Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (45 page)

“Was your husband at Waverly Road, too? Was Brian?” Jane persisted. Brian Turiello was Shandra Newbury’s boss. “With Shandra?”

“MaryLou!” Elliot Sandoval appeared in the second-floor window, leaned out, some kind of tool in one hand.

“I have to go,” MaryLou said.

*   *   *

“Sandoval’s not there.” Sherrey gave Jake a thumbs-down. He’d been working the phones and the radio so Jake could drive. Not doing a bad job, Jake had to say, even though he was a blowhard and a pain in the ass. Jake had left his phone open for when Marcotte called back. Or Jane.

“Squad car out front at the sister’s house, but no one’s home,” Sherrey reported. “Not even the sister.”

Jake veered into the right lane, ready to take the final exit. “Okay, at least we know something. Turiello?”

“Not at his office. Supposed to be there ‘soon,’ according to the secretary. Whatever ‘soon’ is.”

Sandoval not there. Turiello not there. Were they somewhere together? Waiting for Jane? Where? Jake banged onto the exit, took the curve too fast, Sherrey grabbing the strap as Jake steered the cruiser straight. Slammed through the red light, siren screaming, took the left. His phone rang. Finally. He punched it on speaker, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Brogan.” The siren made him strain to hear.

“This is Victoria Marcotte.”

“Go,” Jake said.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“
Fu
—I mean…” Jake tried to calm his voice. Wouldn’t get anywhere by scaring her. “Okay. Tell me what you found.”

“A notation on her desk calendar,” Marcotte said. “It says—well, it’s hard to read, it’s right on a grease spot. I’ll spell it—T, U, I think—”

“Turiello?” Jake interrupted.

“Could be,” Marcotte said.

Jake turned to Sherrey, lips pressed together, nodding. “Anything else? An address, maybe? Colgate Street?” Where Turiello’s real estate office was. Where Jake was headed right now.

“No,” Marcotte said. “It doesn’t look like that at all. It could be—Rawson?”

Damn.
At least Rawson Avenue was on this side of town. But was that where Jane was going? “Bing. The dash computer. Get me Brian Turiello’s vehicle info from it. Car make, license plate. Home address. Everything. Do it.”

“Huh?” Marcotte’s voice came through the speaker. Jake hit the brake, banged a U-turn, headed back for the highway. Again, a risk. But what was he supposed to do, sit there? He had four blocks before he had to commit.

“Turiello has a Lexus,” Sherrey read from the monitor. “Black.”

A black Lexus? Where had he just—the car at the Waverly Road house? He’d asked Vitucci for that info. But no one had—
dammit.
Turiello had been where Shandra was killed? The damn deputies had cleaned everything out of that place. Maybe he’d been there to make sure of that.
If
that was him. It might not be.

“Detective?” Marcotte’s voice. “Are you—?”

“Ready for the house number,” Jake said. “And on the way.”

64

What was she supposed to do now? Hell if she was going inside that empty house again—empty except for Elliot Sandoval, who she was pretty sure—not totally sure—had actually killed Shandra Newbury. And maybe Emily-Sue Ordway. With Brian Turiello?

Jane paused, watching MaryLou—she knew what had happened, she
must
—drive away with her sister. Was she truly sick? Or arranging to leave Jane alone with her husband? Was he the only one inside?

She looked at the house, deciding what to do. Elliot Sandoval knew she was there. Had seen her from the window. So what? She’d hop right into her car and—she stopped, mid-thought, regrouping. Her tote bag, with her cell phone and her car keys, was on the living room floor.

She had to go in to get it, or she couldn’t leave.

Go to a neighbor? Knock on the door and say—what? My purse is in the living room next door but I don’t want to get it because—she tilted her head back and forth, considering how ridiculous it would sound. If the neighbor recognized her, though, it might work. She could call Jake. Maybe.

She checked the window. It was still open, a curtain fluttering out in the afternoon breeze. The steamer had started again.

She could dart in, get the bag, run out. She took a step toward the door. Stopped. Saw the curtain flutter, a shadow pass by.

If only she hadn’t left her bag. If only she hadn’t helped MaryLou, who was probably up to her neck in this. If only she’d hadn’t locked—wait. She
hadn’t
locked her car?

She turned, ran, thankfully no cars were coming, dashed across the street, hoping she was right. Had she left her car open? The valet key was in the glove compartment. Should be, at least. She’d get away, drive somewhere, call Jake, or the cops or someone, it didn’t matter, she’d be gone.

She almost slipped in the strip of soggy dirt between the curb and sidewalk. Her fingers curled around the car door handle, hot from the sun.

She pulled.

It opened.

Was the key there? She flapped open the glove box. She’d thrown it in there the last time, almost hearing her mother’s voice, “if you put something away every time, it’ll be there when you need it.” She pulled out the Audi owner’s manual, a CD from an audio book, a stash of napkins—it was just a
key
! A loose key, and where the hell was it?

Had Sandoval noticed she was leaving? She raised a glance at the window. Saw Elliot Sandoval, some kind of tool—hammer? wrench?—in his hand. Running down the shitty flagstone walk. Headed for her.

The key, the key. Forks, a paperback book, expired coupons from the—
damn.
He was almost across the street and she—“Jane, you moron!” She said it out, loud, slammed the doors locked. If she couldn’t find the key, she’d be trapped in the car, she could blow the horn like crazy, if anyone was around, that’s all she could do, but it would be better if she found the key.

And there it was.

And he was on her, at the car, it was a hammer, he had a stupid hammer, and he was running to the driver’s side, raising his arms at the—he was right in front of—

She stabbed the key in to the ignition, cranked it.

“Get away!” she yelled and she gunned it, shifted, banged the accelerator, but then he was in front of her, daring her,
and forget about it!

She heard a sound, a thud, he’d fallen into the dirt, she didn’t care, she peeled away, eyes welling and terror clenching her chest, but she had to drive.

She looked in the rearview, praying. Had she hurt him? He’d
called
her there, lured her, to kill her. She couldn’t believe she cared about his life, but—

He’d fallen into the dirt, rolled, and now he was running after her. He was alive.

And she was, too.

And she was gone.

*   *   *

“This the place?” Jake eyed the house, a beat-up two story on Rawson Avenue, as he pulled to the curb across the street. He’d killed his lights and siren when they were a few blocks away. Sometimes silent running was better, element of surprise.

“According to what Marcotte told us,” Sherrey said. “Door’s closed, don’t see any cars, you know?”

“Jane has a black Audi,” Jake said. He touched the weapon under his arm, unclipped the safety strap. If Jane was inside with that asshole Sandoval—damn it. “Who knows. There’s a garage. You set? We’ll have to play it by ear. If Jane’s in there—”

“Right behind you,” Sherrey said. “We’ll take him now, ask questions later.”

Jake scoped the place as they went up the front path, no cars in the driveways on either side, no one out in the neighborhood. Several of the houses appeared empty, from what he could tell. All of ’em shabby. Hard times around here.

Two teetering concrete steps up to the front porch. A weird sound from inside, a whine or a … some kind of machine.

“Knock?” Sherrey asked.

“Nah,” Jake said. “Exigent. Big time.”

He put his hand on the doorknob, waited a beat. Pushed. It opened.

“Hey, Detective Brogan.” Elliot Sandoval. Red-faced, sweatshirt, one leg of his jeans filthy. Amiable, smiling, as if he and Sherrey had arrived for a beer and baseball. Except for the hammer in his hand. Place was a mess, though, construction stuff everywhere.

Where was Jane? Were they wrong? Had Jake picked wrong? Was Jane with Turiello, somewhere? Somewhere he’d never find until it was too late? Sandoval had to know. Wherever she was, he had to know. This was the address on Jane’s notepad. She was coming here. Wasn’t she? Where was she now?

“Got some bad news for you,” Jake said. They walked in, leaving the door open behind them. “You didn’t call your parole officer, Mr. Sandoval.”

“’Fraid that’s a violation, Mister Sandoval.” Sherrey picked up on the pretense Jake had concocted on the fly.

“So you’re done, Elliot,” Jake said. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

“That’s bullshit,” Sandoval said. “I called.”

“Not what Parole told us.” Sherrey had yanked the handcuffs from his belt, moved closer to Sandoval. “I’ll take that hammer. Sir.”

“You’re also under arrest for the murder of Shandra Newbury.” Jake was proud of Sherrey. Not a flicker at this impromptu charade.

“You know I didn’t kill her,” Sandoval said. “The judge let me out.”

“Because we
asked
her to let you out,” Jake said. “To see where you’d lead us. See who’d come out of the woodwork. Sadly, there’s a rat in your nest. And he, sir, has ratted you all out. Brian Turiello? Your “employer”? Emily-Sue Ordway? Ring a bell? We know that wasn’t an accident. What happened, she surprise you? And you bashed Shandra Newbury with that two-by-four because you were batshit over losing your house. Dumb of you to leave the two-by-four there. Turiello even showed up to make sure the place was clean. Too bad he couldn’t get inside in time to retrieve it.”

“Too bad,” Sherrey said.

“So,
Mr.
Sandoval,” Jake went on. “That’s the problem with mixing steroids and payoffs. Makes you overreact. Like right now. Sherrey? Cuff him.”

Sandoval took a step back. Then stopped. Smiled. “Do what you will, Officers. But cuff me? You take me in? You’ll never know what happened to Jane Ryland. Your call.”

“You’re full of shit,” Jake said.

“Try me,” Sandoval said.

“Prove it,” Jake said.

Sandoval cocked his head toward a pile of two-by-fours. “See that bag?”

Jake edged toward the bag, never taking his eyes off Sandoval and Sherrey. Saw Sherrey adjust for his weapon. Saw Sandoval’s fist tighten over the hammer.

Jake grabbed the black leather bag, didn’t need to look inside, he’d seen it a million times.
Jane’s.
He yanked it open. Her phone, right on top. She hadn’t answered his message. Because she’d been separated from her phone. She’d been here, absolutely. So where the hell was she now?

“If she’s in this house…,” Jake began.

“Well, there’s a thought,” Sandoval said.

Sherrey hovered by him, waiting for Jake’s signal.

“Her car’s not here.” Jake’s brain raced to figure out where this was going. Was Jane upstairs? Was she okay? What was that noise? He glanced at Bing, then upstairs.

“Good idea,” Sandoval said. “Why don’t you go look up there? Meanwhile, I’m outta here.”

“Not a chance, you incredible jerk,” Jake said. “Sherrey. Stay here. Cuff him.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Sandoval said. “No cuffs, or no Jane. There might be something you need to know. Something she might have—eaten. And you’d want me to tell you.”

The chocolate? Like they’d given Liz McDivitt? Jane had no reason not to trust Sandoval. If they’d drugged her, he’d need to know what it was.

“Do not move,” Jake said. Did he have a choice? Sandoval had the cards. He had Jane. How could Jake risk calling his bluff? Jane had to come first. Any victim had to come first. “I’m checking upstairs. Do not move.”

He drew his weapon as he headed up the stairway. That infernal noise, whatever it was. Halfway up. “You okay, Sherrey?” He called out.

“Ten four. Got the cuffs.”

Jake took the rest of the steps, two at a time. Followed the noise. An orange Rent-All wallpaper steamer chugged and bubbled, that was the noise. No Jane. Opened the closet, nothing. Next room, nothing. Closet, nothing. Bathroom, nothing. Attic? No attic he could see.

“Nothing, nothing,” he called out over the steamer sound as he raced back down the stairs. “Sandoval, there’s no one—”

He stopped, one hand on the banister. The other holding his Glock.

Sandoval had Sherrey in the cuffs. Was standing over him, hammer in one hand. Bing’s police-issue Glock in the other.

“Bummer about your partner,” Sandoval said. “Shoulda frisked me. Isn’t that cop 101?”

“Asshole,” Sherrey said. “Sorry, Jake.”

“Let. Him. Up,” Jake said.

“Not. A. Chance,” Sandoval said. “Well, actually, there is a chance. You let me go, I’ll let him go. That seems fair.”

“Where’s Jane?” Jake aimed at Sandoval’s center mass, but the man had his weapon right at Sherrey’s head.

“Well now, that’s where the deal goes out of whack, doesn’t it?” Sandoval said. He twisted his lip, sniffed like he smelled something bad. “You get two things, and I get one? I don’t think so. You want me to let your partner go? Or you want to know where Jane is? You get to choose one.”

65

Peter felt the weight of it under his coat, his small-caliber gift from Dianna, the one he’d argued, all those years ago, he’d never need.

He sat in the font seat of his Jeep, parked across the street from the stone-facade two-story on a side street in Jamaica Plain. No McMansions for Eddie Walsh, man of the people, only a modest mid-century suburban split-level. Walsh’s Cape house, however—an ostentatious Corinthian-columned boondoggle in Osterville Peter found online—that was a different story. Two sides to the man. Two sides to his real estate.

Peter wouldn’t need the gun now, most likely. He was a lawyer. He thought for a living, he didn’t shoot people. But if former Parole Board chairman and well-connected big shot Edward Walsh was monstrous enough to kill Carley Marie Schaefer twenty years ago, then bribe a dying man to take the fall, Peter might need more than words to come out on top.