Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (3 page)

Liz, she decided. Compassionate, but knowledgeable. Approachable. And, starting today, starting now, Liz McDivitt was in control.

*   *   *

Five more minutes. He’d give them five more minutes.

Aaron Gianelli waited on the front steps of the triple-decker, peeled the last of the waxed paper from his tuna melt wrap, took a final bite. A mayo-soaked glop narrowly missed his new cordovan loafer, landed on the concrete beside him. Too damn hot for a tuna melt, Aaron decided too late, but this “meeting” was his only chance for lunch. He crumpled the paper, aimed, and hit the already brimming Dumpster over by the driveway.

His first score of the day.

If the others didn’t show up pretty damn soon, it’d be his only score. That, he could not afford. He wondered how his partner was doing, at
his
meeting. They’d talk later. Compare notes. Not that there were notes.

Standing, Aaron brushed the dust from his ass. Squinted out at Pomander Street. No cars. Nothing. They’d agreed to meet here at 1:30
P.M
. He checked his annoyingly silent cell phone. If they were going to be late, they should have called. If they were jerking him around, they’d be sorry. But no biggie. He’d find other customers.

He’d parked his car down the street, left his suit jacket inside, thank God. It was brutal out here. He’d be a sweat machine when he got back to the office, but the AC would take care of that before anyone noticed. And Lizzie would believe whatever he told her. He smiled. He loved Lizzie.

He patted his pockets, still smiling, feeling for the ring of keys. He’d go in without the clients, check it out. House was empty, that was certain. The bank had made sure of that.

Aaron was still smiling. He loved the bank.

5

“Uh-oh,” Jane said. TJ’s camera lens still trained on the now-open front door. The two EMTs emerged. Not running. “That’s not good.”

The EMT carrying the defibrillator shouldered his way out, followed by the stocky one lugging the medical bag. Jane couldn’t read their faces, both squinting in the glare, the heat radiating from the hot sidewalk and crushed gravel driveway. The ambulance siren was off, but the red light on the hood swirled silently through the sunshine. The ambulance, rear double doors flapped open, poised for a fast getaway to Mass General. But the two EMTs stopped. Put their bags down. Stood on the porch.

“Whatever happened, it’s over,” Jane said. “Come on, Teege. Let’s get closer. Sorry this is taking so long, your shoulder must be killing you. But look, the guy’s radioing now. Can you hear what he’s saying?”

Jane followed behind TJ, straining to grasp the EMT’s words as he transmitted over the sputtering two-way radio. The bank guy—if that’s who he was—stayed in his Lexus. The splintered bed frame, two chairs, and a couple of fringed pillows baked on the parched front lawn.

“Copy, Unit Bravo.” The dispatcher’s voice on the other end squawked through the static. “We’ll notify. Stand by. We’ll inform when you are clear to transport.”

“Transport,” Jane whispered. She’d edged in so close, she could now hear the hum of TJ’s camera, hear her own voice buzzing through his earpiece. “Transport who?”

*   *   *

“You gonna answer that?” DeLuca’s radio was squawking, but Jake couldn’t take his eyes off Thorley, watching him through the interrogation room glass, knowing the guy couldn’t see him and DeLuca in the hallway. Thorley didn’t know they’d heard what he’d told Detective Bing Sherrey. Didn’t know they’d be taking over the case.

There’d been silence for the past few minutes, Thorley staring at his fingernails while Bing scribbled on a yellow pad. Probably a confession he hoped Thorley would sign.

“Now what?” Jake pointed to D’s radio.

DeLuca’s two-way beeped again from its leather pouch. Dispatch calling.

“We shall see.” DeLuca keyed the mic. “DeLuca.”

Jake, cell phone to his ear, was still waiting for Dr. Nathaniel Frasca. After blowing open the Memphis copycat sniper case, Frasca had been called to D.C. to be a big-time consultant for the feds. He’d have to rib supposedly retired Frasca about that when they finally connected.

Plus, Frasca still owed Jake a beer from the Stockbridge Street murder. The young woman the state troopers had browbeaten into a false confession was now back home with her family. The real bad guy, thanks to Jake and the veteran Frasca, was in the slammer for a good long stretch.

DeLuca’s two-way radio buzzed static again. “Detective DeLuca, do you copy?” dispatch’s voice came through. “What’s your location?”

“This is DeLuca, like I said. Detective Brogan and I are downtown. Two floors above where you are.”

Jake rolled his eyes. DeLuca was always a trip on the radio.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake said into his cell. “Yes, I’ll continue to hold. Yes, Brogan. B-R-O-G-A-N. In Boston. Dr. Frasca actually knows who—”

“Copy that, Detective DeLuca,” dispatch said. “Stand by for instructions.”

“Standing by to stand by. As always.” DeLuca clicked off his two-way, pointed it at the one-way glass. “Jake. Check it out. We have company.”

The back door to the interrogation room had opened.

*   *   *

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Peter Hardesty closed the interrogation room door behind him, plunked his leather briefcase on the metal table, held out a hand. He’d already heard the cops were calling this guy the Confessor.

Confessor or not, Gordon Thorley was innocent till proven guilty. And, like so many others Peter had represented, profoundly in need of counsel. In this place? Alone with a detective? A legal minefield.

“Gordon Thorley?”

“Who’re you?” Thorley twisted in his folding chair, scooted it as far from Peter as the cinder-block wall would let him, metal scraping against concrete. Thorley’s sallow skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, weary eyes too big. Peter could almost hear the guy’s brain shift gears. Surprise. Then fear. Then calculation. Thorley flickered a hard look at Peter, jerking a yellowed thumb in his direction. Spoke to the detective. “He a cop, too?”

“Holy sh—How’d you get in here, Hardesty? Who called you? Mr. Thorley here hasn’t asked for a lawyer.”

Peter recognized the plainclothes detective in the weary brown suit and ugly tie—Detective Branford Sherrey. “Bing” Sherrey. Veteran cop, beloved of the district attorney’s office, and a remarkable asshole. Now he looked like he’d been socked in his shirt-straining gut.
Sucks when the system works,
Peter thought. When you have to provide legal advice to a nutcase who’s trying get himself a life sentence. Justice. What a concept.

Peter glanced at the obviously one-way glass along one wall, gave a brief salute to whoever was on the other side. He’d find out soon enough. Other cops listening? A witness, maybe? To what? He’d gotten the call from Doreen Thorley—now Doreen Rinker—only half an hour ago. He’d left half a perfectly good turkey on rye on his desk downtown. Here, things were already out of hand.

“Hasn’t asked for a lawyer? I’m aware of that, Detective Sherrey. Nevertheless, here I am. At the request of his family. If you’ve got an open mic in here? Someone listening behind that glass? You need to turn it off. Now.” Peter clicked the two silver latches on his briefcase, opened it. Took out a manila folder and turned to his newest client.

“But you can’t just—” Sherrey gestured toward the one-way glass. Pushed a button. “I mean, this is an ongoing—”

Peter ignored his whining.

“Mr. Thorley, I’m Peter Hardesty, from Hardesty and Colaneri? Your sister called, asked me to come make sure you weren’t saying anything without legal advice. Good thing, because apparently that’s what Detective Sherrey here is leading you to do. My first piece of advice? Don’t say another word.”

“I can’t—I don’t—she wasn’t supposed—I don’t want—,” Thorley sputtered, looked at the ceiling, then frowned at the floor. “Anyway, Doreen doesn’t have the money to—”

“As you hear, Mr. Hardesty.” The detective pointed a yellow legal pad at him. “Apparently Mr. Thorley, obviously of sound mind and clear intent, fully appreciates and understands the significance of what he’s said. What he’s actually already told us on tape. Several times. In the interest of justice, and perhaps his conscience.”

Interest of justice?
Right.
Still, this was a new one. Thorley had left his sister a “good-bye” and “I’m sorry” note on the kitchen table of their family home. He was either crazy or—well, Peter would discover that soon enough. But not while the cops were listening.

“Let’s get you straightened out here first, sir. That’s more important than the money. Your sister, Doreen, got your note, called me, explained the situation. Now, Detective? You’ll need to give us some time. Here, or elsewhere. Alone.” Peter smiled, gestured toward the inner window. “With no one-way glass, and no other cops listening.”

“Not if Mr. Thorley doesn’t want you.” Sherrey reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a package of Winston Reds. Tapped the end, held out the pack to Thorley. “Smoke? Another ginger ale?”

Thorley reached two thin fingers toward the Winston. Guy seemed in bad shape, the ribbed collar of his T-shirt twisted and too big, jacket sleeves fraying at the wrists. Like life had dealt him a losing hand, and he’d decided to fold. Peter’s job—any good lawyer’s job—was to keep him in the game.

“Your hospitality is admirable, Detective,” Peter said. “And theoretically, I suppose, you could ask me to leave. But play it out here. You just told me my client has already talked with you on tape—a tape I’m now formally requesting you to produce and provide. Given that circumstance, how can it cause you a problem to leave us alone for a while?”

Sherrey seemed to be considering it. He snapped a red plastic Bic, lit his own cigarette, aimed the smoke at the ceiling.

“Plus,” Peter went on. “You charge him with whatever it is. We go to court. What’s the first thing I’m gonna tell the judge? I’m gonna say you tried to keep me away. Poof. Your precious tape is inadmissible. Mr. Thorley goes home. You lose.”

Thorley was already stabbing out the cigarette he’d sucked down, grinding it into a metal ashtray on the table. He eyed Sherrey, a hungry dog. But in fact, Thorley needed more than a cigarette. He needed Peter.

Doreen Thorley Rinker had explained her brother’s handwritten note said he was confessing to a murder, and begged forgiveness. Said he was “doing it for the family.” What family? The victim’s? Bizarre. And more bizarre that Thorley didn’t want a lawyer. But hey. Everybody hated lawyers. Until they realized they needed one.

“Detective?” Peter pointed to his watch. “Tick, tock. The more you stall, the more the judge’ll be convinced you’re up to no good. Remember, Mr. Thorley’s already on parole. Correct? Why not let his parole officer look after him? Like he has for the past few years? He’s clearly not a flight risk, correct? I mean, he’s sitting here of his own volition.”

“Lawyers.” Sherrey stuffed the cigarettes into his jacket pocket.

“Can’t live with ’em…” Peter didn’t finish the sentence.

“Okay.” Thorley’s voice was a whisper. “I guess I should have a lawyer. But only so the system works fair. That doesn’t mean I didn’t do—”

“Not another word, Mr. Thorley,” Peter said.

Sherrey strode two steps to the door, opened it, then turned to glare at Peter. “This is bull,” he said.

“Thanks,” Peter said. The door slammed closed. “We’ll be in touch.”

Peter might have won this round. But the road ahead was not going to be pretty. Not when the client himself didn’t want to be saved.

6

“Somebody’s dead. Got to be.” Jane flapped her notebook against her leg, impatient. “If someone’s just hurt, the EMTs would’ve been running like hell.”

The screen door stayed closed.

“Yup.” TJ aimed his voice at her, kept his eyes on the door. “But listen.”

A blue-and-white Boston police cruiser, blue lights whirling, siren screaming, peeled around the corner of Sycamore, flew onto Waverly, skidded to a stop at the end of the driveway.

The cruiser’s blue light mixed with the ambulance’s red. The tall EMT jogged toward the car.

“Here we go.” Jane squinted against the sunshine, hoping to ID the arriving cops. If they were pals, she might have an inside track to the story. She yanked on her sunglasses to cut the glare. That made it dark. Tried again without them.

The passenger side door opened.

Work boots. Levis. Black T-shirt. Sandy hair. Sunglasses.

Jake.

*   *   *

Jane?

Jake slammed his cruiser door, waited a beat for DeLuca to join him. Shaded his eyes, surveyed the crime scene. Some man in a Lexus, on the phone. Who was he? A neighbor? Two EMTs standing on the porch. Jake pointed at them, then at the house. One gave a thumbs down. Jake nodded. DOA.

And Jane.

Jane raised a palm at him, acknowledging, but stayed where she was, whispering with the guy shooting video. Must be the new on-line gig she’d described. Weird to see her with a camera again, after all the—

“My, my.” DeLuca cocked his head toward Jane. “You two lovebirds have got to stop meeting like this.”

“Right,” Jake said. “Let’s get in there. See what they got.”

He and DeLuca had a sometimes-silent truce about their private lives—DeLuca knew about Jane, enough at least, Jake knew about DeLuca and Kat McMahan, the medical examiner who’d soon be arriving, if the deputies had their facts right.

Jake knew he and Jane were going to have to make a decision. Soon. In fact, by this weekend. They couldn’t keep sneaking. Cop and reporter? Reporter and cop? Right at the edge of ethical. Over the edge, according to police SOP. The newspaper’s, too. They’d tried to stay apart, but that was a miserable failure. To stay together, one of them would have to quit. Which was impossible. The whole thing was impossible.

Jake raised a hand back as they passed. Jane’s shooter was getting it all on tape.

“Eviction, huh?” Jake pulled out his cell phone, opened a file. Thumbed in his to-dos. He’d have to check the sheriff’s paperwork. Get bank stuff. Get registry records, check ownership, track down tenants or whoever once lived here. “Whoever got thrown out, they’re not gonna be happy, that’s for sure.
There’s
a motive.”