Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (44 page)

“Hey, Aaron,” Liz said.

“But—you—they—” Aaron stood, slowly. Closed his eyes tight, then opened them again.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m really here.”

“Where to start?” said Jake pleasantly. “Ms. McDivitt came to us, terrified. She brought a chocolate pastry she’d taken, suspected it was drugged—you gave her those, right?—and the paperwork proving that you and your colleagues were covertly renting bank property and keeping the money. Why was she afraid? She’d heard you talk about Waverly Road, my friend. She worried she was next.”

Some smart lawyer in the DA’s office would have to assess how many laws this all broke. Jake hoped it was a shitload, including bank robbery, fraud, and larceny. Conspiracy. And accessory to murder.

They’d nailed most of their case. With Liz safely in hiding and Jake holding off the press after Officer Canfield revealed the Supe’s plans to him that night on the Kenilworth porch, Sherrey had done a blast-canvas of the homes on the list Liz had provided, found those college students, pulled the leases. Canfield followed the money.

What they didn’t have—was the brains behind it. And behind the murder of Shandra Newbury. And the set-up of Liz McDivitt.

“But you’d agreed to meet me on Kenilworth Street.” Aaron’s voice had thinned, as if he was not quite sure he was talking to a real person.

“Nice,” Liz said. “So you
knew
they were coming to kill me? After you got me to go there alone?”

Jake couldn’t imagine how the guy would get out of that one.

“Got to admit, that’s a tough question,” Jake said.

“Toughie,” Sherrey said.

“Lizzie, I—” Aaron sank into the chair.

“Lucky I had the cops there with me. But Aaron.
Why
didn’t the killer show up?” she asked. “Whoever it was? You told them I would be there, you got me there. Why didn’t they show up to kill me?”

“I don’t know!” Aaron’s voice went up an octave, then went silent.

Jake smiled. The Supe smiled. Even Sherrey smiled.

Aaron Gianelli had just confessed.

“Good boy.” The Superintendent raised his bulk from the desk, lumbered to the door. “Miss McDivitt, my gratitude. You’re a brave woman. Want to come with me now? I’m off to make a phone call to your father. Officer Canfield, you, too—Miss McDivitt has certainly gotten used to your company these last twenty hours. Detective Brogan? You know what to do.”

*   *   *

What to do?
What to do?
What the hell were they gonna do? Aaron’s arms were hurting, the cuffs pulling them back, and he was going to throw up, this was incredibly—Lizzie was alive?

How could that even be? But she’d been all smiley, standing by that cop, like she just came from a meeting or something, instead of from—where the hell had she been?

How could that be?

Was this a good thing, or a bad thing, or—the whole world was so screwed up, he didn’t even know what was real. They’d put all over the news that she was dead. How could they put something on TV that wasn’t true?

“Mr. Gianelli.” Brogan was talking again. Aaron couldn’t stand it. He was an idiot to have come here. To have trusted them. To have thought he could make a deal.

He felt a prickling along his scalp, the simmerings of an idea. He could feel the sweat soaking the back of his shirt, under his collar. One last idea. One last way he could close a deal.

He’d given them Ackerman, he’d given them Brian, whoever that was. But he knew one more thing.

“I’m ready to make a deal.” He cleared his throat, tried to find his voice, tried to get the old Aaron back. “A deal. One time only, one chance.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost your deal-making ability, Mr. Gianelli,” Brogan said. “But what the hey. Try me.”

“You give me immunity, I give you Ackerman’s next victim.”

Sherrey yanked him to his feet, put his face so close he could see the veins in his eyes, the cords on his neck. “I’ll give
you
—”

“Hey!” Aaron pulled away, didn’t get far. These guys were such
jerks.
“You can’t do that!”

“Thank you, Detective,” Brogan said.

The guy let go. Aaron shook out his shoulders. “So. Deal?”

“Gianelli,” Brogan said. “Let me put it to you once. And only once. If you know who Ackerman’s next victim is, tell me now. Right effing now. This is your chance. Or, and trust me on this. You will never see the light of day again.”

In the movies, someone would arrive to save him, bursting through the door, or there’d be an earthquake, or aliens. An explosion, or a meteor. Aaron hoped, yearned, with his very soul that any of those, or all of those, would happen right here. He had no way out. No way, except to offer this one piece of information. His lifeline.

“It’s some reporter. It’s, uh—”
Damn.
Aaron needed to remember her name, but his brain was fried. He’d stall, thinking of it. “They were asking about the empty houses, asking abou—wait. Ackerman called me. I bet it’s on voice mail. My phone is—”

Sherrey was patting him down, all hands, grabbed Aaron’s cell phone. “Tell me the code. Do it. Now.”

Aaron told him, and in seconds, a voice buzzed through the speaker.

“I got a call from Turiello,” the phone voice whispered. Clatter and noise in the background.

“Ackerman,” Aaron mouthed the name.

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?”