Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (17 page)

“I’m fine,” Peter said. “I’m so freaking sorry.” She heard him take a deep breath, run his hand through his hair, turn to look at her. He unclicked his seat belt, reached over, touched her bare arm.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“I know,” she admitted. “It all happened so fast, though.…” She was more scared now than when it happened. “It all happened so fast”—how many times had people she’d interviewed said that? Now she knew it was true. Six o’clock, the dashboard indicator said. Then, 6:01. The clock still worked.

Cars zoomed by, ignoring them.

“I am so sorry.” Peter opened his car door, slowly. “Some idiot ran us off the road, trying to get in my lane, then that other guy wouldn’t move so—shit.”

“One of those things.” Jane tried to stay calm.
It’s over, random, not even Peter’s fault.
And even though she’d thought he’d been driving kind of aggressively, he’d actually been amazing, keeping the car in control.

She opened her car door, too, stepped out onto the rangy grass. Peter had a hand on the hood, checked the front end, peered under the bumper, then examined each of the tires.

“Not even a flat,” he said. He put his hands on her shoulders, looked at her, intent. “Jane? Are you sure you’re…?”

“Yeah. Fine.” She didn’t move, feeling the weight of his hands, and the tiny breeze through the wildflowers, and the gratitude that this had not turned out a disaster. “Are
you
sure? Should we call the—?”

“I think we can back out,” Peter said. He took one hand off her shoulder, then the other. His shirt had come untucked on one side, his pants were coffee soaked, and his shoes were coated with dust. “If you’re truly okay. I’ll call nine-one-one if—”

“Really and truly,” Jane said. She touched the side of her head, feeling a spot where it was tender. “I might have a bruise, but I’ll be fine. Sorry about the coffee, though. You’re kind of—wet. You honestly think the car’s okay?”

“The Jeep’s pretty forgiving. The engine’s working, so step back. I’ll give it a try.”

She watched Peter tramp through the weeds, get into the driver’s seat, close the door. She felt safe with him, it wasn’t his driving that caused this. He hadn’t panicked. He’d focused, pulled it off. Didn’t try to blame anyone else.

They were lucky. Everything was fine.

Jake, she thought.
What if I’d been killed in a car accident, and we’d left—like that?

The car’s engine rattled, then whirred, and Jane stepped farther back. The car lurched, then caught, and the front wheels rolled up the side of the ditch and back onto flat ground. A patch of crushed Queen Anne’s lace and two tire-patterned tread marks were the only signs anything had happened.

Jane opened the passenger door. Inside, Peter was smiling. Even the air conditioner was on. “What’s the verdict?”

“Good to go, looks like. Hop in.” Peter waited until she strapped herself in, then edged the nose of the car around, aiming it to the highway. “Ah, you’ve got a little dirt on—right there.”

Jane pulled down the visor, flipped open the mirror. A pale face looked back at her, blinking. A curling lock of hair hung over one cheek, her cheeks red and shiny with the heat, a smudge of grime painting her forehead.

“All good,” she said. “A little dirt never hurt anyone. Wet pants, though, that’s a different story. Yours are never going to be the same.”

“Tell you what—let’s head to my place,” Peter said, gauging the traffic as it sped by.

Their heads moved in unison, watching two cars, then a white Boston cab, top speed, an eighteen-wheeler, then another, then—a break.

Jane pointed. “Now.”

Peter gunned it, and with one jounce, they were back in the fast lane.

“Good job,” Jane had to say. “You did great.”

“Got lucky,” he said. “Except for the pants thing. Let me change, and then head out. Make sense?”

As much as anything did. Jane was back at square one. “Peter? Where the—hell—are you taking me?”

28

Atlantic & Anchor Bank was closed, if you were a customer, but inside the executive suites and the managers’ offices, as in Lizzie’s, a few of the lights were still on. It was Tuesday, the end and beginning of A&A’s proprietary fiscal week, the day the bank’s systems cranked out their internal reports and fed the computations and calculation data—the C&Cs—to those vetted few who had access. And who bothered to read them. These numbers, separate from the rolling daily audits the bank’s elaborate financial ledgers computed on a minute-by-minute basis, allowed insiders to gauge business, and inflow, and even receivables, if anyone decided to examine them.

Lizzie watched the spreadsheet unfurl, mentally calculating along with the output, knowing exactly what she was looking for. She had tested her system—a shrug, “system” was good a word as any—with the Iantoscas, the Gantrys, and the Detwylers.

This C&C run was a bellwether. If today’s calc picked up her changes, she’d still have time before the formal Friday wrap to make good and erase her mathematical tracks. She was still new, after all. And who was going to argue with her? She allowed herself a smile, thinking of her connection with the fifth floor.

Daddy’s little girl, indeed. She’d always wanted to be. And who’d have thought it would add up this way? She watched a column of black and red scroll by—so far, so good.
Okay.
The Iantosca portfolio wasn’t flagged, so all was well there. If she made it through this, it would prove the intricate go-around she devised had defeated the internal oversight controls. Two more “customers” to go.

By the time the computation ended, if it all went as she hoped, she’d have time to race to Whole Foods, get some snacks, maybe cheese? What did people do? Then make it home in time for Aaron at nine-ish, the way they’d planned.

She clicked her computer mouse, pausing the progression of the numbers on her screen. The bank corridors were silent, and she’d left her door open, preferring her privacy, but needing to monitor if anyone—
Aaron
—came by. Snooping. Asking questions she didn’t want to answer. Especially since she had a big fat list of questions she wanted to
ask.

The damn—darn—lease was burning a hole in her briefcase. She told that girl Mo she’d bring it back tomorrow. “After the main office checked the final numbers.” She’d made up the perfectly believable lie instantly. Mo had been more than happy to relinquish the paperwork, hoping for a break on the rent in return.

Lizzie clicked
RUN
again. She couldn’t afford to miss anything, and if she saw it in real time, all the better in case she needed to reevaluate and recalculate. The sooner that happened, the easier to cover her tracks. But she hoped she wouldn’t have to.

There.
The Gantry portfolio. Loan number, dates, origination, sale one, sale two, modification—the snag would be next if it was going to show up. But no. No red numbers. No arrearage. No arrears notification, no lis pendens, nothing that would show anything but a happy family happily making mortgage payments with happy 5 percent interest on their happy home in—wherever it was. Framingham.

That the Gantrys were deep into mortgage debt might be the truth, but thanks to Lizzie, it sure wasn’t showing up in the paperwork.

Two down. One to go.

And then, Aaron.

*   *   *

It was a woman? A
woman
? Aaron Gianelli draped his arms over the wheel of his white Fiero, rested his head on his wrists. Paralyzed in the bank parking lot, terrified to go inside.

No matter how he played out the possibilities, the bottom line pointed to only one answer. Lizzie McDivitt had taken his keys and visited his clients. Why? What would possess her to snoop into his business? Actually go to his homes? Homes he was in charge of? Who the hell made her the grand inquisitor?

If she told anyone, anyone upstairs—well, Ackerman was going to be so pissed off, no one on the planet could be so pissed off.

There would be music to face, at some point, whatever the hell music there was. But one false move, one falling domino, and this whole enterprise would blow up in his face. And no way Ackerman and his compadres would step up and share any of the repercussions.

Aaron let the movie of the disaster unreel in his mind: the police, and the prosecutors, whoever they’d be, federal, maybe even, since it was banking? Or, hell, he didn’t know. He
should
know. He’d either have to rat out Ackerman and the whole thing, what he knew of it at least, or take the fall on his own.

That was a no-brainer. He was not gonna take the fall.

Question was, was there a way to stop it, right now, prevent any of it from getting out?

What would that be? Aaron lifted his head from his arms, stared into the parking lot. The bank president’s place was still occupied, that navy blue Lexus that cost Aaron’s entire annual salary, probably more. Ackerman’s space was also filled. And so was Lizzie’s. She was here at the bank, not at home.

He sat back in his seat, chewing the inside of his cheek. Imagining her journey. Her office. The parking lot. Her apartment.

Where did she park at home? Did she have to walk from there to her front door? Or did she use a back door?

So many things about Miss Lizzie he didn’t know.

Still, he knew how to find out.

*   *   *

“Here we are.” Peter pulled into his driveway, clicked open the garage door, but didn’t drive in. The porch light was on, even though it wasn’t quite dark. He hadn’t reset the timer for the later-lasting summer light. Harley already had his two front paws on the front bay window, and Peter could see he was barking. He smiled, remembering. Dianna used to say Harley would run to the front window before
she
had any idea he was coming home.

He still missed Di. But life would go on. His, at least.

“Let me run in and change my—listen. If you don’t mind the dog and a lot of newspapers on the couch, come on in and wait in the air conditioning. Unless you prefer to—”

“Thanks. I’ll hit the bathroom, if you don’t mind,” Jane said. “Nice house, by the way. I love this part of Milton. You lived here long?”

He watched her gather up her stuff, thinking again how lucky they were that he’d been able to handle the Jeep. Random, ridiculous drivers. Another lesson in how quickly one’s life could change.

“A few years,” he said. He opened the door, keyed the alarm system, defended himself against his overjoyed Lab. “Yes, I’m home, yes, you can go out, yes, this is Jane, try to behave.”

Peter waved Jane inside, grabbing Har’s thick red collar in a futile effort to restrain the four-legged goofball now attempting to wag his entire body. “He’s enthusiastic.”

“So I see,” Jane said. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” Peter waggled his shoulders, rolled his neck. “Creaky, though, I guess. You?”

“Me, too,” she said. She flexed her arms, shook them out.

“We’re lucky,” he said. He saw her looking around the living room, at the photos over the fireplace, and the silver frames on the piano.

“You play?” she asked.

He knew it. Okay, then, the short version.

“My wife did. She died. Several years ago.” He waved at the pictures. “That’s her. Dianna Nesbitt. She was terrific.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jane said.

“Thanks.” Peter shook his head. Enough explanation. “Listen. Do you mind if I take a quick shower? You can use the downstairs head, I’ll go up. I’m sort of—”

“Sure,” Jane said. “I’m fine.”

Harley yanked away from him, sniffled up to Jane.

“Harley,” he said. Exasperated. “Get back here. Jane, I’m sorry, Har’s just happy to—”

“We’re fine,” Jane plopped onto the couch, Harley nudging her leg. “Go shower.”

“He can go outside, into the backyard.” Peter pointed. “Just open the kitchen door back there, okay? And you can have some peace.”

“Will do,” Jane said. “We’re fine.”

29

“Where the hell did you go? A little rain scare you off?”

Jake figured he had only a few minutes to answer Nate Frasca’s call before the flight attendant’s preflight swoop-through ensured no passenger was using a deadly electronic device in deadly out-of-airplane mode.

“Nope,
you
scared me off,” Jake said. “All that bullshit jargon in your files, God help anyone trying to make heads or tails. I’m boarding now, so—”

“You get anything?” Frasca said.

“Maybe,” Jake said. “Thing is, it all points to his potential guilt. Excuse me, ma’am.” Jake found seat 6A, slid past the woman with the e-reader in 6B. She’d stuck a full paper cup of coffee in the elastic seat pocket in front of her, and the cup was clearly on the verge of collapse. Exploding coffee, just what he needed. “Anyway. Turns out we’ve got a different case coming to a head back home. Suspect and all. So I’ve got to—”

“Ladies and gentlemen, from the flight deck, this is Lois, your front cabin attendant,” squawked a voice over the PA. “In preparation for takeoff, please make sure all of your cell phones are—”

“Listen, Nate? Gotta go. They’re—”

“You said the Lilac Sunday guy’s name was Gordon Thorley, right?” Frasca interrupted. “Common spelling?”

“Yeah. At least, that’s the one who
says
he—well, yeah.” Jake held the phone between his shoulder and cheek, felt for the seat belt while trying to avoid poking his seatmate in the ass, clicked it on. “Ring a bell?”

“Maybe,” Frasca said. “Age?”

“Like, late thirties? Early forties,” Jake said. “What bell?”

“Maybe nothing,” Frasca said. “But—”

“Sir?” A disapproving flight attendant leaned across e-reader woman, eyeing Jake’s phone. “We cannot take off until all cell phones—”

“Gotta go.” Jake clicked off, showed the woman his black screen.

“Airplane mode, sir,” she said.

Just get me to Boston,
Jake thought.

*   *   *

Why were numbers so easy and people so difficult?

Lizzie’s client handiwork had passed the C&C test with flying colors. She should be happy. For now, at least, no one would notice that the mortgage payments for certain families did not exactly match actual money in the actual bank. According to the records, those customers were stellar, reliable, and double-A risks.