So we checked out the name, and there’s no record of her. Registry of motor vehicles, social security, criminal history. Nothing.”
Jane watched the steam twirl up from her tea. Watched Jake, one arm draped over the ladder-back of her kitchen chair, legs stretched out on the hardwood floor. Just the two of them. A Sunday afternoon. If the world were different, they’d be luxuriating, reading the papers, watching an old movie, sharing a bowl of popcorn. Or ripping each other’s clothes off, if wishes came true. But here they were talking about murder, and danger, and now he was telling her an impossible thing. That Kenna Wilkes didn’t exist.
“I talked to her. Last night. In Springfield.” Jane mentally replayed their conversation. How Kenna seemed to recognize her, but didn’t know she’d been fired. They talked about the election. She pretended she wasn’t involved with Lassiter.
Hey. Jane had taken her photo! She could simply show that to Jake. All she had to do was grab her camera from her purse, and-she stopped. That wouldn’t prove anything about who Kenna was. Or her role in this election.
The election. There was a way to find out about Kenna Wilkes.
“Jake? Did your person check voter registration lists?”
Jake shook his head. “Doubt it. Why?”
“Kenna Wilkes told me she ‘couldn’t wait to vote for Owen Lassiter.’ She said ‘I wish I could vote for him a million times.’ So she must be registered. And that’s public record. I’ll look her up tomorrow at City Hall.”
She toasted him with her tea, pleased with herself.
Jake nodded. “Nice going, Brenda Starr. Hope it works for your story. But, you know, she’s not part of this case.” He took a last swig, walked past her to put his mug in the sink. “Thanks, Janey. I’d better let you get some sleep.”
She joined him at the sink, put her empty mug next to his on the stainless steel. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking out the little curtained window overlooking the courtyard. A cardinal, a flare of crimson, swooped into the bare branches in front of them.
Jane felt Jake’s arm slide around her waist. Felt his warmth. Felt him breathe. Felt the slightest touch of his hair on her cheek.
She turned to him, barely. Not wanting to move. Wanting to move.
“Want some company?” Jake whispered. “For your nap?”
Yes, Jane thought. Yes, yes, yes.
He looked down at her, lifting her chin with one finger. “Janey,” he whispered. “Tell me again why we decided…”
“It’s hard to remember, right now.” Jane could barely hear her own voice. Barely knew her arm slid under Jake’s leather jacket, barely realized her cheek nestled in the soft wool of his sweater.
“You there, Jake? Over.” A voice crackled through the portable radio clipped to Jake’s belt.
She heard Jake sigh, felt his chest rise and fall. She kept her eyes closed, wrapping herself in the moment, marking it. It would soon be gone.
“I hear you, D. Over,” Jake said into the radio. His arm tightened around her waist, one hand slipping under her sweater. His hand was cool, and warm, and soft, and strong.
“The Howarths got plane tickets. They’re on the way. Meet at Logan in an hour? Terminal B. Over.”
Jane opened her eyes. Saw the cardinal fly away.
“Roger that,” Jake said.
“That’s why,” Jane said.
44
Thank goodness for my little tape recorder. Jane had made it to Eleanor Gable’s office, right on time at five. Running on adrenaline. Gable was already talking faster than Jane’s frantic note-taking could possibly keep up.
The candidate catalogued her personal history in nonstop bullet points: flossy childhood on the North Shore, boarding school, college, trust fund, escapades, law school. Women’s rights, volunteer work, politics, change the world, do her part, take a stand.
Ellie Gable came out from behind the pale green antique desk in her opulent Beacon Hill study and paced, all broad gestures and unrelenting eye contact, in front of the tartan-silk curtains draping the bay window.