Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “It’s as good as true, right?” TJ told her. “If it’s in the paper? If it turns out it isn’t, we correct it. Usually.”

  “And when we don’t, the truth disappears,” Jane said. “Exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  8

  If Aaron were any handsomer, Lizzie thought, she literally would not be able to stand it. Stephanie was still at her desk, Lizzie supposed, but as far as the secretary knew, Aaron Gianelli was coming to her office to talk business. Aaron had a way of talking business that made her feel not very businesslike.

  “You been outside?” he said. He’d loosened his tie, and leaned against the doorjamb, lounging, both hands stuffed into pockets of his pants. “It’s incredibly hot.”

  Lizzie tried not to stare, but that meant she had to look into his eyes, which was even harder.

  “You don’t look hot.” Lizzie blushed, dying. “I mean—”

  “Hey, Lizzie. Now you owe me.” He gave her that smile, then unbuttoned one shirt cuff and rolled it up to his elbow. Then the other.

  She wondered how the rest of him looked. Her skin, if it were right next to his, would not be as tan. Now she was probably blushing again. She wished her phone would ring. The intercom buzz. Fire alarm. Anything.

  “I came to check out your new digs. Welcome to the big time.” He gestured at her office. “Looks terrific, Lizzie. Nice chairs, nice desk, all the comforts of home.”

  He walked toward her, before she even had a chance to say anything. Came around behind her chair, she could feel his presence there, imagined she could smell him, even though she couldn’t, felt the back of her neck prickle, felt her brain catch fire.

  He leaned closer. She didn’t move, couldn’t move.

  His breath was in her ear.

  One arm, so close she could see the freckles dotting his suntan, reached past her, opened a file on her desk. The Iantoscas’ file. Labeled with their name in big Sharpie block letters.

  Was he going to kiss her? Right now? At work?

  But Aaron had snatched up the Iantoscas’ file and stepped away from her, leaning against the windowsill. Now he was actually paging through the paperwork inside.

  “Whatcha working on here?”

  He was smiling, but he didn’t look happy. She’d never seen that expression on his face before.

  This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. This was her secret. Her. Secret.

  “Five-forty-nine Nordstand Boulevard?” Aaron turned one page, then another. She could hear the swish of paper as he thumbed through the financial disclosures and deeds and legal documents. “Christian Iantosca. This is one of our REOs. From our department. Why’s it on your desk?”

  She could actually feel the frown on her face, and struggled to change her expression, wanting to please him, but needing to protect her file. She was the one with the numbers, not him. The numbers were the power. The numbers would always save her.

  Change the equation.

  “Yes, the Iantoscas.” She swiveled her chair to face him. Her new vertical blinds cast slashes on the wall behind him, the afternoon sun coming through as slivers of light. His face was shadow, the manila file a silhouette. “A happy story. Such a sweet couple. I’m so thrilled it’s all turned out for them. Aren’t you? That they’re current now?”

  * * *

  Okay, he’d missed something, a big something, and Aaron sure as hell could not figure out what. The freaking Iantoscas? No way they were current. No matter what Lizzie said.

  He’d flipped through the paperwork trying to figure out what happened while Lizzie kept babbling. He wasn’t the numbers guy in this deal, that was kind of Ackerman’s department, but crap, there’d be no reason the bank would assign this home if there wasn’t a slam dunk foreclosure.

  Nordstand Boulevard was set to be a kick-ass property for him. In Allston, right by Boston College and BU. Three bedrooms, big ones, a finished basement. All good. Now Lizzie was telling him the Iantoscas were paid up?

  “How’d that happen? Them getting current?” He scanned the numbers. The pre-foreclosure filings were all there, he’d seen those before. Now they had red lines through them. Top copy signed by Elizabeth H. McDivitt. “They win the lottery?”

  Lizzie was blushing again. He could make her feel uncomfortable, good to know. Plus, losing this one house wasn’t gonna blow the whole deal. Lucky he’d found out. Before it was too late.

  “They didn’t explain that to me,” she was saying. “It’s maybe personal? Family? Someone died, something like that.” Big smile, as if that would matter to him. “I only fill in the blanks. Make sure the columns add up. I’m the numbers girl.”

  “Well, you’ve got mine.” Aaron slid the folder back on Lizzie’s desk. He’d check with Ack about it. If they’d paid, they’d paid. It happened. The Nordstand Boulevard deal wasn’t signed. He could still cancel, and move on. Three o’clock. Ack would know what to do.

  “Got your what?” Lizzie was frowning, a lock of her hair dropping into her eyes.

  For such a book-smart chick, she sure had a clueless streak. Luckily for him. Cute enough, though. He could handle a “relationship” with her. Who knows what it’d do for his career. Couldn’t hurt.

  “Number,” he said. “You’ve got my number. So how about dinner? Tonight?”

  9

  “Maybe Gordon Thorley killed this vic, too.” DeLuca sniffed, scratching the back of his neck as he looked at the body on the floor. “Maybe we could get him to clear all our cases. It’d be like, a public service.”

  “Have a little respect, dude.” Jake took a final reference shot with his cell phone. Crime Scene would be here on Waverly Road soon, but he kept his own records. Like his grandfather taught him. Jake had been thinking about Thorley, too. But that case had to go on hold. “So. The victim’s lapel pin. ‘M’? Or ‘W’?”

  “It’s both.” The voice came from behind them. “And she’s a real estate broker. What do I win?”

  The gang’s all here, Jake thought. His cell pinged for the second time in two minutes. He knew it was Jane. He also knew he could not answer. They’d relaxed the rules a bit, impossible not to. But he couldn’t give her the scoop, especially not in front of DeLuca. And now the medical examiner.

  “Hey, Kat,” he said. “Perfect timing.”

  “As always,” DeLuca said. “Hot enough for you?”

  “You should know, Detective.” Dr. Kat McMahon looked at D, a fraction too long. Today her white lab coat was unbuttoned. Underneath, the T-shirt tucked into her blue scrubs read SUMMER IN THE CITY.

  Jane always described the ME as one of those curvy Russian dolls in a doll, all red lips and sleek hair. The two women had clashed at a couple of news conferences since Kat came to town last year, Jane demanding information about the latest homicide, Kat refusing to give it. Doing their jobs.

  “Real estate broker?” Jake said.

  “Yeah. Mornay and Weldon.” Kat snapped open her boxy black ME bag, yanked out two lavender latex gloves. “Don’t you watch late-night cable? Real estate brokers. That’s their logo. It flips upside down in the ad, you know? ‘M’ or ‘W’? They found me my place when I moved here.” A glove snapped onto one hand, then the other. “This how you found her? You got photos? I take it you don’t know who she is?”

  “That’s a one phone call, now, thanks to you,” Jake said.

  A real estate broker. Huh. If that was true, maybe the bad guy was a potential buyer. He tested that idea, his mind spinning out theories. Maybe she’d been here showing the house. The would-be buyer shows up, maybe attacks her? Some kind of robbery? Maybe to get keys? She struggles, he panics, and … If that was true, so much for his initial focus on the former owner. Or—maybe not. It was okay to speculate at this point in a case. Had to. But kiss of death to make a decision early on. That’s how cops made mistakes. “Yeah, this is how we found her. She fell when the deputies opened the closet door. That’s why she’s like this. Any hope for a cause of death?”

  “Nin
ety degrees outside? The body moved?” Kat crouched in front of the victim. “Could be tough, because—ouch. Strike that. Look at the back of her head.”

  * * *

  “What the heck are they doing in there?” Jane’s back was soaked; her now-grimy white T-shirt would never be white again. Her black flats were caked with dust, her hair plastered to her head, and if she didn’t get water she would die. There was a big bottle of it in the car, but it was too risky to leave their stakeout spot in front of 42 Waverly to go get it.

  Had they missed something? “TJ? Maybe the cops went out the back.”

  TJ pointed to the ambulance. “Chill,” he said. “We’re fine.”

  He was right. Her real problem wasn’t the fact that Jake and his posse were taking forever, or even the heat. The problem was that her boss was at that very minute, probably, going online with a story that there was a murder victim inside 42 Waverly Road, and Jane simply wasn’t sure that was true. What if Marcotte put her byline on it and it was wrong?

  “Am I overreacting?” She pointed to herself with one finger. “You know I got fired, right, by the jerks at Channel Eleven? When they lost that lawsuit? When the jury said I was wrong?”

  “Yeah, sure,” TJ said. “Everyone knows—”

  “All I need,” Jane interrupted, “all I freaking—excuse me—need, is to have my byline on a story that actually is wrong. I could never salvage my career from that. I’d have to leave town and change my name.”

  “Jane.” TJ, camera now on his lap, aimed a puff of air at the lens to get rid of the dust. “The medical examiner is inside. That’s a, well, I don’t want to say a good sign. But you know what I mean. There’s probably a dead person. The story will be correct.”

  Jane had to give him that. She probably was overreacting. Being unfairly fired would do that to you. Having a crazy editor would do that to you.

  “And, I hate to say it,” TJ added, “but would people really care? If it turned out there wasn’t a body?”

  “I’d sure as hell care.” So would Jake, Jane didn’t say. He’d be pissed if the paper got his case wrong. Victoria Marcotte’s zeal for headlines could ruin everything. Jane’s career. Jake’s. Their relationship. Such as it was. “If the story is wrong, what’re they gonna do, run a correction on page twenty-six? Or some tiny online brief? People remember what they read. That’s what makes it history. Like I said, there’s only one true.”

  “We’re about to hear it,” TJ said, hoisting his camera to his shoulder. “Check out the door.”

  * * *

  Jake pulled open the wooden front door, saw Jane and her photographer through the closed screen. Lens pointed right at him. No other reporters were on the porch, at least. Score one for Jake.

  “Detective Brogan?” Jane said. “Couple of questions?”

  They were always formal in public.

  Jane had a smudge of what appeared to be dust across one cheek, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’d pushed up the sleeves of her white T-shirt, and held a little microphone toward him, its thin cord stretched to the max and attached to the camera.

  “I’ll tell you as much as I can tell you,” Jake said. “Which isn’t much. We have a white female, mid-thirties. The medical examiner, at this early juncture, is calling it a ‘possible homicide.’ That’s all we can say at this time.”

  Jane had a funny look on her face. Wonder why? But Jake went on.

  “No cause of death at this time. That’s about it.”

  “Do you have a name of the victim?” Jane asked. “Why she was here?”

  “Not at this time, Ms. Ryland,” Jake said. “The Crime Scene unit will arrive soon, we’ll continue our investigation. Anything else will have to come from PR at HQ.”

  “Any connection with the former owners?” Jane asked.

  “Like I said, Ms. Ryland, any further communication will have to come via our headquarters’ public affairs office.” He tried to look stern. “If you have information that you feel might aid us in the investigation, we’re eager to hear it.”

  He paused. Knowing Jane wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell him anything. Although, of course, she already had. Former owners.

  “Anything else? No?” he said. “And we’re done.”

  “Thanks, Detective,” Jane said. “As always.”

  He caught a wisp of a smile. He’d see her later. Alone.

  “Jake!” a voice came from within the house. DeLuca appeared at the screen door, gesturing him to come closer. “When you have a minute?” he said, voice low. “Got something.”

  10

  “What’s this all about, Mr. Thorley?” The rye bread on Peter Hardesty’s turkey sandwich was turning up at the corners, and by now, four hours after he’d opened the waxed paper, the mayo was risky. He tossed the whole thing into his trash basket, regretting the waste. Thorley, sullen, sat in the visitor chair of Hardesty’s law office, running his tongue over his teeth and staring at the framed diplomas on the wall. The interview was not going well.

  “Columbia Law, as you see,” Peter said. “And then the Northeastern prisoners’ rights program. I understand what you might have experienced down at MCI Norfolk. You were inside for—how long? Fifteen years? But you’ve been doing great on parole. So. I admit, I’m confused.”

  “Can I go?” Thorley said.

  And we’re having a wonderful day. Peter took off his suit jacket, draped it over the back of his chair. Stacks of rubber-banded file folders and red-brown accordion files lined the wall under his curving bay windows. Outside, the Boylston Street side of the Boston Common lawn was transformed into a multicolored expanse of college students, maybe staying for the summer, now tossing Frisbees and skateboarding on the Revolutionary War pathways.

  “You can go, sure,” Peter said. “But how about giving me five minutes? All I want to know—what’s going on here, Mr. Thorley? Your sister is confused, upset, as you might imagine. Should we give her a call? Reassure her you’re fine? She seems to have a lot of affection for you.”

  Some lawyers didn’t care about the reality, they simply wanted to get their client off. He’d heard them say it to suspects—don’t tell me what happened. I don’t want to know. Peter preferred to work from truth, though clients didn’t always tell it. Innocent or guilty. He’d be a zealous advocate, no matter what.

  Thorley fidgeted in the upholstered chair, like he was trying to sit without touching it. “You know the drill. I went to the cops, confessed, bang, that’s it.”

  “That’s not it. I have your file, Mr. Thorley.” Pulling teeth. “I can get the Carley Marie Schaefer evidence from the police. I can see if there’s anything to tie the case to you. Trust me here. It’ll be easier if you tell me the truth.”

  “It’s already easy. I told them everything.” Thorley cleared his throat, a sandpaper rasp. Patted his empty shirt pocket, maybe imagining cigarettes. “How many times do I have to—this is crap. Why don’t you believe me? Why don’t they? Don’t they want to catch the guy? I’m the guy.”

  “They had nothing to hold you, that was why they let you go.”

  “I confessed. What the hell else do they need?”

  Peter’s phone rang, the bell making Thorley flinch. He let it go to voice mail. “Mr. Thorley? I have all the time in the world. But you? You don’t. How about you tell me what’s really going on?”

  * * *

  “They let him go?” Jake took a deep breath, considering. Paused at a blinking yellow light, just long enough to be legal. Hit the gas. D had just gotten off the phone with Bing Sherrey. “They let him go?”

  “Yeah,” D said. “That guy we saw in the interrogation room before they cut the mic? He was a lawyer. ’Parently he convinced Bing there wasn’t enough to hold him.” D shrugged. “I mighta gone the other way.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “I remember Grampa—I mean, the commissioner—saying ‘it’s got to be someone we haven’t questioned yet, Jake.’ Maybe he was right. He knew this case, start to finish. Wish I could
ask him about it.”

  Jake hit the remote, waited to see if the often-stubborn cop shop garage door would open this time.

  “There’s no DNA test results,” Jake said as they finally drove inside, the door clanking down behind them. He pulled into a space marked HOM SQD. “It was too long ago. Thorley was inside before they pulled samples from every convicted felon like they do now. If there’s even anything to compare his sample to. She wasn’t sexually assaulted.”

  “That we know of.”

  “True. But that’s all there is, right? What’s in the evidence file?” Jake shook his head as he turned off the ignition. “Wouldn’t that be a helluva thing? If we closed Lilac Sunday, after all this time? Especially now.”

  “You think he did it?” DeLuca opened his door.

  “Doesn’t matter what I think,” Jake said. “Only matters what’s true.”

  Jake punched the button for the ancient elevator. The gears ground into place, the cables whirring.

  “You handle the lab,” Jake said. “Okay? See what they make of that two-by-four you found in the closet. Good thing the news conference was over by then, right? I can imagine the headline if—well, we lucked out on that one. And check the bank records. See who owned that house.”

  The elevator door slid open. The inside walls were plastered with taped-up handwritten posters for a retirement thing at Doyle’s—someone had magic-markered pointy black devil horns on the short-timer’s face—a pitch for supplemental health insurance, and a union meeting at the post in Southie.

  “Never a dull moment,” Jake said.

  “You wish,” D said. “One of these days that retirement poster’s gonna be for me. Then you’ll be sorry.”

  “No doubt,” Jake said. He pushed 4. Nothing. He pushed again, then jabbed the close button. “I’ll call on Mornay and Weldon. See if they’re missing an agent. I don’t want to e-mail them a crime scene photo—there’s no shot where she doesn’t look dead. It’s after five, so maybe someone hasn’t come back to the office who should have.”