Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) Page 5

  Jake’s cell trilled from his jacket pocket.

  “Brogan.” He paused, smiling. “Well, you too, Nate. Here I thought you’d gone all big-shot doctor on me. Not calling back. Or maybe you’re afraid I’ll have a case you can’t—damn it.” Jake looked at his phone. The line was dead. “This freaking elevator.”

  He hit REDIAL. Nothing. “I’ll call when we get upstairs.”

  “Who is this guy, anyway?” D said. “Nate Frasca?”

  The doors opened onto the gray and steel hallway. “Institutional neutral,” Jane always called it. A rank of closed doors. At the end of the hall, an ell of double-tall windows fronted the Homicide squad offices. Jake could smell the coffee.

  “Nate Frasca? He’s gonna tell me if Gordon Thorley is Lilac Sunday,” Jake said.

  11

  “See, Jane? I told you it would work out. It’s all about trust, right? I’d never steer you wrong.” Victoria Marcotte took a sip from a sleek white china mug, leaving behind a faint trace of her trademark red lipstick. She wiped away the color with a manicured thumb. “Jane? You have—someone has to tell you—a smudge on your face.”

  The city editor touched her own sculpted cheek, illustrating where Jane’s was dirty. Marcotte was only ten years older than she was, but the editor had developed a kind of destabilization technique. If an employee was uncomfortable, they were vulnerable. Jane tried not to let it get to her.

  She wiped at her face with two fingers. “Off?”

  “You can fix it later.” Marcotte crossed her legs, leaned back in her swivel chair. The screensaver photo of fireworks on her desktop computer monitor clicked to black. “At least you’re not on TV. Anyway, Jane. Sit sit sit. What’ve you got for me?”

  Jane perched on the edge of her boss’s nubby navy sofa, sinking so low into the cushions she had to look up at Marcotte. Jane shifted, sat up as straight as she could. Marcotte probably had a low couch on purpose, another technique to make visitors feel small. Small, and with a dirty face.

  Jane cleared her throat, regrouping. “‘Possible homicide.’ Luckily for us.”

  “Luckily?” Marcotte raised an eyebrow.

  Why even try. “Anyway. Cops say they don’t have an ID yet. I’ll stay on it. Thing is—”

  The cell on Marcotte’s desk pinged, and she sneaked a look at it. Then back at Jane. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “Thing is,” Jane went on, “I called the Sandovals—they’re the ones who owned the house before the foreclosure. Remember? They were both out doing errands, they told me, all morning. Weren’t at the house, hadn’t been at the house. It isn’t their house anymore, after all.”

  Marcotte stood, smoothing her black suit jacket over a narrow black leather skirt. “You could put them in your story, though, Jane. I mean, it’s good headline, a murder in their house, it’s—” She nodded, seeming to agree with herself. “It’s buzzable. It’s water cooler. It’s multimedia. Did you ask if they knew the victim?”

  “Knew the victim?” Jane didn’t mean to be an echo, but no, she hadn’t. Could the Sandovals know the victim? “Ah, no. I didn’t ask.”

  Jane suddenly felt itchy in her ratty T-shirt and possibly too-short skirt. Her feet were grimy in her flats. Maybe she should have checked on that. But how?

  “We don’t know the person’s name, remember, and—”

  “Did they say anything quotable?”

  “Well, I wrote down a phrase or two. They had no idea, they said, about any of it. The police hadn’t called them.”

  “So we broke the story to the grieving family. Fabulous.”

  “Grieving?” Fabulous?

  “Yes. Grieving.” Marcotte held up her hands, as if bracketing a headline. “Register reporter breaks news of real housing crisis—murder in their own home. Hang on, let me think.”

  Marcotte sat at her desk, lips clamped shut, eyes narrowing.

  “Ah,” Jane began. That was outrageous. Not to mention incorrect. “Let me call the police, okay? See if they have anything new? And we can go from there.”

  “That’s old school, Jane,” Marcotte said. “We have an online edition. We go with it as we get it. When you get more details later, terrific. We’ll use that, too. Figure out something the—what did you say their name was? Samovar?”

  “Sando—”

  “Figure out something they said. Make it work. We only need a paragraph or two. You gave them the news? That’s hot.”

  Jane stood in the doorway, hearing the rumble of the Register’s rattletrap elevator down the hall, the clatter of the air-conditioning system struggling to cool off a newsroom of overworked—and over-worried—reporters and editors. The Register had laid off more than its share in recent days, staffers fearing more cuts at any moment. Newspapers were endangered. Worse than endangered. Jane privately thought editors like Marcotte were the reason why.

  “Suburban—no. Neighborhood Nightmare, we’ll call it,” Marcotte said. “Go. Write. You have fifteen minutes. Then we’re going to press.”

  * * *

  “It’s early for dinner,” Aaron was saying. He’d convinced her—Lizzie still couldn’t believe it—to leave the bank early and join him for a stroll across the Public Garden.

  She’d actually done it. Told Stephanie she had a meeting, and just—left her linen jacket over her chair back. In her sleeveless dress and little patent heels, she walked through the revolving door and into the May sunshine, out Tremont Street and past the Parker House and the cemetery where Mother Goose was buried.

  Free. And off the radar.

  Aaron was waiting for her, as he’d promised, by the pushcarts outside the Park Street T stop. He’d handed her a big twisty pretzel, salt crumbling from its warm edges. They’d shared it, walking along the winding paths, the sun gleaming on the gold dome of the State House; the trees, some from hundreds of years ago, in full leaf above them. The last of the tulips, gasping in the heat, spread yellow and crimson across the green.

  “Pretty, huh?” she’d said.

  “Yes, you are,” Aaron had said.

  And then, on the lacquered park bench, he’d draped his arm across her shoulders. She felt the starched oxford cloth of his shirt against her bare arm.

  Aaron threw a pretzel piece, landed it at the edge of the pond. Two fat mallards lurched out of the water to get it, ruffling their feathers, green heads and purple-slashed wings shiny in the last of the late afternoon sunshine.

  “Be great not to have to work, wouldn’t it?” Aaron tossed another piece at the ducks. “Sit in the sun and do nothing? Have someone feed you? To be that rich.”

  “Mmm,” Lizzie said. She’d never thought about it, being rich. Growing up the way she had, her father and all. “I suppose I’m just as interested in helping other people with their finances.”

  “Like the Iantoscas?” Aaron said. “Guess they got lucky.”

  Lizzie’s heart flipped, just for a second, wondering. Was Aaron checking on her? Had someone gotten wind of what she was doing? She shook her head, trying to dismiss her silly fear. No way. She’d been careful.

  “What?” Aaron said. “Why are you shaking your head?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She hadn’t realized she’d actually done it. “Work.”

  “So, the Iantoscas? I’m only asking because their house was in my portfolio.” He shrugged. “Although it won’t be there anymore.”

  “Less work for you, right?” The last of her pretzel devoured, Lizzie didn’t exactly know what to do with her hands. She folded them in her lap, pretended the parade of ducks was fascinating.

  “Any other accounts suddenly come into cash, that you know of?” Aaron turned toward her. Taking his arm away.

  It felt like the sun had gone behind a cloud. She looked up. It hadn’t.

  “You know, Aaron, we’re not supposed to talk about this.”

  “You goofball.” Aaron poked her in the arm. “We’re both bank employees. It’s not like you’re chitchatting with someone in a bar. Right?”
<
br />   He was right. She supposed. “Um…”

  “If I came to your office, made an appointment, sat in one of these fancy new chairs, you could tell me all about it, right?” He raised one eyebrow, challenging. Then shrugged. “Listen, the spreadsheets’ll get to me sooner or later. I was hoping it wouldn’t be later. But I’ll be fine. I can handle it.”

  He stood, wiping the seat of his pants. He seemed disappointed with her. She could tell.

  She didn’t want this to be over. Didn’t want to overanalyze, like she always did, make too much of it. Besides, he’d seemed interested in her even before all this Iantosca stuff. He hadn’t known about it when he approached her by the vault that day. Or when he came to her office this afternoon. He’d come to see her. Given her his photo, a strange—but nice—surprise. But now, if he was suspicious of her bookkeeping—he probably wasn’t, but if—it might be revealing to see where he was going with this. To be safe. To be careful.

  “Wait, Aaron?” If he was playing a game, she could do that, too. She could find out what she wanted, and all the while letting him think he was finding what he wanted. Aaron clearly wanted something. What?

  He stopped, turned to her.

  Sometimes people were exactly like numbers. You just had to understand them to control them. With great risk comes great reward. Her father used to tell her that.

  She stood, wiping the pretzel salt from her hands. The ducks, startled, plopped back into the pond and paddled furiously away from shore. She smoothed her dress, and smiled. “Aaron? What is it you want to know?”

  12

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” Jake said. “Let me assure you, sir, we’re focused on finding who killed Shandra. As much as you are.” Jake had shown his gold badge and creds to Brian Turiello, the office manager of Mornay and Weldon Realty, at the door of their South Boston office. It had taken Jake about thirty seconds on the M&W website to pick out the postage-stamp-sized business portrait of a much more alive Shandra Newbury. At least Jake didn’t have to show the guy the crime scene photos. That was never pleasant. Not that murder was ever pleasant.

  They were in Turiello’s corner office, the walls patchworked with engraved plaques and awards and photos of Turiello smiling next to other white guys in suits. A gold shovel, attached to the wall by two metal brackets, had the place of honor. A man who knew his place in the world. On the golf course, if Jake read it right. Now his world had been shaken a little. More than a little.

  “She was an up-and-comer.” Turiello lowered himself into a padded swivel chair, his navy blazer flapping open, elbows on the glass-topped desk. He wore a lapel pin like Shandra’s. He looked over Jake’s shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the open doorway to his office. Jake had seen it a million times, the victim’s acquaintances not really believing the person was dead. Almost expecting them to come through the door. “Such a talented agent. Aggressive. But smart-aggressive. Always out getting new listings. She loves—loved—the business.”

  Jake nodded, allowing Turiello to process the bad news. The problem with law enforcement, there was no time for grief. Jake’s job was about moving fast. Carefully, but fast. Grief took time. It was a balance.

  Jake waited. Sometimes you had to wait. The air conditioner kicked on.

  “Where did it happen?” Turiello finally asked.

  “Forty-two Waverly Road.” Did Turiello know the place? Jake could imagine it, this semi-good-looking—Jake checked the man’s ring finger—not married, real estate mogul type, meets the up-and-coming wannabe, they tangle, she refuses, he lets her have it. An accident, maybe. It could happen.

  Jake waited.

  “It was my fault.” Turiello looked out the window at a T bus chugging by.

  “Fault?” Jake had grabbed a little spiral notebook from his desk at HQ. He often used his cell phone to take notes, but here it seemed disrespectful. Now, while Turiello wasn’t looking, he flipped the notebook open, found a blank page. “Fault” was an odd word. This was a big day for confessions. “Sir?”

  “I’d put her in charge of our foreclosures. That’s why she was there.” Turiello talked out the widow, shrugging. Turned back to Jake. “Not my fault, I suppose. Not really. There was nothing that should have been … untoward about that site visit. Standard.”

  “Anyone go with her?” Jake asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Was she meeting someone?” Jake stood, pointed toward a bullpen of desks and telephones in the front of the office space, empty. He checked his watch. After six. No employees or colleagues here to give him any answers. “Which was her desk? Does she have a computer? We’ll need to look at that. And sir? Do you recognize the name Sandoval? Elliot Sandoval?”

  Turiello stood, running two fingers down the front of his elaborate tie, a grid of red houses on a navy background. “She does have a computer, but it’s password protected. Has to be, all that personal information we gather and process. Financials, mortgage application, credit referrals. We’ll have to get our IT guy get into it.”

  “Thanks,” Jake said. Easy. They’d find her clients, find who she’d planned to meet this morning, or last night—and case closed. He could get back to Nate Frasca and Lilac Sunday. “Her appointment book as well, sir.”

  Turiello still fidgeted with his tie, opened the collar button. “Detective? I’m a branch. The big guys at headquarters call the shots.” He scratched at his neck, making thin red lines across this throat. “To give you open season on Shandra’s computer data and paper files? I’m not authorized to do that.”

  Jake had a few choices. Push, which might be futile. Get a warrant, which would certainly take a while. Negotiate. Or a little of all three.

  “I understand.” Jake waved his notebook at the phone. “Make your phone call, get the show on the road. Meanwhile, show me the details on the house at forty-two Waverly. That, at least, is public. Correct?”

  Turiello didn’t look happy. But hey. It wasn’t a happy time. It was murder.

  Time for the push. “I can get a warrant, of course. And will.” Jake smiled, barely. “But what if I were in the market for a house?”

  He could almost see the office manger weighing the options. Looking out the window. Clearing his throat. Probably wishing all of this, including Jake, would vanish.

  It wouldn’t.

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “I know. So show me. For Shandra Newbury’s sake.”

  * * *

  “Bless you,” Jane said. She stopped at the opening to her cubicle, watching the woman at the other desk inside yank a tissue out of a flowered box and then sneeze again. “Are you sick?”

  If Chrystal Peralta had a cold, Jane was seriously not going to sit down at her own desk. The fabric-walled cubicle they shared was crowded enough without adding cold germs. On a regular day Chrystal took up more than half the space, and it wasn’t just her hair. Chrystal’s side of the cube was practically a yard sale, a mishmash of promotional loot snagged from various feature stories she’d covered. Coffee mugs with bank logos, mouse pads with inspirational slogans. Access passes from junkets, meetings, and trade shows, each encased in shiny plastic and dangling from a slogan-bearing lanyard, dangled like holiday decorations from her half of the bulletin board. Every pen in her A&A Bank holder probably had someone’s company’s phone number on it.

  Jane’s “half” of the bulletin board had a snapshot of a sunset in Nantucket, a souvenir from a political scandal she’d uncovered, and a goofy-toothed school picture of a little boy, now happily adopted, from her investigation on foster care. She’d saved a space for a new picture of a pink-sanded beach. A photo not yet taken.

  Chrystal sneezed again.

  “Sick? Big time.” Chrystal wadded a shredded mass of tissues and tossed them toward the tissue-filled wastebasket. Jane cringed, dodging. “I’m not contagious, though. Probably.”

  If Chrystal was sick, Jane was bailing. She absolutely could not afford to be sick this weekend. No sneezing, no runny nose, no puffy e
yes, no—she smiled at the mental picture—snoring. Jane backed into the hall. “I’ll work down in the conference room, okay? I only have fifteen minutes—fewer now, actually—to bang out this story.”

  “It’s probably allergies,” Chrystal went on as if Jane hadn’t said anything.

  “No, really. You stay here. Feel better.” Twelve minutes. Jane almost ran down the hall, yanked open the heavy glass conference room door, hit the mouse to wake up the computer on the mahogany table. Nothing. Tried it again. Nothing. On the fritz. Again?

  Eleven minutes. Damn. She raced back to her own desk, swiveled into her chair, hit her own mouse. “Hey Chrystal, I’m back, gotta do this.”

  Chrystal sneezed.

  Maybe Jane could avoid breathing for the next ten minutes. She pulled up her story page, typed almost without thinking. Former owners of a now-foreclosed home in Hyde Park were shocked this afternoon when they were told police had discovered the body of a potential homicide victim in a second-floor bedroom.

  The cursor blinked at her, taunting, as she tried to figure out what to say next. Victoria was insisting on a story about the Sandovals’ reaction, but they really hadn’t reacted. Two paragraphs, she told herself. Everything doesn’t have to be Pulitzer material. She dug into her bag, pulled out her notebook, flipped the pages.

  “Damn,” she said.

  “What?” Chrystal’s chair squeaked as she turned to her.

  “Marcotte wants quotes, I got nothing.”

  “Make something up,” Chrystal said.

  “Right, great idea,” Jane said, cocked an eyebrow. “Sure would make life easier.” Back to the keyboard.

  The Sandovals’ eviction was finalized last week, according to Suffolk County Registry of Deeds documents.

  At least she had those.

  Police say they have not identified the victim, nor has the medical examiner determined the cause of death.

  The cursor blinked, silently demanding, as Jane struggled. Seconds ticked by. She grabbed her cell phone. Punched in a number. Prayed.