She took a step away, eyeing the cruiser, then looked back at him. He saw the light dawn.
“Are you a po-?” she said.
“Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD. Are you with the Lassiter campaign?”
She held up her yellow lanyard, both hands fussing, flapping the cards against each other.
“Deenie, um, Denise Bayliss,” the woman said. “Yes, I work here. Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine, Miss Bayliss.” Jake jabbed a thumb toward the headquarters door. “Anyone inside?”
“No, sir, not right now. I just locked up.” She displayed her collection of plastic. “They might be back later, though. After the governor’s event. But he uses the side entrance. Do you need me to call-?”
Jake recognized the rumble of DeLuca’s cruiser. Heard his car door slam.
“My partner, Detective DeLuca.” Jake pulled out his BlackBerry, punched up the photo of Holly and the man Jane called Matt. It wasn’t that clear a shot, a BlackBerry photo of an old picture, but it was all he had. “Let me show you this photo, Miss Bayliss. Do you recognize either of these people?”
The woman peered at it, lifting her glasses, her nose almost touching the screen. One car whispered by in the rain-dampened street, then another. “No, Detective, I don’t think I’ve never seen them before.”
“One more question,” Jake said. “Do you know a Kenna Wilkes?”
She looked everywhere but at Jake. “She’s a volunteer. New. Like, a receptionist. Sometimes. But…”
“But?” Jake kept his voice noncommittal. Encouraging. “You were saying?”
“Nothing,” the woman said. “She-goes places with the governor. You could ask him about her. I guess. Or Mr. Maitland. But I… don’t know anything about her. Why are you asking me this? Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine, ma’am, all we need,” Jake said. He handed her a business card. Nothing for him here. “We have your name.”
By the time Deenie Bayliss was out of sight, Jake had opened the door of his cruiser, and sat, one leg out the driver’s side, radio crackling. “Repeating now?” he said. “We have a BOLO for a white male, approximately twenty-five years of age, brown hair, eyes unknown, first name Matt, last name unknown, who might be in the company of a younger white female, age approximately twenty-three, hair blond, eyes green, who may be using the name Kenna Wilkes. Please do not apprehend, but contact…”
DeLuca rested one arm on the top of the cruiser as Jake dictated his be-on-the-lookout bulletin. “We rock, gotta admit,” he said as Jake signed off. “Howarth solved, Roldan solved, Vick in custody for Sellica Darden. And now-”
Jake clicked the radio mic back into place, moved DeLuca out of the way as he pulled his leg in and closed the door. He buzzed down the window.
“-and now,” DeLuca repeated, cocking his head toward Lassiter headquarters, “all we gotta do is find some dish who’s apparently got an inside with the candidate, and have her give up the guy who killed Holly Neff. And we are four for four.”
“Told you there was no Bridge Killer,” Jake called as DeLuca headed for his car. “See you downtown, D. Time for you and me to rain a little reality on one Mr. Arthur Vick.”
DeLuca peeled out, full speed ahead, beeping his horn in salute. But Jake sat in his front seat, staring out the windshield, more than Arthur Vick on his mind.
Matt No-Last-Name. Approached Jane at the news conference. Showed up at Lassiter headquarters exactly when she did. Now he was whereabouts unknown.
Who the hell is Matt? What if the guy who killed Holly Neff was now looking for Jane?
So near but yet so far. Jane sat in her front seat, car in Park, engine idling, staring at the CLOSED sign in front of Poplar Grove Cemetery. She’d devoured the last of her peanut butter crackers and was starting on a pack of gum unearthed from the bottom of her tote. She tried Moira again. Nothing.
Now she was contemplating the tiniest bit of trespassing. No locked gate in front of her in the driveway, no gate at all. No chain, no barrier, no nothing. Above her a massive cast-iron arch loomed, twisted metal letters spelling POPLAR GROVE. Beside her, a very small plastic sign with press-on letters spelling CLOSED FOR HALLOWEEN.
What if I hadn’t seen it? Jane tried out a few excuses: It was dark. I was looking the other way. The sign is smallish.
But what if there were some alarm thing, that as soon as she crossed some barrier would trip, blaring bells and sirens, announcing her illegal entry to some goons lurking who knew where? Unlikely, though, in a cemetery, right? People were supposed to go in. That was the whole point. And the place was lit up-sorta. She could see a winding tree-lined lane, a fork in the graveled access road leading up each side of a grassy rise. Spotlights revealed curving rows of headstones and grave markers, shadowed statues of angels and crosses and sleekly marbled obelisks. Like Mom’s, she thought, then pushed it out of her mind. That lectern thing a little beyond the arch must be the locator map. The place was actually kind of-peaceful. Not creepy-scary. Just empty.
Empty.
Traffic whizzed by behind her. No one cared. No one was stopping. All she had to do was pull in. She wasn’t going to hurt anything. It wasn’t that illegal.
She shifted into Drive.
Matt drove half a block past the gate, turned into a side street, and made a U-turn. At the cemetery entrance, he turned off his lights and shifted into Park. He was freezing. Sweating. Having a heart attack. His chest hadn’t felt so tight, so constricted since-since the last time he was here. Cissy was enraged he’d added “Lassiter” to the headstone on the Galbraith family plot. Hadn’t spoken to him at the funeral, or after, because of it. But Lassiter was his birthright. It was their history. It was the truth.
He’d visited the grave only a few times since, walking up that little hill, using the big angel as the landmark. His mother’s headstone, pink marble, stood in the shadow of the angel’s wings. He owed her a visit, he knew. But this was too… too much.
His chest clutched again. What was Ryland doing here?
Exhaust plumed from her tailpipe. Her car didn’t move.
And then it did.
66
So far, so good. Jane drove in, creeping along, gripping the steering wheel, shoulders tensed for the blare of alarm bells. But nothing happened. She did a quick scan for security cameras, saw nothing. It was easy to check the locator. Easy to see the diagrams in the dimly warm lights tucked into trees and staked along the paths. Easy to find the name Katharine Lassiter. Section D, Row 23.
When she arrived at the right place, one frustrating glitch. She couldn’t see the headstone from her car. But this would take only two seconds.
Leaving her car running and door open, Jane crunched through fallen leaves and gooshed through mud, glad she’d kept her rubber wellies stashed in the backseat, a leftover-from-TV habit.
Row 23. Up two rows, then down three headstones, picturing the map at the entrance. She carried the flashlight from her console, all powered up and batteries fine. Her cell phone, not so much, still charging in the car. You can’t win them all.
The night air hit, hazy and sodden with leftover rain. Clammy. She pulled her coat closer. Tree branches bowed and bent in the light wind; wisps of clouds scudded across the navy sky. Alone in a cemetery. On Halloween. Shut up. She wouldn’t think about scary stuff; that would be stupid. She could still hear occasional cars on the road. Her own, ready to roll, was right there.
She mentally whistled a happy tune. Not afraid. She’d be here only two seconds.