Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (13 page)

*   *   *

Peter’s cell phone, set on vibrate for the meeting with Jane and Marcotte, buzzed in his jacket pocket. Peter ignored it, focusing on what Victoria Marcotte was telling Jane.

A homicide? With ninety-three murders a year in Boston alone, it wasn’t surprising there’d be one reported while he was at the
Register.
His lawyer brain instantly wondered if the bad guy needed a defense attorney. He had his hands full already, he decided. Someone else could have this one.

Jane had raced off down the hall, holding up one finger in a “be right back” gesture. He stood in the doorway, realized he was watching her jog away. He’d assumed she’d be kind of a pain, tough or bitter or a hardass. Or a diva, full of herself and her career. He’d been wrong about all of that. He was still embarrassed with himself for checking out her ring finger. His phone buzzed again. Someone who had his cell number, so probably Nicole at his office, reminding him of something. Or maybe—had Sandoval been arrested for Waverly Road?

That’d start the wheels in motion with Jane, even sooner than he’d predicted.

“Peter Hardesty,” he answered. Marcotte, he could see through the glass, was still on her phone, now clamped between her shoulder and cheek, peering at something on her computer screen.

“This is Detective Branford Sherrey, Mr. Hardesty. We met yesterday? I’m calling about your client, Gordon Thorley.”

“What about him?” Bing Sherrey. The blowhard cop who’d tried to keep Thorley in custody. The news he’d just overheard in Marcotte’s office.
A homicide.
Was Thorley dead? The victim? Or who?

“We cannot seem to locate your client, Mr. Hardesty,” Sherrey said. “He should have checked in with parole this morning. When he didn’t, we sent an officer to his LKA. Last known address.”

“I understand LKA,” Peter said. Down the hall, Jane was walking with a tall salt-and-pepper brunette, both women gesturing toward Marcotte’s office. The other woman, older, with wild curls and dark glasses perched on her head, wore a flimsy too-small sundress. He could see the woman’s sunburned shoulders and surprising cleavage all the way from here. This was probably Chrystal, the reporter Marcotte mentioned. “My client was not home? So what?”

If Thorley was missing, was he dead? Killed? By whom? Why?

“Nope. No answer to the knock, no sign of him. Your client is gonzo. We went inside—”

“You went inside? You have a warrant to—”

“Landlord let us in, what if he’s in trouble, right? Plus, he gave up his Fourth Amendment rights the moment his homey waved a .45 at that liquor store owner back in 1995, Counselor. As I am sure you’re aware.”

Jerks.
“And?”

“And nothing, Mr. Hardesty.”

Peter waited.

“That warrant?” Sherrey said. “We do have it. Violation of parole. Not to mention fleeing after an interrogation, suspicion of—”

If there was a homicide, and the cops were looking for Thorley, he wasn’t the victim. Was he a suspect?

Peter turned his back on Jane and the other reporter, his forehead touching the wall, focusing on this new development. Sherrey was reportedly not a devotee of the rules. But if he’d deigned to call about Thorley’s whereabouts, he apparently decided to toe the legal line. Why? And what he was saying was absurd.

“‘Fleeing after an interrogation’? Where’d you come up with that? Suspicion? Of what? Listen, Detective. How do you know Mr. Thorley isn’t at the grocery?” Peter got more annoyed by the second. “Or having a real life, visiting his sister, or seeing the doctor, or having his tires rotated? I’ve seen his records. He’s no slacker about his parole reporting. God knows the department doesn’t go after every ex-con who’s ten minutes late calling in, Detective. You want to tell me what this is really about?”

“Yeah,” Sherrey said. Peter could hear the smile in his voice. He remembered he didn’t like Sherrey’s smile. “I do. Stand by one, okay?”

The connection went muffled, as if Peter were suddenly listening to cotton. This cop had put him on hold?

“Peter?”

He turned, surprised at the brief touch on his back. Jane.

“Oh, sorry.” She pointed down the hall. “I’ll be at my desk.”

“Thanks.” He mouthed the word at her, held up two fingers.
Two minutes.

“Gotcha,” she said.

She had a great smile.

The line clicked, the connection opened.

“Detective?” Peter’d let this guy jerk him around long enough. “Suspicion of what?”

“Here’s what, Mr. Hardesty. We’re actively looking for your client. If you find him first? You’ll bring him to the station ASAP. If we find him first, well, he’ll get his one phone call. I assume he’ll call you. If not, then, we’ll see you around campus.”

“On suspicion of fricking
what
?” This was harassment, pure and simple.

“Oh, my error.” Sherrey’s voice had that arrogant smile again. “But you know what? We’ll fill you in when we see you. With your client.”

22

Something was certainly up.

Jane moved back into Marcotte’s reception area, watching Peter on the phone. His body language screamed bad news. Forehead touching the wall, one hand gesturing, whispering into his cell. Maybe Sandoval had been arrested?

If Sandoval was in custody, or about to be, at least that’d take her mind off whatever assignment Marcotte was now apparently giving Chrystal Peralta. Chrystal was a veteran reporter, around for maybe twenty years. Maybe more. Her stories were fine, straightforward, Jane supposed, not much flair, but she apparently made her deadlines and had some good connections. Who wouldn’t, after twenty years, if you were worth your salt.

Twenty years from now, when Jane was Chrystal’s age, where would she be? Still banging out murders at the
Register
? That was a question she wasn’t quite ready to face.

Right now, though, Jane still craved the headlines. A good reporter always does. Maybe someday she’d stop caring. Maybe.

Chrystal opened Marcotte’s office door, whooshing back into the reception area with a blast of musky perfume and a hint of cigarette.

“No problem, Victoria,” Chrystal was saying over her shoulder. “I’ll give you a buzz when—oh, hey, Jane.”

Jane smiled, oh so friendly. “Got a good story?”

“Dead girl near the Arboretum.” Chrystal stuck her pencil into her curls, left it behind her ear. “A week before Lilac Sunday? And there’s another murder around the Arboretum? City’s gonna go nuts.”

What did Lilac Sunday have to do with anything? “What about Lilac Sunday?”

“Lilac Sunday? The festival at the Arboretum. Every May, around Mother’s Day. Picnics, families, you know. And that girl was killed? Like, twenty years ago. They never found the guy.”

“Oh, right. I know that,” Jane said. “So they think this is connected? Why?”

Chrystal turned to Peter, who’d come up beside her from the hallway. “Can I help you?” she said.

“He’s with me. We’re working on a story together.” Jane answered before Peter could, no need to tell Chrystal about this. “See you later, Chrystal. Good luck with the—”

“Hang on, Jane, sorry.” Peter took a step toward Chrystal, holding out a hand. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Chrystal checked with Jane, eyebrows raised.
He okay?

Jane shrugged. Whatever.
Sure.

“You said there’s a—,” Peter went on.

“
Homicide,
I should have said,” Chrystal interrupted. “Apologies. Not ‘dead girl.’ Though the police haven’t formally called it a homicide. So far. But yeah, apparently there’s a young woman they found, strangled, so says our source. And since you can’t strangle yoursel—oh, sorry.” Chrystal held up both hands. “Sorry. Been in the business too long.”

“It’s okay. Peter’s a lawyer, and—,” Jane began.

“When was she killed?” Peter asked. “Where? Exactly, where?”

Chrystal took a step back, made a skeptical face like,
who is this guy?
“Forgive me, sir. I’ve got to head out.”

Jane watched Chrystal trot away down the corridor, her sturdy black sandals clopping against her bare heels, her curls hardly moving.

“Peter?” He’d come in all confidence and conviction. Now he looked upset, like someone had changed the rules. “Did something happen? Is this about Elliot Sandoval? Was he arrested?”

He didn’t answer, and Jane frowned, trying to arrange the puzzle pieces in some logical way. Chrystal had said there was another homicide. “Do police think Sandoval killed someone else?”

That didn’t make much sense, but neither did Sandoval killing Shandra Newbury, even though apparently police suspected he had. Who knew what “made sense.” Jane had covered enough stories of arbitrary and random disaster to appreciate that “making sense” was not always achievable. Reality was impossible to predict. That’s what made it headlines.

“Sando—oh. No. Its not that.” Peter shook his head, pulled out his phone. Now he was checking his screen and talking to her at the same time. “Listen, Jane? Could you find out more about this possible homicide? Who the victim is? When it happened?”

“Maybe.” Could she? Should she? “You have to give me some reason, though. I can’t march into the city editor and—well, what’s up, Peter? We’re working together on the Sandoval case, but that doesn’t mean you have access to everything.”

“Jane.” Peter stashed the phone in his jacket pocket. “Listen. Can you keep a secret?”

*   *   *

“Are you from the bank?”

Those were the last words Lizzie expected to hear. She actually didn’t expect to hear
any
words, since every document indicated this house would be vacant. She’d checked the listings on Aaron’s logs, and this address had been foreclosed on months ago, the deputies had evicted the family soon after, and it had been vacant and for sale ever since. But now a college-looking girl in a white Sam Adams T-shirt, cutoffs, and flip-flops stood in the doorway. Looking worried.

Lizzie wondered how
she
looked. She pulled the keys from the lock.

“The bank?” Lizzie said. Why would this girl think she was from the bank? Why was this girl even here?

“Oh, I get it, not the bank. From the real estate agency, maybe? Sorry, I was in the shower.” The girl canted her hips, sticking one hand into a pocket, making the lining stick out past the frayed edges of her little jeans. Her sunburned face spackled with freckles, her wet hair pulled back in a scrunchy, she seemed unaware of Lizzie’s bafflement. “It’s not about the rent, right? We paid that. I’m sorry for the mess. Long weekend. I’m Maddie Kate Wendell.”

Lizzie stood still, staring at a person who should not be there. Music, faint but insistent, came from upstairs, and an entryway side table held a haphazard pile of textbooks. Students? Students in the empty house. The not-empty house. Paying rent.

“Ma’am?” the girl was saying.

Maybe the records weren’t up to date. Maybe the place was sold and rented, but the bank’s internal paperwork had failed catch up. Certainly its record-keeping systems weren’t foolproof. She herself was evidence of that. Lizzie almost nodded, mentally agreeing with this logical explanation.

“Sorry, Miss. Yes, it’s about the—” Lizzie paused, considering what it
was
about. It was about her own curiosity. Her compulsion to make things add up. Which now, faced with reality, might not be prudent.

Because reality could create problems.

What if Aaron got wind of her visit? Would he have something on her? Or would she have something on him? The girl, Maddie, was waiting for an answer. Lizzie needed answers, too.

“It’s about the rent,” Lizzie said. The words tumbled out almost before she realized. “I’m checking, routine, to see if we have the correct address where you’re sending the rent check. Can you confirm it?”

Lizzie hoped the girl’s definition of “confirm” didn’t include Lizzie having to provide something for her to confirm.

Maddie nodded her head. Like she was eager to help.
Good.

“Oh, no prob. We send it to, like, a post office box in Boston. I don’t have the exact-exact place, you know, because Frank, he lives here, too, always pays it, after we pay him. So, um…” She brightened. “I could have him call you?”

“Who at the post office box? I mean, can you confirm the name on the P.O. box?” Lizzie was Miss Helpful. Miss Unthreatening.

“I can look,” Maddie said. “Want to come in?”

She did, and she didn’t.
Decide.

She did. Lizzie took a step across the threshold as the girl scurried away. Two laptop computers were open on a coffee table, a big-screen TV on mute, showing some music video with singing dogs and what must be hookers on motorcycles. Music continued from upstairs, louder now, thumping through the ceiling. Certainly several people were living here. Why? How? And if the house was sold, why did Aaron still have the keys?

Maybe they hadn’t changed the locks. But still, even if the sales and transfer paperwork was delayed, it shouldn’t be
this
delayed. Certainly Aaron would be interested in hearing about that. It wouldn’t be Aaron’s fault, of course, he didn’t handle the sales end of it.

Problem was.

Would those questions domino onto her own … “activities”? The housing market was coming back, all the analysts agreed. Not a full recovery, but the outlook was positive. What if they started auditing the foreclosed properties and the transactions connected to them? Would the audit fingers reach into her files? They might. They would. They definitely would.

Best to leave it alone.

If the numbers were taken out of her control, it would ruin her plans. Ruin her families’ lives. Because they were
her
families now, and no way near recovered. They needed her, relied on her.

“Might be upstairs.” Maddie came back into the foyer, empty-handed. “Two more seconds.”

Lizzie blew out a breath as the girl trotted up the stairs. An array of running shoes, laces dangling, lined each step. Maddie kicked a pair out of the way as she came back down.

Lizzie’s mind computed risk and reward, curiosity versus consequences. She’d simply
imagined
the place would be empty. She’d overanalyzed, like she always did, and now, bottom line, it put her where she had no business being.