Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  He should have stayed at Frasca’s.

  What’s more, his cell phone was down to one bar, but if he moved to a place where there were plugs, he’d have to give up his squatter’s rights to the rocking chair, and be relegated to one of those not-made-for-humans molded plastic seats. He turned his phone off-off, figuring that’d save the battery.

  That lasted about four seconds. He turned it back on. What if they found Thorley? He had to know, even though he was more than powerless—ha-ha—to do anything about it. Or what if Thorley called him, and his phone was off?

  This whole thing sucked, big time. His hot idea to come to Washington. But he’d really figured—hoped—there was something in those files, something in history, that would clue him in to Gordon Thorley’s motives.

  He’d been wrong.

  Jake leaned back in the rocker, contemplating the extent of the disaster. Now he was left with a disappointed girlfriend, no relevant information about his case, and a verging-on-dead phone. At least Diva was at Mother’s house, so “hungry golden retriever” was not on his list of woes.

  All he could imagine was turquoise water and pink sand and Jane in that “very small” bathing suit she’d described. Three things he was not gonna see.

  A bolt of lightning illuminated the sooty sky, followed almost instantly by the crack of thunder. The babies cried harder. Jake’s phone rang, the trill barely audible. One bar, Jake saw. Caller unknown.

  Jane, maybe? Wouldn’t be the first time she’d called just as he was thinking about her. But then, he was often thinking about her.

  “This is Jake Bro—,” he began.

  “Got him, Harvard,” the voice said. DeLuca? But he was—“Kat got a call from her lab. The two-by-four from Waverly Road has Sandoval’s DNA.”

  “Where are you?” This wasn’t computing.

  “Irrelevant and immaterial,” DeLuca said. “I’m here with the best medical examiner Boston’s ever had—shhh, hang on, I’m telling Jake—and what can I say. Guess it pays to have friends in high places. Friends who can move your DNA screens to the front of the line. Maybe even expedite Lilac Sunday when we get home, right? Though why waste a favor when the guy’s confessed? But this one? Slam dunkeroo.”

  “So it’s—”

  “Yup. Our steroid-happy carpenter—”

  “Steroids?” Jake said.

  “Oh, yeah, forgot to mention. The whole report was faxed to HQ.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Sorry to miss the big takedown, Harvard,” D said. “But I’m, shall we say, otherwise occupied. And vacation is vacation. You, on the other hand, are in line to make the big arrest. Make the headlines, bring the sucker to justice.”

  “We’ll need a warrant.” Jake thought out loud, watched the bar on his phone struggle and flicker. Dammit.

  “So?” DeLuca said. “Get one. And let me know what happens, okay, dude?”

  Jake heard a whimper, then a murmur of comfort. A harried-looking young woman, striped shirt and jeans, hair straggling out of a lopsided barrette, switched a squirmy infant to her other hip, and hoisted an oversized diaper bag to her shoulder.

  Jake stood, gesturing to the rocking chair.

  Hell with it. He scooped up his trash with one hand, then searched the baseboards, scanning for electricity. He needed a plug. First to call Judge Gallagher for the warrant, then to call Peter Hardesty again. This day was becoming more complicated, but more interesting. Closing a murder case, finding the bad guy, was always a good thing.

  And maybe the rain was stopping.

  “On it, D,” Jake said. “Tell Kat thanks.”

  “You can count on it,” D said. “In fact, I’ve already started thanking her.”

  27

  “Pro—yikes—fessionally,” Jane said, wincing as a buzzy little Fiat convertible cut in front of them. Why was everyone in such a crazy hurry? Being a passenger sucked. “Jake Brogan is a Boston detective. Why?”

  Jane frowned, facing resolutely forward. She wanted to watch Peter’s expression, gauge where he was going with his “do you know Jake Brogan” question, but she felt bound to watch the chaotic traffic instead. Good-sport Jane had about had it with Hardesty’s aggressive driving. What’s more, good-sport Jane had also had it with his secrecy. If she couldn’t take the wheel, time to at least change the subject to one of her choosing.

  “Peter? Ah, I hate to be a pain in the ass, but where are we—hey!”

  Jane grabbed the strap again, closed her eyes, then didn’t. Then saw the shape of something in her side mirror, something that shouldn’t be there, but—

  “Damn it!” Peter yelled, and Jane felt the boxy car try to swerve to the left, out of the way of the blue whatever careening into their blind spot and then shoving them into the left lane. Jane heard the skid, felt the wind in her hair and the force of Peter’s hard right turn throwing her against the seat belt, then back again. She closed her eyes, then opened them, then closed them, clenching her teeth and shoulders, waiting for the crunch and the crash and the sound of glass and metal, and how would they ever—

  “Hang on, Jane!” Peter’s voice, terse, hard, demanding. The Jeep swerved again, a car in the other lane, too, boxing them in, no one’s fault but the idiot Fiat’s, and if Peter couldn’t—

  “Ow!” The side of Jane’s head slammed into the window as Peter tried to yank the car back onto the highway after they’d jounced across two lanes verging on out of control, Jane could feel it, could hear the wheels and the horns and the honking, and she was bracing herself this was it, not a chance in the world they would—

  The wheels skidded again, the car jouncing and bouncing over the grassy shoulder, bumping down the wildflower-filled culvert—Jane saw it almost in slow motion, pink and white lace, colors blurring as the Jeep lurched and staggered, wheels catching on whatever, Jane could see through the windshield, they were headed—what, down? She braced her arms against the dashboard, locking her elbows, wondering how it felt to be blasted by an airbag, wondering if she would even feel it, or if she would never feel anything again. One wheel hit, then the other, the car went sideways, almost, then not, and then almost, and if the car flipped over, they’d be—

  Stopped. It stopped.

  Silence.

  Jane took a breath, realized she could take a breath. Every muscle in her body was still clenched.

  “Peter?” She whispered the word, almost checking to make sure her voice worked, still looking forward. “Peter?”

  Silence.

  * * *

  Lawyers. Jake’s phone was up to four bars now, for whatever good that did. Peter Hardesty was not answering. As a result, he would not know his client was about to be arrested. Jake could stall, certainly, until the judge actually granted the warrant. Sandoval—so adamantly protesting his innocence yesterday—was not much of a flight risk.

  “Attention passengers at Gate C-one,” a voice came over the intercom. “JetBlue flight four-forty-three to Boston will soon be ready for preboarding. We regret the…”

  A sliver of twilight moon emerged in the now-clearing sky. The tarmac glistened with a sheen of moisture, but other than that and a terminal filled with cranky passengers, it was as if the storm had never happened.

  Jake clicked off the phone. He was under no obligation to leave a message for Peter Hardesty. If the lawyer wasn’t answering, he was clearly otherwise occupied.

  That call could wait.

  And Jane? He punched up her speed dial, glancing at the gate agent. The impatient passengers, the ones who somehow needed to board first, were already queuing near the gate agent’s desk, casually crowding, pretending they just happened to be standing there. Jake shook his head. They would all get to Boston at the same time.

  He smiled, remembering his idea to surprise Jane, and ended the call before she answered. He couldn’t tell her about the Sandoval arrest until it was public. That was one of the tradeoffs they’d have to get used to. He’d not even been gone for a day. And it alrea
dy felt—wrong. He missed her. Missed their connection.

  Flowers, definitely. Wine. And a discussion about their future.

  And, tomorrow, a slam dunk arrest.

  * * *

  “Peter?” Jane’s shook her head, slowly, carefully, feeling muscles in the back of her neck as she turned. Peter sat, back flat against the driver’s seat, hands still clutching the steering wheel, elbows stiff, looking straight out the windshield.

  “You okay?” Jane asked again.

  “Are you?” Peter said. “That idiot—”

  “Really, check yourself out,” Jane said, doing the same thing. She lifted her shoulders, touched her face, ran her tongue across her teeth. One of the tennis rackets from the backseat was on the floor in front of her, both tennis balls had rolled onto the floor on Peter’s side. Jane’s coffee now splatted down one leg of Peter’s suit pants, tiny ice cubes scattered on the floor like melting confetti.

  The whole front end of the Jeep was tipped, stopped by a wildflower-filled gully down the median of the highway. No windows broken, no airbags exploded. Jane heard a siren off in the distance, but the sound faded, and disappeared.

  “Peter?” What if he’d hit his head? She searched for her phone, where was it? “We’ll need to get you to a hospital.”

  “I’m fine,” Peter said. “I’m so freaking sorry.” She heard him take a deep breath, run his hand through his hair, turn to look at her. He unclicked his seat belt, reached over, touched her bare arm.

  “You’re shaking,” he said.

  “I know,” she admitted. “It all happened so fast, though.…” She was more scared now than when it happened. “It all happened so fast”—how many times had people she’d interviewed said that? Now she knew it was true. Six o’clock, the dashboard indicator said. Then, 6:01. The clock still worked.

  Cars zoomed by, ignoring them.

  “I am so sorry.” Peter opened his car door, slowly. “Some idiot ran us off the road, trying to get in my lane, then that other guy wouldn’t move so—shit.”

  “One of those things.” Jane tried to stay calm. It’s over, random, not even Peter’s fault. And even though she’d thought he’d been driving kind of aggressively, he’d actually been amazing, keeping the car in control.

  She opened her car door, too, stepped out onto the rangy grass. Peter had a hand on the hood, checked the front end, peered under the bumper, then examined each of the tires.

  “Not even a flat,” he said. He put his hands on her shoulders, looked at her, intent. “Jane? Are you sure you’re…?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” She didn’t move, feeling the weight of his hands, and the tiny breeze through the wildflowers, and the gratitude that this had not turned out a disaster. “Are you sure? Should we call the—?”

  “I think we can back out,” Peter said. He took one hand off her shoulder, then the other. His shirt had come untucked on one side, his pants were coffee soaked, and his shoes were coated with dust. “If you’re truly okay. I’ll call nine-one-one if—”

  “Really and truly,” Jane said. She touched the side of her head, feeling a spot where it was tender. “I might have a bruise, but I’ll be fine. Sorry about the coffee, though. You’re kind of—wet. You honestly think the car’s okay?”

  “The Jeep’s pretty forgiving. The engine’s working, so step back. I’ll give it a try.”

  She watched Peter tramp through the weeds, get into the driver’s seat, close the door. She felt safe with him, it wasn’t his driving that caused this. He hadn’t panicked. He’d focused, pulled it off. Didn’t try to blame anyone else.

  They were lucky. Everything was fine.

  Jake, she thought. What if I’d been killed in a car accident, and we’d left—like that?

  The car’s engine rattled, then whirred, and Jane stepped farther back. The car lurched, then caught, and the front wheels rolled up the side of the ditch and back onto flat ground. A patch of crushed Queen Anne’s lace and two tire-patterned tread marks were the only signs anything had happened.

  Jane opened the passenger door. Inside, Peter was smiling. Even the air conditioner was on. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Good to go, looks like. Hop in.” Peter waited until she strapped herself in, then edged the nose of the car around, aiming it to the highway. “Ah, you’ve got a little dirt on—right there.”

  Jane pulled down the visor, flipped open the mirror. A pale face looked back at her, blinking. A curling lock of hair hung over one cheek, her cheeks red and shiny with the heat, a smudge of grime painting her forehead.

  “All good,” she said. “A little dirt never hurt anyone. Wet pants, though, that’s a different story. Yours are never going to be the same.”

  “Tell you what—let’s head to my place,” Peter said, gauging the traffic as it sped by.

  Their heads moved in unison, watching two cars, then a white Boston cab, top speed, an eighteen-wheeler, then another, then—a break.

  Jane pointed. “Now.”

  Peter gunned it, and with one jounce, they were back in the fast lane.

  “Good job,” Jane had to say. “You did great.”

  “Got lucky,” he said. “Except for the pants thing. Let me change, and then head out. Make sense?”

  As much as anything did. Jane was back at square one. “Peter? Where the—hell—are you taking me?”

  28

  Atlantic & Anchor Bank was closed, if you were a customer, but inside the executive suites and the managers’ offices, as in Lizzie’s, a few of the lights were still on. It was Tuesday, the end and beginning of A&A’s proprietary fiscal week, the day the bank’s systems cranked out their internal reports and fed the computations and calculation data—the C&Cs—to those vetted few who had access. And who bothered to read them. These numbers, separate from the rolling daily audits the bank’s elaborate financial ledgers computed on a minute-by-minute basis, allowed insiders to gauge business, and inflow, and even receivables, if anyone decided to examine them.

  Lizzie watched the spreadsheet unfurl, mentally calculating along with the output, knowing exactly what she was looking for. She had tested her system—a shrug, “system” was good a word as any—with the Iantoscas, the Gantrys, and the Detwylers.

  This C&C run was a bellwether. If today’s calc picked up her changes, she’d still have time before the formal Friday wrap to make good and erase her mathematical tracks. She was still new, after all. And who was going to argue with her? She allowed herself a smile, thinking of her connection with the fifth floor.

  Daddy’s little girl, indeed. She’d always wanted to be. And who’d have thought it would add up this way? She watched a column of black and red scroll by—so far, so good. Okay. The Iantosca portfolio wasn’t flagged, so all was well there. If she made it through this, it would prove the intricate go-around she devised had defeated the internal oversight controls. Two more “customers” to go.

  By the time the computation ended, if it all went as she hoped, she’d have time to race to Whole Foods, get some snacks, maybe cheese? What did people do? Then make it home in time for Aaron at nine-ish, the way they’d planned.

  She clicked her computer mouse, pausing the progression of the numbers on her screen. The bank corridors were silent, and she’d left her door open, preferring her privacy, but needing to monitor if anyone—Aaron—came by. Snooping. Asking questions she didn’t want to answer. Especially since she had a big fat list of questions she wanted to ask.

  The damn—darn—lease was burning a hole in her briefcase. She told that girl Mo she’d bring it back tomorrow. “After the main office checked the final numbers.” She’d made up the perfectly believable lie instantly. Mo had been more than happy to relinquish the paperwork, hoping for a break on the rent in return.

  Lizzie clicked RUN again. She couldn’t afford to miss anything, and if she saw it in real time, all the better in case she needed to reevaluate and recalculate. The sooner that happened, the easier to cover her tracks. But she hoped she
wouldn’t have to.

  There. The Gantry portfolio. Loan number, dates, origination, sale one, sale two, modification—the snag would be next if it was going to show up. But no. No red numbers. No arrearage. No arrears notification, no lis pendens, nothing that would show anything but a happy family happily making mortgage payments with happy 5 percent interest on their happy home in—wherever it was. Framingham.

  That the Gantrys were deep into mortgage debt might be the truth, but thanks to Lizzie, it sure wasn’t showing up in the paperwork.

  Two down. One to go.

  And then, Aaron.

  * * *

  It was a woman? A woman? Aaron Gianelli draped his arms over the wheel of his white Fiero, rested his head on his wrists. Paralyzed in the bank parking lot, terrified to go inside.

  No matter how he played out the possibilities, the bottom line pointed to only one answer. Lizzie McDivitt had taken his keys and visited his clients. Why? What would possess her to snoop into his business? Actually go to his homes? Homes he was in charge of? Who the hell made her the grand inquisitor?

  If she told anyone, anyone upstairs—well, Ackerman was going to be so pissed off, no one on the planet could be so pissed off.

  There would be music to face, at some point, whatever the hell music there was. But one false move, one falling domino, and this whole enterprise would blow up in his face. And no way Ackerman and his compadres would step up and share any of the repercussions.

  Aaron let the movie of the disaster unreel in his mind: the police, and the prosecutors, whoever they’d be, federal, maybe even, since it was banking? Or, hell, he didn’t know. He should know. He’d either have to rat out Ackerman and the whole thing, what he knew of it at least, or take the fall on his own.

  That was a no-brainer. He was not gonna take the fall.

  Question was, was there a way to stop it, right now, prevent any of it from getting out?