Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Not let him change into that snazzy suit.” Sherrey took a step forward with the cuffs, motioned to Elliot, turn around. “Shouldn’ta bashed Miz Newbury with a two-by-four,” he said. “Shouldn’ta left all those prints in the house.”

  “Sherrey.” Brogan raised a palm.

  MaryLou wailed, one long, miserable note, then stumbled, backward, catching herself on the arm of the couch. Watching as the handcuffs clicked over her husband’s wrists. “He’s a construction worker! Just a—she showed us that house,” MaryLou said. “We only knew her because—”

  “MaryLou.” Peter had to step in here. If she got hysterical, started making statements, the cops could try to use that information. Even though it would legally be hearsay, anything the wife said could lead to trouble in the emerging case against her husband.

  “I’ll be okay,” Sandoval said. “I will. This’ll all be over before you—”

  Sandoval stopped, and suddenly the room was still. Probably everyone thinking the same thing Peter was, he figured. Unless Peter could prevail, Elliot Sandoval would be behind bars when his first child was born.

  “You’re taking him to the police station? Booking him there?” Peter broke the silence. It was better to keep it cold and legal, no emotion, move this thing along the track, get it over with the best way possible.

  “We’ll see you in court,” Brogan said.

  “Elliot.” Peter needed to have the last word. “Listen to me.”

  The cops were at the front door, Brogan’s hand on the knob. Elliot turned to him, his face hardened, suddenly ten years older, the cords in his neck threatening to pop as he sealed in his anger.

  “Too late now,” Elliot’s voice rasped, harsh and final.

  “Elliot!” MaryLou ran to him, but Sherrey stepped between them, a barrier. “In custody” as reality. She stopped, arms at her side, the picture of defeat. This was never easy, but Peter always tried to see it as the first step on the path to justice. These two would be smiling again. He was sure of it. Almost.

  “Listen. Elliot. Not a word. Not a word to anyone, not to these gentlemen, not to anyone you see in the police department lockup, not to anyone who seems friendly or helpful or solicitous. Nothing. Zero. Not a word. Got me?”

  Elliot nodded.

  “Brogan? You, too,” Peter went on. This had to be on the record. No telling what those two would try to pull once they had Elliot alone. “Do not to talk to my client unless I’m present. Not a word.”

  Brogan nodded, Sherrey not so much. But they’d been warned.

  “Good.” Peter turned to his client. “This’ll be behind us soon. I’ll see you in court.”

  Brogan pulled the front door open, waved Elliot through, Sherrey right behind him. MaryLou whirled, hands clamped over her face, and sank into the couch. A woman appeared at the entrance to the hallway. The sister? There was nothing Peter could do for MaryLou. No comfort, no reassurance, no solace. “Don’t worry”? “It’ll be okay”? “He’ll be fine”? Whatever he told her—he couldn’t be certain it was true.

  Peter watched as the three walked away into the May morning, one tall, one stocky, one in handcuffs, seeing the blast of sunshine through the open door, the tiny patch of browning lawn, some dumb bird twittering away as if nothing had happened. In a flash, the cops and their suspect were inside the unmarked cruiser, door slamming, taking his client away from freedom. Jane hadn’t returned his call, surprising, but just as well she wasn’t part of this.

  MaryLou was sobbing in the woman’s arms.

  “See you in court,” Peter muttered. Court was Elliot Sandoval’s only chance.

  37

  Where was Elizabeth McDivitt?

  “Not here yet,” the secretary had just told Jane.

  “Have you heard from her? No?” Odd. This Stephanie was the one who’d made the appointment. Jane couldn’t write the story until she confirmed her quotes and got a few leads on customers. So here she’d stay, long as it took. “I’ll wait.”

  The elevator bell pinged, then the doors rumbled open behind her. Jane saw Stephanie check her watch, raise an eyebrow, then erase the judgmental expression from her face.

  “There she is,” the receptionist said, pointing. She cleared her throat. “Finally.”

  Jane turned to see a young woman coming toward them, attractive enough, slim-ish, hip eyeglasses, wavy dark hair twisted into a messy bun. This was a bank executive? Her navy linen suit was off, somehow, the hem askew and the jacket rumpled, the white silk tee underneath clearly having seen better days. Bare legs with little black heels. Even carrying that obviously expensive briefcase, she looked like she’d just come from the gym, hadn’t had time to pull herself together.

  “I’m Lizzie—Liz, I mean—McDivitt.” The woman approached, holding out a hand to Jane. She looked at Stephanie, tilted her head. “Do I … is she a … did we have an—?”

  “She’s with the Register,” Stephanie said. “A colleague of that Chrystal Peralta, who’s doing the story? She wants to—”

  “Follow up a bit,” Jane said. Someone had to finish a whole sentence around here. “Do you have a moment?”

  The elevator doors swished again, opening. Jane followed McDivitt’s eyes as she turned to follow the sound, just in time to see a dark-haired man, suit and striped tie, raise a hand in greeting, then disappear as the doors closed and elevator went up. McDivitt had waved back, kept her hand poised even after the elevator had gone.

  “Ms. McDivitt?” Jane said.

  “Oh, sorry, sure.” The woman shook her head, two little shakes, as if transporting herself back to the present. She gestured toward the closed office door. “Come on in.”

  * * *

  “May I speak to Richard Arsenault, please? Yes, I’ll hold.”

  Jake stirred another sugar into yet another cup of coffee, propping his forehead in one hand as he waited for the answer in the open-air squad room. We got no secrets, the Supe had recently proclaimed. Not after one of their veteran beat cops went down for accepting kickbacks from a crime scene cleanup company. Supe gutted the old warren of high-walled offices, replacing confidentiality with waist-high barriers and putting all communications in full earshot of everyone in the room.

  Jake fidgeted at his new desk, banging one knee into the too-close fabric divider. Best for a cop to be out on the street, his grandfather always told him. Now Jake’s cruiser was bigger than his cube. And more private. Sandoval was in lockup, awaiting arraignment, so at least that case was progressing.

  Still on hold.

  Parole officer Richard Arsenault, the guy who’d reported Gordon Thorley’s missed call, hadn’t returned any of the messages Jake left. Jake needed Thorley’s complete file, all the way back to the armed robbery days nineteen years ago, not only this latest episode. No surprise. The parole department was notoriously understaffed, over-egoed, and a general morass of incompetence.

  Jake shook his head, clearing the gunk and extraneous thoughts, trying to power though this. At least Diva was at his mom’s. Mom had pretended to complain, just like I took care of your pets when you were a little boy, honey, but by now she understood Jake’s work. Accepted it, at least.

  She and his dad had tried their best—even before Jake went to the Academy—to deter Jake from his detective ambitions. Now, finally, after four years and some headlines, they’d adjusted, sometimes even embraced, his decision. Jake’s own father had rebelled from Grandpa Brogan’s “blue blood” legacy by becoming a big-shot financier and married an actual blue blood, a Dellacort. The family loyalties had battled over him all the way through Harvard, but in the end, Jake was more cop than Brahmin, and both sides had relented. Some days, though, the lure of law school offered a certain temptation. At least he’d have wound up with an office where his legs fit under the desk. And a door he could close.

  “Yo.” A voice came over the phone. “What can I do you for?”

  “Richard? Arsenault?” Great. Tucking the phone between cheek and shoulder a
s he gathered his stuff, Jake explained what he needed. If Arsenault had the records at his house or office, or wherever, Jake could pick them up and save everyone a lot of admin hassle.

  “Calling about Gordon Thorley,” Jake said.

  “Poor guy,” Arsenault said.

  * * *

  Within fifteen minutes, Jane and “Liz,” as she insisted on being called, were on the road to BFFhood, even though Jane sat in a tweedy visitor chair and Liz in ergonomic black leather behind her new-looking desk. A silver pen holder, full; a silver business card holder stacked with cards and a pile of glossy bank brochures were aligned with the front edge of the desk. A silver computer keyboard sat behind a sleek black monitor. A couple of black lacquer picture frames faced Liz, so all Jane could see was their maroon-velvet backing. Personal photos, Jane theorized, not power portraits set out to impress guests.

  “So, Liz? According to Chrystal—” Jane tried to get the news train back on track as Liz prattled on about her new position at A&A bank, her customer service department, her jargon-riddled ideas for streamlining the banking process and making it “numbers-friendly,” whatever that meant. It seemed the woman’s mother—“she died a few years ago”—would have loved that she’d gone into banking.

  Liz’s cell phone pinged, the third time. Apologizing, she texted an answer with a few quick stokes. “Chrystal seemed nice,” Liz said, stashing her cell in the desk drawer. “Sorry about the texts. I’m surprised she’s not here.”

  “Flu,” Jane said, wrinkling her nose. “I’m backing her up. Confirming her story.”

  “Got it,” Liz said. “I’m a numbers girl, so I know how important it is to be accurate.”

  “Right.” Jane smiled, opened Chrystal’s notebook again. “So, trying to read Chrystal’s notes here, she has you quoted as saying, ‘The first step in finding the best mortgage is to check rates online, then visit local banks to discuss their services with mortgage experts.’ Sound right?”

  Liz blinked, scratched her cheek with a forefinger. “Yeah.” She drew out the word, seeming to consider. “I suppose so. True enough. I don’t really remember talking about mortgages, but sure.”

  Jane peered at the notebook, deciphering. Maybe she’d read it wrong. “It’s difficult to read her notes, frankly, so tell me, what would you say about that?”

  “Well,” Liz said, “I suppose it would be—”

  “Hang on.” Jane found a blank page, then patted her pockets for a pen. Lizzie stood, anticipating.

  “Need a pen? Here,” she said. “Courtesy of the bank.” She pulled a red ball point from the container, the A&A logo emblazoned in white. She leaned across the wide desk as Jane stood to accept it.

  Both picture frames fell forward onto the desk, clattering, facedown. “Oh, sorry.” Jane stepped back. “Moved too fast. Hope they’re okay.”

  Liz righted the frames, set them back into place. A wisp of a smile flickered across her face. “No problem.”

  “Family photos?” Jane asked. They were BFFs, after all.

  Liz picked up one of the frames, turned it to face Jane for an instant, then set it back into place. “Boyfriend,” she said.

  Tasting the syllables, Jane noticed, almost as if the word was new.

  “Ah,” Jane said.

  “New,” Lizzie said. “He just gave it to me. Recently.”

  As Jane predicted. Maybe that explained the uncooperative hair and untidy hemline. Ah-ha. “Nice.”

  “Yeah.” Liz tucked a curly strand behind one ear, where it stayed only briefly. Jane could tell her mind was elsewhere. Maybe the new boyfriend had texted her, that’s why she’d answered so quickly. Nothing like the first tingly throes of new love. Jake, Jane thought.

  Liz picked up the picture frame, now turned it toward Jane, full face. “He handles the bank’s foreclosed properties.”

  “Oh. Nice.” The reporter-subject relationship was always a tightrope. Reporters had to be genuinely interested—were genuinely interested, at least for as long as it took to do the story—in what their interview subjects had to say. From time to time, though, an interviewee would decide their interest and focus meant they wanted to be friends, and the sharing would go a little too far.

  Jane took in the smile, the mop of curls, the rep tie just so in what was clearly a corporate head shot. The dark-haired guy on the elevator, Jane realized. The one Liz had smiled at this morning when she arrived. Ah-HA.

  “You also want more names of happy customers, you said?” Liz gave the photo one last look, then replaced it on her desk.

  “I do, yes. The ones here are difficult to read.” Jane flipped to a new page in Chrystal’s notebook, relieved the boyfriend discussion seemed closed. The short list of customers had been scribbled in Chrystal-glyphics, so Jane needed to get her own names. Ones she could read. She’d find them, call them, interview two or three, bang out the story, and then be free to fight her own battles.

  Jane clicked open the bank pen. She’d give it back, of course, when they finished. “Ready.”

  38

  “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Always a treat to see you, too.” Jake leaned in and gave his mother a quick kiss as she let him into the foyer of their Back Bay brownstone. Two-forty-three Marlborough Street, circa 1860, where Jake grew up, was an elegant sliver of history fronted by an ancient dogwood and a tiny emerald patch of front lawn. He heard a woof from somewhere in the back of the house, Diva probably so comfortable on the elaborate dog bed Mom kept in the mud room that the pooch decided it wasn’t necessary to get up. Jake had half an hour before he was due at Arsenault’s house in Southie. Just enough time to check in on Diva—and on Grandpa’s files in the basement.

  “Coffee?” she said. “Did you have breakfast? I can get Mrs. Bailey to make—”

  “I’m great, Mom.” Diva finally deigned to greet him, her plumy tail signaling her affection. A great dog, but how the hell had he figured he could take care of her with his unpredictable schedule? Diva turned her attention to his mother, snuffling at the pockets of her turquoise linen tunic.

  “Are you giving her treats?” Jake asked. Diva had clearly worked some kind of magic on his usually fastidious mother. A few years ago at the animal shelter, the golden pup used the same tactics on him.

  “It’s our house,” his mother said. Diva chomped, devouring some sort of dog treat in two retriever bites, then turned to Jake, luminous eyes begging for more. “I can do what I want for our guests. And Diva can stay as long as she likes. Now. To what do I owe this visit, kiddo?”

  “Business. Grandpa’s files, downstairs.” Jake scratched Diva behind her ears. “Stay here, pooch.”

  “What files?” His mother followed him to the basement door, Diva right behind.

  “Lilac Sunday,” Jake said. He put his hand on the light switch at the top of the stairs. “If I can find them.”

  His mother frowned. “Sweetheart, is that really necessary? You know how your grandfather—”

  “It’s a cop thing, Mom.” He leaned in, kissed her on the cheek. And a Brogan thing. “Don’t worry.”

  Jake flipped on the light and closed the door behind him, down the splintery wooden stairs, smelling the dank earth and cool brick walls. Even when the day was blazing hot, the basement was always like another world. Jake had taken books and flashlights down here as a kid, hidden in his special dark corner reading Justice League of America comics, or pretended to be tracking down clues to the escaped bad guys, who were often found—after Jake’s superpower detective skills were unleashed—hiding behind the washing machine.

  Now the basement served as a cedar closet for Jake’s mother’s out-of-season clothing, one rack of clear-boxed shoes lining a side wall. Skis, golf clubs, and tennis rackets were stacked along another, but the back corner stayed pristine, reserved for a pair of battered black file cabinets, full of folders Jake’s grandfather brought from the old police station on Clarendon Street. That building was now a chic hotel, housing a h
ip restaurant called Verdict.

  While he was alive, Grandpa kept the file cabinet locked. Years after his funeral, newly-minted cop Jake decided he could look inside. He’d taken the oath, after all, so there could be no more secrets. Although Jake never articulated it to anyone, looking at the files, just looking at them, seemed a way to connect with his grandfather. The commissioner never got to see Jake awarded his badge or receive his ticket to the Homicide squad. Jake always regretted that.

  Jake pulled out the rickety file drawers once again, this time with a purpose. He heard the faintest of squeaks, felt a tug of hesitation from the seldom-disturbed metal. Grandpa’s rows of manila file folders appeared, the paper now softened by the damp, edges fluting. The labels on each one, handwritten in fountain pen, had blurred with the passage of time, faded into the otherworldliness of forgotten paperwork. These were Grandpa’s personal case notes and newspaper clippings, the equivalent of a scrapbook, Jake realized.

  Jake kept notes, too, on his BlackBerry. His clippings existed only in the newspaper’s online archive, where Jake could click on them if he wanted to, though he never had. If Jake’s own son, someday, were to wonder what his father thought, or did, or how he solved his cases—there’d be no basement files to visit.

  He drew in a breath, the fragrance of old paper, onionskin, and carbon copies. He recognized his grandfather’s handwriting. Damn. The files had case numbers or some kind of numerical designation, not the names of defendants or victims.

  Jake stared at the rows of numbers, fighting impatience. The system had to be decipherable, maybe even easily so. Case numbers, he knew, began with dates.

  The Lilac Sunday killing was 1994, twenty years ago. Jake looked for a label number beginning with “94,” but there were none. So they weren’t filed by the official police case designation. Grandpa retired soon after, so maybe the case file would be near the front. One of the more recent ones.

  “Or maybe all the way at the back,” Jake said out loud.