The Other Woman (Jane Ryland Series #1)

The Other Woman (Jane Ryland Series #1)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan
The Other Woman (Jane Ryland Series #1)

The Other Woman (Jane Ryland Series #1)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

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Overview

Dirty politics, dirty tricks, and a barrage of final twists, The Other Woman is the first in an explosive new series by Hank Phillippi Ryan. Seduction, betrayal, and murder—it'll take a lot more than votes to win this election.

Jane Ryland was a rising star in television news…until she refused to reveal a source and lost everything. Now a disgraced newspaper reporter, Jane isn't content to work on her assigned puff pieces, and finds herself tracking down a candidate's secret mistress just days before a pivotal Senate election.

Detective Jake Brogan is investigating a possible serial killer. Twice, bodies of unidentified women have been found by a bridge, and Jake is plagued by a media swarm beginning to buzz about a "bridge killer" hunting the young women of Boston.

As the body count rises and election looms closer, it becomes clear to Jane and Jake that their cases are connected…and that they may be facing a ruthless killer who will stop at nothing to silence a scandal.

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781466800861
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group
Publication date: 09/04/2012
Series: Jane Ryland Series , #1
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: eBook
Pages: 416
Sales rank: 126,108
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

About The Author

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN is the investigative reporter for Boston's NBC affiliate, and has won twenty-eight Emmys and ten Edward R. Murrow awards. A Boston Globe bestselling author, Ryan has won the
has won two Agatha Awards, in addition to the Anthony, Macavity, Daphne du Maurier, and Mary Higgins Clark Award. She's on the national board of directors of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime and is the author of The Other Woman, The Wrong Girl and Truth be Told.


USA Today bestselling author HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN has won five Agatha Awards in addition to Anthony, Macavity, Daphne du Maurier, and Mary Higgins Clark Awards. As on-air investigative reporter for Boston's WHDH-TV, she's won 37 Emmys and many more journalism honors, and her work has resulted in new laws, criminals sent to prison, homes saved from foreclosure, and millions of dollars in restitution for victims and consumers. A past president of National Sisters in Crime and founder of MWA University, her novels include Trust Me, The Murder List, the Charlotte McNally series (starting with Prime Time), and the Jane Ryland series (which begins with The Other Woman). Ryan lives in Boston with her husband.

Read an Excerpt

The Other Woman


By Hank Phillippi Ryan

Tom Doherty Associates

Copyright © 2012 Hank Phillippi Ryan
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-0086-1


CHAPTER 1

"Get that light out of my face! And get behind the tape. All of you. Now." Detective Jake Brogan pointed his own flashlight at the pack of reporters, its cold glow highlighting one news-greedy face after another in the October darkness. He recognized television. Radio. That kid from the paper. How the hell did they get here so fast? The whiffle of a chopper, one of theirs, hovered over the riverbank, its spotlights illuminating the unmistakable — another long night on the job. And a Monday-morning visit to a grieving family. If they could figure out who this victim was.

A body by the river. This time, the Charles, down by the old dock. Her legs, black tights striped with mud, leather boots, one zipper down, splayed on the fallen leaves and slimy underbrush on the bank. Her head, chestnut hair floating like a punk Ophelia, bobbing and grotesque in the tangled weeds.

Too bad I can't call Jane. She'd love this.

Jake's yellow beam of light landed on that Tucker kid, notebook out and edging toward the body. Rubber boots squished in the muck of the riverbank, still soft from Boston's run of bad-luck weather. "Hey, you, newspaper kid. Out. This means you. You don't wanna have to call your new editor to bail you out."

"Is it a serial killer?" A reporter's voice thin and reedy, carried in the chill wind. The neon green from the Boston Garden billboards, the purple beacons decorating the white-cabled Zakim Bridge, the glaring yellow of the chopper's spots colored the crime scene into a B-movie carnival. "Are you calling it a serial killing? You think it's one person? Was she killed the same way as the other?"

"Yeah, tell us, Jake," another voice demanded. "Is two murders serial?"

"One a couple weeks ago, one today, that's two." A different reporter's voice. "Both women. Both by water. By bridges. Both weekend nights. Both dead. That's serial. We're going with that. Maybe ... 'the River Killer.'"

"We are, too. The Bridge Killer."

"Have you figured out who the first victim is?"

"Outta here, all of you!" Jake tucked his flashlight under one arm, zipped his Boston Police–issue brown leather jacket. Reporters scrambling to nickname a murderer. Crazy. What does Jane always say? It bleeds, it leads? At least her stories aren't like that. A siren screamed across Causeway Street; then the red-striped ambulance careened down the rutted side street. Every camera turned to the EMTs scrambling out the opening ambulance doors.

No need for them to hurry, Jake thought. His watch showed 2:15 A.M. She'd been dead for at least three hours.

Just like the other woman.

* * *

Jane Ryland had thrown up after the verdict.

She'd twisted her damp hair away from her face, avoided the mirror, and contemplated how long she could hide in the Suffolk County Courthouse ladies' room. Forever would be good. Instead, she'd gritted out a smile for the scrum of cameras as Channel 11's defense attorney promised her television colleagues an immediate appeal of the jury's decision. The two then marched down the granite steps of the courthouse, the lawyer's pin-striped arm protectively across Jane's shoulder, as if a million-dollar damage verdict were the honorable cost of doing journalism business.

But soon after, Jane could read the counterfeit smiles, rescheduled meetings, abysmal story assignments. Her TV reporting career was over. She'd protected a source, but nobody was protecting her.

MILLION-DOLLAR MISTAKE, the headlines screamed. RYLAND NAMES WRONG MAN AS JOHN IN SEX-FOR-HIRE CASE. Indy rag Boston Weekly called her "Wrong-Guy Ryland."

Jane knew she hadn't been wrong. There'd been no mistake, but it didn't matter. Days later she was fired.

"And most incredibly bogus of all, they pretended it wasn't about the verdict." Jane had banged out a bitter and bewildered e-mail to her pal Amy. Once newbie co-anchors together in Iowa, Amy had landed a high-profile reporter gig in Washington, D.C., then Jane got a similar deal in Boston. Amy's star was still rising. Plus, as she never let Jane forget, she was married.

"After three years of promos, all those promises," Jane typed, "they said they wanted to 'go another direction' with their political coverage. Are you kidding me? There's an election coming. It's the biggest story since the Kennedy thing. What the hell other direction can they go?"

"I'm so sorry, Janey honey," Amy typed back. "They had to blame somebody. Everyone hates TV reporters. And everybody hates TV. I'm probably next, you know? We should have gotten real jobs, kiddo."

Now Alex Wyatt — Register city editor Alex Wyatt, of all people! — was about to offer Jane a real job. Such as it was. At least the Register's headlines had been objective. GROCERY MAGNATE WINS SLANDER SUIT.

Jane closed her eyes briefly at the memory. Dad would take care of her, if it came to that, even urge her to come home to Oak Park. Then he'd probably urge her to go to law school, like younger sister, engaged sister, good sister Lissa. Dad would be supportive, at least try to be, but Dr. Ryland never approved of failure. She was on her own. And she'd be fine.

Perched on the couch in Alex's new and already file-strewn office at the Boston Register, surrounded by the clutter of his half-unpacked boxes, Jane was working hard at being fine.

She wished she could just say no. Leave town. Change her name. Forget the jurors, forget the verdict. Talk to her mom just one more time.

But reality included a hefty mortgage on her condo, payments on her suddenly extravagant Audi TT, looming utility bills, and evaporating severance pay. She'd once reported heartbreakingly headlined stories about the terrors of unemployment. Now she was unemployed. Jane knew she'd tell Alex yes.

"I vouched for you with the bigs on the fifth floor." Alex positioned a framed Columbia J-school diploma against one beige wall, raised his wire-rimmed glasses to his forehead, then marked the wall with a pencil, turning his back to her. "Told 'em you were nails on the street. Tough and fair. Beat me on a couple stories, that's for sure. The hospital thing last year, remember?"

I sure do. "The hospital thing" was an overnight stakeout of a politician injured in a suspicious hit and run. Alex and Jane, each refusing to leave while the other kept watch, shared the last of the murky coffee. Jane had secretly contemplated sharing a lot more than coffee. Luckily, as she later admitted to Amy, she'd checked Alex's third finger, left hand. Taken. At least she'd eventually gotten an exclusive interview with the victim.

Alex was still talking. "But here at the paper, we respect reporters who protect their sources. We don't fire them. Told 'em I figured your source threw you under the bus."

He turned to her, glasses back in place and pencil now behind his ear. "Speaking of which. About the case. Sellica Darden told you, didn't she? She had to be your source. Want to talk about it? Off the record?"

Not now, not ever. "Lawyers, you know? The appeal?" Jane smoothed her black wool skirt over her knees, carefully pulling the hem over her best black leather boots. Looking anywhere but at Alex. Why didn't life have an "Undo" button? She hadn't realized she was risking her career for Sellica. She tried to keep the sorrow out of her voice. "I can't. I really can't."

Alex narrowed his eyes. "There's nothing that'll hurt the paper, though, right? Nothing'll come back to bite us? All any of us has is our reputation, you know?"

"Right," Jane said.

Mortgage. Heat. Health insurance. Food. Mom would have said, "Jane Elizabeth, you should remember every closed door means another door opens."

"You can trust me, Alex. I know times are tough for newspapers. I'm grateful Jake — Detective Brogan — called you about me. I'm grateful, really, for the opportunity."

The room went silent.

Maybe Alex was getting cold feet, no matter what Jake had told him. Maybe no one would trust her again. The jury was wrong, not her. But how can you battle perception? Jane gathered her black leather tote bag, ready to be dismissed. Maybe it was too soon. Or too late.

Leaving his framed diploma propped on top of a peeling radiator, Alex leaned against the side of his battered wooden desk. He smiled, running a hand across its pitted wood. "They told me T. R. Baylor himself, founder of the Register, used this very desk back in the day. Brinks job, Mayor Curley, the Boston Strangler. All the Kennedys. They offered me a new desk, you know? But keeping this one seemed right."

Jane smiled back. "Wonder what T.R. would think about your Internet edition? And maybe there's a new Boston Strangler now, the one they're calling the Bridge Killer."

"Times change; news doesn't," Alex replied. "People sure don't. The Register's covering it, but we're not calling anyone the Bridge Killer yet, that's for sure. Who knows if those killings are connected? But yeah, you can't understand the future if you don't understand the past. I'm hoping this desk reminds me of that."

He pulled a yellow pad from a pile beside him, flipped through the top pages, then held up a hand-drawn calendar. In several of the pencil-line boxes was written JANE.

"Anyway," Alex continued, pointing to the schedule. "You're dayside. We're all about teamwork, and saving bucks, so I have you sharing a desk with Tuck. Tuck's covering the 'bridge killings' — whatever you want to call them — always out, so you'll probably never see each other."

She was in. She felt a reassuring flutter of the real Jane. I'll scoop the hell out of those jerks at Channel 11. "Sounds absolutely —," she began.

"I have to give you a six-month tryout," Alex interrupted, gesturing "upstairs" with his notepad. "Fifth floor says that's the deal. Are you with us?"

Jane managed a network-quality smile. Even if "network" was no longer in her future.

"You got yourself a newspaper reporter," Jane said. She looked square into the city editor's eyes, telegraphing she was not only the right choice to cover the election and share a desk with Tuck, whoever that was, but a valuable addition to his staff as well. One who did not make mistakes.

His eyes, however, were trained on the screen of his iPhone.

"Alex?" she said. If he dissed her on day one, she had low hopes for the teamwork he promised. But, facts be faced, her hopes were fairly low to begin with. She was still navigating the raw stages of grief over her dismissal from Channel 11.

It had been a while since her heart was broken.

Jane had avoided all the good-byes. She'd gone to the station one last time, after midnight. Packed her videotapes, Rolodex, fan mail, and three gilt-shiny award statues; stashed the cartons in the musty basement of her Brookline brownstone. The next two weeks she'd wrapped herself in one of Mom's afghans, parked herself in a corner of her curvy leather couch, and stared at her television. A screen no longer her domain.

She hadn't gone outside the apartment. Hadn't answered e-mail or the phone. A couple of times, drank a little too much wine.

Dad had been brusque when she called to tell him. "You must have done something wrong," he'd said. It was okay. Even after all these years, Jane knew he was still missing Mom. She was, too.

Mrs. Washburn from downstairs had appeared with the mail, bearing her famous mac and cheese, Jane's favorite. Little Eli, the super's starstruck eight-year-old, tried to lure her, as always, into an Xbox marathon. Steve and Margery, once her producer and photographer, sent white tulips, with a note saying, "Television sucks," and suggesting beer.

"Television sucks" made her laugh. For about one second.

Week three of unemployment, she'd had enough. She had clicked off the television, cleared out the stack of empty pizza boxes, and popped open the résumé on her laptop. The next day she rolled up the blinds in her living room, dragged the unread newspapers to the curb, and had her TV-length hair — the stylist called it walnut brown — cut spiky-short. She savagely organized all four closets in her apartment and dumped her on-air blazers in a charity bin. She'd listened to every one of her voice mail messages, and one was Jake. With a lead on a job at the Register.

And now she had an offer. Such as it was.

"Sorry, Jane, had to answer that text. So? Can you start tomorrow?" Clicking off his blinking screen, Alex tucked the iPhone into a pocket of his tweedy jacket. He'd been promoted from senior political reporter to city editor in time for the Register's geared-up election coverage. Once Jane's toughest competition, Alex Wyatt — "Hot Alex," as Amy persisted in calling him — was about to become her superior.

Jane couldn't ignore the irony. The up-and-coming Jane Ryland, award-winning investigative reporter. Crashed on the fast track and blew it at age thirty-two. Possibly a new land speed record for failure. Her smile still in place, she pretended she hadn't noticed her potential new boss had ignored her.

"You got yourself a reporter," Jane said again. Now she just had to prove it.

CHAPTER 2

"You want what?" Jane struggled to keep her voice even. Day two of the new Jane, only nine fifteen on Tuesday morning, and her vow to be upbeat was taking a beating. Alex, leaning against his chaos of a desk and offering her a bulging file folder, was asking the impossible.

Find Moira Kelly Lassiter? How?

An hour earlier, Jane had bought a subway fare card at the Riverside T station, then grabbed a soggy cup of coffee from the instantly inquisitive guy at Java Jim's.

"Aren't you —?" he'd begun, his eyes calculating.

"No." She'd almost burst into tears. Not anymore. It seemed like everyone was looking at her. They all knew who she was from TV. And now they all thought she'd made a mistake.

"You are too!" he'd yelled after her. "You cut all your hair off, but you're the one who ..."

But she was through the turnstile and into her new life. Through the newly opened door. She glanced skyward, at Mom. Gotcha.

Unfolding the Register as the train racketed through Brookline's yellowing maple trees and plunged into the subway underground, Jane tried to keep her elbows from poking the sleeping commuter beside her. Bridge Killer stuff, of course, on the front page. Wonder if Jake —? She wished she could call him. Get the scoop.

Her heart fluttered, tempting her. Maybe one call, briefly, just to — No way. She turned the page. Pushed Jake out of her mind. She was focused on a new job, not on an off-limits relationship. Not on the only man in the past year or so — since Alex — who'd made her wish that ...

No. Work.

Governor Lassiter was up in the polls, according to the Register's latest. Election looming. Lassiter's wife canceling her schedule again. Gable campaign scrambling. No issues. No depth. The Register needed her.

Jane had crossed the busy street in front of the Register's six-story yellow-brick offices and yanked open the heavy glass door, in the throes of a high-speed mental pep talk. Her lawyers promised they'd appeal the verdict. Maybe Sellica would change her mind. Jane would be vindicated. Channel 11 would clamor to take her back.

And tomorrow she'd be extra nice to Java Jim.

Jane had beeped her new ID card through the security reader, waved to the guard at the front desk, punched the elevator button. Punched it again, for punctuation. She'd tackle this newspaper challenge, same way she'd tackled every tough problem. On her own.

Except now, hearing her first assignment — it seemed semi-impossible. She reached up to worry her hair, a left-over-from-J-school nervous habit, but her hair wasn't there anymore.

"So, Jane?" Alex came from behind his desk, urging the manila file folder toward her. In tasseled loafers, wire-rimmed glasses, and loosened tie, casually attractive, he still seemed more rumpled-preppy street reporter than influential news executive. His wife — having removed him from Boston's most-eligible-bachelor list — was some corporate honcho. "Here's the background I had Archive Gus dig out for you. Lots of photos. Think you can find her?"


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Other Woman by Hank Phillippi Ryan. Copyright © 2012 Hank Phillippi Ryan. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Reading Group Guide

You can choose your sin, but you cannot choose your consequences…
Reporter Jane Ryland is tracking down a candidate's secret mistress just days before a pivotal Senate election. Detective Jake Brogan is investigating a possible serial killer that may be hunting down Boston's young women under the city's bridges. As the body count rises and election looms closer, it becomes clear to Jane and Jake that their cases may be connected...and that they may be facing a ruthless killer who will stop at nothing to silence a scandal. Dirty politics, dirty tricks, and a barrage of final twists, The Other Woman is the first in an explosive new series. Seduction, betrayal, and murder--it'll take a lot more than votes to win this election.

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