The Other Woman (42 page)

Matt stared at the gun glinting in his sister’s hand. A gun pointed at their father.
Why? We’re supposed to—
“Think for a minute, Cissy. You’ll never get away with it. All I have to do is yell. Somebody’s out there.”

“Yell away,” she said. “By the time anyone arrives, it’ll be over.”

“You don’t want to do this, Kenn—Sarah.” Lassiter stepped toward her. “Matt’s right, we can be a family. I’ll make the call. Just like you asked.”

Make the call?
What were they talking about? But his father was courageous. Strong. Matt could be the same. He held out his hand, gesturing for the gun. “Come on,” Matt said. “You don’t want to do this.”

He couldn’t understand the look on his sister’s face.

“You don’t want
me
to do this, Matt. But maybe
you
did it.” She waved the gun at him. “After all, you’re already a killer. You killed Holly Neff.”

“What?” Lassiter looked at him, taking a step back. “Who the hell is this Holly Neff?”

Matt had to explain. Fast. He struggled for the words. “She was—she was—she was going to ruin you, Father. She was setting it up to look like you were having an affair. She was telling the reporters a big lie. She thought I would love her for it, want the revenge. I needed to—”

But Cissy was still talking. Holding that gun. Pointing it at his father.

“This can go either way, brother dear. Because I can say
you
killed your father. And when the cops get here, you’ll be dead, too. I’ll have killed you, trying desperately, though, alas, not successfully, to protect the candidate.”

Cissy was actually—smiling.

“I’ll be a hero,” she said. “The valiant campaign staffer who tried to save her boss. No one knows who we really are, do they? By the time they figure it out, if they ever do, I’ll be long gone.”

“Sarah, honey, you—” Lassiter threw Matt a glance. Eyes wide, hand to throat, stutter-stepping backward. Matt knew he was pleading
help me
.

They were in this together. They could get out of it together. Matt would protect his father. That’s what a son had to do.

*   *   *

“Dammit. This elevator’s not working.” Jake punched the button again and again, but there was no light, no sound, no clanking. “We’ll have to go to the front—”

“Stairs,” Jane said, heading for a metal doorway. “Fourth floor.”

*   *   *

“You’re either in it with me, brother, or you’re dead,” Cissy said. “And don’t you see? I’m trying to protect you! If he quits the campaign, right now, that means no one will ever know what you did! It means you and I leave town together. Or—we don’t. Your call.”

With a roar that came from his very soul, Matt threw himself at his sister, knowing about the gun, knowing it was a risk, knowing he might—

*   *   *

“No!” Sarah saw her brother’s body come toward her, his bulk and his arms and his hands, waving, he was trying to stop her, but she’d just been tormenting Owen, wanting to scare him. She would never have actually shot—

“No, Matt, stop! I wasn’t really going to—”

Her body recoiled with Matt’s weight—she saw the bookshelves tilt by, then the ceiling, shuddered from the recoil of the gun, too, suddenly hot in her hand, then felt Matt heavier, heavier on top of her, and he wasn’t moving anymore and—

She scrambled to her feet, frantic, panicked, suffocated, pushing Matt’s body away, saw her father come toward her—
Is that my own scream
?

Then he was—her arm was twisted,
twisting
?

He was taking her gun?
No!
She needed to get it back. This wasn’t supposed to—

And it fired again.

75

“You hear that?” Jane yanked open the stairwell door, Jake not two steps behind her. She was winded, running up the three flights in high-heeled boots. Hearing the sound—unmistakably a gunshot, then another—propelled them both down the hall.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“A speakerphone?” Jane frowned even more, confused by the sounds coming from an open doorway. They were steps away. Breathing hard, she showed him a door, whispering. “That’s Lassiter’s private office. The only office on this floor.”

From inside the room, a man’s voice, anguished, called out. “Send an ambulance, now! Someone’s been shot! I’m trying to—”

Jake grabbed her, whirling, pinning her flat to the corridor wall, her back pressing tight against the bricks. “Do not move,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. She saw his gun come out of his jacket. “I’m not kidding, Jane. Do. Not. Move.”

*   *   *

Two more steps to the door. Jake needed to call for backup. But there wasn’t time. Still, if someone inside was calling 911, they weren’t afraid of the cops. One good sign, at least.

Weapon drawn, Jake pressed himself against the brick wall directly outside the open door. He cocked his head at Jane.
Get back. Get back!

He could hear cries from inside. A man’s voice. A woman’s. “Ambulance is on the way, sir.” The flat monotone of the operator crackled over the speakerphone. “Two minutes.”

Jake pointed his gun into the room and immediately stepped inside. “Police, freeze!” he yelled, scanning the wood-paneled room in an instant, corner to corner, ceiling to floor. Windows, closed. Desk, empty. Glass-fronted shelves. Lassiter posters. American flag. “Police! Do not move!”

Two bodies on the floor. And Owen Lassiter, kneeling. No one else.

“Hello? Sir?” The dispatcher’s voice, concerned, crackled through the silver speaker of the desk phone. “Is someone else there?”

The candidate, his white shirtsleeves splattered red, bent over a woman lying face up on the jewel-toned pile of the oriental rug, a cascade of blond across her face, pearls dangling, bare legs stretched out toward the door. She wore one black shoe. Lassiter held tan cloth of some kind against the woman’s chest, the light-colored fabric rapidly changing to crimson.

A man’s body lay nearby, splayed, motionless. White male, no gun in anyone’s hand, Jake catalogued. A desk blocked Jake’s view of the man’s face, but he could easily see the darkening bloom in the center of a once-pale-blue shirt. The man’s khakis were streaked with mud.
Mud?
His loafers were muddy, too.

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.”

Looks like a guy emceeing his own funeral.