The Other Woman (16 page)

Camera. All set. Battery charged. Flash good to go. Into her purse. Everything else, ready.

She slid the flat key card into a side pocket of her bag, checked again to make sure it was still there, then headed down the hallway to the elevator. She was supposed to go to the ninth floor, then take the special Skyview elevator to ten, where the rally was about to begin. She pushed the button, and pushed it again, her heart lifting with what she hoped would happen.

Owen would be so surprised.

She just. Could
not.
Wait.

*   *   *

“The rally is where? Tenth floor? Inside? Really? I thought it was outside.” Jane slid her credit card across the hotel reception desk. The lobby was buzzing with Lassiter supporters, if funny hats and
WE GO OWEN
signs were any indication. Looked like a snafu of some kind at the elevators. One was marked
OUT OF SERVICE
, roped off with plastic tape. A crowd of impatient-looking rally-goers elbowed for space in the two still operating. No one looked happy.

Jane raised a hand, waving, recognizing that cute guy from the campaign—Trevor. Trevor Kiernan. But he didn’t see her. He focused on his clipboard, checking something. Assigning people to elevators. Seemed like a mess.

“Miss Ryland?” The desk clerk, a wiry young woman, all slicked-back hair and empty holes along each earlobe, wore a gold plastic name tag reading
HI, I’M GINA ORTICELLI
. She handed Jane a folder of papers and a blue key card. Whispered, “You’re room 916.”

“Oh, thanks, and—”

“Um, are you covering this for Channel Eleven?” The clerk’s eyes were wide, admiring. “I’m such a fan of yours. I completely love your new hair. I’m Gina. I hope you don’t mind me saying.”

“Oh, well, I—” Did Jane have to explain it? Which was worse, having to deal with the looks of pity? Or having to explain when they didn’t know the whole sad story?

Gina leaned over the desk, one hand above her mouth, conspiratorial. “I’m a Gable person, I don’t mind telling you. Ellie’s such a rock star. And I’m thinking I might have a story for you. This whole Lassiter thing has been disaster city. Can we go off the record?”

Jane almost burst out laughing.
Off the record?
What was this, everybody thought they were on
60 Minutes
? On the other hand, hotel clerks were privy to some inside stuff.

“Sure, Gina, off the record,” she said. She stepped closer to the desk, giving Gina 100 percent. “I’m so flattered you recognized me.”

Gina turned, checking behind her. A door marked
ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES
was closed. At the other end of the counter, Jane saw another clerk, arguing with some red-faced guy wearing a Lassiter button. Fifteen minutes until the rally was supposed to begin upstairs. And the lobby still teeming with Lassiter people. Not good.

“Okay,” Gina said. “Hand me back your registration papers. We can pretend to talk about that.”

Jane struggled to hide her smile. Cloak and dagger in Springfield, Mass. Well, you never knew.

Gina pointed, dramatically, to something on the papers in front of her. “First of all,” she said, her voice low. “This rally thing was so last minute. That guy over there? End of the counter? He’s insisting they reserved a block of rooms, and the Special Pavilion for an afternoon rally today. But they didn’t. Reserve anything. Anyway, now the opticians have the Pav, and the Lassiter people have to go upstairs. That guy, Maitland or something, is making a huge stink. Like it’s the hotel’s fault. But it isn’t. The Lassiter campaign never reserved anything.”

“So that’s why it’s now at seven o’clock? Upstairs?”

“Yeah, they had to change everything. It’s already running late. And then the room reservation mess. We gave Lassiter the presidential suite, lucky that was open. Campaign types got the other vacancies. And you got one of the last regular rooms. We’re completely full up now. I mean, if they can’t set up a simple rally, how can they run the country?”

Rory Maitland, Jane thought. Hotshot consultant. A supposed insider who didn’t seem too clued in to reality. The big question was, who else was a last-minute overnight guest?

“You’re so observant,” Jane said. Gina looked proud of herself. Exactly what Jane was going for. “The campaign does seem somewhat disorganized. Did lots of Lassiter people show up at the last minute?”

Gina cocked her head down the counter. “Maitland, for sure. Maybe a few others. And a secretary type. They were all so mad, you know? The guy with the clipboard?” Gina stuck a thumb toward the elevator.

Trevor.

“He’s taking the heat,” Gina said.

Holy moly. A secretary? It couldn’t be this easy.
How to phrase this—
“Ah. So eventually there were rooms enough for everyone?”

“Yeah, barely. Like I said, you got one of the last ones. Most of the Lassiter people are on nine. We had to give the campaign the Skyview for the rally. Smaller, not so accessible, but that’s what we had.”

“I know Governor Lassiter, of course.” Jane tried again. “And Mr. Maitland, and the guy with the clipboard. But the secretary? A woman? Like, a press secretary? I’m trying to figure out if I know her. Is her name Sheila King?”

Gina glanced around again. Gave Jane a fleeting wink, then tapped on the computer keyboard in front of her. “Of course, Miss Ryland, I’m happy to see whether we have availability at our other location.” Her voice was louder, as if wanting to be overheard.

Jane watched the clerk’s fingers move across the keyboard. The computer screen faced Gina, so Jane couldn’t see what the desk clerk was actually looking up. With one quick move, Gina flipped the screen around.

“As you can see, Miss Ryland.” She tapped the screen with a silver pen. “Does this look like the type of accommodations you had in mind?”

Jane peered at the monitor. It looked like a registration form, like the one she just filled out. But this was for room 981. And Gina’s pen was tapping at the name of the person registered to stay there. Kenna Wilkes.
Mrs.
Kenna Wilkes.

Commotion at the other end of the counter. The door marked
ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES
opened. A man in a navy blazer emerged. Frowning.

Gina twirled the monitor away, tapped the keyboard, looked up at Jane. “Will there be anything else, Miss Ryland?”

Not Sheila King. Kenna Wilkes. Mrs. Kenna Wilkes.
Mrs.?
Was there a Mr. Wilkes?

Was Kenna Wilkes the woman in the red coat? One easy way to find out—show the very helpful Gina the archive photos. But they were in the car, and Jane had to get to the rally. Still, if the red-coat woman was at this rally, too, it made sense that Jane had just discovered her name. She could always show Gina the photos later.
Thank you, journalism gods.

“You’ve been so helpful, Miss Orticelli,” Jane said. She had to call Alex. Figure out what to tell Moira. Figure out who the heck Kenna Wilkes was. And what she wanted. “Are you working later tonight?”

“Nope,” Gina said. “But I’ll be here in the morning.”

Damn.
Jane eyed the crowd at the elevator. She had to go. She looked at Gina, then waved a hand around her own head. “Curly hair? Semi-gorgeous?” Jane hoped the clerk would understand what she was asking.

“Totally,” Gina said. “You got it.”

27

“Inside? This thing is inside?”

Kenna could tell Owen Lassiter was not happy. She’d heard about his temper, of course, wondered if she was about to see it in action.
That’d be educational.
Edging into the corner of the elevator, she pretended to read the restaurant ad on the dark-paneled wall, as if giving him and Maitland some privacy. Whatever chaos was already under way at this rally, she didn’t care. She was here, and Owen was here, and exactly where some event was being held was hardly the point. Her plans were the same.

She sneaked a look at the two men. So opposite. Owen all pinstripes and foulard, silver and tall. Looking down at the stubby, bumbling Rory.

The elevator pinged on four. The doors opened. Three or four people tried to step in, but Rory stuck out an arm. “Sorry, folks, take the next one,” he said. “Thanks so much.”

Kenna could hear protests fading as the doors swished closed. The elevator continued up. Poor Owen seemed even angrier.

“Christ, Rory. What the hell? What happened to our security? We’re running so late. This whole thing is a nightmare.”

“Governor, frankly, I’m not sure what happened. Trevor Kiernan booked the place, then I followed up. We were supposed to have the venue called the, uh—” Rory checked some notebook, gave her a fast look. “—the Pavilion. This afternoon. But the jerks at the desk insist it was rented already. I’ll ream Trevor a new one—excuse me, Kenna. But for now, we’re gonna have to make do.”

The elevator stopped on five. More passengers attempted to join them. Rory hit the button, closed the door in their faces. “Thanks, folks,” he said.

“What gives with these elevators?” Owen grimaced, clearly annoyed. “I hate to keep people out.”

“Security, Governor,” Maitland said. “They understand. These folks are hardly undecideds, after all. They’re Lassiter do or die. Big givers. A-listers. Or they wouldn’t be here. And—”

“All the more reason. Kiernan said people were still lined up in the lobby. If they don’t make it to the rally, we don’t get the campaign dollars.” Owen was full steam ahead, ignoring Rory’s explanations. Kenna had never seen him like this. Annoyed, brusque, demanding. Maybe the campaign stress was getting to him. He’d napped during the car ride from Boston. So she and Rory had gotten to chat a bit. Carefully, so they didn’t wake him.

“The place is full of opticians, a national board meeting or some such,” Owen went on. “Not even all from Massachusetts, for godsake. Why the hell did we come here? Maybe do more harm than good. This close to the election. Waste of time. Maitland, you called Moira, right? I never got through.”

“Governor, do you mind if I stop at the suite?” Kenna stepped forward, pushed the button for nine. “Rory gave me a key. I need to pick up one more batch of campaign literature.”

“Ah, Mrs. Wilkes. I fear you’re not seeing us at our best.” Owen turned to her with a rueful smile. “But Rory said you wanted the inside look. That’s certainly what you’re getting. In a campaign, anything can happen.”

The elevator stopped with a shudder; the doors slid open. Empty hallway.

Kenna laughed, head back, then touched the candidate on the arm of his suit jacket. “It’ll take more than some rally to get rid of me, Governor. I’ll see you soon.”

She knew she saw his eyes light up as the elevator door closed behind her.

*   *   *

Jane dragged herself around the last stairway landing, grabbing the railing and puffing for breath. Eight floors up, then nine. If she waited for the elevator, she’d never get there. Someone said the campaign commandeered one of the elevators, leaving only one to handle the entire buzzing pack of Lassiter supporters. Some, she saw, had taken off their buttons and funny hats and headed for the parking lot. Gina was right about this.
A mess.

Into the hallway, following the painted arrows toward the Skyview Room, almost at a run. One of the silver elevator doors swished open. And there was Owen Lassiter. Looking pretty unhappy. And Rory Maitland, if she had it right.

Perfect timing, for her at least. Something finally worked.

“Governor Lassiter.” Jane stopped, hand outstretched. She gulped, catching her breath. “I’m Jane Ryland from—”

“The
Register
now. Yes, I know,” Lassiter said. He shook her hand, using both of his. “We’ve met before, of course. Great to see you. You know Rory Maitland? Power behind the—”

“Hey, Jane,” Maitland said. “So we’re looking good here, right? Up in the polls, your paper says? Eleanor Gable’s campaign collapsing?”

Not exactly,
Jane thought.
And this rally fiasco ain’t gonna help.
Jane looked around. No sign of Kenna Wilkes. She was probably arriving at the event separately. The prudent thing to do.

“Mrs. Lassiter joining you here?” Jane aimed her question at the candidate. Risky, maybe, but Lassiter didn’t know what she knew. What his own wife had told her.

Maitland stepped between them. He held up a cell phone. “Governor? Time to go in. We’ll use the front door tonight. Not the back entrance. It’ll look terrific. Man of the people. We’re going in to ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’ Security is all in place, no worries. You set?” Maitland took the candidate by the arm, escorting him away. “Sorry, Jane. Any scheduling questions, call our press office. Sheila King. You know the drill.”

A roar of applause and a blare of music. Jane scurried behind Lassiter and Maitland as they entered through the double doors marked
SKYVIEW
, but two blue-jacketed guards, rent-a-cops, stepped in front of her, blocking her way as soon as she tried to follow them. The music was already deafening, bouncing off the walls. People elbow to elbow. Everyone talking.

“We’re full up,” one of the guards said. “Fire regs. No more room. We have to keep the doors closed. Sorry, miss.”

“Press,” Jane said. She held up the plastic pass she’d clipped to a webbed lanyard around her neck.

“Good for you,” the other guard said. “We’re still full.”

No way.
No way. This is all I need.
Jane’s stomach clenched as she panicked for a solution. She could picture telling Alex,
Oh yeah, I was there, but I arrived too late to get in.

“Ow-en Lass-i-ter!” A voice bellowed through the PA system, even louder than the music. “The next senator from the Commonwealth of Mass-a-chu-setts!”

“Maitland!” Jane pushed forward, trying to grab the consultant’s sport coat. “They’re saying the room is full!” she yelled, waving to show Maitland the situation. “But I have to—”

The crowd, shoulders touching, was cheering, waving, vying for access. Hands reached out to touch the candidate, shake hands with him, get his attention. Silver confetti and green balloons floated from the ceiling.