Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  He toasted the universe, shaking his head. “Happy days,” he said.

  * * *

  Jane kept her voice low, needing to hurry, not wanting Jake to hear her. She edged away from the open door. Put her head down and clamped the phone to her ear.

  “So it was Detective Brogan at your sister-in-law’s? And his partner. Okay. But you’re saying they were only asking questions. Didn’t charge you with anything. Correct? So how did they leave it?”

  She nodded as she listened, even though Elliot Sandoval couldn’t see her. She heard the frustration in his voice, the worry. She’d been right, that’s where Jake had been, and that made sense, since the Waverly Road house once belonged to the Sandovals. Now she was intrigued by what Sandoval was asking.

  “Your lawyer?” Jane replied. “Well, sure. Happy to chat with him. Her. Tomorrow?”

  She wanted to focus on this, but it was a challenge with Jake right in the other room. Jake.

  “Mr. Sandoval? Did you mention to either of the detectives that you had told me they were coming to your sister-in-law’s house?” Jane asked. This was getting complicated. Was getting? Had gotten. “No? Lets leave it that way, okay? It’s best if this is just between us.” Jane tucked the phone under her chin, dug in the kitchen junk drawer for a pencil and paper.

  “And what’s your lawyer’s name?” She was incredibly curious—how had the penniless, foreclosed victim Sandoval afforded a lawyer? He hadn’t been charged, he’d said. So a public defender couldn’t have been appointed.

  She had one more thing to tell him. And she hoped she was right.

  “Mr. Sandoval?” She paused, considering, then went on. “Don’t worry, okay? I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  She clicked off, wondering if that was true. As a reporter, it didn’t matter, really, how Mr. Sandoval felt. It didn’t even matter whether he was a murderer. All that mattered was the truth.

  17

  Aaron watched Lizzie try to re-zip the back of her dress.

  “I mean, we shouldn’t be doing this,” she was saying. “We shouldn’t.”

  The minute he’d come up here, seen the fluffy white comforter, and the puffy pillow, all as if they were just waiting for someone to come back to bed, he’d stood, looking at it, his mind going a hundred miles an hour. Three beers—was it four?—maybe that was it.

  He teased her up the stairs, promised a “surprise.” Now, after fifteen minutes of whatever, was she pretending to be reluctant?

  Lizzie perched on the edge of the bed, sitting up, her hair wild and her cheeks flushed. It was so quiet he could hear the hum of the electricity, hear her trying to catch her breath, hear the zipper release again as he leaned closer, his mouth at her ear.

  “Shouldn’t? There’s no ‘shouldn’t.’ It’s our house, Lizzie,” he breathed. “We’re here, alone, just us. Let go a little. Life isn’t all numbers and spreadsheets.… Sometimes, it’s—” He pulled at her zipper again, pulled down. “Sometimes it’s just—sheets.”

  He waited.

  Lizzie burst out laughing. Laughing? She’d flopped back onto the rumpled comforter, then instantly sat up again.

  “Sheets? Aaron Gianelli, you have lost your—” She was shaking her head, making fun of him? Not at all the reaction he was going for. “You are too much.”

  She stood, lifting her arms to zip her dress, and succeeded, laughing the whole time.

  He stayed on the bed, frowning at her. Watching her struggle with that dumb gray dress.

  “Just trying to inject a little humor,” he said.

  She was looking right at him now, still kind of laughing. Tossed her hair, as if she was in charge, and then fiddled with the back of her dress, twisting the fabric into place around her hips.

  “Oh, you certainly did that. For a minute, I was even—” She stopped. Gestured at the room. “I don’t know, Aaron, it’s crazy, and I was trying to, as you suggested, let myself go for once. But this is—”

  * * *

  Lizzie cleared her throat, trying to get her bearings. She fumbled for the little hook and eye at the top of her zipper, managed to get that fastened again. Found her shoes, wiggled into them, one bare foot at a time. She could not believe, simply could not, that she’d let herself be lured up here by this guy.

  Wine or not, messing around with a fellow employee on the abandoned bed of a foreclosed home was not romantic. Or sexy.

  Or was it? She looked at him, so handsome, and a funny look on his face, like he was concerned she wouldn’t like him.

  Maybe she was being too picky.

  She tried to recalculate, reset the equation. What if this was—an adventure? An exciting adventure. There weren’t that many good men left, her girlfriends kept telling her. Aaron had his pluses, as well as his minuses. So did everyone, right? And it wasn’t like she had any other offers. She felt her apprehensions about Aaron beginning to dissolve, but even so. This didn’t feel like the proper place. That wasn’t being “picky.” “It’s not you. It only—this is someone’s home, you know?”

  “It isn’t ‘someone’s home.’” Aaron sat on the edge of the bed, hadn’t quite buttoned his shirt. “This house belongs to the bank. I’m in charge of it. If it’s anyone’s, its mine. And anyway, Lizzie, this is all your fault.”

  He smiled at her, that smile she still couldn’t ignore. The way he’d looked at her outside the vault that day, and Sunday night, and on the stairs fifteen minutes ago.

  “My fault?”

  “I couldn’t resist you,” he murmured. He stood, drawing her closer, his arm sliding around her waist. “It wouldn’t have mattered where we were. Can you forgive me for that? Can we start again? Try again?”

  She felt the last of her resolve melt away, from the heat of the gathering darkness, and the desire in his voice, from his embrace, and her need for—whatever it was she needed. A partner. A future. Her one plus one.

  “Stay,” Aaron whispered. “Just a little bit longer.…”

  Lizzie couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing again. Now he was singing?

  * * *

  “You. Are. Kidding me.” Jane tried to process what she was hearing. She took Jake’s hand, unwrapped his arm from around her shoulders, stood up from the couch. Counted toward ten, silently, not looking at him. Turned around when she got to about four.

  “But you could be back in Boston in plenty of time.” He could, she knew he could. “What if talking with this—what’s his name? Only takes a day? Or two?”

  “Frasca. Dr. Nathaniel Frasca. I’ve got to go to D.C., that’s the only way I can look at the files. They’re on paper, originals, even sealed court documents. It could take a while, there’s simply no way to predict. Plus, we need to talk in person, and he’s about to go out of town, and it’s—I’m sorry, honey.” Jake stood, too, tried to put his arm back around her.

  She didn’t want him to. Shook him off, stepped away.

  “How long can it take for you guys to discuss false confessions? Why can’t you do it on the phone? Or by e-mail? Don’t you have to be here this week to handle the Waverly—” She stopped, hearing the whine in her voice. This was Jake’s job, he had no choice, he’d gotten a chain-of-command assignment, there was a murder involved, and she’d be doing exactly the same thing if their positions were reversed. It wasn’t about her. Sometimes life didn’t work out the way you hoped.

  “I’m sorry, Jake.” Jane quieted her voice and touched the sleeve of his T-shirt, surrendering. “Do whatever you need to do. It’s fine. We can always go, right?”

  And here she’d predicted this evening’s only conflict would be about whether Jake knew she knew that Elliot Sandoval had—hey. She rewound to the sentence she’d cut off earlier. “Jake? Seriously. Don’t you need to be in town? Working the Waverly Road murder?”

  “Supe’s assigning that to someone else,” Jake said. “I’m out of town, D and Kat are on vacation.”

  “They get to go?” Jane heard the annoyance in her voice. C’mon,
Jane. “I know it’s not your fault, Jake. Really. I’m just disappointed.”

  And truth be told, Jake being off the case did make her reporting on that story less complicated. Still, she’d rather be complicated and in Bermuda with him.

  “I thought you’d kill me,” he said.

  “Don’t tempt me.” She reached for her glass of wine, thought about draining it, took a sip instead. “But then I’d have to get rid of your body somehow. And I like it too much to dump it somewhere.”

  “I like yours, too,” he said. “As you well know. And I’ll make it up to you. Somehow.”

  “Okay, deal. In fact…” She faced him, hands on hips. Half teasing. “… how about starting right now. You said ‘false confessions.’ Who confessed? To what? Why do you think it’s false?”

  Jake was shaking his head. “Uh-uh, sister. I can’t tell you that.” He sat back on the couch. Patted the spot next to him. “Truce?” he said. “Rain check?”

  Jane sank down beside him, slowly. She pressed her arm against his, leaned her leg against his Levi’s. He was leaving town, first thing in the morning, and this it would be their last time together for however long. “I had a great new bathing suit,” she said. “It’s very, very, very small. Too bad you won’t get to see it.”

  He kissed her, his lips brushing her hair. “Someday,” he whispered.

  They sat, silent, watching out the bay window as the streetlights came on along Corey Road, hearing only tinkling music, Scott Joplin, as an ice cream truck trundled its way down her street. Jane thought about juggling and balance and how plans sometimes worked. Sometimes didn’t. About whether the whole thing was doomed to failure, because of his job, and hers, and the impossibility of it all. About what had happened to ruin their weekend, and take Jake out of town without her. About how she would have made the same decision, to follow a story and leave Jake at home. About whether this was the universe notifying them they should face reality and call it off.

  “Someday,” she said.

  The music outside faded, then disappeared.

  18

  “You’ll need to tell me the truth, that’s all there is to it.” Peter Hardesty tried to decide whether he was visiting the cramped and faintly mildewy studio apartment of a murderer or a liar.

  The liar part he could handle, but first he’d have to get Gordon Thorley to reveal why he was fabricating a confession. What would cause someone to playact like that? Maybe his client was a headline seeker, needed the spotlight, craved the attention. Peter had seen a few of those types in his legal career. Maybe Thorley was a nut. Peter had seen even more of those.

  The murderer part he could also handle, if it eventually turned out law enforcement could provide sufficient evidence Gordon Thorley was at the Arboretum on that Lilac Sunday nineteen years ago. Even if Thorley’s sister’s financing ran out, he could probably get appointed to the case and make sure the guy received a zealous defense.

  Innocent, guilty, or crazy. Peter simply had to discover which legal path to pursue.

  But right now, Gordon Thorley seemed most interested in the large-no-sugar that Peter had provided. A slug of caffeine was occasionally enough to get guys like this to talk. Not Thorley. Not today.

  “Sir?” Peter tried again.

  “Like I said.” Thorley hunched over a plastic-topped kitchen table, his white T-shirt barely touching the curved metal back of the lone chair. Peter imagined he’d be able to see the man’s bony spine through the shirt’s thin cotton.

  Peter stood at the entryway to the kitchen area, since Thorley’s chair was the only place to sit other than a sorry-looking couch in this … rooming house, they used to call them. Probably a more politically correct name now. Kinder words wouldn’t erase the smoke-stained paint, the discolored patches on the threadbare carpeting, the matchbook shoved under one metal leg of the kitchen table.

  Loser, Peter thought, then corrected himself. Client. Innocent till proven guilty.

  “Like you said—what?” Peter had not been offered a seat on the couch, not necessarily a bad thing, so he waited, arms crossed, briefcase open on the floor, standing between the front door and the back window, pretending he was comfortable. Two steps would take him to Thorley. There was not enough air for the both of them. Peter had seen worse. He had to get his guy to talk, or this was going nowhere.

  “Forget it,” Thorley said.

  What bugged the hell out of him, it appeared there was more to Thorley than semi-squalor. Along one wall, in black frames and matted in white, a single line of photographs stretched from one corner to the other. Aligned precisely, not one corner tipping higher than any another. Each black-and-white was similar to the next, but different. Branches. Bare tree branches, some unmistakably ancient, gnarled and battered. Others delicately young, thin, fragile. No leaves, no buds, no flowers, only stark slashes of black, backlit against a cloudless sky.

  “You take those?” Might as well try to understand the guy. Murderer? Or liar?

  “What of it?”

  “They’re good. You’re talented.” Peter had a thought. Not a good one. “Where’d you shoot them?” The Arboretum?

  “Around,” Thorley said.

  “The Arboretum?” He had to ask.

  “Maybe.” Thorley flickered him a look. Then stared again at the table.

  So much for conversation.

  Peter pulled an accordion folder from his bag. This folder was still thin, not yet filled with the research and documentation he’d gather as the case went forward. If it went forward. Peter was used to recalcitrant clients, to combative clients, to those who didn’t understand he was the only thing that stood between them and a justice system that would as soon keep them in the slammer forever, tax dollars and the Constitution and actual guilt be damned. Had to admit, though, he wasn’t used to having them confess to cold-case murders. That made this interesting. Unusual.

  “Like I said.” Thorley took another sip of coffee, then coughed, one miserable hack, clapping a wiry hand to his chest. His once-white T-shirt, ribbing around the arms and neck spent and shapeless, said BARDON’S GYM in fading orange lettering. That place had closed ten years ago, Peter knew, maybe longer. “I did it.”

  “Did what?” Peter flipped though the folder, finding the pale blue onionskin he needed. “According to your parole records here, you have no priors before your armed robbery conviction in 1995. And after you got out in 2010—your second try at parole—you stayed clean. What’s the deal now with this sudden confession?”

  Thorley drained the last from his paper cup, crumpled it, tossed it in the aluminum sink. He licked his lips, patted his chest, then his jeans pockets.

  “You got any—?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” Peter said. “Gave it up.” He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, the alarm set to remind him of his meeting with Jane Ryland. For which he was now verging on late. Time was also running out, he predicted, for Elliot Sandoval. “Look. Thorley. Your sister called me. I’m here to help. You need to let me help you.”

  “Carley and me, we met at high school,” Thorley said. He looked over Peter’s shoulder, so intently Peter turned to see if someone was there.

  “We—had a thing,” Thorley went on. “We kept it secret. I was older. She lived with her parents, out in Attleboro. Then she tried to break it off. I didn’t want that. We went to our special place in the…”

  “What was she wearing?” Peter interrupted. He’d already heard Thorley tell the “special place” part. They needed to get this show on the road.

  “When?” Thorley said.

  “When you killed her.”

  “A dress. With flowers.”

  “Remarkable.” Peter riffled though the sparse paperwork, found the ragged photocopy of the Register article he’d been looking for. “That’s exactly what the newspaper reported.”

  “’Cause it’s true, I guess.”

  “You ever kill anyone else?”

  “Nope.

  “Just Carley
Marie Schaefer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why? Why’d you kill her?”

  Thorley looked at the kitchen sink, as if fearing he’d thrown away the coffee too soon. He splayed his narrow fingers across the yellowed Formica table, stared down at them. Stretched one hand, then the other.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why not?”

  * * *

  “Her jacket is here, Mr. Gianelli, so she must be here.”

  Aaron hated Stephanie’s voice. Almost as much as he hated what she was telling him. The secretary sat behind her damn little desk, wearing that damn little headset, and didn’t seem at all concerned that Lizzie, her boss, wasn’t in her office. Even at eleven in the morning, way past the time she should be here. As for the jacket, Aaron knew what Stephanie clearly didn’t. Lizzie had left that jacket on her chair last night, not this morning. Last night, when Aaron had lured her to the swan boats, and then to that expensive dinner, and then to the second floor of the Hardamore Road house.

  The office door behind Stephanie was wide open, showing Lizzie’s vacant desk. And that meaningless jacket over the back of her black leather chair.

  Ridiculous that their “date,” or whatever, ended so absurdly. Him slamming the door as he stormed out. He’d tossed his whole ring of keys at her, so frustrated, even kind of told her to lock up and find her own way home. It was a bush-league beer-fueled mistake, but she’d made him so damn angry, laughing at him, first about the sheets, and then about, seemed like, every freaking thing he said, that he’d pretty much lost it. Now, before the whole thing blew up in his face, he had to get those keys back. Keep Lizzie happy. And make sure he hadn’t created a career-ending mess.

  “Is she in a meeting?” That would be a reasonable explanation. “Can you check her calendar?”

  Stephanie yanked open a drawer, but pulled out a packet of sugar instead of a calendar, dumped it into her mug of coffee, stirred it with a little stick.