Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Kind of—a surprise for you,” he said.

  Sitting in a car, in an empty parking lot, in the middle of the—well, not exactly the middle of the night. She wanted him to like her, she admitted, she did, but her brain was full and confused and—what did he mean by “surprise”?

  “And thing is”—Aaron was still talking—“I had hoped … you’d come upstairs and come see it. You’ll be the first, you know? Because I trust your judgment, and I trust your skills. You’re my soul mate, Miss Lizzie. I feel it—” He touched his chest. “Right here.”

  Despite her misgivings, she could feel herself melting. Soul mate? No one had ever—ever—said that to her before. Maybe it was bull. One of his lines. But what if it wasn’t?

  “So, okay?” he said.

  “I admit you have me curious,” she said.

  “As long as I have you.” Aaron smiled at her, that smile.

  She heard the whir as her seat belt retracted, watched Aaron reach into the back seat for the champagne and Cinzano’s box, felt the car shift as he opened the door and got out, waiting for her in the quiet parking lot. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of a big maple above them, the lowest branches tangling against her hair as she got out of the car.

  Taking the champagne inside? Why not. She was trying a new life now, her new life, and the lovely wine would seal the deal.

  34

  “Gotta say. That’s the first guy I’ve ever seen who’s happy to take that walk,” Jake said. He and Peter Hardesty watched Gordon Thorley, escorted by a gloating Bing Sherrey, head off to lockup. No one should be thrilled to be confined by three walls of gray concrete and one wall of bars, but Jake could’ve sworn Thorley smiled.

  “Who knows what he’s thinking.” Hardesty shrugged. “Or what he’s smiling about.”

  Jake understood the lawyer was only doing his job with Thorley. But his deal with Jane? That Jake did not understand. At Hardesty’s apartment? That time of night? Taking a shower? In a towel? Hardesty, separated from his client, had related the whole story before they sent Jane home in a cab. Jane hadn’t even seemed embarrassed. What the hell?

  He and Hardesty had just finished two additional hours of question and answer, bracketed by confessions, including Thorley’s recitation of the events of that Lilac Sunday long ago and his acknowledgment that he’d bagged his parole check-in call. He’d refused to discuss exactly what had happened on Moulten Road.

  Even so, Thorley knew the victim’s name, Treesa Caramona, rehab-needy and a longtime parolee, now a person well-known to Southie’s notorious Harvest House Shelter, a seedy brick almost-tenement that was hardly home and barely shelter to ex-cons and transients. Thorley knew she’d been strangled from behind with an electrical cord. Told them where they’d find her backpack. Exactly where they already found it. None of that had been made public.

  “Did you know her?” Jake had asked.

  “Yeah, sure, all us parolees know each other,” Thorley said. “Everyone else thinks we’re invisible.”

  “How’d you get her to Moulten Road?”

  “Bus.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Front window. Easy.”

  “Why’d you kill her?”

  “Why does anyone do anything?” Thorley said. “She pissed me off.”

  “And you just happened to have an electrical cord?”

  “Found it in the trash,” Thorley said. “Where she belonged, too. No one will miss her.”

  Jake paused, staring at the guy. The Lilac Sunday killer.

  “Now do you believe me?” Thorley had said. “You should have stopped me when you could.”

  Jake knew that was correct, incredibly correct, tragically correct. As he’d feared, it seemed the legal system—supposedly protecting the rights of the accused—had produced a second Lilac Sunday victim. Too late, and too disturbing, to think about that now. The handcuffs clicked on. And Thorley and Bing were gone.

  He’d have to be satisfied with tomorrow’s arraignment. The judge, any judge, would certainly keep Thorley in jail awaiting trial—a trial Jake had no doubt would send the guy downstate to Cedar Junction for life. There might even be video of him and Caramona on that bus to Moulten Road, if the onboard surveillance camera was rolling.

  Because of the death of Treesa Caramona, a Brogan might put the Lilac Sunday killer behind bars. Carley Marie Schaefer’s family might finally get their closure.

  Gramma, too.

  Jake wished his grandfather could know that.

  He also wished he could’ve beat the hell out of Thorley for pulling a knife on Jane. So much for parole as rehabilitation. Crock of shit, some of the time, only you could never predict which times. Murderers weren’t like most people. Jake could catch them, but it didn’t mean he understood them. Thorley would get his just punishment soon enough.

  “So. See you in court tomorrow,” Hardesty interrupted his thoughts. He hoisted a canvas briefcase over one shoulder as they walked toward the elevators.

  Hardesty had argued to keep Thorley out of custody, but it was a losing battle with a client like that. Now a plea agreement—if one should happen—was in the district attorney’s hands.

  “I’ll expect your call,” Hardesty went on. “The instant you hear from the DA.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” But Jake had one more question. A personal one. Why was Jane at Hardesty’s apartment anyway, ten at night, or whenever? The moment he went out of town, she’d gone off with Peter freaking Hardesty. Peter Hardesty and a freaking towel. That’s why she hadn’t answered his phone call.

  He turned to Hardesty, keeping his voice professional. “So. The Jane Ryland ‘episode.’”

  “What about it?” Hardesty kept walking. Almost to the elevators.

  “We’re supposed to forget all that?” Jake went on. “As if it never happened?”

  “Misunderstanding.” Hardesty jabbed the lighted arrow on the down button. “She seems pretty cool, huh? She said you guys knew each other. Professionally.”

  They’d talked about him? Why? High school, he thought, but Jake had to ask.

  “Why was Ms. Ryland with you in the first place?” He couldn’t let Hardesty know why he really cared. Or, he realized, how much he cared. A towel?

  The elevator doors opened.

  “You’ll have to ask Jane,” Hardesty said. “We done here?”

  * * *

  “Do I want—more?” Lizzie said.

  She opened her eyes at Aaron’s question, felt his touch on her bare arm. A glow filtered in through the lace curtains of the unfamiliar bedroom—what time was it?—a pale glimmer from the streetlights licking shadows on the white walls. But he was holding a slim crystal glass. Of course, he meant champagne, did she want more champagne.

  “Mmmm…” Her brain was not finding words. Her body was floating, or weightless, or something it had never been before, strange, the incredible pillows and the scent of Aaron, Aaron, next to her.

  “Advice on what?” she had asked, still timid as she got out of the car, but Aaron had merely smiled, held out a hand, led her inside apartment 303. The REO—he’d explained it was one of the bank’s—was still partly furnished. “Just came to us,” he said. And after about, oh, who knows how many glasses, he confessed to her what he was doing.

  Or maybe she had asked him? It was all kind of a jumble.

  Exactly as she suspected, he’d been renting empty foreclosed homes to students—I know when they’ll be available, he said, he’d unbuttoned his shirt, she barely knew where to look, and real estate brokers can show them no matter who’s there, right? He was proud of himself, she could tell.

  “Are you afraid you’ll get caught?” she dared to ask, couldn’t resist. She’d quickly calculated how much money he could make—with say, three thousand dollars per house, per month, and even with a few dozen houses? With the bank paying utilities and maintenance? It was potentially incredibly lucrative. Not to mention tax free.

  “We’re not Bank of America,�
� he’d said, dismissing her “concerns.” “A bank like ours? When you’re a big fish in a little pond, you can do anything you want.”

  Which she knew. All too well. But still …

  It was wrong, it was illegal, it was—her first reaction, and her second, was to tell him to stop. He could go to jail for fraud, and embezzlement, and theft, and a million other criminal charges. If her father ever found out … She paused, smiling, imagining her father being surprised.

  She took another sip, then another, attempting to understand Aaron’s logic. Could you say Aaron was helping people? Same as she was? Kind of. Helping students who needed homes. Protecting the housing stock and the economy. Leveraging resources the bank would never miss. Same as she was. Kind of.

  He was making money from it, of course, and she wasn’t. But still. Kind of.

  And then, in a rush and a flurry of words, she told him everything she’d discovered, everything, about Mo Heedles and Maddie Kate, and the leases now in her top desk drawer. Why was her memory so fuzzy?

  “You’re so smart, Miss Lizzie,” he’d said, drawing one finger up her bare arm, into the hollow of her collar bone, giving her goose bumps and who knows what else. “That’s why I trust you so much.”

  She’d been on the verge, the very verge, of telling him about her system, but at the last moment, something in his face, or something in her heart, stopped her. She needed to keep some things to herself. She’d been alone, essentially, for most of her life. It was probably time to let someone else in. But not yet. Not here.

  He’d almost carried her upstairs, not quite, and here they were now, together, and he was offering her even more champagne. The blue ribbon from the splayed open Cinzano’s box was tied around one of her wrists, he’d tied it there like a silken bracelet, and he’d fed her the creamy chocolate chip pastry from inside it, holding the confection with the rustling waxed paper, morsel by morsel, sitting on the edge of the duvet cover, making her lick his fingers to get every bit of the custard.

  “Don’t you want one?” she’d asked, and he’d said, “I’m hungry, but right now, only hungry for you.” So the other pastry remained untouched. Touched, she thought, thinking of his hands.

  Aaron had slid away from her. She patted the warm spot where he’d been. He was using the downstairs bathroom, he explained, the one up here was—whatever it was. And wouldn’t her father be surprised? Wouldn’t everyone be surprised?

  Lizzie closed her eyes for a moment. She yawned, wide and reckless, feeling every cell in her body expand, feeling the downy pillow; her skirt and top were rumpled and wrinkled, but who cared, her suit jacket and watch and purse and everything in a crazy pile where Aaron had placed it. Keeping it safe.

  Just like their secret. He’d made her promise not to tell.

  She settled into the pillows. Aaron would be back soon, then … then … she floated for a moment, trying to think.

  This is what real people did, people who had a life outside of work. And now she did, too, and she could still love her work but would never look at the world the same way again.

  She was … happy? Was this happy?

  Where was Aaron? Her brain felt fuzzy, happy-fuzzy, and the bed was so soft, and the chocolate chip pastries were so delicious, maybe she could tuck one in her purse. As a reminder of this delicious night.

  * * *

  “I can’t freaking believe it.” Aaron started talking before Ack even had the front door closed. “She knows the whole freaking thing. At those houses today? It was her. She actually freaking went to the freaking houses.”

  Ackerman arrived at the condo as they’d planned, and now Aaron had to watch him pace through the sparsely furnished living room, muttering and critical, as Lizzie lay clueless in the upstairs bedroom.

  Aaron was so not going to take the fall for this. And the only way to make sure of it was to spread the responsibility. Make sure all involved were equally entangled as he was. “Ball’s in your court now, bro,” Aaron said.

  Lizzie was certainly—he hoped—out cold now, all that champagne followed by all the crumbled pills he’d added to the gooey filling. She’d have no idea they were down here discussing her future.

  Ackerman and his nasty questions worried him.

  Yes, he told Lizzie the deal, Aaron admitted, but only after it was clear she was already on to it, as they’d suspected. No, he had no other choices, only whether to deny the whole thing, or spill enough to shut her up while he knocked her out. How much of a choice was that? When she had access to all the bank records? And she’d already … damn it.

  Ackerman came around the stubby coffee table for the third time. Now his conversation consisted of mostly “asshole” and “ridiculous.” As far as Aaron was concerned, Ackerman was the ridiculous asshole. The rental thing had all been his idea. Aaron had just gone along with it. Happily, sure, and psyched to be included in it—bankrolling his new wheels and a whole lot more. But now, suddenly, it was Aaron’s responsibility? Not a chance. Aaron was not the asshole. Even more important, not the fall guy.

  “Listen, I’m out there, every day,” Aaron whispered. He glanced upstairs, verging on nervous Lizzie’d show up at the top step, naked and questioning. But that was impossible—that chocolate chip thing had enough stuff in it to keep her quiet until they decided what to do.

  “I talk to the tenants.” Aaron pointed to his own chest, his shirt still open. At least his khakis were back on. The rest of his clothes, including his shoes, were upstairs. For now. He pointed again. “I arrange the site visits, I talk to the brokers, I arrange the showings. Front man, you called it. But you guys, you’re back in your offices, counting your damn money. And stop pacing. You’re driving me nuts.”

  Ackerman stopped, shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants. Boat shoes with no socks, like he’d just gotten off the boat from the Vineyard. Glared at Aaron, in a smirky way Aaron did not appreciate.

  “Tell me again how the bank president’s daughter got the keys to your REOs?” Ackerman’s voice was almost too loud to be safe.

  “Shut up,” Aaron said. Of course this was looming disaster, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Ackerman shove the blame on him. Even though in a kind of way, because of the dumbass key thing, he deserved it. But that was the past. “I get it, hell, it’s my bad, whatever. Let’s go from here. Move on. Let’s take care of this.”

  “By ‘take care’ you mean like on Waverly Road?”

  Aaron still didn’t like the look on Ackerman’s face. What happened to his big “it’s a sure thing” and “we’re all in it together, that’s what makes it so lucrative”? Ack had also promised “no one gets hurt,” but that was obviously way out the window.

  If word got out about their project, Aaron knew, like almost happened with Waverly, not only would the whole scheme collapse, so would all their careers. Aaron knew properties from other banks were involved, too. They’d be reading headlines about the bank crisis from their cells at Sing Sing. Theft, conversion, fraud. Bank robbery, essentially. So far, their secret had been contained. But now Lizzie McDivitt, genius daughter of the president of the damn bank, had discovered it.

  From moment one, Aaron had known she could never be allowed to tell. But that was Ackerman’s department.

  “So hey. I did my part,” Aaron said. “Got her here, got her upstairs. Et. Cetera. Now back to you in the studio, Walter.”

  Ackerman was pacing again, his back to Aaron as he headed toward the dinky fireplace, then around the lumpy couch and past the sagging wing chair, its armrests so faded and threadbare they were a different brown than the seat. He didn’t answer. Asshole.

  “Ack? Hel-lo. I’m serious. What is—?” He remembered to keep his voice down. Started over, quieter. “What. Is. The plan? Or are you gonna stall until Lizzie McDivitt comes down those stairs and joins the conversation?”

  He was gratified that Ackerman flinched, checked the stairs. Not so gratified when he rolled his eyes again. Jerk. Weren’t they in this to
gether?

  “So let me get a few things straight,” Ackerman said. He stopped by the chair, now leaning against the back of it, his body hidden behind the stripes. “You brought her here from the bank parking lot, and left her car there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what, pray, was going through your mind when you made that decision?”

  Incredible jerk. “Well, there’s only one parking space here, you know? I had to get her to leave her car to get her here.”

  Ackerman nodded, agreeing. “I see. You wouldn’t want her car to be towed from here for violating Brookline’s overnight parking laws. Leave a record that she’d been here.”

  “Exactly.” Aaron had thought it all out. Get her here, get her inside and out of sight, see what she knew. If nothing, fine, game over. If something, not so fine, bring out the cupcake or whatever. Call Ack, and assess what to do next.

  “And what was your thought,” Ackerman said, his voice still at almost a whisper, “about the security cameras in the bank parking lot? The ones that certainly captured the bank president’s daughter getting into your car with you? And driving away with you?”

  “The—?” Crap.

  “Exactly,” Ackerman said. “So, my young Lothario, back upstairs with you. And good luck. We’ll all see young Lizzie McDivitt at her desk tomorrow morning. Won’t we?”

  Aaron looked up the stairway, at the slightly open bedroom door. Behind it, his future lay zonked in a stranger’s bed.

  “Crap.”

  “Exactly,” Ackerman said again. He came out from behind the chair, and headed for the front door.

  “At least tomorrow morning, she’ll remember only what I remind her to remember,” Aaron said.

  “Possibly.” Ackerman turned, one hand on the front doorknob. “If you’re lucky.”

  “But after tomorrow morning,” Aaron continued, “after she’s back at her damn desk and it’s all back to normal—”

  “Not your department,” Ackerman said. He opened the door, peered into the hallway, then looked at Aaron over one shoulder. “And Gianelli? We’ll handle her from here.”