Enough.
Jane put her hands on her hips, hoping she appeared tougher than she felt. “Look. I don’t know who you are, but you are clearly breaking and entering. Trespassing. You’ve now pulled a knife, that’s assault, and you’ve admitted to petty theft, threatened credit card fraud, and there’s a lawyer about to come downstairs. So why don’t you—” She waved at the front door. “Go. Now. I won’t call the cops, I won’t tell anyone. You just—”
“Stop right there.”
The voice came from behind her. Peter.
* * *
He’d heard voices downstairs—had Jane turned on the television? But there was not a TV quality to the voice. Maybe the phone. But then—was that her phone ringing? She was still talking while it was ringing? Someone else was there. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist as securely as he could, and peered over the banister. Saw Jane’s back.
And the face of Gordon Thorley.
What was he doing here?
Then he saw the knife.
On tiptoe back to his bedroom. The .38 in the drawer. Ammo in, safety off. Nine-one-one. Shit. Phone cradle empty. He’d left the handset somewhere, again. A land line was in the kitchen, and his cell still on the damn console of the Jeep.
How’d Thorley get inside? Peter’d left his own front door open. And the frigging garage. He’d only planned to be inside a minute or two. Shit.
Peter was barefoot. Wrapped in a towel. But there was no time to do anything about that. He took one quick but careful step, then another, then another, heading toward the top of the stairs. Plastered his back against the wall, took a quieting breath. Listened.
There was conversation from below him, Jane talking, quietly; he couldn’t make out the words. No screaming. Okay, she was handling it.
But Thorley had a knife. Thorley was a convicted felon, an accomplice in an armed robbery. He’d confessed to murder. And now—if what Detective Brogan said was true—another woman was dead.
If Thorley was already a murderer, he already faced a life sentence. Killing Jane might not make a difference. To him.
Peter whirled to face downstairs, gripping the gun in both hands, with a fleeting thought for the towel. If it fell off …
“Stop right there, Thorley,” he said.
His weapon was pointed square at the man. He was a good shot, a confident shot. But Jane was in the way.
Jane took a step back.
“My best idea, Mr. Thorley, is for you to sit on that couch,” Peter said. He cocked his head, unwilling to take his aim off the target. “Jane, you get behind me. Upstairs.”
Jane darted, got there in three quick steps. Eyes on Thorley, he felt Jane go past him, but she didn’t run away, stayed close by. “Where’s your phone?” she whispered.
“I give,” Thorley said. “Don’t call the cops.”
“Why the hell not, Thorley?” He’d only used his gun in practice, not like this, but Dianna’d always insisted they might need it. They hadn’t, not while she was alive. Maybe she was still watching over him. “I’m the good guy, remember? Put the knife down. Slide it toward me. Now.”
“Peter, your phone,” Jane whispered again. “Bedroom?”
“Kitchen,” Peter said.
* * *
“Kitchen?” Jane was so close she could smell Peter’s soap and shampoo, see the outline of the muscles in his back, still glistening with the damp of his shower. He wore only a white towel, tucked around his waist. “Peter, we’ve got to call the cops.”
But that man—whoever he was—stood between her and the kitchen.
“Sit down, Thorley,” Peter said. “I mean—now.”
Jane saw the gun move, barely a fraction.
The man coughed, one disgusting hack, looked like he was about to pass out. He lowered himself to the couch, inch by inch, clamping one hand onto the curve of the arm, the creases in his face deepening, his skin almost yellow. He sank into the cushions, then sidearmed the knife across the carpet. It stuck in the loops of the pile, a foot from the bottom of the stairs.
“Got it,” Jane said.
She took the steps two at a time. Grabbed the knife, held it in one fist, then looked at it, as if it were going to attack her on its own. It was heavier than she’d predicted, the blade straight and shiny and hideous. She wouldn’t throw up. She wouldn’t. This was over.
Peter was down the stairs, closer to Thorley, as Jane headed to the kitchen.
“Hang on, Jane,” Peter said. “Don’t call yet.”
“You kidding me?” she asked.
“Trust me,” Peter said. “We’ll call. When we need to. If we need to. Mr. Thorley?”
Jane edged farther away. She didn’t care what Peter said—there was a guy with a knife. Well, he didn’t have the knife anymore, actually, she did. She held it at her side, the handle still warm, the curve of the plastic fitting her fingers. She put her other hand on her chest, feeling it rise and fall, trying to be as calm as Peter seemed to be. How could he be this cool? She was on the verge of losing it.
Peter still pointed the gun at the man—Thorley? Something like that? They knew each other, for some reason. Obviously they weren’t pals.
“Peter, what the hell—” She didn’t want to hold the disgusting knife anymore, but she was afraid what might happen if she put it down. Peter and the guy couldn’t be in this together, could they? Whatever this was. Peter hadn’t been planning to come home, they were only in Milton because of the crash. This Thorley could not have known Peter’d be here.
“Thorley?” Peter said again.
“What?” the man said. “I’m done, you win, whatever.”
Jane took another step closer to the kitchen. If Peter wasn’t on Thorley’s side, then the tide seemed to have turned, and whatever danger she’d been in was somehow over. Still, she’d be much happier if the police arrived to make the odds even better.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Peter was saying. “I’m on your side, you know that.”
Jane’s brain was going to explode. They were on the same side?
31
“Well, fancy meeting you here.”
Lizzie turned at Aaron’s voice. He stood under the spotlight glow of the halogens illuminating her space in the bank’s parking lot. Pale blue shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Loafers, with no socks. Khaki pants. Out of his banker’s clothes.
“Hi, Aaron,” she said. “I guess we’re both running late.”
“Indeed.” He smiled slowly, raked a hand through his hair. Kept staring at her.
It was just the two of them. She heard the thundery rumble of the elevator going back up, the static buzz of the lights. A multicolored maze of interlinked pipes twisted across the ceiling. The parking lot, a grid of mostly empty lined spaces, hosted only the familiar dark Lexus in the president’s spot, and cars from a few other Tuesday night stragglers. And the two of them.
Her car key clicker was in her hand. Aaron’s keys were in her briefcase.
Lizzie set the briefcase on the pavement, not quite sure what to do. She planned to get those appetizers and meet Aaron at her apartment, maybe even have a second to change into something more—casual. He’d never seen her in anything but banker’s clothes, and she had a silk camisole that—
“Maybe we should change our plans,” Aaron interrupted her thoughts.
A pang of disappointment. Was he canceling? She wasn’t that late.
“I picked up your keys,” she said.
“Did you get my keys?” he said at exactly the same time.
Aaron laughed, the sound echoing from the parking lot’s dingy concrete walls. A reassuring, happy, relieved-sounding laugh.
“Jinx,” Aaron said.
Good.
“Jinx,” Lizzie said back. She and her father used to say jinx, back when she was little.
“You have them? Here?” He watched her nod. “Terrific.”
She felt his arm go across her shoulders, felt him take her hand, point her cl
icker at her car door, locking it.
“Ka-ching,” he said. “Leave your car here. I’ll drive. Let’s go celebrate.”
The beep of the lock ricocheted through the empty lot. Her car was locked. With her on the outside.
“Celebrate?” She bent down, picked up her briefcase. Nothing was how she’d planned it anymore.
“Big time,” Aaron said. “Your chariot awaits, milady.”
Lizzie felt her cheeks flush as she slid into the front seat of his sleek white car. He was driving, she was the “date.” It was silly, and maybe she should be skeptical, but … it had been such a long time.
“All set?” He adjusted the rearview mirror, then reached over and placed one hand, briefly, on her shoulder. “Look in the backseat. I brought champagne. And some apps.”
“You—?” She wasn’t being very articulate, which was annoying, but she almost couldn’t keep up with this. He could be so charming. She twisted around to look in the backseat, saw a bottle of Moët in clear cellophane, and a glossy white box from Cinzano’s Trattoria.
“I’m going to make it up to you,” he said. “Let’s pretend last night never happened. Okay? I’ll stay away from beer this time. And you’re going to love tonight.”
* * *
Jake’s eyes opened as the wheels rumbled across the tarmac, the reverse thrust of the jet engines pushing him forward against this seat belt. He blinked, assessing, remembering. He’d fallen asleep, his feet holding the briefcase under the seat in front of him.
“Welcome to Boston, ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated until…”
Jake yawned, shook his head to clear it, then found his cell, checked for messages. Nothing. Little did Elliot Sandoval know how events had lined up to give him one more night off the hook. Tomorrow, Jake would get that show on the road. Get the results of those lab tests, and assess what D had meant about the steroids. But all in all, soon he’d have some progress to report to Shandra Newbury’s family. And to her colleague at the real estate office, that Brian Turiello. Telling the people who cared that you’d nabbed the bad guy, that was what made it all worth it. Like his grandfather always told him.
Jane’s silence—not necessarily good. He wondered if she was more upset about canceling the vacation then she had let on.
Six-B finally got organized, let him into the aisle. By the time he reached his car, carrying cellophane-wrapped purple and white lilacs from the airport’s “Bring Me Something” stand—he’d realized the irony of lilacs, but Jane would never know—he’d gotten Jane’s voice mail again. Ten at night. No answer from Jane. Strange.
Or maybe not. If she was unhappy with him.
So now what? He threw his overnight bag in the backseat, placed the lilacs on the seat beside him, and headed for the exit, trying to decide. Home? And call Jane in the morning?
Or to Jane’s now? And surprise her? This time of night, he could hop on Storrow Drive, get off at Kenmore, and be at her condo in fifteen.
She’d love the fragrant lilacs. Maybe he wouldn’t go home at all.
Yes. To Jane’s. And the trip to D.C. hadn’t been a total bust. Frasca had said the name “rang a bell.” What bell?
* * *
“You have thirty seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doing,” Peter said. “I’m going to put this gun down, okay?”
Peter slowly lowered the .38, setting it on the breakfront beside him. Still in that damn towel, there was nowhere to stick it and keep the thing around him. Someday this would be funny. He hoped. At least—because of lawyer-client privilege—no law enforcement types would have to hear about this, and he could keep it away from a potential jury. He hoped.
There was still poor Jane to deal with. He watched her, with that bizarre knife in her hand, clearly baffled by his not wanting to call the cops. At least she wasn’t yelling. Or flipping out. Had to give her credit.
He kept the weapon within reach. Kept his eyes on Thorley, still slumped on the couch. Shoulders sagging, chest sagging, eyes downcast. All the fight gone out of him. What the hell was he doing here in the first place?
“And listen,” he went on. “Because you pulled a knife on Jane here, you’ve waived attorney-client privilege.” Total mumbo jumbo, but Thorley’d never understand that. “Whatever we say, Jane’s going to hear it. But one false move, Thorley, and it’s the gun and nine-one-one. We clear?”
“Whatever,” Thorley said.
Peter saw Thorley’s running shoes were caked with dust, the bottoms of his jeans also edged with brown. Where had he been?
“Jane, my client and I need to discuss a situation. Right now. And at some point, it might be a story for you. I could ask you to go upstairs or something, but since we have a deal about the other matter, I’m hoping we can continue it with this case. Agreed?”
Jane rolled her eyes, clearly dubious. Her T-shirt had come untucked, her hair out of its rubber band, one leg smeared with caking brown dirt.
“Curiouser and curiouser.” She shrugged, waving the knife—then apparently realized what she was doing. “And curiouser. Okay if I put this thing down? Your ‘client’ going to threaten me with something else?”
“Jane?” Peter had to admit their situation was through the looking glass but the clock was ticking, and he had to decide what to do about Thorley. Peter couldn’t be harboring a fugitive. He’d have to advise Thorley to turn himself in, make a deal with the cops. But not with a newspaper reporter hanging around, unless she’d play ball. “Agreed? We don’t have much time to—”
“Agreed,” Jane said. “I hardly have a choice.”
“So, Mr. Thorley,” Peter said. “What the hell are you doing?”
* * *
At least she was going to hear the explanation. Jane leaned against the kitchen doorjamb, regrouping. Failing. Her knees weren’t feeling quite right, nor was her brain, and it had crossed her mind, out of the blue, that if something happened to her—whatever “something” would be—no one had any idea where she was. She flashed on the body of Shandra Newbury. The cops had found her simply by chance. Today Jane had gone off, without a second thought, with this Peter Hardesty—a man she didn’t have a chance to research because she hadn’t known he was coming to her office—and now she sat in his house while he held a gun on a “client.” A client who’d held her at knife point. And now this Peter Hardesty, supposed to be a good guy, was asking her not to call the police.
Not how she’d envisioned this evening.
“Sorry about your friend,” Thorley was saying. “Didn’t expect anyone else to be here. I guess I freaked out. I mean, who knew what the hell she was doing here? Getting rid of the dog? Maybe she broke in, right? I could hear the shower, and figured maybe you didn’t know that she was here. I was trying to protect your stuff.”
Jane rolled her eyes. Engaged with Peter, Thorley seemed to have forgotten she was there.
“Bull,” Peter said. “I’m waiting.”
“You know the thing,” Thorley said. “We talked about.”
“I’m waiting,” Peter said.
“And you know there was another…” This time Thorley glanced at Jane, just a flicker, as if he were trying to decide.
After ten at night. A knife and a gun. Two crazy strangers making no sense. Just another night in Jane world.
“Thing,” Thorley continued.
Peter took a step toward him, one hand still on the stupid towel, wary. It was hard to take him seriously in a towel, but this did seem serious. He had to be a good guy, right?
“Yeah,” Peter said. “And?”
Code talking. The two of them were having an entire conversation without using any specific words. Oh, sure, she was hearing them talk, but it didn’t matter one bit. She had no idea what they were discussing so intently. And cryptically. But from the look on Peter’s face, it was not good news.
“Well,” Thorley said. “I did it. And like I tried to tell you, the other one, too.”
Tell you? Did it? The other one? Was t
his code for the Arboretum murder?
“Now do you believe me?” Thorley said.
* * *
“Thanks, Jane. There was no other way to do this,” Peter said. He’d told her to stand watch at the door of his Jeep, guarding a now-disarmed and seemingly indifferent Thorley who sat slumped and seat-belted into the passenger side, while Peter ran back inside and threw on his pants. Finally. Couldn’t go to the police station without pants.
“Thorley’s not going to make any more trouble,” Peter continued. He waved Jane to the back seat. “And you might need to talk to the cops.”
The dashboard clock’s green numbers flashed to 10:37 P.M. Peter’d been told Branford Sherrey’s shift started at ten. He got in, closed his door. Thorley’s rattletrap sedan would have to stay in the driveway until they figured out how to handle it. Thorley. The Lilac Sunday killer? How would Thorley’s sister, Doreen Rinker, and her family handle that? “Guess you’ll get more story than we bargained for.”
“Someday.” Jane dragged her seat belt across her chest. “A story’s the last thing on my mind right now, I’ve gotta say. I’m not dead. And I have my wallet back. Thank you so much for a lovely evening.”
“I know, I’m so—there’s no way I could have—again. I’m sorry,” Peter understood her sarcasm. Didn’t blame her.
Now to the police station. He couldn’t begin to predict what would happen there, or after that. Was this latest victim dead because Peter had engineered Thorley’s release? People—even people who confessed—were innocent until proven guilty. It was his job, he reminded himself, to make sure that right was protected. Still, could he have prevented this murder? Could he have predicted—no, he decided.
Peter buzzed down his window and cranked the ignition. The law wasn’t about predictions. It was about rules. His sworn responsibility was to play by them.
Jane, though. She must be incredibly confused, and he wouldn’t blame her for being terrified, but she’d come through two harrowing incidents without tears or panic. Now she was sitting in the backseat of a Jeep with a nutcase and his lawyer in the front, like it was merely another night on the job. Tough woman, he thought. Like Dianna.
Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) Page 15
