Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) Read online

  Now, the game was clearly on. The cops were freaking. Whatever that deputy found inside 42 Waverly Road was more than some broken piece of furniture. No other reporters were here—as far as the TV stations were concerned, this was just another eviction. Probably not even on their daybook radar. Jane was only here because of her story on foreclosures. Now, whatever this was felt like a headline. And an exclusive.

  Jane hovered behind TJ’s shoulder, on tiptoe in her flats, trying to balance without touching him. She shoved her sunglasses onto the top of her head, stabbed her pen through her almost-long-enough ponytail, wished she could look through his viewfinder.

  “Anything?”

  “Nope. Jane, listen. I’ll tell you. Soon as there’s something.”

  TJ’s once-pressed cotton shirt was limp with the heat, his own RayBans perched on his dark hair, the Register’s Nextel clipped to a belt loop on his jeans. A talented guy, her age, a couple years of experience. Seemed tight with the new city editor.

  It was a pain, Jane knew, for TJ to keep rolling on nothing. But the minute they stopped down, whatever was going to happen would happen.

  The front door was open, but the screen door closed. No matter how much she squinted, Jane couldn’t see inside. “Can you make out anything? Maybe we can get closer.”

  “Nope,” TJ said. “Screen door’s messing with the video, and—”

  “Hear that?” Sirens. “Somebody’s called the cavalry.”

  “Ambulance. Or more cops.” TJ’s camera lens stayed on the front door. “You want me to switch to the arrival?”

  “Quick shot of whoever shows up, then back to the door,” Jane instructed him. The story was inside.

  Two car doors slammed. Jane risked a look behind her, saw the ambulance. Two EMTs, navy shirts, black Nikes, ran past her toward the front door. One carried a bright orange box—defibrillator. The other a black medical bag.

  “Someone’s hurt,” she whispered.

  “Duh,” TJ whispered back.

  The screen door opened, then slammed.

  “They’re in,” TJ said. “Rolling. But can’t see a damn thing.”

  “Clock’s ticking now,” Jane said. “They come out running, we’ll know it’s bad.”

  The door stayed closed.

  The house had been empty when the deputies arrived, Jane knew that. She and TJ’d gotten shots of the two of them clicking open the padlock on the front door. No one had come out. She’d only seen water bottle guy since.

  The deputies’ job was to clear out the stuff the Sandovals had to leave behind. With no place to store it—and no money to do so—their leftover possessions were so much trash. This was the third eviction Jane had witnessed in the last three days. At Fawndale Street, one deputy had let her and TJ get some shots inside. She’d watched the blue-shirts—as she mentally called them—sweep through the rooms without a moment’s hesitation, scooping clothing from forsaken closets, emptying drawers into plastic bags, dragging furniture across the floors, gouging the wood and bashing the painted walls and then sweeping piles of dust and litter out the door with a huge push broom.

  Now she counted her blessings every time she returned to her Brookline condo. She’d tried to explain to Jake—she smiled, remembering their last clandestine meeting at his apartment—how it’d changed her whole appreciation for “home.” Her little place, and her little mortgage, and all her stuff, saved and collected from high school and j-school, her Emmys, and Gram’s pearls and handed-down Limoges dinner plates, her mother’s last quilt, and even the always-hungry Coda, the now-adolescent stray calico who had selected Jane’s apartment as her new domain.

  That night Jane had sipped her wine, fearing her happiness could evaporate any second. “What would I do if someone tried to take Corey Road from me?” she’d asked.

  “You’ll never have to worry about that,” Jake assured her.

  “That’s what the Sandovals probably thought, too,” Jane said. Jake’s snuffly Diva placed a clammy golden retriever nose on her bare arm. “Then the bottom fell out of their lives.”

  “Yo, Ryland.” TJ interrupted her thoughts, pointing to the front door with his chin. “You seeing this?”

  4

  Lizzie McDivitt typed her name, letter by letter, on her new computer. Trying it out. Elizabeth McDivitt. Elizabeth Halloran McDivitt. Elizabeth H. McDivitt. The admin types needed the wording of the nameplate on her new office door, and she had to choose. First impression and all that.

  Would her bank customers be more comfortable with her as the crisp and competent Liz? Or the elegant and experienced Elizabeth? Maybe this was the time to become Beth, the friendly-but-competent Beth. The motherly Bess?

  Lizzie stared at the computer screen, the cursor blinking at her. Decide.

  “Lizzie,” at least, that was a definite no. “Lizzie” was fine for her parents, and even for Aaron, but not here at the bank. “Lizzie” sounded like the new kid, eager to please. Semi-true, of course, but not the image she needed. She needed … compassionate. Understanding. Her clients would be the needy ones, the out-of-work ones, the down-and outers who’d once had the assets to get a mortgage from A&A—but now had to scramble for refinancing and loan modifications.

  “If you say it, if you portray it, they will believe it,” her father’d always told her. Seemed to work for him. His black fountain pen alone could probably take care of the monthly mortgage tab for a few of her clients. Father was always losing his fancy pens, misplacing them, forgetting them, one after the other. He never flinched at purchasing a new one.

  She clicked her plastic ball point.

  The bank had so much money. Her new customers had so little.

  Click. Click.

  What would be the bad thing, she wondered, about making it a little more fair?

  Click. Click.

  Aaron was still out for lunch, she guessed. She thought of him, his curls, and that smile, and what he’d actually said to her that first day back by the old vault. Their “tryst” last night, which ended—way too late—with her finally saying no and cabbing it home. She shook her head, remembering her girlfriends’ advice. You have to stop being so picky or you’ll be alone forever. True, Aaron was more than cute. True, he had a good job. So, okay, maybe. Even though he wasn’t exactly …

  “Miss McDivitt? You ready for your one-thirty? Mr. and Mrs. Iantosca are here.”

  Lizzie jumped, startled at the sound of her own name buzzing through her intercom. She’d started behind the cages in the teller pool, then got promoted to a loan officer’s desk in the lobby, visible every single moment of every single day, like a zoo animal. She’d tried to offer suggestions, how to make customers happier, how to streamline the process, how to dump a lot of the ridiculously complicated paperwork and incomprehensible bank jargon.

  Now, finally, she’d been named the bank’s first customer affairs liaison. With her own private office. It was lovely to have a door that closed. And an assistant, Stephanie Weaver, who stayed outside unless invited in.

  “Thanks, Stephanie,” she said. She punched up the Iantoscas’ mortgage loan documents: a series of spreadsheets, tiny-fonted agreements, and the decisive flurry of letters stored on the bank’s in-house software. The green numbers that were entered several years ago had gone red last summer, then bold red in the fall, then starting around the holidays, black-bordered bold red. By now, mid-May, Christian and Colleen Iantosca were underwater and in trouble.

  So they thought.

  Lizzie clicked a few keys on her computer keyboard. Examined the figures she’d typed in. She leaned closer, calculating. Numbers worked for her. Numbers were—obedient. Predictable. Reliable. Plus, she could always change them back.

  “I’m set, Stephanie,” she told the intercom. Time to meet the Iantoscas.

  She took off her black-rimmed glasses, considered, put them on again. Slicked her hair back, tucking a stray wisp into place. She checked her reflection on the computer monitor. Lipstick, fine. Portrait of
a happy magna cum laude MBA. Good job, her own apartment, a potential boyfriend—she clasped her hands under her chin, thanking the universe and embracing her karma. Math geek no more. Future so bright, she ought to wear shades.

  Liz, she decided. Compassionate, but knowledgeable. Approachable. And, starting today, starting now, Liz McDivitt was in control.

  * * *

  Five more minutes. He’d give them five more minutes.

  Aaron Gianelli waited on the front steps of the triple-decker, peeled the last of the waxed paper from his tuna melt wrap, took a final bite. A mayo-soaked glop narrowly missed his new cordovan loafer, landed on the concrete beside him. Too damn hot for a tuna melt, Aaron decided too late, but this “meeting” was his only chance for lunch. He crumpled the paper, aimed, and hit the already brimming Dumpster over by the driveway.

  His first score of the day.

  If the others didn’t show up pretty damn soon, it’d be his only score. That, he could not afford. He wondered how his partner was doing, at his meeting. They’d talk later. Compare notes. Not that there were notes.

  Standing, Aaron brushed the dust from his ass. Squinted out at Pomander Street. No cars. Nothing. They’d agreed to meet here at 1:30 P.M. He checked his annoyingly silent cell phone. If they were going to be late, they should have called. If they were jerking him around, they’d be sorry. But no biggie. He’d find other customers.

  He’d parked his car down the street, left his suit jacket inside, thank God. It was brutal out here. He’d be a sweat machine when he got back to the office, but the AC would take care of that before anyone noticed. And Lizzie would believe whatever he told her. He smiled. He loved Lizzie.

  He patted his pockets, still smiling, feeling for the ring of keys. He’d go in without the clients, check it out. House was empty, that was certain. The bank had made sure of that.

  Aaron was still smiling. He loved the bank.

  5

  “Uh-oh,” Jane said. TJ’s camera lens still trained on the now-open front door. The two EMTs emerged. Not running. “That’s not good.”

  The EMT carrying the defibrillator shouldered his way out, followed by the stocky one lugging the medical bag. Jane couldn’t read their faces, both squinting in the glare, the heat radiating from the hot sidewalk and crushed gravel driveway. The ambulance siren was off, but the red light on the hood swirled silently through the sunshine. The ambulance, rear double doors flapped open, poised for a fast getaway to Mass General. But the two EMTs stopped. Put their bags down. Stood on the porch.

  “Whatever happened, it’s over,” Jane said. “Come on, Teege. Let’s get closer. Sorry this is taking so long, your shoulder must be killing you. But look, the guy’s radioing now. Can you hear what he’s saying?”

  Jane followed behind TJ, straining to grasp the EMT’s words as he transmitted over the sputtering two-way radio. The bank guy—if that’s who he was—stayed in his Lexus. The splintered bed frame, two chairs, and a couple of fringed pillows baked on the parched front lawn.

  “Copy, Unit Bravo.” The dispatcher’s voice on the other end squawked through the static. “We’ll notify. Stand by. We’ll inform when you are clear to transport.”

  “Transport,” Jane whispered. She’d edged in so close, she could now hear the hum of TJ’s camera, hear her own voice buzzing through his earpiece. “Transport who?”

  * * *

  “You gonna answer that?” DeLuca’s radio was squawking, but Jake couldn’t take his eyes off Thorley, watching him through the interrogation room glass, knowing the guy couldn’t see him and DeLuca in the hallway. Thorley didn’t know they’d heard what he’d told Detective Bing Sherrey. Didn’t know they’d be taking over the case.

  There’d been silence for the past few minutes, Thorley staring at his fingernails while Bing scribbled on a yellow pad. Probably a confession he hoped Thorley would sign.

  “Now what?” Jake pointed to D’s radio.

  DeLuca’s two-way beeped again from its leather pouch. Dispatch calling.

  “We shall see.” DeLuca keyed the mic. “DeLuca.”

  Jake, cell phone to his ear, was still waiting for Dr. Nathaniel Frasca. After blowing open the Memphis copycat sniper case, Frasca had been called to D.C. to be a big-time consultant for the feds. He’d have to rib supposedly retired Frasca about that when they finally connected.

  Plus, Frasca still owed Jake a beer from the Stockbridge Street murder. The young woman the state troopers had browbeaten into a false confession was now back home with her family. The real bad guy, thanks to Jake and the veteran Frasca, was in the slammer for a good long stretch.

  DeLuca’s two-way radio buzzed static again. “Detective DeLuca, do you copy?” dispatch’s voice came through. “What’s your location?”

  “This is DeLuca, like I said. Detective Brogan and I are downtown. Two floors above where you are.”

  Jake rolled his eyes. DeLuca was always a trip on the radio.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jake said into his cell. “Yes, I’ll continue to hold. Yes, Brogan. B-R-O-G-A-N. In Boston. Dr. Frasca actually knows who—”

  “Copy that, Detective DeLuca,” dispatch said. “Stand by for instructions.”

  “Standing by to stand by. As always.” DeLuca clicked off his two-way, pointed it at the one-way glass. “Jake. Check it out. We have company.”

  The back door to the interrogation room had opened.

  * * *

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Peter Hardesty closed the interrogation room door behind him, plunked his leather briefcase on the metal table, held out a hand. He’d already heard the cops were calling this guy the Confessor.

  Confessor or not, Gordon Thorley was innocent till proven guilty. And, like so many others Peter had represented, profoundly in need of counsel. In this place? Alone with a detective? A legal minefield.

  “Gordon Thorley?”

  “Who’re you?” Thorley twisted in his folding chair, scooted it as far from Peter as the cinder-block wall would let him, metal scraping against concrete. Thorley’s sallow skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, weary eyes too big. Peter could almost hear the guy’s brain shift gears. Surprise. Then fear. Then calculation. Thorley flickered a hard look at Peter, jerking a yellowed thumb in his direction. Spoke to the detective. “He a cop, too?”

  “Holy sh—How’d you get in here, Hardesty? Who called you? Mr. Thorley here hasn’t asked for a lawyer.”

  Peter recognized the plainclothes detective in the weary brown suit and ugly tie—Detective Branford Sherrey. “Bing” Sherrey. Veteran cop, beloved of the district attorney’s office, and a remarkable asshole. Now he looked like he’d been socked in his shirt-straining gut. Sucks when the system works, Peter thought. When you have to provide legal advice to a nutcase who’s trying get himself a life sentence. Justice. What a concept.

  Peter glanced at the obviously one-way glass along one wall, gave a brief salute to whoever was on the other side. He’d find out soon enough. Other cops listening? A witness, maybe? To what? He’d gotten the call from Doreen Thorley—now Doreen Rinker—only half an hour ago. He’d left half a perfectly good turkey on rye on his desk downtown. Here, things were already out of hand.

  “Hasn’t asked for a lawyer? I’m aware of that, Detective Sherrey. Nevertheless, here I am. At the request of his family. If you’ve got an open mic in here? Someone listening behind that glass? You need to turn it off. Now.” Peter clicked the two silver latches on his briefcase, opened it. Took out a manila folder and turned to his newest client.

  “But you can’t just—” Sherrey gestured toward the one-way glass. Pushed a button. “I mean, this is an ongoing—”

  Peter ignored his whining.

  “Mr. Thorley, I’m Peter Hardesty, from Hardesty and Colaneri? Your sister called, asked me to come make sure you weren’t saying anything without legal advice. Good thing, because apparently that’s what Detective Sherrey here is leading you to do. My first piece of advice? Don’t say another word.”r />
  “I can’t—I don’t—she wasn’t supposed—I don’t want—,” Thorley sputtered, looked at the ceiling, then frowned at the floor. “Anyway, Doreen doesn’t have the money to—”

  “As you hear, Mr. Hardesty.” The detective pointed a yellow legal pad at him. “Apparently Mr. Thorley, obviously of sound mind and clear intent, fully appreciates and understands the significance of what he’s said. What he’s actually already told us on tape. Several times. In the interest of justice, and perhaps his conscience.”

  Interest of justice? Right. Still, this was a new one. Thorley had left his sister a “good-bye” and “I’m sorry” note on the kitchen table of their family home. He was either crazy or—well, Peter would discover that soon enough. But not while the cops were listening.

  “Let’s get you straightened out here first, sir. That’s more important than the money. Your sister, Doreen, got your note, called me, explained the situation. Now, Detective? You’ll need to give us some time. Here, or elsewhere. Alone.” Peter smiled, gestured toward the inner window. “With no one-way glass, and no other cops listening.”

  “Not if Mr. Thorley doesn’t want you.” Sherrey reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a package of Winston Reds. Tapped the end, held out the pack to Thorley. “Smoke? Another ginger ale?”

  Thorley reached two thin fingers toward the Winston. Guy seemed in bad shape, the ribbed collar of his T-shirt twisted and too big, jacket sleeves fraying at the wrists. Like life had dealt him a losing hand, and he’d decided to fold. Peter’s job—any good lawyer’s job—was to keep him in the game.

  “Your hospitality is admirable, Detective,” Peter said. “And theoretically, I suppose, you could ask me to leave. But play it out here. You just told me my client has already talked with you on tape—a tape I’m now formally requesting you to produce and provide. Given that circumstance, how can it cause you a problem to leave us alone for a while?”

  Sherrey seemed to be considering it. He snapped a red plastic Bic, lit his own cigarette, aimed the smoke at the ceiling.