Did Lassiter shoot two people? Where’s the damn gun? Jake kept his weapon on Lassiter, yelling toward the speakerphone on the desk. “Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD on the scene, Dispatch. Requesting backup. And medical. We have a person down. Two. Do you have a twenty on this location?”
“Copy that, Detective,” the voice came back. “On the way. Are you secure?”
“Help me, Detective. Please help me.” Lassiter wiped his forehead with one hand, leaving a dark trail across his skin and staining his gray hair. “She’s bleeding, too much, too fast. I’m using my suit jacket to-”
“Detective?” The dispatcher’s voice. “Please respond. Over.”
“My son is dead.” Lassiter’s voice was a pitiful croak. “My daughter shot him, and now she’s dying. It was an accident. An accident. But it’s all my fault. I tried to take it from her-”
A once-shiny silver gun-a.22-lay in a dark stain on the rug, almost under the couch.
Jake kept his weapon chest high, edging farther into the room. He kicked the.22 out of Lassiter’s reach. “We are secure, Dispatch,” Jake called out. “Repeating the request for backup. And a medic. Pronto.”
“Copy,” the voice said. “ETA is in one minute.”
“Black button under the desk,” Lassiter said. “Opens the front door. Lets them in.” He didn’t take his eyes off the woman. Tears streamed down his face, landing on hers. “I was trying to take the gun from her. It was an accident.”
“Jane!” Jake called, loud as he could. He needed to unlock the front door for the EMTs. Needed to check on the man, whoever it was. And to see if he could assist Lassiter. “Janey! Need your help in here.”
The woman on the floor stirred, then with a thin gasp, opened her eyes.
Christ. Jake wasn’t ready for that. He aimed his weapon at her, then lowered it. The amount of red on the rug meant she was unlikely to fight back.
“All your selfish fault,” the woman hissed at Lassiter. Her eyes closed again.
“Kenna Wilkes.” Jane’s voice from the doorway. “That’s Kenna Wilkes.”
“My wife,” Lassiter whispered. “I need to call my wife.”
76
“It’s so quiet in here. It’s usually blaring some Sousa thing, you know?” Jane, whispering, leaned closer to Alex. The lobby was crowded with sleepy-eyed reporters and photographers, some clutching paper cups and Tuesday’s morning paper, others lugging lights and tripods. “The campaign posters and stuff are still up, though.”
“You think he’s going to quit?” Alex also kept his voice low. “I had to see this. Quarter to eight. Can you believe they called it for this early?”
Three rows of folding chairs faced a portable lectern set up in front of the elevators. Behind them, a wooden riser for television cameras. The reception desk was empty. A week before the election, and the front-runner’s headquarters reeked of bad news.
She and Alex had done it. Scoop of the year. Both had stayed in the Register city room till dawn, side by side, slugging down coffee and banging out the front-page wall-to-wall blockbuster. Now both were running on caffeine and adrenaline, Jane’s coat still spotted with mud but the lump on her head tamed with Advil.
She craned her neck, checking the competition. “See everyone reading the Register?”
Sliding into the seat next to Alex, Jane pulled her own copy of the morning paper from her tote bag. Banner headlines-biggest the paper had used since the mob thing-proclaimed ELECTION TRAGEDY. Underneath, CANDIDATE’S ESTRANGED DAUGHTER CHARGED WITH MURDER IN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT.
According to sources close to the story, Matthew Lassiter Galbraith was killed in an attempt to prevent the now-hospitalized victim, Lassiter’s estranged daughter, from murdering their father. Lassiter campaign officials insist…
Jane knew every word by heart.
Tuck had the byline on the sidebar story. CANDIDATE’S SON SUSPECT IN BRIDGE KILLING, with the subhead-“Now Victim in Lassiter Shooting.” Archive Gus’s photos of Holly Neff were arrayed across the jump page. Exclusive.
Police have no motive in the slaying of Holly Neff, age 25, who recently moved to Massachusetts from Pennsylvania. Sources say Neff’s apartment contained numerous photos of Senate candidate Owen Lassiter, estranged father of the deceased Matthew Lassiter Galbraith, as well as several photographs of Neff and her alleged murderer. The Register’s investigation proves the victim was a regular attendee at Lassiter events, although campaign officials insist…
Jane dropped the paper to her lap, crumpling the pages, and jabbed Alex with an elbow.
“You know what kinda kills me, Alex? It’s really my investigation, you know? So funny, after all that, Tuck winds up with the woman-in-the-red-coat story.” Jane flipped the newspaper to the front page, pointed to the headline. “But there’s no Bridge Killer. And I still don’t agree with ‘assassination.’”
“It’s exactly what happened,” Alex said. He turned toward her, draping his arm across the back of her chair, keeping their conversation private. “Like the cops said. Lassiter thinks Kenna-Sarah, whatever-had lured him to the office to kill him, after years of being taught to hate him. That’s assassination.”
Jane risked a bit of an eyeroll-they were pals now, after all. Practically. “We’ll see, though, if she recovers enough to talk.” She read her story yet again.
Lassiter campaign officials would not comment on the incident, or on the candidate’s relationship to the woman known as Kenna Wilkes-who reportedly worked as a campaign volunteer. Sources do confirm the woman is actually Sarah Lassiter Galbraith, the candidate’s daughter from his first marriage. She remains in critical condition and under police surveillance at Mass General Hospital.
Jane looked up from the paper. “What’s wrong?”
Alex, now on his feet, was scanning the room. Frowning. “Five minutes till the press conference. Our photog isn’t here.” He patted his jacket pockets, found his cell.
“I’ve got my camera.” Jane unzipped her tote bag. “Worst comes to-damn. Memory card full. I’ve got to delete some stuff.”
Good-bye pigeons. Good-bye Amy in Nantucket-yikes, I have to call her. The guy who wasn’t Fabio in front of Saks. Her car parked at the broken meter. Good-bye-wait.
Jane clicked the little zoom lever, pushing the snapshot into a close-up. It was that day at the Esplanade rally, when Trevor took her backstage, and she’d seen the red-coat girl in the crowd. She’d managed only that one snap before Trevor cut her off. She hadn’t needed to look at it again. And now…
“Hey. Check this out.” Jane held the camera with both hands, showing him the screen.
Alex clicked off his cell. Muttering. “The guy’s looking for a parking place. I mean, every place is a parking place if you’re press. What, Jane?”
“It’s a photo I took. At my first Lassiter rally. There’s Holly Neff, right? But look who else is in the shot.” She clicked the photo to a tighter close-up. “The woman? That’s Kenna-I mean, Sarah Lassiter. And the guy with his arm draped around her? That’s-”
“Ladies and gentlemen, are we ready?”
Jane looked up at the lectern, where an exhausted-looking man in a tweed jacket and rumpled chinos, ID cards dangling from a webbed lanyard, adjusted one of the microphones.
“That’s Trevor Kiernan at the mic,” Jane whispered. “Alex, before this starts. See who’s with her in this photo?”
“We’ll have a brief statement, but we will not be taking any questions.” Kiernan placed a clipboard on the lectern. A barrage of megawatt television lights clicked on, spotting the podium and glaring on the art deco elevator doors behind it. “We will not be doing any interviews.”