Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Mr. Sandoval? This is Jane Ryland at the Register.” Thank goodness. He was home. She paused, knowing she had to be polite. She was on deadline, but she was asking about a murder. “Fine, and I’m so sorry to bother you, but I have to write my story about what happened this afternoon at your … on Waverly Road. And I wonder—”

  Elliot Sandoval interrupted, talking faster than she’d ever heard him.

  “What?” Jane said. “When? Then what?”

  Sandoval answered, still at top speed.

  “Mr. Sandoval? Sir?” Jane tucked the phone between her shoulder and cheek, and turned back to her computer keyboard. Sandoval barely took a breath between words. “Excuse me? Sir? Did they give you a name?”

  Five minutes.

  Plenty of time.

  13

  The phone rang just as Peter stepped toward his office door. Five o’clock. Officially, the law firm was closed for the day. But the phone on Nicole’s reception desk rang again, insistent. Thorley didn’t have that number. This was someone else.

  Through his tenth-floor window Peter could see happy people, normal people, a couple feeding the ducks, throwing bread crumbs or something at the mallards gathered in the pond. A sunset swan boat glided by, full of tourists, probably, and people who didn’t have to think about cold-case murders of high school girls and the misguided men who were inexplicably confessing to the crimes.

  Why would Thorley confess? One easy answer. He was guilty. Fine with Peter—he’d represented worse. Even the guilty ones needed lawyers. Especially the guilty ones.

  The phone rang again.

  Peter blew out a breath, remembering the lawyer’s prayer. This phone call might bring him his case-of-all-cases. Tobacco, or lead paint, or a new Dalkon Shield. Some hideously widespread but provable injustice, or a victim with a stash of incriminating e-mails, finally ready to blow the whistle on some big-bucks government corruption. If Peter ignored the phone, the desperate plaintiff would call someone else, and someone else would get the glory. And the 30 percent.

  His assistant, Nicole, was long gone, headed out at close of business to do whatever paralegal slash secretaries did on a Boston spring evening, sail or skateboard or dance or drink a pink cocktail with friends. Defeated, Peter picked up the phone.

  “Hardesty and Colaneri,” he said. Too late to turn back now. “This is Peter Hardesty.”

  He paused, listening to the person on the other end.

  “Yes,” he said. He put down his briefcase. Lowered himself into his desk chair. Grabbed a yellow pad. Clicked open a pen. Still listening. “Yes.”

  * * *

  “I’m telling you, Jake, it’s a slam dunk.” D was still trying to convince him, had not stopped trying for the past few miles, that the person they were about to go visit was Shandra Newbury’s killer. Jake stopped at a red light, almost tuning D out. Sure, that would create a certain symmetry about the whole thing. Irony, too, since the suspect was right out of Mornay and Weldon’s own real estate listings.

  “Do me a favor, D.” Jake turned onto Olivet Street, then onto Champlain. “Look for number four-twenty-five. Then try to stay a little objective. Maybe the guy’s innocent, that ever cross your mind?”

  “Oh, mos’ def,” D said. “He’s innocent, and so is Gordon Thorley. Everybody’s innocent. It’s a wonder we still have our jobs, with all those innocent people out there.”

  “It’s only one day until your vacation, D.” Jake pretended to be sympathetic. “Once you and Kat hit one of those sandy beaches, all your pent-up hostility will vanish. You’ll be better when you get back.”

  “There it is.” D pointed. “Tan siding, dead grass. Crappy pickup truck in the driveway. Bad guy inside.”

  “We’ll see.” Jake eased the unmarked cruiser to the curb, slid into a just-barely-legal spot north of the fire hydrant. A few random kids sauntered up the sidewalk, baseball caps backward, shapeless T-shirts, skateboards under their arms. Most driveways had cars, nothing fancy. Middle class, lower, seemed like. Struggling strips of gardens, homeowners clearly losing the battle with their yellowing lawns. Someone was grilling out, Jake could smell the charcoal. “He didn’t bolt after you called. That’s a not-guilty, right there.”

  “Maybe it’s the wife.” D opened his door, eased onto the sidewalk.

  Just past seven, and it was still as sweltering as it had been this noon on Waverly Road. Jane, he thought. He’d see her again in less than two hours, if all went as planned. This time, by themselves. They could talk without using code.

  “Doesn’t take much to clobber someone with a two-by-four,” D was saying. They crossed the narrow empty street, dodged a couple of potholes, headed for the modest ranch house. Curtains hid the small front windows. They couldn’t see inside, only that at least one light was on. “I might not have left it there, just saying. But who said killers are smart. We’ll know more soon as Crime Scene takes over.”

  “And the wife’s motive would be what?” Jake asked. “Buyer’s remorse? Or how about jealousy? Because her husband and Shandra Newbury were—”

  “Hey, check out the truck,” D interrupted. “There in the back.”

  Jake took two steps. Saw what D was talking about. A stack of two-by-fours. “We just called him, you know? Ten minutes ago. Not enough time to get rid of them.”

  They stopped, looked at each other.

  “Plain sight,” Jake said.

  “Am I right, or am I right?” D said.

  * * *

  Aaron would pay for this dinner, probably in more ways than one. The Ritz Café was a splurge, all white napkins and shiny glass plates. It was the Taj now, whatever. Question was, what would be the return on his investment?

  As Lizzie talked nonstop, he watched her lift the circles of red onions from her overpriced hamburger, then ferry them with a fork to her empty bread plate. Then she removed her hamburger from the sesame-seeded bun, and put the bun on the side plate, too. Lizzie sure seemed at home here, handing the waiter her scorned onions and rejected bun. Aaron took a bite of his well-done with cheddar, pretending to listen to whatever she was talking about.

  At least she was drinking her wine.

  The Iantosca situation churned though his mind as Lizzie continued her life saga. She was into her college business classes now, her “epiphany” from some econ professor about “banking for the people” and how the “balance of the economy” needed to be “reset” and “recalculated” to include customer service. All Aaron could think about was how to make his deal work. He had to find a solution.

  “That’s cool,” he replied. Whatever she’d said. He dunked a seasoned fry into his pool of ketchup, watched Lizzie finally take a bite of burger—with her fork—and pulled out a phrase he’d heard Ack use. “Did your class discuss ‘informational silos of customer data’?”

  Lizzie’s eyes widened. “It did, how amazing you know about it, yes, it did, and…” And she was off again.

  It was shortsighted of him to worry about the Iantoscas. So what if their house was off the foreclosure list? Maybe he could even convince Ackerman to be happy about that info. They rarely talked, of course, and never e-mailed or texted, that was way too risky. But next time they connected, Aaron could easily make it seem like he had the scoop on the incoming properties. The real inside dope.

  He nodded, agreeing with himself.

  “I’m so happy you agree,” Lizzie said, watching him. “Most people don’t even think about how banks should work for the customers, not the customers for the banks.”

  “Hmm,” he said. Whatever. And if he was getting the scoop, maybe this whole Lizzie thing was even more potentially productive than he’d initially imagined. He could definitely envision the well-connected Lizzie as information pipeline.

  Another French fry. It made a gully as he drew it slowly through the ketchup. He did it again, watching the red separate, then move together again, seamless. As if he’d never touched it.

  Now she was yapping about her first
day at the bank. Interesting, she hadn’t mentioned her father at all, which seemed—well, maybe it was too early. He’d have to feel her out on that. A good salesman knew when to push. And when to wait. He was selling tonight, that was for sure.

  His client-line cell phone buzzed on the table beside him, vibrating on the white tablecloth.

  “You need to get that?” Lizzie asked.

  He did need to, damn it, but now was not the time to talk to clients. “Not at all,” he lied. He couldn’t let this deal progress, and that was certainly what these calls were about, but he couldn’t get rid of her long enough to stop it. Bathroom, he thought. If they call again, I’ll just excuse myself.

  “I feel bad, going on like this.” Lizzie blinked at him, eyed his phone. “When you’re obviously needed. By … someone.”

  “No, no, nothing’s going to interrupt us tonight.” Aaron had about two swigs of his beer left. He’d need a refill. “This is Lizzie night. Correct?”

  She took a sip of her twelve-dollar-a-glass rosé. She could have all she wanted. He wasn’t sure exactly what would happen later, but a two-glass-of-wine girl was more likely to be agreeable to whatever it was. Outside, he could see, it was turning dark, headlights and streetlights already on, Boston’s date-nighters heading out of the parking garage across the street. Half the people wore Red Sox caps. Still hope for the baseball season. This was only May.

  Lizzie pointed to his vibrating cell phone with her fork. “Come on, Aaron. I can handle you taking a phone call.” She stood, plopping her crumpled napkin on the table. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. And I’ll have another glass of wine.”

  She hadn’t taken two steps away when he grabbed his cell and hit answer.

  “This is Allen,” he said, keeping his voice low. You never knew.

  Aaron waited, listening. It always killed him to say his fake name. If he ever screwed up—which a couple times he actually had—he always pretended the other guy had heard him wrong.

  “Thanks for calling back,” he said. “Listen, the house on Nordstand Boulevard isn’t going to work out. There were some undisclosed problems. It happens. Lucky for you, I’ve got a perfect replacement. You’ll be even happier with it, it exactly suits your needs, and I can show you tomorrow afternoon. You’ll be the first.”

  He paused, as his client interrupted, yammering a whole list of questions, ending with a request. “Morning?” Aaron thought fast, figuring how he could pull this off. “Tomorrow at nine A.M.? Well, sure. Can do. The address is…”

  Lizzie. Was on her way back.

  “Listen,” he said, smiling across the room. Lizzie waved. “I’ll text you the address. Yes, furnished. See you tomorrow at nine.”

  He clicked off as Lizzie arrived. He stood, pulled out her chair.

  “Got any plans for the rest of the evening?” he said.

  Lizzie looked at him from under her eyelashes. Two spots of red appeared on her cheeks, and she fiddled with a hoop earring. She’d combed her hair, Aaron saw, freshened her lipstick.

  Lizzie sat down, took a sip of wine. “What do you mean, plans?”

  “How’d you like to go look at a house?” He pulled his chair closer to hers.

  “A—?”

  “House. House,” Aaron said, teasing. “You ever really seen the ones in those portfolios of yours? You stay in your office all the time, adding and subtracting and doing amortizations or whatever. People live in those houses, all good. But the houses I handle? They’re empty, you know? Furnished, but empty.”

  He raised an eyebrow, smiled at her. “We could have the place all to ourselves.”

  Lizzie tilted her head, as if she were calculating. “Isn’t that…?”

  “Isn’t that what? I have the keys, sweetheart.” Aaron picked up his beer, considering his strategy one last time. No harm in taking her, was there? It might even be worthwhile. “I’m the only one who legally does have access. You ought to see them, if you’re going to be handling mortgages. You know? To you, it’s all on paper, all numbers, all theoretical. To me it’s—”

  Aaron eyed his glass, drained the last of his beer.

  “To me it’s—real estate. Know what I mean? Real.”

  Lizzie picked up her wine, stared at the pink liquid.

  “Finish up,” Aaron said. “Then you and I are going to have an adventure. It’s Lizzie night, remember?”

  14

  “The name on the mailbox is ‘Michaelidis,’” D said.

  “Yup, that’s the one. The sister-in-law.” Jake punched the black-button doorbell. Three chimes echoed inside. He tried again. Chimes. Dented screen door over gray-painted front door. He cocked his head, listening.

  “Someone’s coming.” He nodded, mentally checking—badge, weapon, radio, plan. “Ready?”

  The gray door opened. A beefy guy, late twenties, sandy mustache and hair to match, stood behind the screen. Hard to read his face, shimmering through the small-gauge mesh. Jake assessed the muscles under the man’s Red Sox T-shirt, saw one hammy hand clench into a fist at his side. His other hand held an open bottle of IPA.

  “Elliot Sandoval?” Jake held his gold badge up against the screen. A radio or TV played in a back room. A leftover dinnertime smell, baked beans maybe, mixed with the fragrance of Sandoval’s beer. “I’m Detective—”

  “Yeah. I figured. The one who called.” Sandoval did not open the screen. “You need to call my lawyer.”

  “About what?” D took one step forward. “I’m Detective Brogan’s partner, Paul DeLuca. We have a couple of quick questions, hoping you can help us out. No pressure. Happy to call your lawyer.”

  D looked at Jake. Then back at Sandoval. “Of course, sir, that’ll make it somewhat more complicated.”

  “True,” Jake said. “Then we’d have to go down to the station, sign you in. It’s more—shall we say—formal. We’re here to make your life easier. But your call.”

  Sandoval didn’t move. Didn’t slam the door. Stood there. Jake could ask anything at this point, he’d be within his rights. Lawyer didn’t mean shit if the guy wasn’t under arrest. The logical option was go for it.

  “Sir?” Jake changed tactics. “We need your help on a very sad case. As we told you, there was possible homicide at forty-two Waverly Road. You’re familiar with that address, of course. We know you don’t live there anymore, but—”

  “Honey?” A smaller figure joined Sandoval at the door, tucked in behind him, only shoulder-length curly hair and pink T-shirt visible. “The lawyer said—”

  The door opened, Sandoval moving the woman—his wife? pregnant wife, if that’s who she was—out of the way with the palm of his hand. She stopped talking. D and Jake stepped inside, the narrow foyer leading to a living room on one side, one table light on, TV on mute, and on the other side, a hallway. Jake could see to the half-open door at the end of the hall, the glow from a TV showing behind it.

  “You told me about that on the phone. The possible homicide.” Sandoval didn’t offer them a seat. “Look. I got nothing for you. I’d help you if I could, you know? But like I said on the phone, we haven’t been at that house for weeks.”

  Be that as it may. They were inside, invited inside, meaning Jake could now proceed on steadier legal ground. “She was killed with a two-by-four, we believe, Mr. Sandoval. Exactly like those you have in the back of your truck, out there in the driveway. That is your truck, I assume.” Jake eyed the pregnant woman, who was quickly moving lower on his “possibly guilty” list. “Or is it yours?”

  “It’s—this is my wife, MaryLou.” Sandoval stepped away from them and put his beer onto the glass-topped coffee table, next to an open do-it-yourself magazine and a catalog from some baby store. “As you can see, she’s—and you know what? The lawyer’s right. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “We can easily run the plate and registration. Sir.” Jake eased a few steps into the living room, taking up the space Sandoval had vacated. “Police investigation one-oh-one.”

/>   “Listen. I’m in construction.” Sandoval’s wide forehead furrowed, and he looked at Jake, then at D, then back at Jake, as if searching for an ally. “All two-by-fours are exactly alike. The ones in my truck don’t prove a thing.”

  His wife let out a sound, a whimper or a sigh, and sagged to the dark cushion of the low-slung couch, placing one hand on the round of her belly. Cute girl. No makeup. From her frown, obviously worried. As well she should be. A husband who could be on trial for murder and a baby on the way was not an optimum combination.

  “Elliot!” MaryLou Sandoval whispered. Jake could see her struggle for composure, her fingers touching the sides of her forehead. “Remember. The lawyer told you—”

  “I don’t care what the lawyer said. Time the hell out.” Elliot Sandoval turned to his wife, making the time-out sign with his hands. “If I had hit someone with a two-by-four, which, Mar, I most definitely did not—do you think I would have left all the other damn two-by-fours in the truck? In my driveway? Knowing the cops were on the way?”

  He turned back to Jake. “You called me. Right? There’d have been plenty of time for me to—”

  “Aren’t you even interested in the victim’s name?” Jake cut off the guy’s excuses, exchanged a glance with DeLuca.

  Where had Sandoval been, time of the murder? Not that they exactly knew when that was. Was MaryLou his only alibi? Maybe the stay-at-home wife was now putting two and two together, Jake thought. Two by four.

  “You know, Detective Brogan, it does seem odd.” DeLuca spoke to Jake, as if Sandoval wasn’t there. “Doesn’t it seem odd? I’da thought he’d wanna know.”

  D turned back to Sandoval, as if begrudgingly acknowledging his presence. “If you really were interested in helping, that is.”

  They hadn’t told Sandoval the victim’s name, on purpose, to see how he’d react when they sprang it on him. That Sandoval hadn’t asked did seem odd. Unlikely. Suspicious. Jake mentally shrugged. Or—not.

  “I had nothing to do with it. Why would I ask?” Sandoval took a couple of steps backward, eyed the door. “It’s not our house anymore. Why does it matter if I know? Why would I need to know?”