He yanked the chair back into place. “Fine time for Arsenault to play by the book.”
Jake nodded. Arsenault, Thorley’s current parole officer. Worth noting that Hardesty was in the dark about this. Thorley had actively kept it secret, which meant it was important. Jake would propose his theory, and see if anyone bit.
“Cutting to the chase, Mr. Thorley. I’m unclear on how much your attorney knows about whatever is going on, but I urge you to tell us the truth. If someone paid your family’s mortgage to convince you to confess to a murder you didn’t commit—well, let’s put it this way. That’s not going to fly. Because I can find out. And I will. And it won’t work.”
Jake waited, his words dissolving into silence. Gordon Thorley was clearly not the Lilac Sunday killer. But he certainly knew who was. If he decided to tell, Jake’s next risky tactic—asking a question he didn’t know the answer to—would pay off. Big time.
Thorley seemed fascinated by the pitted metal of the interrogation room table.
“Hardesty?” Jake said. “You know about any of this?”
Rubbing his forehead with his fingertips, Hardesty was silent. Finally looked at Jake. “News to me,” he said.
“So let me ask you, specifically, Mr. Thorley,” Jake persisted. “Who killed Carley Marie Schaefer?”
“Don’t answer,” Hardesty put out both palms, stopping him. “Brogan, you know that’s crossing the line.”
“I did,” Thorley said. “I killed her.”
* * *
Six o’clock was just over three hours from now. That gave Jane plenty of time to dig into the Lilac Sunday story. Mornay and Weldon offices were open until eight, but Turiello told her business slacked off early evening until the after-dinner browsers of homes took over. So, around six, he said, they could have a bit of “alone time” together.
Meanwhile, Thorley. Had Jane actually been attacked by the Lilac Sunday killer? Had Peter known that? Good thing Thorley was in custody now. Not that it happened in time to help his latest victim, Treesa Caramona. The nightside reporter on the story said Caramona was a street person, no address, no family, no obvious connections. Why’d Thorley kill her?
The whole story was full of dead ends. Not one of the original witnesses Chrystal Peralta had interviewed was findable. Not a trace of them. Frustrated, Jane had called Chrystal again, but her call had gone to voice mail.
Back to the archived articles. Was there anyone else she could contact? Jane read about Thorley’s armed robbery arrest, and his subsequent parole years later. The testimony, the controversy. Some stuff that appeared to be the sports pages. Maybe they’d been copied wrong? A big article on Sheriff Edward Walsh, made head of the parole board. Maybe he’d have some insight into the guy? But parole records were all confidential, except for the hearings themselves, and they were recorded on mini-cassette tapes that took weeks to obtain. Probably no one even had a machine to play them anymore. Talk about dead ends.
Still, if Thorley was arrested for Treesa Caramona, that’d be a good news peg. Jane could find Edward Walsh, and ask him about—wait.
If Thorley was guilty, that meant four years ago or so, Parole Board Chairman Edward Walsh had released the Lilac Sunday killer.
A killer Jake’s grandfather had been unable to track down. A killer the source of Jake’s preoccupation.
A killer now in custody for murdering someone else.
Hell of a story. How could she confirm it?
Jane finally attacked the innards of the Wheat Thins’ unopenable packaging with her teeth, ripping the plastic and spilling the crackers down her front, leaving a trail of salt on her black T-shirt. Annoyed, she moved her chair and heard a crunch under the wheels. The cleaning people would love her.
Her phone rang again. Jake? But of course it wouldn’t be. He was probably convinced she was seeing Peter Hardesty. Ridiculous. But she had to stop thinking about Jake. “Have a nice life”? She stood up, brushed off the crumbs. A couple of the crackers had fallen on her desk, leaving greasy patches on her calendar and note pad.
“Hello? I mean.” She shook her head, swallowed. She was so focused on Jake she’d forgotten how to answer the phone. “Jane Ryland.”
“Jane? It’s Elliot Sandoval.”
“Oh, hey, hello, how’re you doing?” Certainly doing better than while he was in custody. She leaned forward in her chair, hearing more crackers get pulverized under the wheels.
“Fine,” he said. “Calling to ask—have you talked to Peter Hardesty? Did he mention interviewing me?”
Peter. Last night flooded back. Peter’s arrival. Jake. The roses. They hadn’t talked at all. Peter hadn’t called this morning, no surprise. She hadn’t called him, either, not exactly knowing how to handle the flowers.
“No, Mr. Sandoval,” she said. “I think Mr. Hardesty tried to get in touch with me, but—well, what’s up? You okay?”
“Sure,” Sandoval said. “Here’s the thing. Peter and I, we—well, we’re so glad for what you’ve done for me, and MaryLou, and it looks like we’ve found a house, you know? He suggests you’d like to see it with us, this afternoon, maybe? Make it a part of our story. Life goes on, all that. You’ve played such a big role in this.”
Aww. That was simply—nice. Reporters hardly ever got credit for anything, except making trouble, and here was this guy sincerely grateful for what she’d done. Not that she’d really done anything, but maybe it felt that way to him. He was out of jail, after all. What a terrific element for her story. Talk about exclusive.
“Sounds great. With you, and MaryLou? And Mr. Hardesty?” Awkward. She’d have to figure out what to say to him. “I’ve got an appointment at six, but it’s only—” She checked her computer monitor. “Two forty-five.”
“We’re on the way there now, if that’s convenient,” Elliot said. “It’s forty-fifteen Rawson Avenue.”
Where was her notebook? Jane jotted down the address on her desk blotter, calculating. “Can I bring my photographer?”
Sandoval seemed to be thinking. “Well, I didn’t ask Peter about that. Can we—like, talk about it when you get here?”
“Sure,” Jane said. She could roll some video on her cell phone if need be. It wasn’t like she was on TV anymore. “See you in thirty or so. And Mr. Sandoval? Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “This is all you.”
60
“You did not,” Jake said. “You did not kill Carley Marie Schaefer, Mr. Thorley. You could not have done it.”
Jake unzipped his briefcase, pulled out an accordion file envelope, untied the dark red string, flapped open the cover. He drew out his grandfather’s file, opened it. Had he found the truth in those pages from the past? Time had no guideposts in the BPD interrogation room, no clock, no computer, no window; no reckoning except the timelines of the stories that unfolded here.
“Could not have—how do you know that?” Hardesty said. “Brady rule, Detective. If you’ve got exculpatory evidence, you’re required by law to provide it.”
Thorley picked up his ginger ale can, sloshed it back and forth, maybe checking how much was left. Put it down.
“You’ll have it, Hardesty,” Jake said. “Mr. Thorley, let me ask you. Did you know my grandfather was the police commissioner? Back when Carley Marie Schaefer was killed?”
“So?”
Jake saw Hardesty roll his eyes. Guy must be a pain to represent. Sullen, unresponsive. Insisting he was guilty.
“So this. Commissioner Brogan kept an extensive file of the investigation of the Carley Marie Schaefer murder. The commissioner vowed to find her killer, but—”
“And now he has,” Thorley said.
“Gordon, I’m not kidding,” Hardesty said.
“You could be right,” Jake said. “He has.”
“What?” Hardesty stood again.
Jake flipped through the paperwork, pulled out a page of tiny square photos, the junior class of Attleboro high school, class of 1995. He pointed. “Second fr
om the right, second row down. Junior class. You see? Read the names at the bottom.”
He held out the photo, Hardesty took it from him.
“Carley Marie,” the lawyer said.
“Exactly. So, Mr. Thorley, early on you told us you ‘had a thing’ with her. She was in high school. But you were ‘older.’”
Jake pulled out another folder, drew out another page of pictures. “And look, here you are. G Thorley, in your baseball jersey, on a page of the senior class. ‘Older.’ Yes, you were. And a baseball star. Before you took to armed robbery, I guess.”
“See? Everything I said was true. This proves it.”
“Well, here’s the thing. On the night of the murder, Lilac Sunday, the Attleboro Eagles had a big game. Which you—varsity pitcher, in the rotation that night—would not have missed. And didn’t.”
Jake pulled out a photo, black-and-white, a blurry image of an extended leg, an arm with leather glove on one hand, and umpire making the unmistakable “out” sign.
“You probably don’t have to read the caption,” Jake said. “You made the big out. Go Bombardiers.”
Hardesty was shaking his head, dismissive. “All very dramatic, Brogan,” he said. “But Carley Marie was probably killed overnight, we all know that. Some baseball game, historic as it apparently was, would have long been over.”
“True,” Jake said. “Except for—well, Mr. Thorley? You want to tell us? Or shall I show your attorney your get-out-of-jail card?”
“My—?”
“Or shall I say, your ‘I was in jail’ card. All you crazy kids got plastered after that game, trashed the locker room and the coach’s car, and spent the night in the Attleboro lockup. Here’s the police report. Here the story from the paper the next day. No names in it, you were juveniles, but this morning I called a retired Attleboro cop. He remembered the whole deal.”
“Let me see that,” Hardesty said.
“It’s easier to tell a lie if part of it’s true. There’s not so much to remember, right?” Jake said. “You and Carley Marie were in high school together. That was true. But maybe that was all. Question was, who else would have known that? Who told you what to do and what to say? If you don’t answer me—it doesn’t matter. Because I already know.”
* * *
Peter held the police report in one hand, the blurry copy of the news story in the other. Dated 1994, a stilted but unmistakable account of the “rambunctious in victory” varsity baseball team who’d stolen a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon from someone’s parents’ house and “caroused” through the school and the parking lot. “Authorities report the students’ parents insisted they should be taught a lesson, and were kept in the city lockup overnight. School officials are considering whether graduation should…”
“Hardesty? Your client’s lie won’t work,” Brogan was saying. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt here, that you didn’t know. If he gives up the real story, right now, it’ll make things much easier. I’m sure you can explain that to him.”
There was a first. He agreed with a cop. He and Jake Brogan—who’d been acting like he had some kind of chip on his shoulder—were now in this together, on the same side. And now, flipping their usual roles, it was the cop who apparently had evidence his client was not guilty.
“Mr. Thorley,” Peter began. “Detective Brogan is right.”
Peter paused, letting that sink in. He was sure Brogan’s face registered the irony for an instant. “If you’re doing this for your family—whatever it is you’re doing, whoever it is you’re covering for—they’d rather have you home. They’d rather have you be the good guy. You helped them keep their house, maybe. But however you think you’re working that, whatever someone promised you, your sister will be haunted forever, thinking that the Lilac Sunday killer is her brother. You’re trying to help them by branding yourself as a murderer? Is that what you want?”
Brogan had taken out the photo of Carley Marie again. Showed it to him, then to his client. “And what about Carley Marie’s family?” Brogan said. “You can be the hero, Thorley. The hero. Not the villain.”
* * *
Jake’s cell phone vibrated against his jacket pocket.
Damn. He hit OFF. Focused on Thorley. An icicle of sweat had started, down the side of the suspect’s cheek. He’d swiped it away with the back of one hand. Thorley’s orange jump suit, county issue, wilted on his narrow shoulders.
Jake had one more card—at least—to play.
“We’re not done, Thorley,” Jake said. He checked with Hardesty, his unlikely new ally. Got a nod, go ahead.
“The only one who’d pay an innocent person to confess to a crime is the person who actually did it,” Jake said.
“So we need to know—,” Hardesty began.
“Hang on,” Jake interrupted. He pulled up a chair, as close to Thorley as he could get. Opened his grandfather’s files. Grandpa’s notes. And they’d led Jake to the answers. Commissioner Brogan helped solve this case after all. Jake would tell Gramma later, when Lilac Sunday was finally closed.
“Mr. Thorley,” Jake continued. “Showing you this photo of the baseball game again.”
“So?” Thorley didn’t look up. “I’ve seen it.”
“Who threw you that ball?”
“How do I know?”
“Let me refresh your recollection, then,” Jake said. His phone buzzed again.
Dammit. He punched it off. “It appears my grandfather had talked to some students at Attleboro High. Here’s a list of their names, and I found every one of them in the yearbook. The principal’s there, his name is crossed off, apparently he must have had a good alibi, too. There’s also this name.” Jake put the paper down. Pointed.
Hardesty stood, leaned over the table.
“Gary Lee Smith?” Hardesty said.
“Ring a bell?” Jake said. “Who was Gary Lee Smith, Mr. Thorley?”
“Parole officer. You know that.” Thorley mumbled the words, aimed them at the floor.
“Correct. Went off to play minor league ball, got cut, became a parole officer. Your first parole officer, specifically, the one who argued for your release at the parole board. The one who died in the car accident. The one who—well, let’s let your lawyer see for himself.” He handed Hardesty the yearbook photo.
“The—,” Hardesty began.
“Catcher,” Jake said. “The guy who threw you that ball. But he was in jail with you, too, the night of the murder. Couldn’t have killed Carley Marie, either. Maybe he knew her? But the Commissioner crossed him off his list, because Smith was in jail, too. With you. He couldn’t have known how you’d be connected with him again, all those years later.”
Thorley didn’t speak. He sat so still Jake checked, briefly, to see if his sunken chest was moving. Finally one of Thorley’s hands, flat on the gray metal table, curled slowly into a fist. Then, just as slowly, uncurled.
“Gary Lee Smith argued for your release,” Jake said. “And his boss, parole board chairman Edward Walsh, agreed. Lost his job over it. But eventually, as your parole officer, and your pal, Smith found out you were dying. Was that what made you the perfect fall guy? You’d confess, you’d get your family’s house back, you’d die. Who came to you with that deal?”
Jake leaned in close to Thorley, tried not to breathe the scent of bleach and cigarettes and fear.
“Who killed Carley Marie?” Jake kept his voice still, still as the room.
“You know this.” Peter’s voice, almost reverent.
“It’s over,” Jake said. “Just tell us. Who killed her?”
“I don’t know,” Thorley said. “I. Don’t. Know.”
He looked up, his eyes widening at the reality.
He’d confessed.
61
Tucked at the end of a cul-de-sac, the house seemed nice enough, though Jane could tell it was definitely a fixer-upper. Crumbling front steps. All the windows, even on the garage door, boarded up with plywood. Yet with some carpentry and const
ruction, this place could be renovated. And of course, construction and renovation were Elliot’s specialties.
Jane sat in the front seat of her car, waiting for the Sandovals to meet her there. Just past three fifteen, but everyone was late in Boston’s Friday afternoon traffic. With the baby so close, it must be such a relief that Elliot was released. Bummer, though, that the DA hadn’t given evidence. Would have been interesting to know what they had on him. If anything.
Jane checked her messages. Nothing from the Sandovals. Nothing from Chrystal, either, on the Lilac Sunday witness names. Nothing from Jake. Nothing from Peter, though she’d see him with the Sandovals, at least, in a minute. Where was everyone?
A light went on inside the house. Didn’t it? Hard to tell, with the glare of the sun. Yes, there. Movement behind an upstairs curtain. Were they already there? Maybe their car was in the garage? She was an idiot. She was the one who was late. Dummy.
She grabbed her bag, crossed the street, trotted up the broken flagstone path. The justice system had worked for the Sandovals, Jane thought. And she was about to share the results.
Three steps, two and a half, to the front door. A doorbell hung, dead, from two blue wires.
She knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
* * *
What the hell was taking so fricking long? Aaron had paced this office in police HQ so many times, he knew it was ten steps from the window to the door. The closed but not locked door. He’d opened it long enough to see the uniform in the hallway, a stubby guy who scowled at him, hand hovering over his weapon, as he quickly closed the door again.
Aaron had made his first move, calling police headquarters, almost at midnight. Arrived this morning, well, afternoon actually, after he slept off the night before. A cop named Sherrey had taken his statement. Aaron told Sherrey he knew who’d killed Liz McDivitt. And would give them the name if they made a deal.
Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) Page 33
