Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Above my pay grade, the cop had said. But I’ll check with the boss.

  That was freaking hours ago.

  Christ. You’d think they’d send in the freaking cavalry. Didn’t they want to solve this? His ace in the hole, the insurance for the soon-to-be-deal, was the threat Ackerman had made about that reporter.

  Better hope nothing happened to her in the time they’d kept him waiting. Wouldn’t be his fault if—

  The door opened. A big guy, obviously the boss, came into the room first, striding like a drill sergeant. An old drill sergeant. Aaron recognized him from TV, Francis Rivera, the ex-Marine police superintendent. Sherrey, the chubby weasel who’d taken his statement. A woman in cop uniform, then a preppy guy in a sport coat and jeans.

  “I’m Jake Brogan,” the preppy one said. “Detective Jake Brogan. Sorry we kept you waiting, sir, I was dealing with an—incident.”

  Aaron tried to gauge how to play this. What “incident” would be more important than solving a murder? But fine. Whatever.

  “I know who killed Lizzie McDivitt,” Aaron said.

  “So you said. Detective Sherrey has filled me in,” the detective said. “Sit down, Mr. Gianelli. Just to clarify? Tell me from the beginning.”

  This was the moment, Aaron knew, when the deal went down. He’d tell them all about Ackerman, but only after he got immunity in the rental scam. He’d go over what he’d already said, fine. But he wouldn’t sit down. They were standing, he’d stand. He’d stand tall.

  “I know who killed Lizzie McDivitt. The person as much as told me they were gonna do it. In fact, at one point, I was potentially, unwillingly”—he’d already revealed this, so guess no harm in saying it again—“semi-involved.”

  “Like I told you, Brogan. With the chocolate stuff,” Sherrey said.

  “Exactly,” Aaron said. At least they were listening. “That’s what brought me here. I know what’s gonna happen. That person is going to blame me, and hell if I’m gonna let that go down. There’s a bunch of other stuff, too. I’m sure you know the Waverly Road murder? The one in the empty house? I know about that, too. All connected.”

  Brogan looked at Sherrey. Sherrey looked at the superintendent. The superintendent looked at Brogan.

  How about that, big guys? Aaron hadn’t told them that part before. Now they had to play ball.

  Brogan took out his cell phone—a BlackBerry, what was this, 1990? Checked the screen. Clicked it off.

  “Mr. Gianelli?” the detective said. “Look. We’re not dumb TV cops, Aaron. We know the only way you could know for sure who killed Liz McDivitt is if you killed her yourself. What’s more, and it’s corroborated by forensic tests on Miss McDivitt, we found rohypnol in her system. As well as traces of chocolate chip.”

  Brogan nodded to Sherrey, who started fussing with something on his belt, then came toward him.

  “Aaron Gianelli,” Brogan was saying. “You are now under arrest for—”

  What was going on here? This was not going according to his script. And the chief was obviously trying not to smile, which was ridiculous. Asshole.

  “—the murder of Elizabeth McDivitt. And for the murder of Shandra Newbury. You have the right to remain silent…”

  Aaron’s head exploded, totally. He barely heard the words coming out of that cop’s mouth, barely felt the handcuffs click around his wrist. Holy freaking—he’d come there to tell them the truth, that he knew—he guessed he knew—Ackerman had killed Shandra Newbury, somehow, and that teenager in the Springvale Street house, the one the idiot cops decided was an accident.

  Now they thought he—killed—?

  “No way, no way,” he said. He wrestled himself away from Sherrey, would have punched the guy, but his hands were—cuffed? “I don’t wanna be silent! Kidding me? I trusted you! I came here to tell you—”

  “Do you know how many times this kind of thing happens?” The big guy, Superintendent whoever, was talking, all patronizing. Leaning against the desk, like he owned the place. “Moke like you comes in here, guilty as hell, tries to throw another poor slob under the bus. They think we’ll let ’em off their pissant drug charge, something like that, if they rat out a pal. Suckers.”

  “Thing is, Mr. Gianelli,” Brogan said. “It has to be true.”

  “You can’t just make shit up.” Sherrey leaned toward him, one hand on his arm, whispering.

  “It’s not made up, that’s—that’s—” Aaron looked at the ceiling, looked at the floor, looked at the ceiling. And now he had nothing, no leverage, if he told, he’d have nothing to trade. “That’s crap.”

  And suddenly, the answer. The freaking fabulous answer, the reason the cops were idiots and the reason Aaron was about to leave and walk free and if that reporter got killed, who cared, it was their fault for being idiots.

  “I couldn’t have killed Shandra Newbury,” he said. He mustered all the venom he could, imagined himself winning a big fat lawsuit, maybe, for false arrest and whatever else there was, screw ’em. “I have an alibi. A big honking alibi. I was with someone that night. I was—”

  And then, all the air went out of him, and the room almost went black, he swore it did, the shapes of the cops faded, along with his future. He sank into the chair, his cuffs hitting the padded upholstery behind him.

  “Alibi?”

  Brogan was actually smiling now, not trying to hide it. What a complete jerk.

  “Yeah. Crap. I was with Lizzie McDivitt the night Shandra Newbury was killed.”

  Brogan shook his head. “That sucks.”

  “Sucks,” Sherrey said.

  “Sucks,” the chief said.

  “Listen, listen,” Aaron said. He had to make this work. “It’s Colin Ackerman, okay? You know? The guy from the bank. It’s him, all him, and I don’t know, someone he works with, all I know is Brian. Brian something, he’d never tell me. It was all about the rentals, the damn rentals.” Aaron was talking as fast as he could, the words tumbling out, one track of his brain wondering about calling a lawyer, the other track panicking, having to tell, having to get away. He was trapped and about to be nailed for a murder. Two murders! That he hadn’t done.

  “The rentals.” The Superintendent was scratching his bald head, all dramatic, like he didn’t understand the word.

  “We were renting bank properties, you know?” Aaron couldn’t stop talking, needed to make them understand. “Ackerman’s deal, totally, I was only a—so what, you know? But then Emily-Sue showed up, that girl, and found out, she was in the Springvale Street house when the construction guy was there, and—Ackerman told me they took care of it. I don’t know. I don’t know what they did, I don’t know what that means, I’m only a—and Shandra, too, she found out—”

  “We know,” Brogan said.

  “Yeah,” Sherrey said.

  “Okay then fine, fine, so find Ackerman, ask him, I’ll testify, I’ll do anything, I’ll find out who Brian is, I’ll wear a wire. I didn’t kill Shandra Newbury, couldn’t have, because I was with Lizzie McDivitt, and now she can’t tell you it’s true because she’s frigging dead.”

  “Or not,” Lizzie said.

  62

  Jane waited, knocked on the door again. Heard nothing. Shrugging, she tried the door knob. It turned.

  Was anyone actually inside? She’d seen a light, but that could have been on a timer or something. Now she was making up reasons, but—

  Her phone rang. “Jane Ryland.”

  “It’s Elliot,” the voice said. “I have you on speaker.”

  Jane craned her neck. Saw a shadow at the window.

  “We thought we heard knocking. We’re ripping off wallpaper, right in the midst of it, and it’s hard to stop the steam machine.”

  More movement. Maybe it was the steam thing. Her neck hurt from looking up.

  “That’s a tough job,” she said. “Do you want me to—”

  “The door’s open, right? Come on in. We’re upstairs.”

  * * *

  “Ok
ay, Thorley, it’s you and me now.” Peter Hardesty sat toe-to-toe across from his client—his not-guilty client. Brogan had gotten some kind of crisis call, left them alone. A cadet had brought Thorley another can of ginger ale, Peter had a cup of bad coffee. He’d turned their metal chairs so their backs were to the mirrored window, just in case. It was lawyer-client now. Private. Time for the truth.

  “I need answers,” Peter said. “Legally, you’ve recanted your confession, so that whole charade is over. The mortgage payments, the house, that whole thing—done. But you could go to jail anyway. You’re still guilty of obstruction of justice, providing false testimony, and no doubt a litany of other illegalities. You want to see daylight again before you die? See your family? Your house? You need to tell us who convinced you to confess to a murder you didn’t commit.”

  The fluorescent lights buzzed, and one, with a snap, flashed, and popped to black.

  “Walsh.” Thorley stared him down for a moment, defiant.

  “The parole board chairman. The one who set you free.” Peter tried to make the pieces fit. The parole board chairman had power, but an entire board had to vote to release a prisoner. “But it couldn’t have been a quid pro quo—a deal.”

  “Uh-uh. No.” Thorley was shaking his head, looked authentically dismayed. “My release was all on the up and up. Fair and square. God knows I’d worked for it. Deserved it. Turned out Walsh kept a watch on all the parolees’ health records. Guess he had access to them all,” Thorley said. “Seemed like he’d shopped for a—I don’t know.”

  “Shopped for a sick person? A dying person? Someone who had nothing to lose?”

  Thorley shrugged. “I was released back in 2010. Then last December? They called me, told me they knew my family was in trouble. I was told to confess, that there wouldn’t be any evidence to prove it wasn’t me. I was dying anyway. If I did what they said? The Cape house mortgage would be paid for, the back payments, and every month on time till it was all paid off. If I didn’t—my family would never get to keep the house. They’d make sure.”

  “How did they—?”

  “If I didn’t play ball?” Thorley put up a palm, stopping Peter’s question, “They’d revoke my parole. Put me back in. Said it wouldn’t be hard to do.”

  “Gary Lee Smith told you.” A guess, but based on what Jake Brogan had uncovered, it made sense. “The parole officer. Your friend. The catcher. Talk about playing ball.”

  “Yeah.” Thorley coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What did I have to lose? I was out, but long enough to see I’d never fit in. Long enough to see the Cape house again. Long enough to finally do something good for my family.”

  “How’d you know what to say? The details of the crime? Didn’t you figure—this must be the person who did it? Or know who did?” That gave Peter an idea. A very intriguing idea. He’d wait, though.

  “I always wondered if it was Walsh, you know?” Thorley made a breathy half-sound, almost a laugh. “He was a county sheriff back then, big shot, maybe knew Carley Marie’s family, maybe knew her. But hell, he was never arrested, so maybe it wasn’t him. He got rich being a ‘consultant,’ whatever that means. Guess it means money.”

  “Was Walsh the one who locked you all up that night? As kids? Did he even know about that?”

  “Nope, that was the Attleboro cops. And they’d sealed our case, Gary and I knew that. But Sheriff Walsh—he was fired as parole commissioner, you know? At least he didn’t get a death sentence. Like I did.”

  “Did Walsh ever tell you he did it? Killed Carley Marie?”

  “Nope. But he had that Treesa Caramona killed. She was another of Walsh’s parolees, had like, Hep C. Bad. That I do know. Guess that was so I could confess again, prove it was me. So now what?” Thorley said. “You need me to testify, better hurry the hell up, right? I don’t have long.”

  “You’ll have to go back into lockup,” Peter said. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Like it matters,” Thorley said.

  “It matters,” Peter said.

  * * *

  Jake almost started laughing. The look on this moron’s face was beyond priceless. The woman standing at the office door provided the proof that Aaron Gianelli, dupe extraordinaire, was not involved in Liz McDivitt’s death. He’d truly believed she was dead.

  Jake knew she wasn’t.

  So did the others on the Supe’s hastily organized task force. It had been the Supe’s idea to pretend Liz had met her fate and see who came out of the woodwork afterward. The real bad guy would know Liz was not dead, because he—or she—had not shown up that night to kill her. What came out of the woodwork was a rat.

  “Hey, Aaron,” Liz said.

  “But—you—they—” Aaron stood, slowly. Closed his eyes tight, then opened them again.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’m really here.”

  “Where to start?” said Jake pleasantly. “Ms. McDivitt came to us, terrified. She brought a chocolate pastry she’d taken, suspected it was drugged—you gave her those, right?—and the paperwork proving that you and your colleagues were covertly renting bank property and keeping the money. Why was she afraid? She’d heard you talk about Waverly Road, my friend. She worried she was next.”

  Some smart lawyer in the DA’s office would have to assess how many laws this all broke. Jake hoped it was a shitload, including bank robbery, fraud, and larceny. Conspiracy. And accessory to murder.

  They’d nailed most of their case. With Liz safely in hiding and Jake holding off the press after Officer Canfield revealed the Supe’s plans to him that night on the Kenilworth porch, Sherrey had done a blast-canvas of the homes on the list Liz had provided, found those college students, pulled the leases. Canfield followed the money.

  What they didn’t have—was the brains behind it. And behind the murder of Shandra Newbury. And the set-up of Liz McDivitt.

  “But you’d agreed to meet me on Kenilworth Street.” Aaron’s voice had thinned, as if he was not quite sure he was talking to a real person.

  “Nice,” Liz said. “So you knew they were coming to kill me? After you got me to go there alone?”

  Jake couldn’t imagine how the guy would get out of that one.

  “Got to admit, that’s a tough question,” Jake said.

  “Toughie,” Sherrey said.

  “Lizzie, I—” Aaron sank into the chair.

  “Lucky I had the cops there with me. But Aaron. Why didn’t the killer show up?” she asked. “Whoever it was? You told them I would be there, you got me there. Why didn’t they show up to kill me?”

  “I don’t know!” Aaron’s voice went up an octave, then went silent.

  Jake smiled. The Supe smiled. Even Sherrey smiled.

  Aaron Gianelli had just confessed.

  “Good boy.” The Superintendent raised his bulk from the desk, lumbered to the door. “Miss McDivitt, my gratitude. You’re a brave woman. Want to come with me now? I’m off to make a phone call to your father. Officer Canfield, you, too—Miss McDivitt has certainly gotten used to your company these last twenty hours. Detective Brogan? You know what to do.”

  * * *

  What to do? What to do? What the hell were they gonna do? Aaron’s arms were hurting, the cuffs pulling them back, and he was going to throw up, this was incredibly—Lizzie was alive?

  How could that even be? But she’d been all smiley, standing by that cop, like she just came from a meeting or something, instead of from—where the hell had she been?

  How could that be?

  Was this a good thing, or a bad thing, or—the whole world was so screwed up, he didn’t even know what was real. They’d put all over the news that she was dead. How could they put something on TV that wasn’t true?

  “Mr. Gianelli.” Brogan was talking again. Aaron couldn’t stand it. He was an idiot to have come here. To have trusted them. To have thought he could make a deal.

  He felt a prickling along his scalp, the simmerings of an idea. He could feel the
sweat soaking the back of his shirt, under his collar. One last idea. One last way he could close a deal.

  He’d given them Ackerman, he’d given them Brian, whoever that was. But he knew one more thing.

  “I’m ready to make a deal.” He cleared his throat, tried to find his voice, tried to get the old Aaron back. “A deal. One time only, one chance.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost your deal-making ability, Mr. Gianelli,” Brogan said. “But what the hey. Try me.”

  “You give me immunity, I give you Ackerman’s next victim.”

  Sherrey yanked him to his feet, put his face so close he could see the veins in his eyes, the cords on his neck. “I’ll give you—”

  “Hey!” Aaron pulled away, didn’t get far. These guys were such jerks. “You can’t do that!”

  “Thank you, Detective,” Brogan said.

  The guy let go. Aaron shook out his shoulders. “So. Deal?”

  “Gianelli,” Brogan said. “Let me put it to you once. And only once. If you know who Ackerman’s next victim is, tell me now. Right effing now. This is your chance. Or, and trust me on this. You will never see the light of day again.”

  In the movies, someone would arrive to save him, bursting through the door, or there’d be an earthquake, or aliens. An explosion, or a meteor. Aaron hoped, yearned, with his very soul that any of those, or all of those, would happen right here. He had no way out. No way, except to offer this one piece of information. His lifeline.

  “It’s some reporter. It’s, uh—” Damn. Aaron needed to remember her name, but his brain was fried. He’d stall, thinking of it. “They were asking about the empty houses, asking abou—wait. Ackerman called me. I bet it’s on voice mail. My phone is—”

  Sherrey was patting him down, all hands, grabbed Aaron’s cell phone. “Tell me the code. Do it. Now.”

  Aaron told him, and in seconds, a voice buzzed through the speaker.

  “I got a call from Turiello,” the phone voice whispered. Clatter and noise in the background.

  “Ackerman,” Aaron mouthed the name.