Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (16 page)

“We definitely paid, I wrote the check myself.” The girl, Maddie, was frowning now. She stood on one foot, then the other, then put the sole of one foot against her leg, like a gawky stork. “Maybe it’s like, held up at the post office. You all have never been here before. Now, there’s like two people in one day. Listen, sir, we paid. Are we still gonna be able to live here when—?”

“And then? The bank person?” Aaron interrupted, needing to get to the bottom of this. Had Ackerman tried to get these tenants to pay
him
? Directly? Why? That’d be a bitch. If Ackerman was trying to screw him? What an asshole. Good thing he’d come to get the scoop. What an
asshole.
“I mean, did you give
him
the check?”

“Him?” the girl said.

“The other bank guy,” Aaron said. Was this Maddie an idiot? Or maybe … in on it? Somehow skimming off the rent money, or sharing it with Ackerman, in some under-the-table way?

“It wasn’t a guy,” the girl said. “It was a woman.”

26

Peter glanced at Jane as he heard the voice on the other end of his phone call. She was deep into her message retrieval, her hair coming loose from that ponytail, fluttering in the breeze from her opened car window. If she was trying to overhear his conversation, she was doing a good job of hiding it.

“Yes, I remember you,” Peter answered, keeping his voice low. “What can I do for—”

He stopped as the detective interrupted him.

“No,” Peter replied. “As I told your colleague. No idea.”

Pretty interesting, Peter thought as the cop went on, that this was the same detective who’d been at the Sandoval house when Peter arrived. Now he was asking about Thorley. Why was he involved in the Thorley case? As far as Peter knew, the primary was Branford Sherrey.

Huh.
He’d suspected something going on between this cop and his sarcastic partner. Some undercurrent of agenda Peter couldn’t comprehend. Did they know something about Sandoval they weren’t telling? Or about Thorley?

Jane had worked on Sandoval, too, come to think of it. She’d been there when the body was found, according to her story in the paper.

Was there a connection between Thorley and Sandoval?

Nothing that Peter knew of. What did this detective know? Or Jane? She’d been pretty interested when he’d talked about a confession.

“No,” Peter answered the detective’s question. “I haven’t heard from him since—” The traffic was miraculously thinning out, and Peter managed to ease the Jeep out from behind a Sam Adams truck. He could use a beer about now. “Well, I haven’t heard from him.”

He glanced across the seat. Jane still seemed involved with her voice mail.

“And you say his parole officer has no idea?” Peter needed to be firm, but didn’t want to raise his voice. He’d tried to use only vague and ambiguous words, but “parole” and “officer” certainly weren’t ambiguous. Especially not together. “Detective? Is there anything you need to tell me?”

But the detective gave him only the predictable “call us if you find him” and “we’ll call you if we find him first” routine, then hung up.

Peter clicked off, trying to plan. What would he tell Jane? And what did she already know?

*   *   *

“Bunch of nothing on my messages.” Jane yanked out her earbuds as she saw Peter end his phone call. She’d wanted to give him some privacy, let him know she was trustworthy, even though she desperately wanted to know what was going on. Was there a connection between the confession Peter was talking about, and the one Jake was talking about? Had to be. She was annoyed, and disappointed, that Jake hadn’t called from D.C. “So much for that.”

With traffic easing a bit, Peter careened the Jeep around a diesel-puffing hulk of a beer truck. She could use a beer about now. Jane thought calming thoughts, pushed her hair out of her face. Might as well be August. And she still didn’t know where they were headed. A metaphor for her whole life.

“So, Peter?” she began. “You were about to tell me about the confession. Or—the false confession?”

She mentally crossed her fingers. Maybe she’d get some answers.

Peter kept his eyes on the road.

“Jane?” he finally said.

Yeesh.
“Still here,” she said.

“Do you know a Detective Jake Brogan?”

*   *   *

Three paper coffee cups, the crumpled waxed paper from a turkey sandwich, and the remnants of a double-sized Snickers wrapper littered the airport floor next to Jake’s rocking chair. Jake never wanted to see that chair again. The sky had only gotten darker. The rain had only rained harder. Every baby in Reagan National Airport was crying, and even the gate agents, now snarling as passengers lined up to whine, had abandoned their smiley-face optimism. Just when Jake predicted it was meteorologically impossible for it to rain any longer, another torrent gushed across the tarmac, blasting water at the window from all directions.

He should have stayed at Frasca’s.

What’s more, his cell phone was down to one bar, but if he moved to a place where there were plugs, he’d have to give up his squatter’s rights to the rocking chair, and be relegated to one of those not-made-for-humans molded plastic seats. He turned his phone off-off, figuring that’d save the battery.

That lasted about four seconds. He turned it back on. What if they found Thorley? He had to know, even though he was more than powerless—ha-ha—to do anything about it. Or what if Thorley called him, and his phone was off?

This whole thing sucked, big time. His hot idea to come to Washington. But he’d really figured—hoped—there was something in those files, something in history, that would clue him in to Gordon Thorley’s motives.

He’d been wrong.

Jake leaned back in the rocker, contemplating the extent of the disaster. Now he was left with a disappointed girlfriend, no relevant information about his case, and a verging-on-dead phone. At least Diva was at Mother’s house, so “hungry golden retriever” was not on his list of woes.

All he could imagine was turquoise water and pink sand and Jane in that “very small” bathing suit she’d described. Three things he was not gonna see.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the sooty sky, followed almost instantly by the crack of thunder. The babies cried harder. Jake’s phone rang, the trill barely audible. One bar, Jake saw. Caller unknown.

Jane, maybe? Wouldn’t be the first time she’d called just as he was thinking about her. But then, he was often thinking about her.

“This is Jake Bro—,” he began.

“Got him, Harvard,” the voice said. DeLuca? But he was—“Kat got a call from her lab. The two-by-four from Waverly Road has Sandoval’s DNA.”

“Where are you?” This wasn’t computing.

“Irrelevant and immaterial,” DeLuca said. “I’m here with the best medical examiner Boston’s ever had—shhh, hang on, I’m telling Jake—and what can I say. Guess it pays to have friends in high places. Friends who can move your DNA screens to the front of the line. Maybe even expedite Lilac Sunday when we get home, right? Though why waste a favor when the guy’s confessed? But this one? Slam dunkeroo.”

“So it’s—”

“Yup. Our steroid-happy carpenter—”

“Steroids?” Jake said.

“Oh, yeah, forgot to mention. The whole report was faxed to HQ.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Sorry to miss the big takedown, Harvard,” D said. “But I’m, shall we say, otherwise occupied. And vacation is vacation. You, on the other hand, are in line to make the big arrest. Make the headlines, bring the sucker to justice.”

“We’ll need a warrant.” Jake thought out loud, watched the bar on his phone struggle and flicker. Dammit.

“So?” DeLuca said. “Get one. And let me know what happens, okay, dude?”

Jake heard a whimper, then a murmur of comfort. A harried-looking young woman, striped shirt and jeans, hair straggling out of a lopsided barrette, switched a squirmy infant to her other hip, and hoisted an oversized diaper bag to her shoulder.

Jake stood, gesturing to the rocking chair.

Hell with it.
He scooped up his trash with one hand, then searched the baseboards, scanning for electricity. He needed a plug. First to call Judge Gallagher for the warrant, then to call Peter Hardesty again. This day was becoming more complicated, but more interesting. Closing a murder case, finding the bad guy, was always a good thing.

And maybe the rain was stopping.

“On it, D,” Jake said. “Tell Kat thanks.”

“You can count on it,” D said. “In fact, I’ve already started thanking her.”

27

“Pro—yikes—fessionally,” Jane said, wincing as a buzzy little Fiat convertible cut in front of them. Why was everyone in such a crazy hurry? Being a passenger sucked. “Jake Brogan is a Boston detective. Why?”

Jane frowned, facing resolutely forward. She wanted to watch Peter’s expression, gauge where he was going with his “do you know Jake Brogan” question, but she felt bound to watch the chaotic traffic instead. Good-sport Jane had about had it with Hardesty’s aggressive driving. What’s more, good-sport Jane had also had it with his secrecy. If she couldn’t take the wheel, time to at least change the subject to one of
her
choosing.

“Peter? Ah, I hate to be a pain in the ass, but where are we—
hey!
”

Jane grabbed the strap again, closed her eyes, then didn’t. Then saw the shape of something in her side mirror, something that shouldn’t be there, but—

“Damn it!”
Peter yelled, and Jane felt the boxy car try to swerve to the left, out of the way of the blue whatever careening into their blind spot and then shoving them into the left lane. Jane heard the skid, felt the wind in her hair and the force of Peter’s hard right turn throwing her against the seat belt, then back again. She closed her eyes, then opened them, then closed them, clenching her teeth and shoulders, waiting for the crunch and the crash and the sound of glass and metal, and how would they ever—

“Hang on, Jane!” Peter’s voice, terse, hard, demanding. The Jeep swerved again, a car in the other lane, too, boxing them in, no one’s fault but the idiot Fiat’s, and if Peter couldn’t—

“Ow!”
The side of Jane’s head slammed into the window as Peter tried to yank the car back onto the highway after they’d jounced across two lanes verging on out of control, Jane could feel it, could hear the wheels and the horns and the honking, and she was bracing herself
this was it,
not a chance in the world they would—

The wheels skidded again, the car jouncing and bouncing over the grassy shoulder, bumping down the wildflower-filled culvert—Jane saw it almost in slow motion, pink and white lace, colors blurring as the Jeep lurched and staggered, wheels catching on whatever, Jane could see through the windshield, they were headed—what, down? She braced her arms against the dashboard, locking her elbows, wondering how it felt to be blasted by an airbag, wondering if she would even feel it, or if she would never feel anything again. One wheel hit, then the other, the car went sideways, almost, then not, and then almost, and if the car flipped over, they’d be—

Stopped. It stopped.

Silence.

Jane took a breath, realized she could take a breath. Every muscle in her body was still clenched.

“Peter?” She whispered the word, almost checking to make sure her voice worked, still looking forward. “Peter?”

Silence.

*   *   *

Lawyers.
Jake’s phone was up to four bars now, for whatever good that did. Peter Hardesty was not answering. As a result, he would not know his client was about to be arrested. Jake could stall, certainly, until the judge actually granted the warrant. Sandoval—so adamantly protesting his innocence yesterday—was not much of a flight risk.

“Attention passengers at Gate C-one,” a voice came over the intercom. “JetBlue flight four-forty-three to Boston will soon be ready for preboarding. We regret the…”

A sliver of twilight moon emerged in the now-clearing sky. The tarmac glistened with a sheen of moisture, but other than that and a terminal filled with cranky passengers, it was as if the storm had never happened.

Jake clicked off the phone. He was under no obligation to leave a message for Peter Hardesty. If the lawyer wasn’t answering, he was clearly otherwise occupied.

That call could wait.

And Jane? He punched up her speed dial, glancing at the gate agent. The impatient passengers, the ones who somehow needed to board first, were already queuing near the gate agent’s desk, casually crowding, pretending they just happened to be standing there. Jake shook his head. They would all get to Boston at the same time.

He smiled, remembering his idea to surprise Jane, and ended the call before she answered. He couldn’t tell her about the Sandoval arrest until it was public. That was one of the tradeoffs they’d have to get used to. He’d not even been gone for a day. And it already felt—wrong. He missed her. Missed their connection.

Flowers, definitely. Wine. And a discussion about their future.

And, tomorrow, a slam dunk arrest.

*   *   *

“Peter?” Jane’s shook her head, slowly, carefully, feeling muscles in the back of her neck as she turned. Peter sat, back flat against the driver’s seat, hands still clutching the steering wheel, elbows stiff, looking straight out the windshield.

“You okay?” Jane asked again.

“Are you?” Peter said. “That idiot—”

“Really, check yourself out,” Jane said, doing the same thing. She lifted her shoulders, touched her face, ran her tongue across her teeth. One of the tennis rackets from the backseat was on the floor in front of her, both tennis balls had rolled onto the floor on Peter’s side. Jane’s coffee now splatted down one leg of Peter’s suit pants, tiny ice cubes scattered on the floor like melting confetti.

The whole front end of the Jeep was tipped, stopped by a wildflower-filled gully down the median of the highway. No windows broken, no airbags exploded. Jane heard a siren off in the distance, but the sound faded, and disappeared.

“Peter?” What if he’d hit his head? She searched for her phone, where was it? “We’ll need to get you to a hospital.”