Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (39 page)

Him and Ack, he guessed. Some “we.”

Aaron saw how the bartender’s towel had streaked the bar, ran his finger through the residue, left a trail that disappeared.

It had gone too far. It had. He’d already decided what to do.

Question was—right now? Or later?

Maybe later. After one more beer.

55

Jane turned off the shower, listening. Was that her door buzzer? She paused, hair dripping, yanked back the map of the world shower curtain, listened again. Coda, balanced on the bathroom sink, was passionately licking the condensing water off the mirror. Cat was nuts. And, yes. The buzzer.

Someone at her front door at nine at night? Not Peter. He’d called, saying something had come up—seemed to be a pattern, but who was she to judge. And truth be told, she was looking forward to a night at home. A little TV, a little nuked baked potato and broccoli, a glass of wine. Tomorrow, she’d follow up on the not-empty house situation. And Sandoval.

She grabbed her fluffy terry-cloth robe, slipped on her black flip-flops, and flapped down the hall. Maybe it was Margot from downstairs, bringing her restaurant’s leftovers? Or Neena, her building manager, with some condo news. If it was some kind of salesperson, she’d—whatever.

She buzzed the intercom.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” the voice said.

Jake.

“Is everything okay?” she said. Silly question, but she was so surprised it was him. Last person she’d expected. Funny to think so, after all they’d—

“Sure,” his voice bristled over the intercom. “Janey? Can I come up? Can we talk? Okay?”

And of course it was okay, this was their lives, the push-pull of responsibility and desire, like two poles of a magnet, repelling and attracting, but physically unable to undo what nature, or something, had designed.

Wine for two. Pretzels and reasonable cheese, Jake on the wing chair. Jane on the couch. Small talk, small talk. She yanked the belt of her robe tighter as she tucked herself into the corner.

“Thing is.” Jake took a sip of wine, then put his glass on the coffee table. Picked it up, swiped away the ring, replaced it on a napkin.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No problem,” Jane said.

Silence.

She laughed. “We’re really communicating, huh?”

“I’m tired of it,” Jake said.

Jane closed her robe tighter, even though it couldn’t go tighter. Was this the end of their—whatever it was? Was this why he’d canceled Bermuda? Now he was telling her the truth? Saying good-bye? “Tired? Of what?”

“Pretending. Calling you ‘Miss Ryland.’ Ignoring you in court this morning. At Sandoval.”

“Why’d you—?” Jane began.

“Let me finish, or I won’t, okay?” Jake interrupted, smiling.

“Okay,” she said. Felt weird to be in a bathrobe, towel over her shoulders. Hair wet. Vulnerable, kind of, with Jake all dressed still in his sport coat and oxford shirt. He’d left his court tie on—the one she’d given him, blue like the Bermuda sky, she’d told him—though he’d yanked it open at the neck. He needed a shave, and maybe a haircut, but it was all she could do not to get up and—but she wouldn’t. Not now.

He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. “I’m tired of having to be so careful. I mean, what if we admitted it? Told the Supe, told your boss? Victoria?”

“Marcotte.” What he proposed—was
proposing,
she almost laughed when the word came to mind—was impossible. Wasn’t it? She took a sip of wine, the last sip in her glass. Two glasses, she could handle that. Even though she was starving. She sliced off some cheese, balanced it on a cracker. Took a bite. Stalling.

“Marcotte.” Jake reached over, poured more wine. “Just consider it. Would they really fire you?”

Jane held the remnant of cheese on her cracker, one tiny crumb falling onto the couch. How was she supposed to answer that? It wasn’t really about whether she’d be fired, it was about the reality of this conversation. Their truth.

Stalling. She took a sip of wine, the soft red wrapping itself around her food-deprived brain.

A noise.
What?
The door buzzer.

Jake stood, smoothing down his jacket. He eyed her robe, her hair, her bare feet. “Expecting someone?” he said.

She stood, making sure of the terry-cloth belt. Now what? “Grand Central,” she said. “And—no.”

He gestured toward the intercom. “Better check.”

She pushed the button, baffled. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” the voice said. “Peter.”

*   *   *

That’s why Jane had been so nervous. Jake watched her at the apartment door, finger on the intercom. “Peter?”
Peter Hardesty?
That’s why she kept looking at the mantel clock. Drinking her wine so quickly. Fussing with her robe. At least she wasn’t wearing a
towel.
She’d been waiting for Peter Hardesty. Which explained why she’d refused to look at him at the Sandoval hearing. Which proved Jake had been right the first time.

“Ah, Peter?” She put one hand on the doorjamb, leaning toward the intercom. Jake couldn’t see her face.

Pretending she hadn’t expected him? Jake slugged down the last of his Cabernet, clattered it back on the table. No matter how tonight’s ridiculous encounter ended, there was no way for him to leave without Hardesty seeing him. Unless he hid in the bedroom. He snorted, laughing. Like some TV sitcom. On TV, interloper Hardesty would discover the hiding Jake, the laugh track increasing, when the guy carried Jane to her bedroom. Dumb cop, ha-ha, finally going for it, getting the guffaws when the fancy lawyer shows up.

But this was real life, and the personal shit was about to hit the fan. Jake’s own fault, really. For stopping by. For assuming Jane would be alone, and available, while he’d gone to D.C. Seemed like Jane had quickly found alternative plans.

“It’s not a good time,” Jane was saying. She turned to Jake, eyes wide, put up a palm.
Hang on.
“I’m in my—in for the night.”

“My apologies,” the voice said. “Just took a chance.”

Peter Hardesty, no question. It appeared all three of them had secrets.

Jake took a deep breath. Was he overreacting? Jane had every right to see whoever she wanted, he was just surprised, and well, disappointed, that she’d—but now she seemed to be sending the guy away.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, then, Jane,” Hardesty’s voice was all business, Jake had to admit, not like a disappointed suitor. “I’ll leave a package by the mailboxes, okay?”

“Package?” Jane said. She looked at Jake, shrugging.
No idea.

“No big deal,” Hardesty said. “Talk to you tomorrow. Thanks.”

“Thanks.”

Jane turned back to Jake, leaned against the door as the intercom went silent. She clasped her hands under her chin, wincing. “Well,” she said. “That was awkward.”

*   *   *

What on earth was Peter doing? Why had the irony gods instructed him to show up right when Jake was saying—whatever he was saying?

“Don’t you want to get the package?” Jake hadn’t sat in the chair again, clearly he was on the verge of leaving. Which she didn’t,
didn’t
want to happen.

“I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s probably about the Sandoval case we’re working to—” She paused, trying to assess whether she’d said too much.

“I saw you in court today,” Jake said. Still standing. “Why wouldn’t you look at me?”

“Why wouldn’t you look at
me
?” Jane said. She sat on the couch again. Maybe if she went back to status quo, he’d take the cue.

“Jake?”

He sat, but all the way at the other end of the couch. Arms crossed. “The Sandoval case is confidential. Sorry.”

“So what else is new, right?” Jane had to keep him talking, find out what was wrong. “We’re all about confidential, right? But if we can’t trust each other, who can we trust?”

Jake gave a half-shrug. “Maybe Peter Hardesty?”

“Yeah, interesting, huh?” At least he was changing the subject, had picked up his wine.
Good.
“How about that Gordon Thorley? He pulls out a
knife,
I go to the cop shop with—”

“Peter Hardesty,” Jake said. “Imagine. You two seem to have quite the late-night thing.”

Jane frowned. Felt her shoulders slump. Thing? Where was Jake going with this? “Well, he’s the lawyer for Gordon Thorley, sure. And also the lawyer for Elliot Sandoval. So it makes sense that—hey. What do you mean, ‘late night’?”

She watched Jake finish his wine, consider it, pour another glass. His third, if she was counting, and she was of course, which is how she knew she’d only had two glasses herself. Or so. Why was he suddenly interested in Peter Hardesty?

“Late night? Jake? Come on, you don’t really think—”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “I leave town. For the job. I miss you. I call you. You’re not here. And where are you? In the middle of the night? At Hardesty’s apartment. And one of you is wearing a towel.”

Jane stood, hands on hips. Mouth open. “Jacob Dellacort Brogan, you are such a big—” She scratched her head, trying to decide what he was. “I can’t decide whether to be bullshit angry, or, or—”

She shook her head, sat down right next to him. “You’re jealous. You are so cute when you’re jealous. Come on, Jake. We were about to jet off into the sunset, and you think I’d—”

“Well…”

“Ha. You’re blushing. I love it.” Jane poked him in the arm. So that’s what this all was about. She held up three fingers, girl scout. “It’s all business,” she said. “Like your oh-so-whirlwind ‘trip to D.C.’ was all business, right?”

“It
was,
if you’d let me—”

“So why didn’t you—”

“The Sandoval arrest.”

Oh. Jane thought this through. Maybe
she
was the jealous one?

“Okay. Okay,” she said. “Truce? No more D.C. cracks, but no more ridiculous Peter Hardesty stuff. It’s completely business.”

Jake raised his glass.
Deal.

“Deal,” Jane continued. “Now, Mr. Jealous, shall we start over? I’m still packed, you know.”

“Maybe try on that bathing suit?” Jake was finally smiling. “Now?”

“You wish, buddy,” Jane said. “So. Speaking of your trip to Washington.” Something in her brain was working hard, and she struggled to let it complete its task. “You were supposedly researching false confessions.”

“I
was,
” Jake interrupted. “And you said—”

“Okay, okay, I couldn’t resist. But so was Peter Hardesty,” Jane went on. “Did Elliot Sandoval confess to someth—no. Not Sandoval. So Gordon Thorley? Confessed? To what?”

“Jane?” Jake studied the red of his wine, then turned to her. “What you said about trust. Let me ask you something. Can you keep a secret?”

56

It felt great to tell her. Jake hadn’t discussed the possibilities with anyone. Not the Supe, not DeLuca, not even his grandmother, because they had stakes in it, and what if he was missing something or on the wrong track? But he was close. He was sure of it. Jane had promised the Peter thing was all in his imagination. Someone you—
love
—you have to trust. Even if it was complicated.

And Jane was the perfect sounding board. Her reporter instincts were on the money, almost coplike. He thought about those airport lilacs, wilting in the backseat of his car. Wished he had thought to bring her new ones.

“You have the Lilac Sunday killer?” Jane’s eyes went wide, she’d moved to the edge of the couch, crossed her bare legs, carefully closing that thick white robe over them. “I wasn’t in Boston when it happened, but Chrystal Peralta was just talking about it. And your grandfather was in charge? That I didn’t know.”

Jake watched her process the whole thing, the cold case, his grandfather, the girl’s family, the looming anniversary, the confession. The parole board’s controversial decision to let Thorley out after serving most of his robbery sentence. The murder of Treesa Caramona, which might prove Thorley was guilty. Or not.

“Now, his mortgage payments at A&A are up to date,” Jake said. “He owns a home in Sagamore, with his sister, and it was almost in foreclosure. Now it isn’t. Hey. You were working on that foreclosure story. Anything I haven’t considered?”

Jane stared at him, her body still except for one foot, snapping the bottom of her black flip-flop.

“A&A Bank,” Jane said.

“Yeah.”

The flip-flop snapped again.

“You know Liz McDivitt,” Jane finally said.

“Yeah,” Jake said. Risky ground here. “I know of her.”

“Well, listen. I may know what happened. And the change in Gordon Thorley’s mortgage may be connected to her. I didn’t see his name listed, but—”

Jake couldn’t read her expression now, except to see her brain going a mile a minute. He stood, came to the couch, sat down next to her, one cushion away. He could still smell her grapefruit shampoo and something like peppermint and lemons and summer.

“
Listed?
Gordon Thorley connected to Liz McDivitt?” Jake said. “Jane? How?”

Jane was shaking her head, droplets of water from her wet hair sprinkling the navy leather of her couch. She swiped them off with a corner of the towel, one by one.

“Now I have to ask
you.
” Jane draped the towel around her neck again, and looked him square in the eyes. “Now that we’re confessing to each other. Now that we’re trusting each other. Now that we’re trying out our new—relationship.”

She eyed her empty glass. Put it down.

“Ask me what?” Jake said.

“Can
you
keep a secret?”

*   *   *

Jane told him as much as she knew, the Gantrys, the Detwylers, and the Rutherfords. And now—Gordon Thorley, too?

“If the bank made ‘mistakes’ on the mortgages, they’ll have the Banking Commission and the Justice Department and the Comptroller of the Currency and the Attorney General fighting to see who could nail them first. It’ll be at least a major-league scandal, possibly the end of Atlantic & Anchor. End of Hardin McDivitt, that’s for sure. Liz’s father. So then maybe, somehow—ah…”

She shrugged.

“Liz McDivitt,” Jake said.