Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (22 page)

She took another sip, then another, attempting to understand Aaron’s logic. Could you say Aaron was helping people? Same as she was?
Kind of.
Helping students who needed homes. Protecting the housing stock and the economy. Leveraging resources the bank would never miss. Same as she was. Kind of.

He was making money from it, of course, and she wasn’t. But still. Kind of.

And then, in a rush and a flurry of words, she told him everything she’d discovered, everything, about Mo Heedles and Maddie Kate, and the leases now in her top desk drawer. Why was her memory so fuzzy?

“You’re so smart, Miss Lizzie,” he’d said, drawing one finger up her bare arm, into the hollow of her collar bone, giving her goose bumps and who knows what else. “That’s why I trust you so much.”

She’d been on the verge, the very verge, of telling him about her system, but at the last moment, something in his face, or something in her heart, stopped her. She needed to keep some things to herself. She’d been alone, essentially, for most of her life. It was probably time to let someone else in. But not yet. Not here.

He’d almost carried her upstairs, not quite, and here they were now, together, and he was offering her even more champagne. The blue ribbon from the splayed open Cinzano’s box was tied around one of her wrists, he’d tied it there like a silken bracelet, and he’d fed her the creamy chocolate chip pastry from inside it, holding the confection with the rustling waxed paper, morsel by morsel, sitting on the edge of the duvet cover, making her lick his fingers to get every bit of the custard.

“Don’t you want one?” she’d asked, and he’d said, “I’m hungry, but right now, only hungry for you.” So the other pastry remained untouched.
Touched,
she thought, thinking of his hands.

Aaron had slid away from her. She patted the warm spot where he’d been. He was using the downstairs bathroom, he explained, the one up here was—whatever it was. And wouldn’t her father be surprised? Wouldn’t everyone be surprised?

Lizzie closed her eyes for a moment. She yawned, wide and reckless, feeling every cell in her body expand, feeling the downy pillow; her skirt and top were rumpled and wrinkled, but who cared, her suit jacket and watch and purse and everything in a crazy pile where Aaron had placed it. Keeping it safe.

Just like their secret. He’d made her promise not to tell.

She settled into the pillows. Aaron would be back soon, then … then … she floated for a moment, trying to think.

This is what real people did, people who had a life outside of work. And now she did, too, and she could still love her work but would never look at the world the same way again.

She was … happy? Was this happy?

Where was Aaron? Her brain felt fuzzy, happy-fuzzy, and the bed was so soft, and the chocolate chip pastries were so delicious, maybe she could tuck one in her purse. As a reminder of this delicious night.

*   *   *

“I can’t freaking believe it.” Aaron started talking before Ack even had the front door closed. “She knows the whole freaking thing. At those houses today? It
was
her. She actually freaking went to the freaking houses.”

Ackerman arrived at the condo as they’d planned, and now Aaron had to watch him pace through the sparsely furnished living room, muttering and critical, as Lizzie lay clueless in the upstairs bedroom.

Aaron was so not going to take the fall for this. And the only way to make sure of it was to spread the responsibility. Make sure all involved were equally entangled as he was. “Ball’s in your court now, bro,” Aaron said.

Lizzie was certainly—he hoped—out cold now, all that champagne followed by all the crumbled pills he’d added to the gooey filling. She’d have no idea they were down here discussing her future.

Ackerman and his nasty questions worried him.

Yes, he told Lizzie the deal, Aaron admitted, but only after it was clear she was already on to it, as they’d suspected. No, he had no other choices, only whether to deny the whole thing, or spill enough to shut her up while he knocked her out. How much of a choice was that? When she had access to all the bank records? And she’d already …
damn
it.

Ackerman came around the stubby coffee table for the third time. Now his conversation consisted of mostly “asshole” and “ridiculous.” As far as Aaron was concerned, Ackerman was the ridiculous asshole. The rental thing had all been his idea. Aaron had just gone along with it. Happily, sure, and psyched to be included in it—bankrolling his new wheels and a whole lot more. But now, suddenly, it was Aaron’s responsibility? Not a chance. Aaron was not the asshole. Even more important, not the fall guy.

“Listen, I’m out there, every day,” Aaron whispered. He glanced upstairs, verging on nervous Lizzie’d show up at the top step, naked and questioning. But that was impossible—that chocolate chip thing had enough stuff in it to keep her quiet until they decided what to do.

“
I
talk to the tenants.” Aaron pointed to his own chest, his shirt still open. At least his khakis were back on. The rest of his clothes, including his shoes, were upstairs. For now. He pointed again. “
I
arrange the site visits,
I
talk to the brokers,
I
arrange the showings. Front man, you called it. But
you
guys, you’re back in your offices, counting your damn money. And stop pacing. You’re driving me nuts.”

Ackerman stopped, shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants. Boat shoes with no socks, like he’d just gotten off the boat from the Vineyard. Glared at Aaron, in a smirky way Aaron did not appreciate.

“Tell me again how the bank president’s daughter got the keys to your REOs?” Ackerman’s voice was almost too loud to be safe.

“Shut up,” Aaron said. Of course this was looming disaster, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Ackerman shove the blame on him. Even though in a kind of way, because of the dumbass key thing, he deserved it. But that was the past. “I get it, hell, it’s my bad, whatever. Let’s go from here. Move on. Let’s take care of this.”

“By ‘take care’ you mean like on Waverly Road?”

Aaron still didn’t like the look on Ackerman’s face. What happened to his big “it’s a sure thing” and “we’re all in it together, that’s what makes it so lucrative”? Ack had also promised “no one gets hurt,” but that was obviously way out the window.

If word got out about their project, Aaron knew, like almost happened with Waverly, not only would the whole scheme collapse, so would all their careers. Aaron knew properties from other banks were involved, too. They’d be reading headlines about the bank crisis from their cells at Sing Sing. Theft, conversion, fraud. Bank robbery, essentially. So far, their secret had been contained. But now Lizzie McDivitt, genius daughter of the president of the damn bank, had discovered it.

From moment one, Aaron had known she could never be allowed to tell. But that was Ackerman’s department.

“So hey. I did my part,” Aaron said. “Got her here, got her upstairs. Et. Cetera. Now back to you in the studio, Walter.”

Ackerman was pacing again, his back to Aaron as he headed toward the dinky fireplace, then around the lumpy couch and past the sagging wing chair, its armrests so faded and threadbare they were a different brown than the seat. He didn’t answer.
Ass
hole.

“Ack? Hel-lo. I’m serious. What is—?” He remembered to keep his voice down. Started over, quieter. “What. Is. The
plan
? Or are you gonna stall until Lizzie McDivitt comes down those stairs and joins the conversation?”

He was gratified that Ackerman flinched, checked the stairs. Not so gratified when he rolled his eyes again. Jerk. Weren’t they in this together?

“So let me get a few things straight,” Ackerman said. He stopped by the chair, now leaning against the back of it, his body hidden behind the stripes. “You brought her here from the bank parking lot, and left her car there?”

“Yeah.”

“And what, pray, was going through your mind when you made that decision?”

Incredible jerk.
“Well, there’s only one parking space here, you know? I had to get her to leave her car to get her here.”

Ackerman nodded, agreeing. “I see. You wouldn’t want her car to be towed from here for violating Brookline’s overnight parking laws. Leave a record that she’d been here.”

“Exactly.” Aaron had thought it all out. Get her here, get her inside and out of sight, see what she knew. If nothing, fine, game over. If something, not so fine, bring out the cupcake or whatever. Call Ack, and assess what to do next.

“And what was your thought,” Ackerman said, his voice still at almost a whisper, “about the security cameras in the bank parking lot? The ones that certainly captured the bank president’s daughter getting into your car with you? And driving away with you?”

“The—?”
Crap.

“Exactly,” Ackerman said. “So, my young Lothario, back upstairs with you. And good luck. We’ll all see young Lizzie McDivitt at her desk tomorrow morning. Won’t we?”

Aaron looked up the stairway, at the slightly open bedroom door. Behind it, his future lay zonked in a stranger’s bed.

“Crap.”

“Exactly,” Ackerman said again. He came out from behind the chair, and headed for the front door.

“At least tomorrow morning, she’ll remember only what I remind her to remember,” Aaron said.

“Possibly.” Ackerman turned, one hand on the front doorknob. “If you’re lucky.”

“But after tomorrow morning,” Aaron continued, “after she’s back at her damn desk and it’s all back to normal—”

“Not your department,” Ackerman said. He opened the door, peered into the hallway, then looked at Aaron over one shoulder. “And Gianelli? We’ll handle her from here.”

35

“No, Jane. Absolutely not. Not one word.”

“But I think we should—” Jane was not happy with the direction of this morning’s meeting in Marcotte’s office. “I mean, I could write a terrific—”

“You certainly grasp the logic here, don’t you, Jane?” Marcotte, interrupting, ripped the top page from a yellow legal pad, crumpled it, tossed it into a leather-covered wastebasket. “If this”—she consulted another legal pad—“Gordon Thorley? Is indeed a suspect in the Moulten Road killing? Lucky you weren’t killed.”

“Well—” True, certainly. “But I
wasn’t
—”

“I pitched having you write a first-person about the whole incident, of course, it’s fabulous reporter involvement. Talk about buzzable,” Marcotte continued. “But legal says no. So it’s no. Understood?”

“But—” Jane wasn’t making any headway in this conversation. Peter had called her from police station Siberia about four in the morning, giving her the outline of what happened with Thorley, and telling her, “Detective Brogan says thank you so much, and he’ll be in contact if he needs you.”

So far, no call. Not a word from Jake. Did that mean he didn’t “need” her? She thought about that suitcase, still packed in her bedroom, like the last memory of a fading dream. Had Jake backed out of their trip for some reason he wasn’t saying? The assignment in Washington had suddenly appeared—then disappeared. What was that all about? Why didn’t he trust her with the truth?

Last night, she’d been too tired to think about it clearly.

She’d ripped open a can of evil-smelling lamb-and-rice for the complaining Coda, grabbed three hours of sleep after Peter’s call, hit the shower, slugged down two coffees, and dragged herself into Marcotte’s office, banishing all thoughts of Jake, fueled by the prospect of a big story. She was expecting a pat on the back, since she’d scored the big Thorley-as-Moulten-Road-Killer scoop, such a headliner she could bang it out no matter how tired she felt. She’d planned to leave out what took place in Hardesty’s living room. Since it was all a “misunderstanding,” according to Peter, there’d be no police report, no record of it, as if it never happened. She could still be objective.

Now Marcotte was saying no.

“But, Victoria? Legal’s got to understand the episode with Thorley wasn’t reported, formally, so it doesn’t count. Doesn’t affect my objectivity. In fact, you only know about it because I told you. If I hadn’t—”

“If you hadn’t what?” Marcotte, interrupting, seemed to look straight at Jane for the first time that morning. “If you hadn’t, we’d be having quite a different conversation, I expect. You don’t think I wouldn’t find out, do you?”

Backpedal time. “Well, of course, and I did tell you,” Jane said.

“And so it goes,” Marcotte said.

This conversation wasn’t the only thing derailed in Jane’s life. Maybe she should go home, get some sleep, and start the day again, not exhausted and not bummed out.

She could work on Sandoval, and also the foreclosure crisis story that started this whole thing. A memorial service for Emily-Sue Ordway, the girl who’d fallen from the window, the teenage victim who’d started Jane’s interest in foreclosure families, was in the works, and might be a good peg.

“However,” Marcotte was saying. “Even though legal’s yanked you off the Thorley story, all is not lost. I have a favor to ask, and I know you can handle the assignment. We need to front-burner it for the Sunday editions. Get it in—by Friday? Two days from now. Use TJ for video.”

A favor? An assignment? Okay, that was the challenge of reporting. You never knew what was around the next corner. Usually that was the exciting part, but right now, it was the confusing part. Still, she could do it, whatever. It was also a convenient way to get back into Marcotte’s good graces, if such a place existed.

“Sure,” Jane said. She’d hear what Marcotte had in mind, get more coffee, be a team player.

“Chrystal Peralta is out sick,” Marcotte said. “Flu. She’s been working on a consumer story about banks and their evolving customer service departments. How they used to give toasters and the like for opening a new account? Now they’re all about personal service.”

“A consumer story?” Jane didn’t really enjoy doing those puffy little pieces. Valuable info, she supposed, readable, and good for the paper. Just not her style. “Banks?”