“Guys? Superintendent Rivera has another statement for you.” The PR flack stretched toward the bank of microphones, leaning in front of his boss. “Hold your questions until he’s finished. Otherwise, we’re done here, and I’ll return your calls as soon as I can manage the time. But it probably won’t be before your deadlines. You catch my drift? Are you ready for the statement?”
Here we go. Matt’s eyes suddenly burned; hot sweat broke out across the back of his neck and behind his knees. Thirsty. Thirsty. He flipped up the plastic top of his water bottle, took a swig.
“What’s this about? You know anything?” A guy with a tape recorder on a shoulder strap muttered at him, adjusting dials on his equipment.
“Uh, no,” Matt said. “You?”
“Nope.” The guy shrugged. “All I know is, some new victim. It was all over TV. Guess we’re gonna hear.”
“At approximately oh-five-thirty this morning,” Rivera said, “three joggers along the Fort Point footpath discovered the body of a young white female, approximately twenty-five years old, that’s two-five, in the waters by the Fort Point overpass. As of now, we have no identification, but-”
“So it’s true? Another Bridge Killer victim?” The brunette reporter again. “You think you’re burying the lead here? That makes three victims! And you’re still telling us there’s no serial killer targeting unidentified young women and dumping them in the water near bridges?”
Serial killer? Matt’s mind raced. That’s what they’d been saying on the TV. If the cops thought Holly was a victim of a serial killer, he was home free. Right? Whenever the other killings happened, he sure hadn’t been in Boston.
A window of hope began to open. An escape route. The beginnings of a smile pulled at his mouth, the first time he felt happy since he’d seen Holly’s photo in the online Register.
He might win this round. All he had to do to reclaim his birthright was figure out how to keep Jane Ryland quiet. And thanks to this news conference, he might have been handed the perfect way to do it.
51
“He’s in there, Jake. He’s yelling for a lawyer. But he’s guilty as sin.” Paul DeLuca flipped on the lights, illuminating the dingy interior of room 3, fourth floor of the Nashua Street Jail. Behind the one-way glass, Jake saw a fidgeting train wreck of a man sitting at a long metal table. The suspect took a slug of Mountain Dew from a can, one scrawny leg jiggling, eyes darting ceaselessly from ceiling to floor to window and back. His other leg was shackled to a circular eye-bolt in the floor.
“That guy’s in great shape,” Jake said. “Cranked up?”
“Bad thing to be a junkie,” DeLuca said.
“Worse to be a murderer.” Jake flipped open the red-coded file of documents his partner handed him, scanning photos and arrest records. “You’d think it’d be a problem being a tattoo guy by day and a druggie at night. Think it would make your hands shake, you know? So he did Amaryllis Roldan? Her tattoo?”
“His specialty was the Celtic vines, so says his junkie pal. The one who ratted him out for Roldan when he realized they were both facing twenty-five to life for distribution. Whoever talked first got the deal.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Jake said. “Supe know?”
“Yup. Laney Driscoll even told him about it, but he didn’t want to mention it at the news conference. Not till it’s signed and sealed. Your pal Tuck has it, though. God knows how she finds this stuff out. She was here when I got here.”
“He confess?”
“In a manner of speaking,” DeLuca said. “He insisted he didn’t kill Amaryllis Roldan. Problem was, we hadn’t accused him of anything yet.”
“Gotcha.” Jake closed the file.
“That’s exactly what I said to him,” DeLuca said.
So this was the guy who’d killed the girl Jake had once called Charlestown, “the punk Ophelia,” left her under the bridge battered and bruised, left her to drown. But this guy hadn’t killed Kylie Howarth, of course. Kylie’d done that herself.
Jake watched the suspect yank at the collar of his white T-shirt, then fiddle with the snaps on the front of his orange jail-issue jumpsuit.
“How long’s he been in here? In custody?”
“That’s the first thing I asked, too.” DeLuca tapped the file. “Since last Thursday.”
“So he’s got a perfect alibi for Sellica. And for yesterday.”
“Yeah,” DeLuca said. “You’re looking at an asshole who’s probably not going to see the light of day for a while. He killed Amaryllis Roldan. But if there’s a Bridge Killer, it’s not him.”
“All I have to do is call and say, ‘May I speak to Kenna Wilkes, please?’” Jane pointed to the phone on Alex’s desk. “I bet they’ll put me off. Transfer me to Sheila King’s office. They must have seen the sketch the cops are handing out, it’s got to be on TV already. They’ll have to make a statement. I mean, the Bridge Killer’s fourth victim works for the man who’s running for Senate. And might be his lover! It’s like-the headline of all headlines. Beyond amazing.”
Jane couldn’t sit still on Alex’s couch one more second. She paced to his closed office door, then back to his desk, arms flailing. “She’s gorgeous. She’s dead. And we can prove she had a… a…” She looked at Alex, needing a word.
“Relationship?” Alex said. He rolled a pencil between two palms. “I have to call Tay Reidy. The publisher has got to be in on this. And the lawyer. And maybe the police.”
“We need to interview Moira.” Jane rooted through her tote bag. She needed to make a list. “We need a reaction from Eleanor Gable. Damn. May I use that pencil?”
Alex swiveled his chair, handing her his pencil with a flourish. “You know, Jane, I’ve got to say. The fifth floor is really pleased with you. I am, too. The way you’ve thrown yourself into this. Team player.” Alex raised an eyebrow, inquiring. “Are you okay with it? Transitioning from your old life?”
Jane blinked, surprised at the personal question. “Well, sure, I’m…” She paused, thinking for a beat, considering precisely what it was she was sure about. “Thanks, Alex. Yes, I’m-feeling like a reporter again.”
“Well, you’ve knocked this one out of the ballpark,” Alex said. “I’m thinkin’ no more six-month tryout. We’ll have to keep the networks from grabbing you away from us, when this thing hits the fan.”
The room was silent for a moment. “It’s a big story,” Jane finally said.
Alex’s intercom buzzed. “Victoria on line two,” a woman’s voice squawked through.
“I’ll call her right back,” Alex said into the speaker. He gave Jane a look. Then held up his left hand. “My wife. Soon-to-be ex-wife.”
“Oh, I’m-” Jane scrambled for the appropriate response. Sorry? Happy? She couldn’t help but look at his fourth finger. Nothing. Hot Alex was suddenly soon-to-be available. Amy would go ballistic. Send her a subscription to Brides magazine.
“Anyway.” Alex waved away the moment, changing the subject. “Back to Kenna Wilkes. We need to work this out. We need to be careful. The election is only eight days away. We can’t accuse-”
“Like I said, we should call the campaign first.” Jane nodded, relieved to be back on track. “See what they say. And who they’re going to say she is.”
“Well, they’d never admit she’s-”
“The other woman,” Jane said. She took out her cell phone. This was such a crossroads. “I know. Amazing. I can’t wait to hear what they do say. I’m calling. Right now.”
52
The shower had been a great idea. Steaming soapy water, coursing over his shoulders, washing away the fear, washing away the memories, washing away that morning’s news conference, washing away everything but his determination. Matt had used all the towels from the hotel’s racks, wrapping himself dry, rubbing away two days of craziness. He’d called in sick to his office, grabbed a take-out lunch from the hotel coffee shop. Now well fed, clean shaven, in pressed Levi’s, shirt and tie, and leather jacket, he knew what he had to do.