“Mr. Vick?” Jake ignored the woman.
“As you well know, she was a Beacon Market employee,” Vick said. His voice dripped elaborate boredom. “I have hundreds of employees. Obviously. Do I know each and every one of them? Obviously not.”
“But did you know Miss Roldan?”
“I did not.”
“How about Kylie Howarth?” Jake said. “Does that name ring a bell?”
“Who? How do you spell that?” Patricia Vick’s pen hovered over her notebook. “Like, Howard?”
“Mrs. Vick? We’re fine here, we’re on tape,” Rothmann said. He remained at his post, standing sentry beside his client’s chair. “Arthur? You don’t have to answer that.”
“Hell I don’t,” Vick said. “Never heard of her.”
“She didn’t try out for-?” Kylie’s parents had told them yesterday at the airport that their daughter’s suicide note indicated she’d applied for a job at Beacon Markets, wanted to be in the company’s commercials, but became despondent because she hadn’t been called back for a second audition.
“What part of never don’t you understand?” Vick said.
“Fine. Never. Interesting. Noted.” Jake checked the tape recorder. Rolling. “Sellica Darden,” he said.
“And we’re done,” Rothmann said, brushing his palms together. “Thank you, Officers, but-”
“What about Sellica Darden?” Vick’s mouth twisted into an almost-smile.
“That woman,” Patti Vick said. “Should have gone to jail. That woulda saved her. No offense.”
“Jake?” DeLuca’s voice came from the doorway. He was looking at his cell phone screen. “I need a moment in private.” He slid his phone back into his inside jacket pocket, then cocked his head toward the door. Outta here.
Jake hit the Off button, stopping the tape recorder, then looked up, trying to read his partner’s face. But DeLuca, hand on the doorknob, was giving him nothing.
“Five minutes?” Jake said. “Okay with everyone?” He surveyed the room. Patti, her Sharpie clicked closed, was punching little pieces of gum from a crackling cellophane and foil package. Vick actually yawned, then pulled out an iPhone.
Rothmann shrugged, smoothing his tie. “Do what you gotta do.”
“What the hell?” Stashing the recorder in a pocket, Jake followed DeLuca down a side hallway, striding to keep up with him. His partner stopped in front of the men’s room door, looking both ways down the corridor.
“Dammit, we need an empty office or someplace,” DeLuca said.
“Paul, whatever it is.” Jake crossed his arms, done. “Rothmann’s waiting for us. Vick’s gonna bail. Just tell me.”
“May I help you?” A bearded guy in a pin-striped suit emerged from the men’s room, adjusting his tie. He considered the two of them. “Are you gentlemen looking for someone?”
“Just the can,” DeLuca said. He caught the heavy wooden door with the flat of his hand, stopping it before it closed. “Thanks.”
“This had better be good,” Jake said. Once inside, DeLuca clanked open each metal stall door. No one else was in the room. The glaring fluorescent lights banged off the white-tiled walls; the place smelled of spearmint and lemon. Jake caught a glimpse of himself in a long polished mirror over a bank of fancy stainless steel sinks. He looked baffled. “You ’bout ready to do this? Before I-”
“That was the supe on the phone.” DeLuca stared at his feet, not at Jake. Then crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s bad. We got bridge victim four.”
Jake was afraid to check the mirror again. No reason to see what screwed looked like. “Water? Bridge? Woman? Sunday night? No ID?”
“You got it,” DeLuca said. “Total cluster f-”
The door creaked open. DeLuca, lightning, slammed it closed before whoever it was could enter. “Out-a-order,” he called out. He leaned against it, bracing his feet on the elaborately tiled floor. “Come back later.”
“What’s the rest?” Jake would find out eventually, might as well be now.
“Found her this morning, some joggers or something. ME says drowning. No bruises, no trauma. By that lobster place, ya know? By the post office.”
“Killed overnight, they think?”
“Yup. TV’s all over it. Newspaper. It’s a shit-storm. Supe’s calling a press conference for this afternoon. Says you and I gotta know something by then. As if.”
“Vick,” Jake said.
DeLuca crossed to the sink, pumped out a pink ribbon of soap, put his hands under the faucet. Cranked his head around to look Jake in the eye. “You think? He’s the Bridge Killer?”
Jake heard the hiss of the water, the buzz of the paper towel reeling out from the motion-activated dispenser. Saw DeLuca hit the wastebasket for two.
“No,” Jake said. “Vick’s an asshole, and he’s lying about something. Maybe about a lot. But a serial killer? Naw. He’s just-not a candidate.”
“So who-?”
“Hell if I know.”
“And you got up to my office how?” Rory Maitland was up and out of his chair before Jane got halfway to his desk. Three televisions, sound up full, showed the CNN, HLN, and Channel 11 morning news.
“Elevator,” Jane said, smiling. She raised her voice over the TV sound. “I got here by elevator.” Might as well try a little humor. Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea, barging into his campaign office unannounced, but too late now. “There was no one at the front desk downstairs, or in your outer office, so I took a chance and-”
Maitland punched a red button on his phone console, yelling into the speaker. “Deenie! You out there? Where the hell is everyone?” No response. He puffed out an annoyed sigh, giving up on the phone, then held out both palms, dramatically mystified. “Enlighten me here, Miss Ryland. You ignore the rules, ignore the protocol, ignore Sheila King, ignore security, you sashay up here like a- Where’s the regular Register guy, anyway?”
“Mr. Maitland?” Apologize first, hit him with the Gable bombshell later. She put on her best beseeching look, contrite. “I’m so sorry, there was just no one to ask, and Sheila didn’t answer her phone, and I really need to talk with you.” She eyed the door. “Privately.”
“Oh, now I get it.” Maitland clicked a silver remote at the television sets, one after the other, jabbing their screens to black. “You’re still dogging us about that pitiful Springfield rally. Listen. Advance team blew it, the candidate is not happy. Old news. You want to find out what happened? Ask those hotel people.”
“No, I-” Jane took one step into the room, testing.
“We have a campaign to win.” Maitland waved the remote at Jane, as if to turn her off. “We’re interested in tomorrow, not yesterday. You can quote me. That do it for you, Miss Ryland?”
“Well, it’s not about the rally.” Jane took another step into the office. “You’re right. Old news. It’s just-you know I’ve been trying to get permission to do an interview with Mrs. Lassiter.”
“No can do.” Maitland flipped a palm at her, forget about it. “As Sheila King told you. Moira’s exhausted. Taking some time off.”
Sure she is. Jane nodded, wide-eyed, as if buying his line. “So I hear. But while waiting for her to, uh, come back, I did a little research on her, you know? Now I have a couple of quick questions. About her background.”
Big smile. Notebook out. Wait.
Maitland’s face changed, then changed again before Jane could catalog the emotions morphing by.
He lowered the remote, eyes narrowing at her. “Moira’s background? What about it?”
“Well,” Jane said. “It’s actually less about Mrs. Lassiter, and more about the candidate himself.”
“Have a seat. Jane.” He pointed to a tweedy upholstered chair in front of the bank of still-dark TVs. “Now. What’s this really about?”