Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (40 page)

“Yeah.”

“Did those people, Miss McDivitt’s customers, mention anyone else’s names?” Jake asked.

Such a cop. Here it was almost midnight, the wine gone, the street sounds fading, Jane still starving, the cheese and crackers down to crumbs and crumbles.

“Nope,” she said. “But—”

Jake was thumbing something into his phone,
such a cop
—and Jane knew a line had been crossed, they’d crossed it together, sharing things they shouldn’t. But clearly they both had information about the same stories, and clearly there were threads that connected them. It was frustrating not to know how, or which ones, or who would know.

Chrystal Peralta,
Jane thought. She might have a whole list of clients. Maybe other notes she hadn’t given Jane, or that Jane couldn’t decipher. Chrystal seemed knowledgeable about Lilac Sunday, too. She paused, tucking that away.

What if Jake caught the Lilac Sunday killer?

“Honey?” Jake had put away his cell and moved closer to her on the couch, now touching her still-damp hair, moving it away from her neck. He traced the edge of her ear with one finger. “Can we stop talking business now?”

“Hmm?” With his touch, somehow, the long-ago cases and the search for headlines, the swirl of possibilities and the potential bad guys and the stakes of being a reporter and—whatever—it all fell away. They couldn’t figure out the answers tonight. There was only Jake, and her, and midnight, and they were alone.

She turned to him, agreeing, accepting, wanting—the terry cloth opened, and the belt seemed to loosen, who was doing that? Someone’s wineglass tipped, rolled on to the carpet, it didn’t matter, there was only—

Jake’s phone buzzed. Buzzed again.

“Never mind, never mind,” she said. “You were saying…”

Jake stopped. She could feel the difference in his muscles, in his skin, in the sound of his breath. She closed her eyes, letting go.

“Go ahead,” she said. Would she have done the same thing? She had answered her front door, two hours ago, when Peter buzzed.

Jake kept his arm around her shoulders, she didn’t try to move it, and she leaned with him as he took the cell from his jacket pocket. He turned the screen so she couldn’t see it.

She felt his arm slip away as he stood.

“Jane. Honey.” He held the BlackBerry in one hand, the other he held out to her. “I have to go.”

“Why? Did something—”

He shook his head, the picture of regret, but she didn’t care, it would never change. “I can’t say.”

Jane rewrapped her robe, tied the belt in the tightest knot she could. She smiled, had to, what else was there to do about reality?

“You want to live this way?” she said.

“What other way is there?” Jake said. “I’m sorry, Janey. I have to go.”

And he was up, and over, and out, and gone.

A minute later, less, thirty seconds, the downstairs buzzer rang.

“It’s Jake.” His voice came over the speaker.

A wash of relief, of desire, of joy, she felt it to the back of her neck and in her suddenly tightening heart. He was back. She buzzed, not saying a word, heard the opening of the outside door, heard his footsteps on the landing, on the way to her.

He appeared, her Jake, and there were—flowers?

“Your ‘package,’ I assume.” Jake said. “From Peter Hardesty.”

He handed her the bouquet of white roses, wrapped in pink tissue paper, tied at the bottom with a trailing lavender ribbon.

“Business,” he said. “I see. Have a nice life, Jane.”

He turned, and was gone again.

57

Open season,
Jane thought. New day. Square one.
Have a nice life?

She yanked her Audi into third and powered up the Mass Pike, top down, hair blowing and caution to the winds. In about fifteen minutes this morning, semi-hangover notwithstanding, she’d finished the silly bank customer service story on her home computer (leaving out Liz McDivitt, sadly, but including quotes from the officious Colin Ackerman), zapped it off to the news desk, making her Friday deadline and checking that dumb assignment off her list. Maybe she should put
Jake
in her rearview.

And why had Peter brought her flowers, anyway? The card said “thank you,” whatever that meant. Maybe an apology for almost getting her killed. Or missing their not-date. Which was either adorable or ridiculous. She’d have to deal with that. And with her whole life. Somehow.

By the time she got to the Pike’s Cambridge exit, she’d considered and discarded the idea of going blond. Through the toll booth, considered and discarded the idea of leaving town, maybe moving to D.C.? Hang out with her friend Amy. Or even going home to Lake Forest and starting over.

Starting over.
A person could do that, right? Passing the Prudential exit, she made her final decision. No. Her life was in Boston, and here she’d stay. She’d make the best of it. Make it work.

She punched up her phone. Time to start making it work.

“Hey, Chrystal?” Rats. Impossible to hear with the top down. “It’s Jane Ryland. But hang on a sec, okay?”

Jane swerved to the South Station exit, spotted a parking spot outside the Federal Reserve. Banged into reverse, did the parallel park in one try. “One more second.” She aimed her voice at the speaker.

She wouldn’t be here long enough to have to feed the meter. She hit the
UP
button for the top, decided for the hundredth time that it should say
DOWN
, and waited, briefly, as the black canvas descended, with a whump, over her. Finally, quiet enough to hear.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Jane began again. “I know you’re sick.”

“No problem.” Chrystal’s voice came over the speaker, then another sneeze.

“
So
sorry. I know this is rude. But I finished the bank story, so that’s all set, okay?”

“You hear about Liz McDivitt?” Chrystal asked. “Incredibly disturbing.”

“I know,” Jane said. “It’s awful. I kind of feel—but no, nothing new. Anyway, quick question. You know that list of bank customers you had? In your notebook? I couldn’t read them all, and was wondering, does the name Gordon Thorley sound familiar? Or anyone Thorley? Was it on your list?”

Jane heard only silence.

“I know a Gordon Thorley,” Chrystal finally said. “I covered his parole hearing, a million years ago. He was one of the last cons to get paroled, remember? Before the new law-and-order regime? Oh, right, you weren’t here. But anyway, yeah. Armed robbery, he was in for. It was a big deal—” She sneezed again. “When he got out. They fired the parole board chairman.”

Jane tried to envision a calendar, tried to make a timeline. A car pulled up next to her, window down, seemed to be inquiring about the parking spot. Jane waved him off,
sorry, not leaving.

“Was Thorley in prison on Lilac Sunday?” Jane asked. “When that girl was killed?”

“No, the armed robbery was after that.” Chrystal’s voice had changed. “What’re you really asking, Jane?”

“Huh? I’m losing you,” Jane made some scratching noises on the phone, hoping they didn’t sound too fake, moved away from the speaker. She didn’t want to share with Chrystal. She needed Chrystal to share with
her.

“About Liz’s customer list,” Jane said. “It was a little difficult to read. You have quite the handwriting, you know? Anyway, was Gordon Thorley’s name on it?”

“No,” Chrystal said. “It wasn’t. But listen, if you’ve got something on Thorley, you should let me know. I covered that.”

“I will,” Jane lied. Better nip this in the bud. “Hope you’re feeling better soon, Chrystal. Thanks so much.”

She clicked off, hands on the steering wheel, looking out the windshield. Into the oncoming traffic, and into possibilities. What if Gordon Thorley had killed Carley Marie Schaefer, then gone to prison for something else? No wonder they couldn’t find the bad guy. He’d gotten paroled, and then, a few years later, confessed. The cops had let him go—because of Peter? And then, according to Jake, he’d confessed to killing Treesa Caramona.

The Lilac Sunday killer had walked into the police station, confessed, and the cops had freed him to kill again. Is that why Peter showed up at her door? Had the legal system and the cops combined to release a murderer? No wonder Jake was distracted.

She cranked the ignition.

If Jake was blowing her off,
have a nice life?
Did that release her from their “I won’t tell if you won’t” deal? Talk about starting over. Did the truth ever trump off-the-record? This was the story of the century.

*   *   *

He had two hours, Jake calculated as he turned off the Pike at Exit 17, before the next session at the police station. The Supe was playing it close to the vest, but clearly there’d been a break. That was the phone call that had taken him from Jane last night. Not what they’d expected, not at all, but certainly good enough. The guy they had in the Superintendent’s side office meant the Liz McDivitt case was about to blow wide open. But nothing Jake could do, right now, to make it happen any faster. He turned right, sneaking through the yellow light, wished DeLuca was back in town. He’d love this. Now Jake could use this time to work on the Thorley case.

He rolled down the cruiser window, assessing the tiny brick one-story on a side street in Newtonville. The street’s centerline was painted green, white, and red instead of yellow, a testament to the passionate Italian heritage of this neighborhood, called the Lake.

Tramping up the front walk to Chrystal Peralta’s house, he realized he could have simply called her, but he wanted to show her the articles in person. The Peraltas were a big name in the Lake, another of those random facts in Jake’s head. A ceramic doorplate, green vines and purple grapes, promised
BENVENUTO
. The paper’d told him she was out sick, so fifty-fifty she was at home.

“Who is it?” A voice came through the dark green front door, female.

“Chrystal Peralta? Jake Brogan. Boston Police.” He felt like a salesman, trapped on the front stoop. A salesman holding out a badge wallet.

She pulled open the door, one hand on the doorjamb, didn’t invite him in. Gave him an up-and-down, frowning. She didn’t look that sick, except for that wild hair and faded orange tracksuit.

“Yeah, I see who you are, Detective. Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing,” Jake said. “Don’t mean to upset you, and I know you’re—”

Peralta sneezed, and Jake took a step back. Maybe he didn’t want to go in, after all.

“Bless you,” he said. “Anyway, if you have a minute? I’d like to ask you about these articles from the
Register.
” He flapped open his leather portfolio, showed her the top copy, one of her Carley Marie Schaefer stories. “For instance, in this story—”

“Are you kidding me?” she said. “That was twenty years ago.”

“I know. But we’re following up now.” Jake pointed to the names as he talked. “I’m looking for these people, this one, and this one, all the ones you interviewed at the scene. The ones who were there when the body was found. I can’t track them down, not any of them. Do you—and I know it’s a long shot—possibly still have their contact information?”

Chrystal’s laughter stopped only when she had a coughing fit, doubling over, somewhat over-dramatically, Jake decided. She straightened, wiping her red-rimmed eyes. Her hair had gotten even crazier.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. She clamped a be-ringed hand to her chest. “Best laugh I’ve had all day. That was twenty—freakin’—sorry, officer, darn.” She rolled her eyes, apparently making sure Jake understood she was being sarcastic. “Twenty years ago. Even if I wanted to help you—which, I must say in the interest of journalism, I don’t, since I don’t really appreciate being questioned by a cop. Forgive me,
police detective.
But even if I wanted to help you, no way I have those notes. Now can I go back to my VapoRub?”

Jake waited. Let the sarcasm fade. “We’re investigating a death,” he said.

She took a deep breath, shook her head. “Poor Carley Marie. Okay?” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“I saw you wrote the Gordon Thorley parole stories, too,” he said.

She eyed him again, up and down. He held his ground, hoping she didn’t sneeze again. She took a step closer.

“Carley Marie. Lilac Sunday. Hey. Two and two together, you’re saying you like Gordon Thorley for Lilac Sunday?” she said. “There’s a lot of that going around, Detective. If you wanna talk about
that,
well, come on in.
Benvenuto.
”

Jake stayed where he was. Of course she’d ask, but time to call a halt to this line of questioning. “Miss Peralta? We’ve arrested Thorley for Treesa Caramona, as you know.”

“Oh, right.” Her head tilted. “Detective? What’s going on?”

“You wrote about Gary Lee Smith.” Jake flipped the pages of the articles, ignoring her question. “The parole officer? Who testified at Thorley’s hearing?”

Chrystal moved her hand to the knob and began closing the door. “I see now.
Cops.
All alike. If you’ll excuse me? We’re done here.”

Jake put his foot in the door.

“I can get a warrant,” he lied. Whatever Chrystal thought he was asking, she knew something she wasn’t telling. Something she was unhappy about. He’d been a cop long enough to read that, and take advantage of it. “But look. As you like to say. Off the record. Between us.”

He paused. “And I’ll owe you.”

Chrystal chewed her bottom lip, holding the door tight against his foot. “I cannot believe you’d ask me about this, about Gary Smith,” she said. “You’re telling me you never had a ‘relationship’ with a source?”

Did she know?
Jane would never—even if she’d dumped him for Hardesty?—this woman had to be fishing. He called her bluff, ignored the question. Waited.

“Okay, we had an aff—well, a thing,” Chrystal finally said. “I spent forever covering those damn parole hearings, we got to know each other. What can I say? He was a pal of Eddie Walsh, and I used to get some juicy stuff from him. We all have sources, right? Some closer than others?”