“Jane Ryland,” she said.
“It’s Trevor Kiernan.”
Oh. Terrific.
“Don’t say a thing. Don’t say it’s me. Come to room 415. It’s a private sitting room. The cops will let you by. Now.”
Trevor, waiting in the hallway, opened the door as Jane arrived. Someone had cracked open the room’s tall windows, revealing a wide-shot view of the Charles River, lights of Cambridge glimmering across the water, gauzy curtains shifting in the evening breeze. Moira Lassiter was a silhouette, framed in the gathering night.
“I’m sorry for the… intrigue,” Moira said. She came into the light, smoothing her already-smooth hair with one hand, adjusting a plush gray sweater across her shoulders. “But I owe you, Jane. I want to clear things up. Off the record?”
Jane nodded. Waiting. A matching floral armchair and love seat flanked a low glass and metal coffee table. A paper cup, tea bag string dangling, bore a print of Moira’s plum red lipstick.
“I’ll leave you two,” Trevor said. The door closed after him with a soft click.
Moira sat on the love seat, tucking the charcoal pleats of her skirt underneath her, and gestured Jane to the chair. “Please.”
She’s already been through so much. Moira and her husband don’t even know the rest. Jane wished she didn’t have to tell them about Gable and Maitland. A knockout story for her. A knockout punch for the Lassiters.
Moira took a tentative sip from her cup, holding the tea bag string with one finger. She looked past Jane, past the flutter of curtains, into the night.
“This all started with me,” she said.
“When you called me.” Jane remembered that day, Moira and her maybe-vodka, the request to find “the other woman.”
Moira shook her head, her lips tight. “No, Jane, long before that. Years before that.”
Jane nodded, transfixed.
“We were-in love. And just trying to be happy,” Moira said. “Owen had a miserable marriage. His wife was a constant battle. She’d… Well, who knows what she might have done. When he finally left, he was distraught. Inconsolable. But it was out of necessity, you know? Then, it got worse. She kept the children from him. Every time he tried to see them, she’d prevent it. Threatened him, sent him away. One day she just disappeared with them. Owen was devastated. She’d told him, again and again, Sarah and Matt loathed him. Apparently, Sarah actually did.”
Moira moved a hospital-issue paper napkin on the table, set her teacup on top of it. Her chest rose, then fell, her sweater draping as her shoulders momentarily sagged.
Jane had a thousand questions. But this wasn’t the time to ask them.
“Sarah-Kenna, she called herself.” Moira crossed her legs, crossed her arms, protecting herself. “All this time she was-taunting me. Making me suspect my own dear husband. That whole Springfield charade, Owen told me all about it. Last night in her hospital room, even with all those tubes, Sarah said she wanted to hurt me, and then hurt Owen. The way we hurt her.”
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly.
“But during the campaign? Owen never, ever did anything wrong. Now, both his children are dead. Because of me. Because all those years ago, I was-the other woman.”
She reached out, touching Jane’s arm with one graceful hand, her brown eyes brimming with tears. “You can choose your sin, Jane,” she whispered. “But you cannot choose your consequences.”
82
“This one belongs to you, Jane.” With a flourish, Alex handed her the first copy of Wednesday’s morning paper. “It’s a long way from Wrong-Guy Ryland, I must say.”
Jane stood up from her spot on Alex’s couch, bowing dramatically as she accepted the bulldog edition. Both of them were wired on two lattes each after yet another all-nighter in the Register newsroom.
“Talk about wrong,” Jane said. “The cops found an incredible stash of photos in Holly’s apartment. Apparently, she’d been stalking Lassiter for weeks, putting together her own political campaign to humiliate him, make him look like a womanizer. And I just found another batch of them in my mailbox, forwarded from Channel Eleven. From her, I guess. Her scheme could have worked, I bet. If Matt Lassiter hadn’t-ah.”
Jane sank back on the couch, folded newspaper in hand, leaning her head against the worn upholstery, propping her blue-jeaned legs on the coffee table. Thinking about Moira. “And Lassiter did absolutely nothing wrong during the campaign, you know? It’s terrible. Greed. Deception. Power. The whole thing.”
“But a helluva story,” Alex said.
“Got to admit.” Jane opened the paper, held up the front page.
Jane’s story, headlined SENATE RACE SCANDAL-CONSULTANT CONS CANDIDATE IN ELECTION DOUBLE-CROSS, covered the entire front page above the fold. Below, the follow-up to Patti Vick’s arrest-minus Tuck’s byline-rated one paragraph and a jump. Jake was right. There is no Bridge Killer. Or, actually, there are four.
Alex plonked his feet on his desk, tilting in his chair. “Secretary of State Doniger insists she can’t call off the election. So next week, people will either choose a sleaze for senator, or vote for a dupe who can’t tell that his closest ally is actually working for the other guy.”
“The other woman, you mean.” Jane read her story yet again, scanning for the highlights. It was all highlights. Seduction. Betrayal. Murder. Jane had worked through the night, trying to make sense of all that had happened. Choosing exactly the right words so her story could explain it, clear and objective.
“The dupe-I mean Lassiter-is gonna win, at least,” Jane said. “Trevor’ll get to go to Washington, if he hasn’t quit, you know? But Gable’s jeered wherever she goes now. Talk about toast. Got to love Maitland’s quote, though, that he and Gable ‘did nothing illegal.’”
“He can tell that to the grand jury.” Alex, as usual, started reading his e-mail while he talked. “Our court guy says the target letter’s in the mail. Maitland’s finished, you know? His backroom double-dealing led to murder, after all. And Gable’s already turning on him. Alleges he was stalking her, sending her love notes. Which she destroyed, of course, conveniently. Geez. When he rats her out, can you imagine the mess?”
He suddenly leaned closer to the computer screen. “Oh. Holy shit. Body in a hotel room.”
“Where? Who?” Jane’s phone trilled from the pouch of her fleece hoodie. She flipped open her cell. Didn’t get a chance to say a word before the whisper on the other end.
“Janey? It’s me.”
Jake. Just hearing his voice, Jane knew she must look guilty. But Alex was deep into a phone conversation of his own. She’d have to let Jake know the score.
“Yes, this is Jane Ryland, what can I do for you?” she said.
Jake watched Humpty unspool the yellow plastic tape across the hotel room door. Penthouse of the Madisonian. High-class, high-priced, and now, a crime scene.
He could tell from her voice Jane was not alone. DeLuca had filled him in on the fiasco with Laney Driscoll and Tuck. Jane must know about it, too.
“I understand, Miss Ryland,” Jake said. Telegraphing, I get it. “And we’ll have to follow up on that. But to let you know. Body was just discovered at the Madisonian Hotel. Looks like suicide. It’s Rory Maitland.”
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. He could picture her, twisting her hair, mind racing, assessing who might hear her.
“I know you can’t talk,” he said. “But, Jane? On the way out? Check the Register’s front desk. Something there for you.”