Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Plus,” Peter went on. “You charge him with whatever it is. We go to court. What’s the first thing I’m gonna tell the judge? I’m gonna say you tried to keep me away. Poof. Your precious tape is inadmissible. Mr. Thorley goes home. You lose.”

  Thorley was already stabbing out the cigarette he’d sucked down, grinding it into a metal ashtray on the table. He eyed Sherrey, a hungry dog. But in fact, Thorley needed more than a cigarette. He needed Peter.

  Doreen Thorley Rinker had explained her brother’s handwritten note said he was confessing to a murder, and begged forgiveness. Said he was “doing it for the family.” What family? The victim’s? Bizarre. And more bizarre that Thorley didn’t want a lawyer. But hey. Everybody hated lawyers. Until they realized they needed one.

  “Detective?” Peter pointed to his watch. “Tick, tock. The more you stall, the more the judge’ll be convinced you’re up to no good. Remember, Mr. Thorley’s already on parole. Correct? Why not let his parole officer look after him? Like he has for the past few years? He’s clearly not a flight risk, correct? I mean, he’s sitting here of his own volition.”

  “Lawyers.” Sherrey stuffed the cigarettes into his jacket pocket.

  “Can’t live with ’em…” Peter didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Okay.” Thorley’s voice was a whisper. “I guess I should have a lawyer. But only so the system works fair. That doesn’t mean I didn’t do—”

  “Not another word, Mr. Thorley,” Peter said.

  Sherrey strode two steps to the door, opened it, then turned to glare at Peter. “This is bull,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Peter said. The door slammed closed. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Peter might have won this round. But the road ahead was not going to be pretty. Not when the client himself didn’t want to be saved.

  6

  “Somebody’s dead. Got to be.” Jane flapped her notebook against her leg, impatient. “If someone’s just hurt, the EMTs would’ve been running like hell.”

  The screen door stayed closed.

  “Yup.” TJ aimed his voice at her, kept his eyes on the door. “But listen.”

  A blue-and-white Boston police cruiser, blue lights whirling, siren screaming, peeled around the corner of Sycamore, flew onto Waverly, skidded to a stop at the end of the driveway.

  The cruiser’s blue light mixed with the ambulance’s red. The tall EMT jogged toward the car.

  “Here we go.” Jane squinted against the sunshine, hoping to ID the arriving cops. If they were pals, she might have an inside track to the story. She yanked on her sunglasses to cut the glare. That made it dark. Tried again without them.

  The passenger side door opened.

  Work boots. Levis. Black T-shirt. Sandy hair. Sunglasses.

  Jake.

  * * *

  Jane?

  Jake slammed his cruiser door, waited a beat for DeLuca to join him. Shaded his eyes, surveyed the crime scene. Some man in a Lexus, on the phone. Who was he? A neighbor? Two EMTs standing on the porch. Jake pointed at them, then at the house. One gave a thumbs down. Jake nodded. DOA.

  And Jane.

  Jane raised a palm at him, acknowledging, but stayed where she was, whispering with the guy shooting video. Must be the new on-line gig she’d described. Weird to see her with a camera again, after all the—

  “My, my.” DeLuca cocked his head toward Jane. “You two lovebirds have got to stop meeting like this.”

  “Right,” Jake said. “Let’s get in there. See what they got.”

  He and DeLuca had a sometimes-silent truce about their private lives—DeLuca knew about Jane, enough at least, Jake knew about DeLuca and Kat McMahan, the medical examiner who’d soon be arriving, if the deputies had their facts right.

  Jake knew he and Jane were going to have to make a decision. Soon. In fact, by this weekend. They couldn’t keep sneaking. Cop and reporter? Reporter and cop? Right at the edge of ethical. Over the edge, according to police SOP. The newspaper’s, too. They’d tried to stay apart, but that was a miserable failure. To stay together, one of them would have to quit. Which was impossible. The whole thing was impossible.

  Jake raised a hand back as they passed. Jane’s shooter was getting it all on tape.

  “Eviction, huh?” Jake pulled out his cell phone, opened a file. Thumbed in his to-dos. He’d have to check the sheriff’s paperwork. Get bank stuff. Get registry records, check ownership, track down tenants or whoever once lived here. “Whoever got thrown out, they’re not gonna be happy, that’s for sure. There’s a motive.”

  The EMTs moved aside, let them through as the screen door squeaked open.

  Inside, dust motes floated on sunlight streaming through curtainless windows, the living room empty, the hardwood floor bare. A pile of rags teetered, stashed in a charred brick fireplace. Place smelled like fire, and bleach. One flight of bare stairs to a second floor. Two uniforms blocked what was probably the opening to the kitchen. Vitucci and Callum. Good guys. Who did not look happy. They’d been detailed here, off duty. Not expecting to actually do any work. Surprise, surprise.

  “Hey, Vitooch. We were at HQ, dispatch just radioed us the call. Got here fast as we could. Thanks for holding the fort,” Jake said. “Where’s…?”

  “Hey, Jake,” Vitucci said. “Upstairs. With the sheriff’s deputies. It’s an eviction, right? Look, uh, Jake? Thing is—”

  “Thing?” Jake said. “Thing” meant problem. Glitch. Snafu. “Thing” meant Jake’s day was about to get complicated. “There’s a ‘thing’?”

  * * *

  “Mr. Iantosca? Mrs. Iantosca?” Lizzie—Liz—came around from behind her desk, gestured her customers to the two new visitor chairs. They’d been delivered that very morning; in fact, no one had ever sat in them before. Liz spotted a paper receipt still taped underneath one of them.

  “I’m Liz McDivitt,” she said. “Thank you for coming. May I offer you some water? Or coffee?”

  Colleen Iantosca looked like she hadn’t slept in a year, thin as a memory, eyes red-rimmed. Her dark cardigan, buttoned high over a white blouse, had a tiny hole in the left shoulder. She gave Liz a wisp of a smile, shook her head no, then picked at the clasp of the flat black purse she clutched in her lap. Drew a breath with a little gasp.

  Her husband reached out a hand, put it on top of hers.

  “Honey,” he said. “Thank you, Miss McDivitt. No.”

  “We’ll never be able to—,” Colleen Iantosca began. Then she stopped, looking at her husband again.

  “My wife is right.” Christian Iantosca patted his wife’s hand, then clamped his palms on his knees.

  His suit, a good one, had also seen better days. Liz knew from their records the husband had been a bakery manager before Scones and Co. went bankrupt; the wife still worked in the back of a West End dry cleaner. Reliable, trusting, honest people. Now with one big mortgage and one small salary.

  “We understand why you’ve called us here. We understand the bank has no choice. But I do have some jobs in line, and I guess we’d hoped—well, you see our position.”

  Liz remained standing, didn’t want to put the desk between them. She took a breath, smiled, and broke the law.

  “I have some good news for you, Mr. and Mrs. Iantosca,” she said.

  She paused, thinking it through one last time. She controlled these accounts, the foreclosure paperwork had not yet progressed through unalterable channels. She understood the work-arounds necessary to avoid the transparent and ridiculously vulnerable protocols the bank inserted to catch manually entered overrides. Numbers always did what she wanted them to. She almost felt her father’s presence. Hi, Dad, she thought. Guess what.

  “It appears,” she said, “there has been an error in your records.”

  “An error?” Christian Iantosca frowned. “We didn’t do anything wr—”

  “What kind of an—,” his wife began.

  The whisper of hope in the woman’s eyes almost broke Lizzie’s heart.
<
br />   Yes. Lizzie—Liz—was doing the right thing.

  She put up both palms. “I’m happy to show you the documentation, at some point, after our auditors have reassessed the financial essentials and fiduciary elements.” That was pure drivel, but they’d never know. “However, bottom line, as they say, the balance of your mortgage, with the calculation of the compounding interest and the escrow payments, as well as the federal allowance offered under Title M for first-time homeowners—” She stopped, as if this actually meant something. Sighed, as if clearing her mind.

  “Getting to the point. We’re stopping the foreclosure.”

  Colleen Iantosca made a sound, a gasp or a gulp. Her cheeks went pink, and she covered her mouth with two sinewy hands. Her eyes went wide, then welled with tears.

  “How could—,” Christian Iantosca began. “But what about the—”

  “I understand you’ll have questions.” Liz went behind her desk, sat in her new swivel chair, felt tall. She tapped on her keyboard, bringing up a blank spreadsheet, and turned the monitor so the Iantoscas could see. Not that it would show them anything. “I’ll be your direct and only contact on this,” she said, pointing to the empty grid. “Okay?”

  Both Iantoscas nodded.

  “Two things.” Liz thought of something. “Oh, first, you didn’t have a closing attorney, correct? You and the bank handled this directly.”

  Both Iantoscas nodded.

  Okay, then. “And your house is on the lis pendens list at the registry of deeds, the pre-foreclosure notice, you understand?”

  “Yes, they told us that,” Christian said. “The bank’s real estate person came to see us. The man, Mr.…?” He checked with his wife.

  “Gianelli,” Colleen Iantosca said. “We had to show him the house, and he told us we might have to be out in eight weeks.”

  Aaron. Liz couldn’t believe how perfectly this was going.

  “I’ll speak to him,” Liz said. “Meanwhile, I’ll withdraw the lis pendens. Then I have to reorganize your debit situation in accordance with the overpayments you’ve been charged in the years past. When I recalculate your payments, I’ll inform you, in person, of your obligations.”

  She stood, fingertips on her lovely big brand-new desk.

  “But for now? Go home.” Liz smiled. In control. “Don’t worry. Find a job, Mr. Iantosca. But your home is your home. And so it shall stay.”

  7

  “‘Thing is’ what?” Jake said. Vitucci and Callum were fidgeting, the two detail cops getting in each other’s way. It obviously wasn’t only from the damn heat. The EMTs hovered on the porch. Jane, for sure, would soon be trying to get the scoop. No one seemed in much of a hurry to let Jake and DeLuca get to their crime scene.

  “Yeah, well, the vic is on the second floor, rear bedroom, third of three.” Vitucci hitched up his pants. “Says the deputy. The two of them are up there now. I guess. But see, the thing is, they—”

  “Show us this ‘thing.’” DeLuca put a hand on the banister, raised an eyebrow at Jake. “Seems like these two don’t want us up there, you think?”

  “I hear you, D,” Jake said. “Vitooch? You got something to say? Now’s the time.”

  “Okay.” Vitucci raked his hands through his hair, like this was the last crime scene he’d ever see. “So thing is, the deputies, you know, were clearing out the—”

  “We decided to hang outside, in case rent-a-demonstrators showed up, you know?” Callum said. “And then the deps yelled out the window, but when we got upstairs—”

  “Where we are going right now,” Jake said. “If one of you could manage to finish a sentence. Vitucci, that’s you.”

  Vitucci’s shoulders sagged. “Seems like they’d gotten rid of everything. The deputies did, you know? Bleach, and disinfectant, all that. Sweeping. Apparently, the vic was in the last room they’d hit. In the closet. Which they didn’t open, until too late. Then she, like, slid out of it. That’s why she’s—like that. Sitting up. Sort of.”

  “I see.” Jake could not believe it. A crime scene ruined by the sheriff’s own deputies. This was a new one. Jake and D reached the top of the stairs, took a left toward the back. “So fingerprints, trace evidence, whatever?”

  “What I’ve been trying to tell you,” Vitucci said. “It’s like, gone. The deputies cleaned all of it, before they found the—”

  “Female. Caucasian. Maybe. Mid-thirties,” DeLuca interrupted. “Dead since yesterday at most, who knows, just my guess.”

  DeLuca’d stopped in the doorway, looking past a rusting twin bed frame, and down to the hardwood floor. No curtains, no rugs, no other furniture. Just a dead woman sitting in an empty closet. In a room where all the evidence was gone.

  “Shit,” Jake said.

  “Where are those two morons, anyway?” DeLuca said.

  “Down the back stairs?” Vitucci said. “Maybe?”

  “Find ’em for me, Vitooch,” Jake said. “Go. Take Callum with you. And look, no way you could have prevented this. Right? You did your jobs. You’re fine.”

  “But we should have—,” Vitucci began.

  “Go. Find me the assholes.” Jake pointed toward the street. “And find out who that guy is. The suit with the Lexus. We’ll need to chat with him.”

  At this, Vitucci perked up, all business. “We asked when he showed up, we did that, says he’s the real estate guy,” he said. “So—”

  “Go,” Jake said. “Bring back those deputies.”

  “Look at this.” DeLuca scanned the small room as the cops bolted. “There’s no purse, no possessions. No nothing.”

  The deputies had done their stuff all right. Dresser, drawers pulled out, empty. Closet, now open, empty, a few metal hangers. Window open. “Whoever killed her took the purse, maybe,” DeLuca continued. “Maybe a robbery? Think she was the owner, maybe? Former owner, I mean.”

  “Maybe.” Jake said. Well-cared-for, short dark hair. A slash of pink lipstick clownish on her pale skin. Bare legs, sandals, a simple dress like Jane always wore, a light navy blazer flapping open. A necklace with a tiny gold horseshoe dangled from a delicate chain around her neck. “But check it out. She’s got a diamond-looking ring, a good haircut, that manicure. Gold necklace. Doesn’t seem like a foreclosure type. No gunshot wounds visible. You calling the ME? Tell her no bleeding, no sign of—well, wait.”

  “Yeah,” DeLuca said. “I see it.”

  Jake crouched, keeping his balance on the hardwood floor, as close to the victim as he could without touching. The sun blasted through the eight-paned window, making a shadow latticework on her motionless form. Jake squinted at the tiny gold insignia pinned in the lapel of the blue blazer, shining in a patch of light.

  “Whaddaya think?” Jake asked. “‘M’ or ‘W’?”

  * * *

  “I’m trying to get all that right now,” Jane said. She’d borrowed TJ’s phone so she could brief the city editor and use her own cell to text bullet points to the copy desk at the same time. This was no longer a straightforward foreclosure on Waverly Road. But that’s all Jane knew for sure.

  She hit SEND, multitasking, T. J.’s phone clamped between her cheek and shoulder. Victoria Marcotte, the new city editor, continued to fire off questions. Jane surveyed the scene as she answered.

  “Yes, cops. Nope, no movement. We’re on the sidewalk. The EMTs are in the front seat of the ambulance, probably soaking up the AC. Bank guy, or whoever he is, just got into his Lexus,” Jane said. “So listen, Victoria, if there’s a body inside, we’ve got it. Exclusive.”

  TJ had risked setting his camera on the sidewalk and now sat on the curb next to her, feet splayed onto the pot-holed asphalt of Waverly Road. He looked as dust-coated and sweaty as she felt. But she was relentlessly curious. And patient enough to wait.

  “I can send you a cell phone photo, even video, soon as I see anything,” Jane told her editor. After three years in TV battling the deadlines and stress and pressure for live video, her admittedly unenthusiastic ent
ry into newspapers had—at least for a while—removed that tension from her work equation. Now, with the Register’s online edition, she was back to instant news. Not only getting the info, but often taking the pictures. It was fun, juggling it all. When it worked.

  A change in the light. The front door was opening.

  “Victoria? Gotta call you back.” Jane saw TJ was already rolling, headed toward the house. She had to catch up with him.

  Victoria was still talking.

  “But—,” Jane tried to get a word in. “Yes, yes, forty-two Waverly Road. But you can’t say it’s a ‘possible homicide,’ because we don’t know if—well, sure, I suppose it’s a possible homicide until it isn’t. But I think we should wait until the police—”

  The front door had closed again.

  “Fine,” Jane said. Marcotte had not let her finish the sentence. “Watch for my e-mail.”

  She clicked off, caught up with TJ, gave back his phone, and switched hers to photo mode. Snapped off a shot of the exterior, door closed, one of the ambulance, one of Lexus guy, one of Jake’s cruiser. Jake, who was still inside. Jake, who had not answered her text. Jake, who, well, that was for later. She punched in Victoria’s number again, muttering. Hit SEND. Photos were on the way. Fine.

  “It’s bull,” she said as she caught up to TJ. “Marcotte demanded photos, so they can do a breaking news in the online. ‘Possible homicide’”—Jane made quote marks in the air—“in Hyde Park.”

  “We have no idea if it’s a homicide.” TJ took his eye from the viewfinder, frowned at her.

  “Exactly what I told her.” Jane kept her eyes on the front door. “She didn’t care.”

  Jane pitched her voice into the imperious Marcotte manner. “‘Are you saying it’s not a possible homicide?’ That’s what she actually said to me. She’s like, ‘I understood that’s why you were calling me. Possible means possible. I’m only repeating what you told me, is that not correct? Are you calling me with information that’s not correct?’”

  Jane stuck out her tongue. TJ’s eye was back on the viewfinder, and he couldn’t see her probably inappropriate gesture. “I hate that,” she said. “She doesn’t seem to care what’s true.”