Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Brogan took a step closer, narrowing his eyes, leaning in to hear.

  “That reporter?” Ackerman’s voice said. “He called her. She knows, Gianelli. She knows. She asked about you, and the houses, and Shandra Newbury, she even asked about fricking Sandoval! How the hell did she know what he did? Where are you, anyway? Call me. I am not kid—do not say a word to anyone. She calls you? You call me. Instantly. She’s done.”

  “Shit,” Aaron said. Brogan was frowning. How could Aaron predict what was on the message? “How was I supposed to know he wouldn’t say the reporter’s name?”

  “You asshole.” Brogan turned away, ignored him, frantically typing into his BlackBerry.

  “Hey! I’m not an—” Aaron didn’t have to stand for—

  “Hell yes, you are.” Brogan yanked open the door. “He didn’t need to say her name, you asshole. I already know it.”

  And he was gone.

  63

  The door swung open into an empty living room, its motion causing dust balls and random empty-house flotsam to puff up into the air and down again. Jane paused, hand on the knob, looking around, hearing what must be the wallpaper steamer upstairs. Someone was playing the radio, too. So perfect, that Elliot and MaryLou got to be together for now. Maybe, if Peter was successful, they could start a new life.

  The light in the room was strange, the windows in the front boarded, dark, but the last of the afternoon sunlight still beaming through what would be the dining room windows. No furniture, but stacks of wood and construction stuff, boxes and nails and coiled electrical cords. The power must be on, Jane figured, since they were using the machine upstairs.

  “Hel-lo?” she called out. She left the door open behind her, took a few steps inside. Peered up the stairs, took another step across a tiled entryway. “Anyone?”

  They probably couldn’t hear her over the steamer.

  Footsteps. MaryLou, in a billowy gray tank top, baggy jeans, and sneakers, held on to the banister as she waddled toward her.

  “Hey, Jane,” she said. “How d’you like it?” She waved a palm toward the living room.

  “Nice,” Jane said. “Sorry I’m late, but—”

  “Well, tiny snag in the interview plans,” MaryLou said. She puffed out a breath, held a palm against her stomach. “I’m feeling pretty—awful, you know? From the steam, I guess. Now Elliot wants me to go home. I mean, back to my sister’s. He was going to take me, but then he got a call from—” She stopped.

  “Me, huh?” Jane said. That was wrong, though. Elliot had called her.

  “I told him I was fine,” MaryLou was saying, “but—”

  From outside, a car horn honked. Through the open door, Jane saw a silver car pulling up to the curb.

  “My sister,” MaryLou said. “Can you talk to Elliot without me? He’ll be done in a few minutes. Once you start that job, you can’t stop, you know?” She paused, flinched, held her stomach again.

  “Are you okay?” In a flash, Jane pictured EMTs, ambulances, the baby born in an empty—

  “Fine,” MaryLou said. “No worries.”

  “I’ll walk out with you,” Jane said. She dropped her tote bag on the floor of the house, it was safe here, no need to lug it outside with her. Elliot could wait. And she still had time before the Turiello meeting. Lady with a baby came first.

  * * *

  “Find me Elliot Sandoval,” Jake said to Sherrey as they ran toward the BPD parking garage. “Call his sister-in-law. Get the damn parole office, right now. Find out where his last call-in was from. Where he is now, if freaking parole even knows. The judge was supposed to put him on a bracelet. That was the deal. Damn it.”

  How would the bad guys get Jane? Where? Who? He’d called her, instantly, to warn her. But she hadn’t answered her phone. “Be careful of Elliot Sandoval,” he’d left the terse message. “Come to the police station. Call me. The second you get this.”

  As for “Brian”? Jake knew exactly who that was. Brian Turiello, Shandra Newbury’s boss. Where was he now?

  There was too much to do, and impossible to do it all at the same time. Parole, Turiello, Sandoval, Jane. Frigging Aaron Gianelli. Jane, Sandoval, Parole, Turiello. The order he chose, and the way the answers came in, might decide Jane’s life.

  He yanked open the driver’s side, cranked the ignition, pulled out before Sherrey, huffing, closed his door.

  “Hey! I’m not even—give me a—”

  They jounced up the steep grade of the parking garage exit ramp. The miserably slow door creaked open, one ancient section at a time.

  Jake pounded the flat of his hand on the steering wheel. “Crap. Anything on Sandoval?”

  “No answer,” Sherrey said. “No voice mail. Parole’s looking it up, calling me back. It’s Friday afternoon, they said. Everyone’s gone.”

  “Turiello,” Jake said. “Think he’d show up in person? Or who’s he sending to get her? Where? Where the hell are they?”

  He handed Sherrey his cell. Jane. First focus on Jane.

  “Look in personal contacts. Find Jane Ryland at the Register.” Maybe she was in the newsroom. Getting Twizzlers. Safe.

  “She’s in your phone?” Sherrey was fussing with the screen. “Interesting.”

  The garage door had three hinged segments to go. One more, and Jake could time it to scoot under before the door was all the way up.

  “Call it,” Jake said. The car powered into the alley, Jake stomping the gas. He had to decide where to go. Turiello was the key—had to be—but where was he? At home? The real estate office? If Jake picked the wrong place—

  “No answer at her desk phone,” Sherrey was saying. “Where’re we going?”

  “Call the main number at the paper. Ask for Victoria Marcotte,” Jake said. “Tell ’em who you are. Police. Emergency. Whole nine yards.”

  By the time Marcotte came to the phone, Jake was on 93 South, lights and siren, praying he’d made the right decision. Sherrey handed him the phone.

  “Ms. Marcotte? We’re looking for Jane Ryland. Yes, I know she’s not there. Listen, no time to explain, but go to Jane’s desk—you on a cell? Crap. Sorry. Okay, go to her desk and—” Jake veered into the fast lane. Three exits to go. He tried to keep his voice calm. He didn’t have time to say anything twice. “Look for anything that might indicate where she is. Detective Sherrey will make sure you have my number. Then call me. Right back. Either way.”

  “Why?” Marcotte asked.

  “No time. Just call me. If she comes in, keep her there.” He handed the phone to Sherrey, steering with one hand through the choking jam of cars and trucks and motorcycles and assholes. Southeast Expressway on a Friday afternoon. Might as well be frigging walking. He wished his car had a louder siren, not that anyone around here would pay attention. “Give Marcotte my cell number.”

  “What is it?” Sherrey asked.

  “What is it?” What was his own phone number? The green highway signs flashed by, Jake’s brain accelerating even faster. Every second of delay meant—he remembered the damn number. Told him.

  No call from Parole. No call from Jane.

  Two exits to go. If he’d made the right decision.

  * * *

  “Careful!” Jane grabbed MaryLou Sandoval’s arm, barely catching her as she tripped, flailing, both arms in the air, on a loose flagstone. “Stand here a second, rest a minute. You okay?”

  “Sure,” MaryLou said. She waved at the car, held up one finger. “Who knew being pregnant would be so—I burst into tears at the slightest thing, you know? Hormones. I keep thinking about Elliot, and jail, and you know, when they found the—well, thank God Brian is going to pay our legal bills, all I can say.”

  “Brian?” Jane was still distracted by the imminent likelihood this poor woman was about to have a baby right here in the front yard. What would she do?

  “Yeah. The real estate guy. He’s the one who hired El to work on the Springvale house, until—” MaryLou stopped. “Never mind.”


  “Oh, yeah, okay,” Jane said. MaryLou turned to head for the car—but Jane still held her arm. Hold on. Hold the hell on. The Springvale? “To work on the Springvale house, you said. What Springvale house?”

  “Nothing,” MaryLou said.

  “Brian Turiello.” Jane took a chance.

  MaryLou stood there. The sound of the steamer, a high-pitched whine, continued from inside, floated out an open window.

  “Hired your husband to do construction work on forty-five Springvale,” Jane said. Not in the form of a question. As if she knew. And—maybe—she did. “The house where Emily-Sue Ordway fell from the window. Poor little Emily-Sue. Someone’s daughter. Was he there when she fell?”

  “My baby.” She touched a palm to her stomach, her face going white. “It was an accident. It was.”

  Her sister honked, and the side window rolled down. “You coming?”

  “Was your husband at Waverly Road, too? Was Brian?” Jane persisted. Brian Turiello was Shandra Newbury’s boss. “With Shandra?”

  “MaryLou!” Elliot Sandoval appeared in the second-floor window, leaned out, some kind of tool in one hand.

  “I have to go,” MaryLou said.

  * * *

  “Sandoval’s not there.” Sherrey gave Jake a thumbs-down. He’d been working the phones and the radio so Jake could drive. Not doing a bad job, Jake had to say, even though he was a blowhard and a pain in the ass. Jake had left his phone open for when Marcotte called back. Or Jane.

  “Squad car out front at the sister’s house, but no one’s home,” Sherrey reported. “Not even the sister.”

  Jake veered into the right lane, ready to take the final exit. “Okay, at least we know something. Turiello?”

  “Not at his office. Supposed to be there ‘soon,’ according to the secretary. Whatever ‘soon’ is.”

  Sandoval not there. Turiello not there. Were they somewhere together? Waiting for Jane? Where? Jake banged onto the exit, took the curve too fast, Sherrey grabbing the strap as Jake steered the cruiser straight. Slammed through the red light, siren screaming, took the left. His phone rang. Finally. He punched it on speaker, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Brogan.” The siren made him strain to hear.

  “This is Victoria Marcotte.”

  “Go,” Jake said.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Fu—I mean…” Jake tried to calm his voice. Wouldn’t get anywhere by scaring her. “Okay. Tell me what you found.”

  “A notation on her desk calendar,” Marcotte said. “It says—well, it’s hard to read, it’s right on a grease spot. I’ll spell it—T, U, I think—”

  “Turiello?” Jake interrupted.

  “Could be,” Marcotte said.

  Jake turned to Sherrey, lips pressed together, nodding. “Anything else? An address, maybe? Colgate Street?” Where Turiello’s real estate office was. Where Jake was headed right now.

  “No,” Marcotte said. “It doesn’t look like that at all. It could be—Rawson?”

  Damn. At least Rawson Avenue was on this side of town. But was that where Jane was going? “Bing. The dash computer. Get me Brian Turiello’s vehicle info from it. Car make, license plate. Home address. Everything. Do it.”

  “Huh?” Marcotte’s voice came through the speaker. Jake hit the brake, banged a U-turn, headed back for the highway. Again, a risk. But what was he supposed to do, sit there? He had four blocks before he had to commit.

  “Turiello has a Lexus,” Sherrey read from the monitor. “Black.”

  A black Lexus? Where had he just—the car at the Waverly Road house? He’d asked Vitucci for that info. But no one had—dammit. Turiello had been where Shandra was killed? The damn deputies had cleaned everything out of that place. Maybe he’d been there to make sure of that. If that was him. It might not be.

  “Detective?” Marcotte’s voice. “Are you—?”

  “Ready for the house number,” Jake said. “And on the way.”

  64

  What was she supposed to do now? Hell if she was going inside that empty house again—empty except for Elliot Sandoval, who she was pretty sure—not totally sure—had actually killed Shandra Newbury. And maybe Emily-Sue Ordway. With Brian Turiello?

  Jane paused, watching MaryLou—she knew what had happened, she must—drive away with her sister. Was she truly sick? Or arranging to leave Jane alone with her husband? Was he the only one inside?

  She looked at the house, deciding what to do. Elliot Sandoval knew she was there. Had seen her from the window. So what? She’d hop right into her car and—she stopped, mid-thought, regrouping. Her tote bag, with her cell phone and her car keys, was on the living room floor.

  She had to go in to get it, or she couldn’t leave.

  Go to a neighbor? Knock on the door and say—what? My purse is in the living room next door but I don’t want to get it because—she tilted her head back and forth, considering how ridiculous it would sound. If the neighbor recognized her, though, it might work. She could call Jake. Maybe.

  She checked the window. It was still open, a curtain fluttering out in the afternoon breeze. The steamer had started again.

  She could dart in, get the bag, run out. She took a step toward the door. Stopped. Saw the curtain flutter, a shadow pass by.

  If only she hadn’t left her bag. If only she hadn’t helped MaryLou, who was probably up to her neck in this. If only she’d hadn’t locked—wait. She hadn’t locked her car?

  She turned, ran, thankfully no cars were coming, dashed across the street, hoping she was right. Had she left her car open? The valet key was in the glove compartment. Should be, at least. She’d get away, drive somewhere, call Jake, or the cops or someone, it didn’t matter, she’d be gone.

  She almost slipped in the strip of soggy dirt between the curb and sidewalk. Her fingers curled around the car door handle, hot from the sun.

  She pulled.

  It opened.

  Was the key there? She flapped open the glove box. She’d thrown it in there the last time, almost hearing her mother’s voice, “if you put something away every time, it’ll be there when you need it.” She pulled out the Audi owner’s manual, a CD from an audio book, a stash of napkins—it was just a key! A loose key, and where the hell was it?

  Had Sandoval noticed she was leaving? She raised a glance at the window. Saw Elliot Sandoval, some kind of tool—hammer? wrench?—in his hand. Running down the shitty flagstone walk. Headed for her.

  The key, the key. Forks, a paperback book, expired coupons from the—damn. He was almost across the street and she—“Jane, you moron!” She said it out, loud, slammed the doors locked. If she couldn’t find the key, she’d be trapped in the car, she could blow the horn like crazy, if anyone was around, that’s all she could do, but it would be better if she found the key.

  And there it was.

  And he was on her, at the car, it was a hammer, he had a stupid hammer, and he was running to the driver’s side, raising his arms at the—he was right in front of—

  She stabbed the key in to the ignition, cranked it.

  “Get away!” she yelled and she gunned it, shifted, banged the accelerator, but then he was in front of her, daring her, and forget about it!

  She heard a sound, a thud, he’d fallen into the dirt, she didn’t care, she peeled away, eyes welling and terror clenching her chest, but she had to drive.

  She looked in the rearview, praying. Had she hurt him? He’d called her there, lured her, to kill her. She couldn’t believe she cared about his life, but—

  He’d fallen into the dirt, rolled, and now he was running after her. He was alive.

  And she was, too.

  And she was gone.

  * * *

  “This the place?” Jake eyed the house, a beat-up two story on Rawson Avenue, as he pulled to the curb across the street. He’d killed his lights and siren when they were a few blocks away. Sometimes silent running was better, element of surprise.

  “Accor
ding to what Marcotte told us,” Sherrey said. “Door’s closed, don’t see any cars, you know?”

  “Jane has a black Audi,” Jake said. He touched the weapon under his arm, unclipped the safety strap. If Jane was inside with that asshole Sandoval—damn it. “Who knows. There’s a garage. You set? We’ll have to play it by ear. If Jane’s in there—”

  “Right behind you,” Sherrey said. “We’ll take him now, ask questions later.”

  Jake scoped the place as they went up the front path, no cars in the driveways on either side, no one out in the neighborhood. Several of the houses appeared empty, from what he could tell. All of ’em shabby. Hard times around here.

  Two teetering concrete steps up to the front porch. A weird sound from inside, a whine or a … some kind of machine.

  “Knock?” Sherrey asked.

  “Nah,” Jake said. “Exigent. Big time.”

  He put his hand on the doorknob, waited a beat. Pushed. It opened.

  “Hey, Detective Brogan.” Elliot Sandoval. Red-faced, sweatshirt, one leg of his jeans filthy. Amiable, smiling, as if he and Sherrey had arrived for a beer and baseball. Except for the hammer in his hand. Place was a mess, though, construction stuff everywhere.

  Where was Jane? Were they wrong? Had Jake picked wrong? Was Jane with Turiello, somewhere? Somewhere he’d never find until it was too late? Sandoval had to know. Wherever she was, he had to know. This was the address on Jane’s notepad. She was coming here. Wasn’t she? Where was she now?

  “Got some bad news for you,” Jake said. They walked in, leaving the door open behind them. “You didn’t call your parole officer, Mr. Sandoval.”

  “’Fraid that’s a violation, Mister Sandoval.” Sherrey picked up on the pretense Jake had concocted on the fly.

  “So you’re done, Elliot,” Jake said. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Sandoval said. “I called.”

  “Not what Parole told us.” Sherrey had yanked the handcuffs from his belt, moved closer to Sandoval. “I’ll take that hammer. Sir.”

  “You’re also under arrest for the murder of Shandra Newbury.” Jake was proud of Sherrey. Not a flicker at this impromptu charade.