Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  He backed out of the driveway into the spring night, streetlights illuminating the empty neighborhood, so quiet he could hear the hiss of his tires along the asphalt. He even smelled Dianna’s pink peonies, in full first bloom, as he rounded the corner and headed for downtown.

  Once again it was his job to do the best he could for Thorley. A confessed double murderer. Who in the eyes of the law was still innocent.

  32

  “He what? Confessed? Again?” Jake was right, he knew he’d be right. It simply would have been better if he’d been right sooner. Now this Thorley—hell, the Lilac Sunday killer!—had apparently killed someone else to prove his guilt. Why else would he murder another woman?

  The phone call from Sherrey had come as Jake was heading for the exit. He swerved his BPD-issue cruiser off Storrow Drive—sorry Jane, so much for the lilacs—and toward police HQ.

  “Be there in ten,” Jake said. “Don’t let him say a word until I’m in the room. Not that his lawyer—Hardesty?—would let him, until we get some kind of a deal. Should we get the parole officer to confirm he didn’t report in? You’re calling the DA, right? She’ll love this. Big headlines.”

  Big as headlines could be. Thorley was on his way to the cop shop, turning himself in. That closed the new Arboretum case, closed the old Lilac Sunday case, and made Jake’s day.

  Still.

  He stopped at a red light and let the entirety of the situation sink in. Someone had been killed, some innocent person, because he—sure, and the other cops—hadn’t trusted Thorley’s initial confession, hadn’t possessed the evidence to prove his involvement. If they had—and if that Peter Hardesty hadn’t reminded them of their shaky legal standing—they’d have kept him in custody. And the newest victim would still be alive.

  The light turned green. One step at a time. Jake couldn’t control the universe. He could only make sure those who broke the law were brought to justice. That, at least, was definitely going to happen.

  Jake took a deep breath, letting his fears evaporate and steeling his will. “A cop doesn’t need easy,” Grandpa Brogan always told him. This one sure hadn’t been easy. Justice for Carley Marie Schaefer had taken almost twenty years—starting with the killing at the Arboretum and ending with tonight’s murder on Moulten Road, just a block from the initial crime scene. Now it was all approaching the grand finale. He wished his grandfather could be here to share what was about to happen.

  * * *

  “No, no. Turn left!” Had she said “right” when she meant “left”? Lizzie’d been giving Aaron directions to her apartment, and she knew she’d said left, but he was turning right.

  “I’m so sorry, Aaron, did I say right? I meant, um, the other right.” Lizzie noticed how his tanned hands rested on the steering wheel, how his face came in and out of the lights as they passed the neighborhood street lamps. Full moon, she saw.

  “Nope, got to make one stop first.” Aaron was smiling, thank goodness, but wasn’t looking at her. “Okay with you? Two seconds. You don’t mind, do you, Miss Lizzie?”

  He’d started calling her that, “Miss Lizzie,” all through their small talk on the way from the bank. He’d asked about her family, and her job, and her college. Again, even though she knew she’d already told him the same stuff at dinner the other night. Maybe he was trying to forget that whole episode. Like she was.

  Was he taking her to his place? Was that a good thing? What would she do? She clasped her hands in her lap, and tried to look nonchalant. Like a successful person, on an actual date.

  Even this time of night, the BU students were outside. Lounging on porches, smoking whatever, savoring the last of the spring evening, a few mismatched dogs teasing each other on one front lawn. People were happy, appreciating their lives, knowing how to be loved. Maybe she could start that soon. If she wasn’t too picky.

  She sneaked another glance at Aaron, driving so confidently, back straight and his hair a tiny bit too long over his starched collar. A cool guy—“preppy,” she’d have called him when she was in college. He’d have called her a nerd.

  Here they were. Together.

  “Here we are,” Aaron said. He pulled into a driveway, then made the turn into a parking lot behind a faded beige brick apartment building, a concrete plot bordered on two sides by craggy maples and newly piled mulch. Most of the yellow-lined spaces were filled, which made sense. Brookline cops were draconian about on-street parking, their enforcement relentless, and that upped the value of the properties with off-street spots like these.

  “Is this where you live?”

  “Nope.” Aaron pulled into space 303—she noticed because it was a numerical palindrome—turned off the ignition, and unclicked his door. “I’ve got to pick up something in one of our REOs.”

  Lizzie felt her chest clench, a quick dark gathering of suspicion and panic and inevitability. But she was being silly, right? This was a date, on a soft spring night, and they were bank employees.

  If she was right, bank employees with secrets. But she couldn’t be sure.

  He touched her arm, his eyes—well, they were actually twinkling. Like in books. “I know. Silly coincidence, right? But like I said, two seconds. And no pressure. So, Miss Lizzie. Want to come in with me?”

  * * *

  “They’re definitely going to throw me out of here,” Jane said. “They know I’m a reporter. Cops hate when reporters show up at headquarters.”

  In the car, she’d heard Peter’s terse phone call to some detective—not Jake, since he was in D.C.—relating the “situation” with Thorley. They were also madly code-talking, incredibly annoying, but she could infer this was a continuation of some ongoing discussion. Peter had promised to tell her, so all she had to do was wait. It was not yet midnight, so plenty of time to make deadline. If there was a story she was allowed to write.

  What did Thorley do? Why were they here at the cop shop? It was clearly more than what happened at Peter’s house. But what?

  At least Jake wasn’t here to make things even more complicated.

  In the fluorescent glare of the Boston Police headquarters lobby, they’d checked in with the night-shift desk sergeant and were awaiting the call to go upstairs. He’d asked Jane for ID, the first step toward Jane’s inevitable ejection from the interview, but when she simply offered a driver’s license, the desk guy carefully printed it on the intake log without comment. Jane had no doubt the “comment” would come soon, probably followed by her being tossed out on her ass.

  Right now, though, the sergeant was ignoring them.

  “You may be a reporter, but you’re also a victim, remember?” Peter kept his voice low, tapping his fingers like he was playing invisible piano on the black laminate of the reception desk, the starched and buzz-cut officer perched on a stool behind it. Still actively ignoring them. With a cadet stationed beside him, Thorley sat in a row of molded plastic visitor chairs, legs crossed and gnawing a thumbnail. Ignoring them.

  To get upstairs, they’d go through a turnstile and a metal detector, then take the elevator to the interrogation floor. Press were usually relegated to a bleakly uncomfortable room on the civilian side of the lobby, a windowless pen with unforgiving benches and no electrical outlets, clearly designed to make reporters give up and go home.

  “This isn’t just about what happened at your house, is it?” Jane matched his tone, protecting their conversation. She was playing some role in all of this, but she still had no idea what it was. Journalists had rules, but how could she follow them if she didn’t know where they were in the game? Should she call Marcotte? “But d’you you think the police will want to interview me about that?”

  “Probably.” Peter’s voice was barely audible.

  Jane fingered her cell phone, considering. She might regret calling, but it might be worse if she didn’t. Sometimes a decision like this was better left to a higher pay grade.

  “I need to call my editor.” Jane turned away from the desk, not wanting anyone—not Pete
r, not Thorley, not desk guy—to hear the conversation she was about to have.

  A door opened behind the reception desk, a uniformed young woman approached Peter. “Sir? I’m Cadet McClelland. Jean McClelland.”

  Jane was sure this cop’s elaborate makeup was not in the BPD official manual, and she’d certainly had her sleek blue uniform blouse subtly altered from the boxy standard issue. Jane denounced her own snap judgment. Unworthy. Being a knockout didn’t make someone a bad cop. Probably Jane had low blood sugar. She decided to be nice. Nicer.

  “You’re…” The woman consulted a silver clipboard. “Attorney Hardesty? Mr. Thorley? And you’re—”

  Cadet McClelland frowned.

  Jane tried to look innocent as well as nice. She stashed her cell in her tote bag. Not good to be on the phone with the newspaper while Peter was trying to convince this cadet she was legitimately here on non-news business.

  “Are you the same Jane Ry—,” the cadet began.

  “She’s a victim,” Peter interrupted. “She’s not here as a reporter.”

  “Nevertheless.” The cadet flipped her clipboard at Jane, pointed with it toward the dreaded media room. “You’ll have to wait over there.”

  “Come on,” Jane said. So much for nice. “If I was bleeding, or shot, would you make me sit in the press room?”

  “Hold it.” Peter stepped forward, shaking his head. “Detective Sherrey knows the situation. He’s aware she’s involved.”

  “If you’d like to talk with the detective, he may be authorized to arrange it. But press is press, nothing I can do to modify that, sir,” the cadet said.

  Ridiculous. Sit in that stupid press room? Miss out on all of it, and be forced to wait for Peter to tell her—

  One of the revolving front doors whooshed, the rubber sweeps hissing against the once-shiny floor. The glare from the entryway lights put the new arrival in silhouette, but Jane knew the shape. The shoulders, the hair, the determined stride, even the tilt of his head.

  She was glad Peter was blocking her from view. She peered around him, trying to watch the door. Trying to make sense of it. Failing.

  Jake had told her he was going out of town. Would be gone for days. He told her he had to cancel their getaway because he was on assignment. He’d be gone. But he wasn’t gone.

  What was Jake doing here?

  33

  What was Jane doing here?

  Jake had about three seconds before the revolving door deposited him in the lobby, though he was tempted to push around one more time to give himself time to figure out what the hell was going on. Jane? At headquarters? This time of night?

  What’s more, that was Peter Hardesty, the lawyer for the Confessor. And there was the Confessor himself—the Lilac Sunday killer, if Jake was correct. Exactly where he’d always wanted him. It was almost too good to be true—but what was Jane doing with those two? Hardesty had better not have told her about Thorley.

  Jake pushed the aluminum bar on the glass door more slowly than he ordinarily would, stalling. Going on the offense was the best ploy. They were in his territory. They needed as much from him as he needed from them. If Thorley and Hardesty were here to make a deal, Jake—and Bing Sherrey, he guessed—would be their conduit to the DA’s office. So they’d better play nice.

  Would it be a conflict for Hardesty to represent Thorley as well as the about-to-be-nabbed Sandoval? They’d cross that bridge when they came to it. If they came to it.

  But why was Jane here?

  The glass door deposited him on the black rubber doormat, into the hum of the air conditioning and the crackle of the aging fluorescents. No turning back now. The dispatch radio squawked, pulling him into reality. The desk sergeant, by-the-book Lockerbie, looked up, inquiring. Jane and Hardesty watched him, standing side by side. Thorley, feet splayed and oozing attitude, didn’t even glance up. Cadet McSomething hovered with her clipboard.

  Jake acknowledged the cadet, pointing to his own chest, then toward the visitors. I’ll handle. She nodded, taking a step back. Relinquishing command.

  “Peter Hardesty, correct?” Jake didn’t hold out a hand, but Hardesty did, which Jake accepted. Thorley got to his feet, his guard rising to block him. Jane just stood there—was there mud on her leg?—silent. She had a funny look on her face, but so did he, probably.

  “This is Jane Ryland,” Hardesty was saying. “She’s—”

  “She’s a—” The cadet pointed to her clipboard.

  “A reporter.” Jake interrupted. “Thanks, Cadet. Miss Ryland, I’m afraid you’ll have to—”

  Oh, crap. That’s why she’d had the funny look. Jane thought he was in D.C.

  Jake started over.

  “Let me say, first, ah, I was just unexpectedly called back from Washington, D.C.” Jake telegraphed a look at Jane he hoped would clarify that he wasn’t a jerk or a liar.

  “Unexpectedly,” he repeated. That was about all the time he had for personal communications. “But, Mr. Hardesty, under no circumstances can a reporter—”

  “She’s not here as a reporter,” Hardesty said. “She’s a victim.”

  “A victim?” Jane? He looked her up and down, almost reached out to her. Victim? The mud. And her hair was kind of—was she hurt? Victim? “Of what? What happened?”

  “I’m okay. Really.” Jane took a step forward, held out both palms, as if to prove she was fine.

  How could she be “okay”? Whatever happened had brought them all to the police station at eleven at night. No way that was okay. He never wanted to hear “Jane” and “victim” in the same sentence, let alone in reality.

  “Of what? Victim of what?” Jake’s throat tightened, he could hear what it did to his voice. Hardesty was looking at him, then Jane, then him again, obviously detecting some sort of subtext. So what. Let the guy look.

  “I’m okay,” Jane said again. “Really.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Detective,” Hardesty was saying. “About what happened this evening.”

  “The Moulten Road incident,” Jake said. “Correct?”

  He saw Jane narrow her eyes, give that look she got whenever she’d done the mental math and gotten a curious result. “What Moulten Road incident?” she asked.

  Jake winced. Damn. Said nothing, trying to regroup.

  “What Moulten Road incident?” Jane looked at Hardesty, looked at Thorley, then back at him. “Detective? What Moulten Road incident?”

  Damn. He’d assumed Jane would be up-to-date on Moulten Road, somehow, same way she’d been on Waverly Road with Shandra Newbury’s murder. Maybe gotten a tip. Apparently he was wrong. She seemed to be unaware the police had found a woman strangled on Moulten Road, a block from the Arboretum. Now he’d said too much.

  “Moulten Road? That’s out by the—” Jane stopped. Tilted her head slowly to one side, then back the other way. Jake could almost see the click-click-click as the slot machine sevens lined up in her brain. “Out by the Arboretum?”

  Why had Jane said that? Picked up on the Arboretum connection?

  If Hardesty had told her, there’d be another homicide in the works. Jake himself would kill the guy.

  * * *

  Did she want to go inside with Aaron? The last time he’d taken her to such a place … Lizzie sighed, looked out the windshield of Aaron’s car at the apartment building, feeling her hopes evaporate. Maybe tonight hadn’t been a good idea after all.

  “No, thanks.” Lizzie fussed with her seat belt, running a thumb up and down between the black webbing and the front of her navy bank blazer. Aaron had parked in a dark patch, out of the glow of the orange security lights. She was grateful he couldn’t see the indecision and disappointment on her face. “If you’ll only be gone a minute or two? It’s okay. I’ll wait in the car.”

  She wasn’t handling this well, whatever this was. She needed to be clever and winning, feminine and desirable. She had to be the confident one. This wasn’t high school.

  “I’ll babysit the lovely champ
agne until you come out.” She tried to toss her hair, but then stopped, mid-gesture, embarrassed. Trying too hard. “And the Cinzano’s box. Do what you need to do inside. I’ll be fine.” Big smile.

  Aaron now stood outside the open car window, both palms on the roof, leaning in over the driver’s seat. She could see down the front of his unbuttoned shirt. He didn’t wear an undershirt, she saw, and then tried not to look anymore.

  “Ah, Lizzie, Miss Lizzie,” Aaron said. “You kill me.”

  He paused, staring at her so intently she fidgeted in the seat, wondering how anyone ever was comfortable with another person, wondering why she was so attracted to him, although that wasn’t difficult to explain, he was so handsome, and could be so sweet, even though some of his activities weren’t the most … whatever. And some of his lines were laughable. But it wasn’t like she was going to marry him, right? It was just tonight. One random Tuesday in May. No one else but them even knew.

  She realized, in a tumbling wisp of a thought, no one knew where she was.

  “Okay. My bad.” Aaron slapped both palms on the roof, from the sound of it, and got back into the car, slid behind the wheel, yanked his seat belt across his chest—then stopped, holding the buckle in front of him. “I confess. I just—I could use your advice.”

  “Advice?” She tried to read the look on his face. Tried to keep her own face composed. Tried to predict—advice about what? Could he know she’d talked to Maddie Kate Wendell and Mo Heedles? If so, what would he make of that? What would she tell him?

  “I know you understand the bank, like I do,” Aaron was saying. “It’s in your blood, in a way, right?”

  She supposed it was. With her dad and all. But where was this going? “Sure, yes, I—why?”

  “So I was wondering if you might be able to help me. With a kind of project I’m working on. It’s secret, though, so you’d have to promise it’s just between us for now.” He let the seat belt go, and it snapped back into place. He turned to her, touching her shoulder again for the briefest of seconds. She felt the exact place, even through her jacket, even after he took his hand away.