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Looks like a guy emceeing his own funeral.

“Understood?” Kiernan locked eyes with Jane for a split second, then glanced across the crowd. “Statement, then good-bye. Got me?”

“Trevor!” a guy in the front row stood, holding up a hand. “Where’s Governor Lassiter? Is he going to stay in the race?”

“Any word on his daughter’s condition?” The woman next to him wasn’t going to be scooped. “Why was he estranged from his own children?”

That started the torrent.

“Is Lassiter under arrest?”

“Is Owen going to drop out?”

“Has Eleanor Gable called you?”

“So much for ‘no questions,’” Jane whispered to Alex. “But I must say, I can’t wait to talk to Gable. The Kenna-I mean Sarah-connection. The Deverton house. You know?”

Alex, ignoring her, had Jane’s camera almost to his nose, his glasses balanced on his forehead. Staring at the photo.

The burnished silver of the elevator doors vibrated, the lights pinged to green, the doors slid open.

“But this is-,” Alex said. He turned to Jane, pointing a forefinger at the photo.

A man emerged from the elevators, into the spotlights. Took his place at the lectern.

“Rory Maitland,” Jane whispered.

“Rory Maitland,” Kiernan announced, “will now read the candidate’s statement. Then we’re done.”

77

“Why didn’t she just kill her husband, you know, Harvard? If she thought she could get away with it?”

Jake and DeLuca stood at the end of a dim hallway at the Nashua Street Jail. The women’s unit-different from the men’s only because of the sign-held mostly punks and angry crank heads. Patti Vick would not enjoy this slumber party.

This was the end of the line, Jake always thought. Layered with fear and wrong decisions.

The last of Patti Vick’s obscenities floated down the jail hallway, her shrill voice bouncing off the walls. Two matrons, one on each side, ignored her protests as they led her away. The woman had confessed. Jake got the whole damn thing on tape.

Her husband was out on bail. Facing a complicated and unpleasant future.

“Well, she told me she’d thought about it,” Jake said. “Killing him.”

“Yeah?” DeLuca stuffed his fists into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah. But she figured it’d be too obvious if she killed him. It’s always the spouse, everyone knows that. Plus, if her husband was dead, she thought she’d lose the million bucks. From his judgment against Jane, you know? She thought if he was in Cedar Junction for life, she’d still get the money. Vick had Sellica’s private phone number, of course. So Patti pretended to be some secretary, told Sellica her big-shot boss was auditioning for a photo spread, they’d heard about her via the grapevine, they were shooting it at the studio-you can figure out the rest. And Sellica had never seen Patti, you know? Clever Patti wrote some nasty notes to Jane, too, after the trial. Figuring they’d make her husband look guiltier.”

“So Patti does away with Sellica, sets up her cheating husband, and keeps the money.” DeLuca pursed his lips, nodding. Then he frowned at Jake. “Is that even how it works?”

“Nope,” Jake said. “If he died, she would get the money. If Vick were found guilty of Sellica’s murder, the missus probably wouldn’t. How dumb is that? Guess Patti could have asked a lawyer for clarification. But that’d be one iffy conversation.”

The two stood in silence for a moment. In the distance, a clang of metal.

“Jane know about this?” DeLuca finally said.

The day’s second bright spot.

“Nope.” Jake took out his phone. He wished he could tell her in person. He’d love to see that smile. Then he’d inform Leota Darden. “I’m calling her right now.”

* * *

“Owen Lassiter says he’s staying in the race.” Jane caught Eleanor Gable as the candidate walked up the front path of her Beacon Hill home. “So there are a couple of things I need to ask you.”

Instead of continuing the interview on the sidewalk, neighbors peering from brownstone windows, Gable invited Jane inside. “Five minutes,” she declared.

But standing in her high-ceilinged foyer, Gable made no move to invite Jane any farther inside. Five minutes. An interview in the entryway. Fine with Jane. She had only three questions. First, the easy one.

“We’re still working on your profile piece, of course. But because of last night- Well, I’m sure you heard Owen Lassiter’s statement,” Jane said. Her tote bag hung from her shoulder, the tape recorder rolling in an outside pouch. “I’m taking notes by tape, okay? So Lassiter said ‘tragic personal circumstances beyond my control do not diminish my public responsibility to stay in this race.’ What’s your reaction?”

“The voters will decide about that, Jane.” Eleanor Gable slouched off her camel-hair coat, turned her back to hang it in the hall closet. She didn’t offer to take Jane’s coat. “And now if you’re finished?”

“Two more questions,” Jane said. “There’s a house at four-six-three Constitution Lane in Deverton. You own that, correct?”

Gable, minus her usual hail-fellow demeanor, glanced upstairs, as if she wanted to get away. She tossed her head, her pale hair swinging across one cheek, then back into place. “Yes, if that’s the address of my family’s Deverton property. One of many. I’m sure you know that, Jane. That’s hardly a random question.”

Ball to Jane’s court. Fine.

“And do you have a tenant in that house now?”

An almost-laugh. A glance at a thin lizard-strapped watch. “Jane, please. If you have a question, just ask it.”

“Owen Lassiter visited a woman at that house.”

“Visited? A woman?” Gable raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should discuss that with him.”

“Well, I could, I suppose, but he’s at the hospital with her right now. Kenna Wilkes. As I’m sure you are aware.”

“His daughter. ‘Long-lost daughter,’ as your article this morning so eloquently described her.” Gable glanced up the stairs again, a double-tall mulberry-walled gallery, silver-framed photographs covering it floor to ceiling, edges aligned and almost touching. “Miss Ryland, do you have a point?”

Jane followed Gable’s glance upstairs. Was someone up there? Or was she just signaling Jane to leave? The photos on the wall reminded Jane of-coffee? Why? She must really need sleep.

“I do have a point,” Jane said. “And you know what it is. Why was Owen Lassiter’s estranged daughter, who infiltrated his campaign without his knowledge and later apparently attempted to kill him, living at a home you own?”

“Jane, I’m sure I have no idea.” Gable turned to the front door, placed her hand on the polished brass knob. “And if you have any further questions, please contact my-”

A creak from the top of the stairs.

“Ellie?” A voice called down.

A man.

“Just a moment,” Gable called back.

Oh. No wonder Gable was uncomfortable. She had a guy upstairs. So much for the-

“Ellie?” the voice came again, louder.

Jane turned toward the sound. Gable did, too.

“Jane?” Gable took Jane by the arm, ushering her out. “Any more questions, please call my office. It’s been a long day. The election is right around the corner.”

Jane had one foot in the foyer, the other on the front step. And the door began to close behind her.

78

Jane straight-armed the door. Keeping it open. She turned to look inside. Coffee. The picture. She knew where she’d seen it. And she recognized the voice on the stairway. No way she was leaving.