35
“No, Jane. Absolutely not. Not one word.”
“But I think we should—” Jane was not happy with the direction of this morning’s meeting in Marcotte’s office. “I mean, I could write a terrific—”
“You certainly grasp the logic here, don’t you, Jane?” Marcotte, interrupting, ripped the top page from a yellow legal pad, crumpled it, tossed it into a leather-covered wastebasket. “If this”—she consulted another legal pad—“Gordon Thorley? Is indeed a suspect in the Moulten Road killing? Lucky you weren’t killed.”
“Well—” True, certainly. “But I wasn’t—”
“I pitched having you write a first-person about the whole incident, of course, it’s fabulous reporter involvement. Talk about buzzable,” Marcotte continued. “But legal says no. So it’s no. Understood?”
“But—” Jane wasn’t making any headway in this conversation. Peter had called her from police station Siberia about four in the morning, giving her the outline of what happened with Thorley, and telling her, “Detective Brogan says thank you so much, and he’ll be in contact if he needs you.”
So far, no call. Not a word from Jake. Did that mean he didn’t “need” her? She thought about that suitcase, still packed in her bedroom, like the last memory of a fading dream. Had Jake backed out of their trip for some reason he wasn’t saying? The assignment in Washington had suddenly appeared—then disappeared. What was that all about? Why didn’t he trust her with the truth?
Last night, she’d been too tired to think about it clearly.
She’d ripped open a can of evil-smelling lamb-and-rice for the complaining Coda, grabbed three hours of sleep after Peter’s call, hit the shower, slugged down two coffees, and dragged herself into Marcotte’s office, banishing all thoughts of Jake, fueled by the prospect of a big story. She was expecting a pat on the back, since she’d scored the big Thorley-as-Moulten-Road-Killer scoop, such a headliner she could bang it out no matter how tired she felt. She’d planned to leave out what took place in Hardesty’s living room. Since it was all a “misunderstanding,” according to Peter, there’d be no police report, no record of it, as if it never happened. She could still be objective.
Now Marcotte was saying no.
“But, Victoria? Legal’s got to understand the episode with Thorley wasn’t reported, formally, so it doesn’t count. Doesn’t affect my objectivity. In fact, you only know about it because I told you. If I hadn’t—”
“If you hadn’t what?” Marcotte, interrupting, seemed to look straight at Jane for the first time that morning. “If you hadn’t, we’d be having quite a different conversation, I expect. You don’t think I wouldn’t find out, do you?”
Backpedal time. “Well, of course, and I did tell you,” Jane said.
“And so it goes,” Marcotte said.
This conversation wasn’t the only thing derailed in Jane’s life. Maybe she should go home, get some sleep, and start the day again, not exhausted and not bummed out.
She could work on Sandoval, and also the foreclosure crisis story that started this whole thing. A memorial service for Emily-Sue Ordway, the girl who’d fallen from the window, the teenage victim who’d started Jane’s interest in foreclosure families, was in the works, and might be a good peg.
“However,” Marcotte was saying. “Even though legal’s yanked you off the Thorley story, all is not lost. I have a favor to ask, and I know you can handle the assignment. We need to front-burner it for the Sunday editions. Get it in—by Friday? Two days from now. Use TJ for video.”
A favor? An assignment? Okay, that was the challenge of reporting. You never knew what was around the next corner. Usually that was the exciting part, but right now, it was the confusing part. Still, she could do it, whatever. It was also a convenient way to get back into Marcotte’s good graces, if such a place existed.
“Sure,” Jane said. She’d hear what Marcotte had in mind, get more coffee, be a team player.
“Chrystal Peralta is out sick,” Marcotte said. “Flu. She’s been working on a consumer story about banks and their evolving customer service departments. How they used to give toasters and the like for opening a new account? Now they’re all about personal service.”
“A consumer story?” Jane didn’t really enjoy doing those puffy little pieces. Valuable info, she supposed, readable, and good for the paper. Just not her style. “Banks?”
“You’re already working on that foreclosure piece, so it’s right up your alley.” Marcotte opened her top desk drawer, pulled out a reporter’s spiral notebook and a manila file, offered it to Jane. “This is her notebook, it has all her contacts and info, and there’s even a printout of her first draft of the story. We only need twelve column inches, we’ll run it online and in print, and use a quick video sound bite as sidebar, maybe two, from whoever you interview, office, customers, your call. Have it in by Friday. Plenty of time.”
Jane accepted the notebook and file, feeling a looming cloud of cranky that she didn’t try very hard to dismiss. “I feel odd, taking another reporter’s story. And what if Elliot Sandoval is arrested? And are we just ignoring the Moulten Road body?”
“I’ve got a nightsider on that. It’ll be nothing, I predict.” Marcotte waved at her open office door. “So, better get on it, right? As for Sandoval, I don’t know how it works in television, but in newspapers, we can handle more than one assignment at a time. Any questions—shoot me an e-mail. The rest of it, you don’t need to worry about. We clear, Jane?”
Marcotte paused. Jane could have sworn she saw a hint of a smile.
“I tapped you for this because I know I can trust you,” Marcotte said. “We’re short-staffed, as you know, and trying to make do. You and TJ did a great job on Waverly, and I know you’ll get the rest of the story. I know you won’t let me down.”
Well. Imagine. A compliment.
Jane’s phone, clicked to mute for the meeting, buzzed in her tote bag. This wasn’t the time to put Marcotte on hold.
“No problem.” She raised Chrystal’s notebook, saluting authority and teamwork. And employment. “Happy to help.”
* * *
Felt strange to have Bing Sherrey beside him instead of DeLuca. They tramped up the front walkway to Elliot Sandoval’s place with a warrant for his arrest for the murder of Shandra Newbury. If all went as planned, Jake and Bing would soon be walking back to their cruiser, and putting a handcuffed murder suspect in the backseat.
D would be pissed to miss out, but he’d be in on the rest of it. Lilac Sunday was only days from now, and the confessed killer was in custody. Things were going Jake’s way. The way of “case closed.”
“You all set, Sherrey?” Jake raised a fist to knock on the metal jamb of the screen door, then decided to press the doorbell instead. Sandoval’s white pickup sat in the driveway, two-by-fours stacked in the flatbed. With the impound squad on the way, the truck wouldn’t be there much longer. Jake had called Peter Hardesty, professional courtesy, to warn him of the impending tow and the Sandoval takedown, but so far, no lawyer. Jake felt semi-guilty about proceeding without him, but Hardesty’d been warned. All still by the book.
“Ready or not, here we come,” Sherrey said. He opened the lid of the metal mailbox mounted on the vinyl siding, peered inside, closed it. Smoothed the rumpled tie he’d yanked over his head in the car, pulled at the now-open collar of his shirt. “Most people, if they’re ticked off at a real estate agent, they just fire ’em, you know? They don’t kill ’em.”
Jake heard the bing-bong of the doorbell echoing inside, squinted his eyes, listened hard for movement inside the house. Kids’ voices, laughing, floated in from some backyard, not this one. The street-sweeping truck whooshed by, kicking up dust and brushing away nothing. A window air conditioner hummed, drops of water splatting on some kind of lush green plants below. The rest of the foliage was in bad shape, heat baked and struggling. The month of May could be a killer in Boston. He pushed the white button again. Heard the b
ell, and the echo, then nothing.
Pregnant wife, Jake remembered. Living with relatives. Going to be tough for them. “Not that it helped her, you know? But Shandra Newbury was smart, she’d kept some angry letters Sandoval sent her. All in that real estate transaction file we finally got from Turiello. Instant motive.” He rang the doorbell again. “Not to mention the fingerprints. Pretty much got him dead to rights. Damn it. Where the hell are they? If Hardesty—”
A car door slammed behind them. Jake turned. Sherrey did, too.
“Gang’s all here,” Sherrey muttered. “And party’s over.”
Peter Hardesty strode up the flagstone walk, canvas briefcase slung over one shoulder, his Jeep’s engine ticking in the heat. He lifted a palm in greeting, then pointed to the doorbell.
“Don’t bother, gentlemen,” Hardesty said. “My client is here, and well aware you’re here. But I instructed them not to answer until I arrived, assuming you wouldn’t wait. Apparently I assumed correctly. The old constitutional rights thing must have slipped your minds.”
“Sor—,” Jake began. Then stopped. There was no damn time for sorry.
36
“We’re here to see—” Jane checked Chrystal’s spiral notebook again. Peralta used both sides of every page, with no recognizable organization, incomprehensible shorthand, and lots of globby purple ink. Maybe the notes helped her, but they were driving Jane crazy. “Elizabeth McDivitt? I think she’s on three? I’m Jane Ryland from the Register, and this is TJ Foy.”
Jane and TJ had wandered past the zigzag rope line until a blue-suited greeter approached and pointed them to the “welcome” desk in front of a bank of elevators. Cardboard advertisements bracketed the guard’s desk, smiling faces in aluminum frames headlining low interest and free checking. A row of security video monitors blinked in fuzzy black-and-white. Jane resisted the temptation to wave and make a face, see if anyone noticed. She’d dumped her almost-finished coffee in the trash can by the ATM—not the most confident image, appearing for an interview clutching a cup of caffeine.
According to the lavender scrawls in Chrystal’s notebook, Elizabeth McDivitt was eager to help with the story, and seemed chatty about her new duties as bank customer service rep. But Chrystal’s barebones first draft needed a lot of work and, annoyingly, there was no way to do it without a follow-up. With sketchy notes like these, Jane had to wonder how Chrystal managed to write her stories. Happily, when Jane called to arrange the interview, a secretary recognized Chrystal’s name, said Miss McDivitt was expected “shortly,” and told Jane to come right over.
So. All good. And yes, Victoria, she could handle more than one story at a time. Unless Elliot Sandoval was arrested today, in which case her brain would explode and deadlines along with it. But so far, no call from Peter. She frowned. That call in Marcotte’s office. She needed to check her messages. As soon as she—
“Ma’am? Picture identification?” The guard’s demand interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh, right, sure.” She showed her laminated news ID to the security guy, gestured to TJ to do the same. A sinewy ninja-wannabe in starched polyester and a shiny badge, the guard perched on a high stool behind the sleek marble desk. He scrutinized their IDs, Jane’s, then TJ’s, then Jane’s again, as if the two of them were trying to pull a fast one.
TJ kept his camera at his side, his non-intimidating stance.
“No cameras,” the guard said.
Arguing with security. Always a pleasure.
Maybe she could charm the guy, make it seem like a personal request. “Sir? Could you make a call for me?”
She read the ornate brass and marble nameplate on his desk. William John Leaver, III.
“Sir? Mr. Leaver? William? Bill? Like I said, I’m Jane Ryland, from the newspaper? Ms. McDivitt is expecting us.”
“It’s Bill. But no can do.” The guard one-finger-typed their names into a computer, one agonizing letter at a time, waited for a machine to print out individual passes. Handed them back their identification, and offered each a slick white nametag on a peel-and-stick backing. “Third floor only. You can go up, he can go up, cameras cannot go up.”
Jane checked her watch. She’d told Elizabeth McDivitt’s assistant they’d be here at ten, and it was ten. Jane had neglected to specifically mention the camera, but who would do an interview without a camera? She slapped the name badge on her black T-shirt, knowing it would leave an indelible gummy mark.
“I’d explained it was an interview.” Jane had to give it at least one more try. She needed shots of McDivitt in her office, show her working the phone, illustrate how the bank had a whole department allocated to customer service.
“No one approved cameras, Ma’am.” Bill pointed at a red light blinking from a black box mounted on one wall. “We have enough of our own. As you can see. Ma’am.”
Jane puffed out a breath. Technically this wasn’t her story, she was beyond tired, and at this point she’d be happy to give up—and yet, she had to get it done. Somehow. She looked at TJ, trying not to roll her eyes. The guy was only doing his job. Too well.
“Teege? I’ll go by myself. I’ll get McDivitt to arrange for the camera, and—”
“Good luck with that,” Bill interrupted.
“—then call your cell,” Jane went on.
“No prob,” TJ said. “I’ll get exteriors.”
“No cameras,” Bill said.
“Don’t disappear,” Jane said. “I’ll make it work.”
* * *
“Don’t say a word, Elliot.” Peter clamped a hand on his client’s arm, holding him back physically as well as emotionally. The outcome of this living room face-off was inevitable, but Peter would insist the cops go by the book.
Any One-L student knows the first rule after being arrested is “don’t say anything.” The second and third rules, too. Peter had already argued his client was hardly a flight risk, given his wife was about to give birth to their child. Jake Brogan seemed to be accepting that. Good thing, since it was true.
Brogan—who must be exhausted after last night, just as Peter was—and the guy Sherrey, whom Peter didn’t trust any farther than that bad tie he wore, stood right inside the closed front door. Brogan took the lead position, Sherrey slouched behind him. They had a warrant, so legally didn’t need to be invited in. Nevertheless, they’d barely entered the Sandovals’ territory.
“Guess Mr. Sandoval doesn’t want to defend himself.” Sherrey directed his words to Brogan. A cheap shot. Legal, but cheap, and clearly intended to harass his client into some angry and incriminating retort.
“You—” Elliot’s face was going red, even with the AC blasting. He’d dressed in a suit, as Peter had suggested, in case they could arrange for an arraignment and bail hearing this afternoon. Might as well show the judge Sandoval was a respectable businessman, underscore the image of an innocent good guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time with a few bits of arguably circumstantial evidence against him. If the arraignment were postponed to tomorrow, Sandoval’d be the best dressed defendant in the Boston PD lockup. Sans belt, of course. And shoelaces.
“Not a word, Elliot,” Peter said again. This was shaky ground in some ways. Brogan had the class to call Peter and warn of the arrest. He’d also told Peter there were fingerprints in the Waverly Road house (though of course there would be, Elliot had lived there) and that Shandra Newbury had been the Sandovals’ real estate agent, arranged their mortgage, and promised them the bank would understand if they got behind. All well-documented, apparently, in real estate records the cops seized from her office at Mornay and Weldon Realty. Records, including some nasty letters Sandoval wrote, the cops were required by law to turn over to the defense.
Could be a big deal. Could be meaningless. No way for Peter to characterize it at this point, but clearly enough probable cause for some judge to issue a warrant. What else they had, Peter and his client would have to find out in court.
“Elliot, please.” MaryLou Sandoval
, tears welling, didn’t seem to be able to let go of her husband. She had one arm tucked through his, leaning into him, the other protecting her belly. “Peter will have you home again soon.” She looked at Peter, pleading. “Won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best,” he said. He wished he could say yes, but that wouldn’t be fair. Or honest.
“Elliot Sandoval, we have a warrant for your arrest, for the murder of Shandra Newbury, on or about…”
Peter listened to the arrest litany he’d heard in so many living rooms, so many street corners, so many offices. Often, he knew the defendant was guilty, the police not the bozos they were often portrayed to be, but there was still the one in—ten? twenty? times that his client really didn’t do it. Not simply that Peter could get him acquitted because the Commonwealth couldn’t prove its case or the jury didn’t want to convict, but because the guy was actually, literally, not guilty.
Those were the tough ones. Those were the ones that clenched your stomach and kept you awake at night, when you had an innocent person’s future in your hands. Was this one of those times?
“You have the right to remain silent,” Brogan was now reciting the Miranda, signaling the end of this stage of the game and the beginning of the next. No matter what happened, Elliot Sandoval and his poor wife and family were about to enter the rat maze of the legal system. Even with Peter guiding them the best he could, no one emerged the same way they went in, innocent or not.
MaryLou Sandoval had started crying at the words “warrant for your arrest,” and her tears only increased since then, leaving wet blotches on her husband’s khaki suit. Soon she’d have to say good-bye. Peter had no way to predict for how long. Overnight, maybe. Or forever.
“Sir?” Bing Sherrey reached under his sport coat, the handcuffs clinking as he gestured them toward Sandoval.
Peter closed his eyes for a brief second, then shot Brogan a look. “Any way we can skip this?”
“Sorry.” Brogan looked like he might be telling the truth. “We could have picked him up middle of the night, you know. Not let them say good-bye.”
Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) Page 18