Rory Maitland stood, one hand on the banister, frozen midstep. No longer rumpled and polyester, he now sported khakis and a turtleneck. Beacon Hill casual.
Eleanor Gable whirled to face him, then turned back to Jane. Her nose went up, and she waved toward the stairway. “I’m sure you know Rory Maitland,” Gable said. “We’re discussing whether our campaigns should contact the secretary of state’s office to inquire about postponing the election. Given the ramifications of these difficult events.”
Rory Maitland? At Gable’s house? Discussing?
“Did you find the powder room, Rory?” Gable smiled, gracious hostess.
“I noticed a photo on your wall, Ms. Gable. That one. Third from the bottom.” Jane was not buying Gable’s preposterous explanation. “A beach in Nantucket? The same photo’s also in your campaign office. Funny, there’s one exactly like it on Mr. Maitland’s desk. I blotted spilled coffee from it the other day. Remember, Mr. Maitland?”
“Jetties Beach?” Gable said, eyeing the photograph. “Hardly exotic.”
“You’ve been there, too, Ms. Gable?” Maitland said. He’d almost reached the bottom of the stairs. Loafers with no socks. “Not surprising. Who hasn’t?”
“She was ‘Ellie’ when you called down a moment ago,” Jane said. “And Ms. Gable? I was here before you arrived. Remember? You invited me in? There was no meeting under way. Mr. Maitland was already here. Upstairs.”
“I-,” Gable began.
“We-,” Maitland said at the same time.
Jane rummaged in her purse for her camera. “Let me show you this,” she said, finding the camera, for once, on the first try. She clicked the button. “This is a Lassiter campaign rally on the Esplanade a week ago, remember? There’s Holly Neff, the woman Matthew Lassiter apparently killed. And here’s-see? With his arm around the other woman?”
Jane held up the camera, first to Gable, then to Maitland, who’d moved closer. They examined the screen, then exchanged glances.
Gable spoke first. “And what this has to do with me is… precisely what, Miss Ryland?”
“So? I knew her as Kenna Wilkes,” Maitland said. He shrugged. “A campaign volunteer. One of many.”
“How did you know where Katharine Lassiter was buried?” Jane persisted. “Kenna told you, didn’t she? She hated her father. You two were in it together.”
Jane paused, looking at Gable, then Maitland. Statues. Ice and icier. “Or more likely-you three. Now I see. Ms. Gable, I bet Sarah approached you first. Maybe offering a ready-made scandal? And then you lured in Maitland.”
Maitland crossed his arms in front of his chest. Rolled his eyes. All drama. “That’s ab-”
“Good-bye, Miss Ryland.” Gable put her hand on the front door. With a flourish and a grand gesture, she yanked it wide open.
A puff of chill, Beacon Hill revealed, now almost in darkness. The bustle from Pinckney Street filled the entryway: taxis honking, car door slamming, a distant siren. The old-fashioned wrought-iron gaslights glimmered in the dusk, then glowed bright.
Lights. Jane put her fingers to her lips, realizing. She ignored the open door. “Mr. Maitland? It was you who turned off the lights at the Springfield rally, wasn’t it? Pulled the alarm? Turned up the thermostat? You who put the campaign in such disarray? I’m right. It all makes sense. Because you were working-” Jane pointed at Gable. “-for her.”
Jane shook her head, struggling to grasp this level of deception. “Political consultant, huh? You used Ms. Gable’s Deverton house to insinuate Kenna-I mean Sarah-into the campaign. You both tried to manipulate Moira Lassiter into believing her husband was having an affair. And making it public. When you were the ones who were actually cheating.”
Jane paused, seeing the final possibility. “Was it personal, too? Or only politics?”
Maitland took a step up the stairs, then seemed to think better of it. “You could never prove I was here.”
Gable moved in front of him, blocking him. Hands on hips, charm bracelet jangling. “You’ll hear from my attorney, Miss Ryland. I know your reputation. So does everyone. There’s nothing between me and Mr. Maitland. No one will believe a word you say. And we’ll insist this whole conversation never happened.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. She thought about greed and corruption and power. Thought about her tape recorder, still rolling in her purse. Thought about how quickly she’d need to get the hell out of here if they came at her together.
“I write the facts, Ms. Gable. The truth. And the truth is, your campaign dirty tricks resulted in two horrible and unnecessary deaths. And put your pawn, Sarah, in critical condition. And I think readers-or should I say, voters?-will be fascinated by that whole story. We’ll let them decide what the truth means.”
79
Why didn’t Jane pick up her damn messages? Jake propped his BlackBerry on the Jeep’s steering wheel, the heater humming, the shift in Park. He hadn’t even gotten to give her the word on the Vicks. He hit Redial. “It’s me. Again. By now you’ve heard. Call me.”
Should he head directly to her apartment? He tipped the BlackBerry back and forth on the wheel. Maybe yes, maybe no. Jane was certainly not in danger-Matt was dead, Sarah Lassiter hooked to a bunch of beeping monitors with two cadets and DeLuca guarding her hospital room. Not talking yet, but they’d buzz him if she came to.
She might live, doctors were saying. If she does, maybe she’ll get Patti Vick as a roommate. Jake had to smile. So much for the Bridge Killer.
End of story.
He shifted into Drive, eased out of the cop shop parking lot. Jane’s apartment. Why not?
That’s odd. Alex’s door is closed.
Jane had dashed up the three flights to the city room, unable to wait another moment for the exasperatingly slow elevator. Her head was full of her story-Maitland a turncoat, working for Lassiter’s opponent, Gable as the other woman-well, she couldn’t actually write all that, not yet.
Now, fidgeting in the waiting area outside Alex’s office, she waved both hands, signaling, trying to get his attention. He had the desk phone to his ear, cord stretched to the limit, pacing. Gesturing. Frowning.
She decided to go ahead, write what she had, a first draft. She had to call-who? Lassiter, of course. And the secretary of state, she was in charge of elections. Could she postpone the whole deal?
And Moira. Who so far wasn’t returning Jane’s calls. Would she play the good wife in all this?
Jane dug in her tote bag for her phone. Damn. Still on mute from this afternoon. She clicked it back on, turning the ringer to extra loud.
The city room was deserted, tomorrow’s first deadline past and the night shift not due for half an hour. She would have some quiet to get her thoughts together.
She rounded the corner, hoping Tuck wasn’t occupying their chair.
Great. Empty.
She plopped into the swivel in front of the desk, then quickly stood again. She was in the wrong cube. No Bridge Killer crime scene photos pinned across the bulletin board, no Snickers wrappers in the wastebasket, no bulging manila file folders taking up all the room on the desktop.
Jane paused, confused. But her own stuff was there, where she’d left it last night. Her envelope of photos. Her campaign brochures. Archive Gus’s file.
Only Tuck’s possessions were gone. Maybe Jane’s scoop snagged her an office of her own?
A footstep in the corridor. A cough. And then Jane’s phone beeped. A message. Has to be from Jake.