Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (26 page)

Right now, finding the truth was up to Peter. And two people’s lives—actually, more than two—depended on it.

*   *   *

Jake hit the Bluetooth as he drove up Melnea Cass Boulevard, a crosstown shortcut to parole officer Richard Arsenault’s house. He’d told his mother he’d be back for the files, given Diva a good-bye pat, and headed for Southie. The news he just heard wasn’t the best for Elliot Sandoval, but that’s sometimes the way the cookie crumbled. The guy shouldn’t have killed Shandra Newbury if he wanted to stay out of lockup. The phone rang once, then again, then he heard the buzz and click that meant Peter Hardesty was not going to pick up. But then a live voice interrupted.

“Hello? Hello? This is Peter Hardesty. Sorry, can you hear me? I’m in the car.”

“Jake Brogan,” Jake said. He stopped at a light, watching cars make illegal left turns onto Mass Ave. Lucky he was on the phone or he’d have nailed them. “You called about getting into Moulten Road? Not gonna happen any time soon.”

Jake could have been nicer about this, but right now he wasn’t a big fan of Towel Man.

“Crime Scene’s still in there,” Jake went on. “And the Sandoval arraignment? That’s on for tomorrow. Courts are closed today, there’s some sort of judge’s meeting.”

He paused, waiting out the unhappy reaction. Didn’t blame the guy, they were keeping him away from Moulten Road, and now he was hearing his client would stay in lockup, overnight, because judges had their little meeting. Win some, lose some, Towel Man. Life was full of disappointments.

“Nothing you can do?” Peter’s voice cracked over the speaker. “I mean, that’s bullshit, the system of justice grinds to a halt because—”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Jake hit the gas, turned right at the high school, and toward the intersection. “But Sandoval is first on the calendar, after the call. Best we could do, according to my guy. So. See you in court.”

Jake clicked off before Peter could answer. He didn’t need to get beat up on the phone by a disappointed defense lawyer. The tox screen showed Sandoval with elevated steroid levels, so that’d explain the guy’s anger. His fingerprints had been all over. He’d lived there, of course, so that was arguably problematic. According to Brian Turiello, the real estate broker, Shandra Newbury had not only shown the Sandovals their home, she’d also hooked them up with her connection in the mortgage department at their bank. A connection who apparently ignored their income-to-mortgage ratio.

The Sandovals wound up over their head, mortgage-wise. And bottom line, Shandra Newbury had arranged it. They’d lost their house. As a result, Shandra’d lost her life.

Losing your house as a motive for murder.

Any jury would believe that. A Sandoval guilty verdict was probably a slam dunk.

Jake checked house numbers, slowing as he hit a narrow cul-de-sac lined by tired triple-deckers with gasping lawns and hanging plants on their last legs.

Fifty-three was the last on the left, Arsenault had told him.

The plastic-coated living room inside doubled as Arsenault’s parole office, a bank of walkie-talkies and an electronic monitoring board taking up much of the space on a makeshift set of cobbled-together veneer shelving. A display screen with a line of green lights glowed like a neon sign in the lower left. Looking more closely, Jake saw each had a name on a color-coded label affixed beside it, printed in shaky felt-tip handwriting, apparently Arsenault’s jerry-built system for keeping track of his parolees. All lights green, all accounted for, Arsenault had explained. At the bottom, one light was red.
G. THORLEY
, the peeling label said. Red.
Gone.

Jake pointed to the red light. “Well, now at least, we know where he is.”

“Reported it as soon as he missed his slot.” Arsenault took a slug of tea, ice cubes clattering. “Can’t understand it. Before that? He’d been clockwork, you know?”

An ancient air conditioner struggled, wheezing, in the front window. His wife, Margy Mary—Jake had confirmed the name, twice, thinking he’d heard it wrong—brought cookies on a flowered plate, and sweetened iced tea, the icy brown liquid sweating a glass pitcher she carried on a clear plastic tray. “I know you boys have a lot to talk about,” she said. “But you’ve got to eat.”

“Thanks, doll,” Arsenault said, dismissing her with a wave. Margy Mary bustled out of the room. Jake imagined he’d smell something baking soon. Betty Crocker meets Tommy Lee Jones.

“So Arsenault, about Gordon Thorley.”

“Like I said, clockwork.”

“Right.” Jake shifted on the couch, plastic crinkling underneath him. Who were they saving the couch for, he wondered? Who would be important enough to sit on actual fabric? “But you interviewed him, right, every week? He ever indicate any problems, or anger, anything going on in his life? He ever mention a Treesa Caramona?”

“Nope, zip,” Arsenault said.

“Carley Marie Schaefer?”

“The Lilac Sunday girl?” Arsenault’s eyes widened. A phone rang at his mission control setup, a light flashed red, then green, then steady green. “My two-thirtys are gonna start calling,” Arsenault explained. “Long as we hear five calls, we’re fine. It’s hooked up to a machine, they’ll click in, they’ll be recorded. Anyway, Carley Marie Schaefer? How come?”

“Not at liberty to tell you exactly why, right now,” Jake said. “You know the drill, right? Under investigation? Trying to get your take on it. He ever mention her? Anything about that?”

“Nope,” Arsenault said. “You got me interested, though. You think he’s the—” Arsenault stopped, seemed to be calculating. “Ah. Caramona’s the one in West Rox. By the Arboretum. And I’m thinkin’ that you’re thinkin’—okay. Huh. Okay, then.”

He nodded, conspiratorial, pretending to zip his lips.

“Thanks,” Jake said. “So Thorley’s file, his history, you got that?” He held up a palm, heading off what he knew would come next. Arsenault had already opened his mouth in preparation to say no. “Yeah, I could get it from HQ, but you know how long that’d take?”

Arsenault’s incoming rang again, the lights flashing, then again, with a different ring.

“Two more to go,” Arsenault said, “then the city’s safe until four
P.M.
, far as I’m concerned. Anyway. The files.” He pressed his lips together, drummed his fingers against the side of his nubby green glass, now filled only with melting ice. With a clink, the ice settled.

“Yeah, the files,” Jake said. “And listen. When we talked earlier, and I mentioned Gordon Thorley, you said—‘poor guy.’ Why was that?”

“I said poor guy?”

“Yup.”

Arsenault cleared his throat, swirled the ice cubes. “Well, he missed his parole call, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That means he could go back into the slammer, right?”

“Yeah.”

Arsenault nodded, agreeing with himself. “So, ‘poor guy.’ Right? Or ‘stupid guy,’ if you look at it that way.”

“I suppose,” Jake said. “So—the files?”

The phone rang. The final green light flickered, then stayed on.

“Life is good,” Arsenault said. “You can see the files. Sure.”

“Great,” Jake said. “So—”

“At headquarters,” Arsenault said. “
You
know the drill, right? They’d kill me if I gave ’em to you, or even told you anything that was in ’em. It’s all personal and confidential, even to you, Detective. Want some more tea?”

40

“So much for that.” Jane poked the elevator button for emphasis, having been summarily dismissed from Liz McDivitt’s office right when things were going so nicely. What had stopped the woman, so abruptly? The texts she’d received? Jane shook her head, frowning at the thin gray pile of the bank’s carpeting. Jabbed the down button again. No question, this story completely stunk, stunk from moment one.

The elevator doors swished open, and Jane stepped forward, trying to plan her next move. “Oof.” She backed up, surprised by a near collision with a suit.

“Jane Ryland?” he said.

Was she supposed to know him? She didn’t, she was pretty sure. Pinstripe suit, tie, shiny shoes. At least he didn’t have a knife.

“I’m Colin Ackerman. I handle PR for the A&A.” He gestured Jane out of the elevator and back into the hall. “Liz McDivitt just called me.”

Disaster.
Or lucky break? Here was someone Jane might negotiate with, someone who could make decisions, someone with the access to get what she needed. Or someone who could get her ejected from the building.

“Terrific,” Jane said, choosing the optimist’s view. She didn’t want to get Liz in trouble, so she’d couch her request carefully, not mentioning customer names quite yet. “Liz and I were talking about the bank’s customer service department. As I’m sure she told you, the
Register
is doing a little consumer story on it. I was hoping—”

Ackerman raised an eyebrow, interrupting her request.

“A ‘little consumer story’?” he said.

“Yes, we’re—”

“Not what you usually do, if I remember correctly, Jane.”

Ackerman still looked pleasant enough, his muted plaid jacket open, his yellow tie appropriate for relating to the public. “Right? I mean, you’re usually on the trail of some nefariousness. Corruption? Malfeasance? You certainly understand why that’d be pinging my news radar.”

“True.” Jane did understand. She’d been guilty in the past, like any good reporter, of journalism “downplay,” soft-pedaling a story to get in the door. If this guy was suspicious because she usually did investigative stuff, it was ironic that this time she was actually telling the truth. Funny to be caught in her own trap for a consumer puff piece.

“The other reporter, Chrystal Peralta? Has the flu. I’m here as designated hitter while she’s on the injured list.” This day was a teetering house of cards. The story probably wouldn’t matter that much, but always better to succeed, no matter what the assignment. “The story has to run Sunday, so the deadline is…” Jane paused. He didn’t need to know the real deadline. “Today.”

Wait.
Idea. “Hey,” she said. She glanced at Stephanie, caught her brazenly listening. Suddenly Stephanie had to flip through some very important papers on her desk. She was probably passing along everything they said to her boss, maybe even had the intercom open. If so, it was an opportune moment for Jane to let Liz know she was trustworthy. “I’d asked Liz to do a quick on-camera interview with us about customer service, but she was reluctant. Maybe because that’s your bailiwick?”

Jane tried adding an encouraging smile. This might be the perfect solution, or at least a solution. “My photog is downstairs right now. How about if we bring him to your office? I can ask you a few quick questions about—”

“Not about specific customers,” Ackerman said.

“Nope, nope, no specific customers, that’s exactly what Liz said, too.” Jane raised her voice, just a little, in case Liz was listening. “Customer service, that’s all. Really. Five minutes, ten, and we’re gone.”

Ackerman nodded, seemed to be considering. He checked his iPhone, typed in something.

Jane crossed her fingers.
Come on.

“Sure,” he said. He smoothed his tie with one hand, clicked off his phone with the other. “Can you meet me on the fifth floor? My assistant will point you to the conference room. You may have to wait a bit, I need to make a few phone calls first. And Miss Ryland? You promised ten minutes. That’s all you get.”

“That’s all I need,” she said.

*   *   *

“We always hoped things would change for him, but they never did.”

Peter had listened for half an hour, listened with the patience he’d learned to rely on in his years as a lawyer. People would tell you everything, if you let them. Sometimes they didn’t even realize they were doing it. Gordon Thorley’s sister—a brittle forty-something with fuchsia-painted fingernails and ill-fitting jeans—sat across from him at her kitchen table in the village of Sagamore, her home a cookie-cutter two-story just off Williston Road. A row of fluttering lace-curtained windows let in the late-afternoon sun and the sight of a couple of sea gulls dive-bombing toward the Cape Cod canal, a blue sliver in the distance. Crazy hot for May, but here the breeze kept tempers down and early-bird Cape tourists happy on the beach.

Doreen Thorley Rinker was not a tourist. And right now, she was not happy.

Peter had to tell her about the Treesa Caramona murder, explaining it was in the early stages, her brother innocent till proven guilty, trying to be reassuring. There were rules about dealing with defendants, all carefully spelled out in the canons. Dealing with families was different. Their agendas, their prejudices, and even their birth order, dictated how a lawyer would most effectively present the facts, as well as the possibilities. Doreen was Gordon Thorley’s big sister, maybe ten years older. Now she was still taking care of him, either from devotion or from duty.

“When he left the note, we just didn’t know what to do.” She looked at him, ran her fingers through both sides of her not-completely-gray hair, fluffed it back into place. “He was confessing for the family? Did he mean—Carley Marie Schaffer’s family? Why would he care about
them
?”

“Did he know her? Carley Marie? Or her family?”

“God knows,” Doreen said. She stared at her coffee mug as if searching for answers in the fading flowers on the china pattern, then looked at him again, frowning. “I’m not trying to be evasive. I really don’t know.”

“Maybe he meant—for
your
family,” Peter said. “Could that be?”

“My family? The family is me and this house and my kids—they’re out at the beach now since they both work nights—and a cousin or two, who knows where. Our parents bought this house, some years ago, and left it half to me and my husband, half to Gordon, when they passed. Then my husband passed, too. So much for the dream house on the Cape. A lot of the time, Gordon was—well.”

“In prison.” Might as well lay the cards on the table.

She nodded, maybe not wanting to say the word. “Not that he was ever here much. He was what, nineteen? And I was twenty-nine. Nothing in common, you know, at those ages. I was always told he got in with the wrong crowd. But we were willing—happy—to bring him home after all that time. We were so relieved he was paroled. I mean, he’d just been duped into that robbery, had no idea that—anyway, like I said, we were willing to help him start over. He’d actually been a pretty good kid in high school. Played baseball, the whole bit. But he wanted his own place. Insisted he wanted to start over on his own.”