Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

She stood, making sure of the terry-cloth belt. Now what? “Grand Central,” she said. “And—no.”

  He gestured toward the intercom. “Better check.”

  She pushed the button, baffled. “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” the voice said. “Peter.”

  * * *

  That’s why Jane had been so nervous. Jake watched her at the apartment door, finger on the intercom. “Peter?” Peter Hardesty? That’s why she kept looking at the mantel clock. Drinking her wine so quickly. Fussing with her robe. At least she wasn’t wearing a towel. She’d been waiting for Peter Hardesty. Which explained why she’d refused to look at him at the Sandoval hearing. Which proved Jake had been right the first time.

  “Ah, Peter?” She put one hand on the doorjamb, leaning toward the intercom. Jake couldn’t see her face.

  Pretending she hadn’t expected him? Jake slugged down the last of his Cabernet, clattered it back on the table. No matter how tonight’s ridiculous encounter ended, there was no way for him to leave without Hardesty seeing him. Unless he hid in the bedroom. He snorted, laughing. Like some TV sitcom. On TV, interloper Hardesty would discover the hiding Jake, the laugh track increasing, when the guy carried Jane to her bedroom. Dumb cop, ha-ha, finally going for it, getting the guffaws when the fancy lawyer shows up.

  But this was real life, and the personal shit was about to hit the fan. Jake’s own fault, really. For stopping by. For assuming Jane would be alone, and available, while he’d gone to D.C. Seemed like Jane had quickly found alternative plans.

  “It’s not a good time,” Jane was saying. She turned to Jake, eyes wide, put up a palm. Hang on. “I’m in my—in for the night.”

  “My apologies,” the voice said. “Just took a chance.”

  Peter Hardesty, no question. It appeared all three of them had secrets.

  Jake took a deep breath. Was he overreacting? Jane had every right to see whoever she wanted, he was just surprised, and well, disappointed, that she’d—but now she seemed to be sending the guy away.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow, then, Jane,” Hardesty’s voice was all business, Jake had to admit, not like a disappointed suitor. “I’ll leave a package by the mailboxes, okay?”

  “Package?” Jane said. She looked at Jake, shrugging. No idea.

  “No big deal,” Hardesty said. “Talk to you tomorrow. Thanks.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jane turned back to Jake, leaned against the door as the intercom went silent. She clasped her hands under her chin, wincing. “Well,” she said. “That was awkward.”

  * * *

  What on earth was Peter doing? Why had the irony gods instructed him to show up right when Jake was saying—whatever he was saying?

  “Don’t you want to get the package?” Jake hadn’t sat in the chair again, clearly he was on the verge of leaving. Which she didn’t, didn’t want to happen.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s probably about the Sandoval case we’re working to—” She paused, trying to assess whether she’d said too much.

  “I saw you in court today,” Jake said. Still standing. “Why wouldn’t you look at me?”

  “Why wouldn’t you look at me?” Jane said. She sat on the couch again. Maybe if she went back to status quo, he’d take the cue.

  “Jake?”

  He sat, but all the way at the other end of the couch. Arms crossed. “The Sandoval case is confidential. Sorry.”

  “So what else is new, right?” Jane had to keep him talking, find out what was wrong. “We’re all about confidential, right? But if we can’t trust each other, who can we trust?”

  Jake gave a half-shrug. “Maybe Peter Hardesty?”

  “Yeah, interesting, huh?” At least he was changing the subject, had picked up his wine. Good. “How about that Gordon Thorley? He pulls out a knife, I go to the cop shop with—”

  “Peter Hardesty,” Jake said. “Imagine. You two seem to have quite the late-night thing.”

  Jane frowned. Felt her shoulders slump. Thing? Where was Jake going with this? “Well, he’s the lawyer for Gordon Thorley, sure. And also the lawyer for Elliot Sandoval. So it makes sense that—hey. What do you mean, ‘late night’?”

  She watched Jake finish his wine, consider it, pour another glass. His third, if she was counting, and she was of course, which is how she knew she’d only had two glasses herself. Or so. Why was he suddenly interested in Peter Hardesty?

  “Late night? Jake? Come on, you don’t really think—”

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “I leave town. For the job. I miss you. I call you. You’re not here. And where are you? In the middle of the night? At Hardesty’s apartment. And one of you is wearing a towel.”

  Jane stood, hands on hips. Mouth open. “Jacob Dellacort Brogan, you are such a big—” She scratched her head, trying to decide what he was. “I can’t decide whether to be bullshit angry, or, or—”

  She shook her head, sat down right next to him. “You’re jealous. You are so cute when you’re jealous. Come on, Jake. We were about to jet off into the sunset, and you think I’d—”

  “Well…”

  “Ha. You’re blushing. I love it.” Jane poked him in the arm. So that’s what this all was about. She held up three fingers, girl scout. “It’s all business,” she said. “Like your oh-so-whirlwind ‘trip to D.C.’ was all business, right?”

  “It was, if you’d let me—”

  “So why didn’t you—”

  “The Sandoval arrest.”

  Oh. Jane thought this through. Maybe she was the jealous one?

  “Okay. Okay,” she said. “Truce? No more D.C. cracks, but no more ridiculous Peter Hardesty stuff. It’s completely business.”

  Jake raised his glass. Deal.

  “Deal,” Jane continued. “Now, Mr. Jealous, shall we start over? I’m still packed, you know.”

  “Maybe try on that bathing suit?” Jake was finally smiling. “Now?”

  “You wish, buddy,” Jane said. “So. Speaking of your trip to Washington.” Something in her brain was working hard, and she struggled to let it complete its task. “You were supposedly researching false confessions.”

  “I was,” Jake interrupted. “And you said—”

  “Okay, okay, I couldn’t resist. But so was Peter Hardesty,” Jane went on. “Did Elliot Sandoval confess to someth—no. Not Sandoval. So Gordon Thorley? Confessed? To what?”

  “Jane?” Jake studied the red of his wine, then turned to her. “What you said about trust. Let me ask you something. Can you keep a secret?”

  56

  It felt great to tell her. Jake hadn’t discussed the possibilities with anyone. Not the Supe, not DeLuca, not even his grandmother, because they had stakes in it, and what if he was missing something or on the wrong track? But he was close. He was sure of it. Jane had promised the Peter thing was all in his imagination. Someone you—love—you have to trust. Even if it was complicated.

  And Jane was the perfect sounding board. Her reporter instincts were on the money, almost coplike. He thought about those airport lilacs, wilting in the backseat of his car. Wished he had thought to bring her new ones.

  “You have the Lilac Sunday killer?” Jane’s eyes went wide, she’d moved to the edge of the couch, crossed her bare legs, carefully closing that thick white robe over them. “I wasn’t in Boston when it happened, but Chrystal Peralta was just talking about it. And your grandfather was in charge? That I didn’t know.”

  Jake watched her process the whole thing, the cold case, his grandfather, the girl’s family, the looming anniversary, the confession. The parole board’s controversial decision to let Thorley out after serving most of his robbery sentence. The murder of Treesa Caramona, which might prove Thorley was guilty. Or not.

  “Now, his mortgage payments at A&A are up to date,” Jake said. “He owns a home in Sagamore, with his sister, and it was almost in foreclosure. Now it isn’t. Hey. You were working on that foreclosure story. Anything I haven’t considered?”

 
Jane stared at him, her body still except for one foot, snapping the bottom of her black flip-flop.

  “A&A Bank,” Jane said.

  “Yeah.”

  The flip-flop snapped again.

  “You know Liz McDivitt,” Jane finally said.

  “Yeah,” Jake said. Risky ground here. “I know of her.”

  “Well, listen. I may know what happened. And the change in Gordon Thorley’s mortgage may be connected to her. I didn’t see his name listed, but—”

  Jake couldn’t read her expression now, except to see her brain going a mile a minute. He stood, came to the couch, sat down next to her, one cushion away. He could still smell her grapefruit shampoo and something like peppermint and lemons and summer.

  “Listed? Gordon Thorley connected to Liz McDivitt?” Jake said. “Jane? How?”

  Jane was shaking her head, droplets of water from her wet hair sprinkling the navy leather of her couch. She swiped them off with a corner of the towel, one by one.

  “Now I have to ask you.” Jane draped the towel around her neck again, and looked him square in the eyes. “Now that we’re confessing to each other. Now that we’re trusting each other. Now that we’re trying out our new—relationship.”

  She eyed her empty glass. Put it down.

  “Ask me what?” Jake said.

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  * * *

  Jane told him as much as she knew, the Gantrys, the Detwylers, and the Rutherfords. And now—Gordon Thorley, too?

  “If the bank made ‘mistakes’ on the mortgages, they’ll have the Banking Commission and the Justice Department and the Comptroller of the Currency and the Attorney General fighting to see who could nail them first. It’ll be at least a major-league scandal, possibly the end of Atlantic & Anchor. End of Hardin McDivitt, that’s for sure. Liz’s father. So then maybe, somehow—ah…”

  She shrugged.

  “Liz McDivitt,” Jake said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did those people, Miss McDivitt’s customers, mention anyone else’s names?” Jake asked.

  Such a cop. Here it was almost midnight, the wine gone, the street sounds fading, Jane still starving, the cheese and crackers down to crumbs and crumbles.

  “Nope,” she said. “But—”

  Jake was thumbing something into his phone, such a cop—and Jane knew a line had been crossed, they’d crossed it together, sharing things they shouldn’t. But clearly they both had information about the same stories, and clearly there were threads that connected them. It was frustrating not to know how, or which ones, or who would know.

  Chrystal Peralta, Jane thought. She might have a whole list of clients. Maybe other notes she hadn’t given Jane, or that Jane couldn’t decipher. Chrystal seemed knowledgeable about Lilac Sunday, too. She paused, tucking that away.

  What if Jake caught the Lilac Sunday killer?

  “Honey?” Jake had put away his cell and moved closer to her on the couch, now touching her still-damp hair, moving it away from her neck. He traced the edge of her ear with one finger. “Can we stop talking business now?”

  “Hmm?” With his touch, somehow, the long-ago cases and the search for headlines, the swirl of possibilities and the potential bad guys and the stakes of being a reporter and—whatever—it all fell away. They couldn’t figure out the answers tonight. There was only Jake, and her, and midnight, and they were alone.

  She turned to him, agreeing, accepting, wanting—the terry cloth opened, and the belt seemed to loosen, who was doing that? Someone’s wineglass tipped, rolled on to the carpet, it didn’t matter, there was only—

  Jake’s phone buzzed. Buzzed again.

  “Never mind, never mind,” she said. “You were saying…”

  Jake stopped. She could feel the difference in his muscles, in his skin, in the sound of his breath. She closed her eyes, letting go.

  “Go ahead,” she said. Would she have done the same thing? She had answered her front door, two hours ago, when Peter buzzed.

  Jake kept his arm around her shoulders, she didn’t try to move it, and she leaned with him as he took the cell from his jacket pocket. He turned the screen so she couldn’t see it.

  She felt his arm slip away as he stood.

  “Jane. Honey.” He held the BlackBerry in one hand, the other he held out to her. “I have to go.”

  “Why? Did something—”

  He shook his head, the picture of regret, but she didn’t care, it would never change. “I can’t say.”

  Jane rewrapped her robe, tied the belt in the tightest knot she could. She smiled, had to, what else was there to do about reality?

  “You want to live this way?” she said.

  “What other way is there?” Jake said. “I’m sorry, Janey. I have to go.”

  And he was up, and over, and out, and gone.

  A minute later, less, thirty seconds, the downstairs buzzer rang.

  “It’s Jake.” His voice came over the speaker.

  A wash of relief, of desire, of joy, she felt it to the back of her neck and in her suddenly tightening heart. He was back. She buzzed, not saying a word, heard the opening of the outside door, heard his footsteps on the landing, on the way to her.

  He appeared, her Jake, and there were—flowers?

  “Your ‘package,’ I assume.” Jake said. “From Peter Hardesty.”

  He handed her the bouquet of white roses, wrapped in pink tissue paper, tied at the bottom with a trailing lavender ribbon.

  “Business,” he said. “I see. Have a nice life, Jane.”

  He turned, and was gone again.

  57

  Open season, Jane thought. New day. Square one. Have a nice life?

  She yanked her Audi into third and powered up the Mass Pike, top down, hair blowing and caution to the winds. In about fifteen minutes this morning, semi-hangover notwithstanding, she’d finished the silly bank customer service story on her home computer (leaving out Liz McDivitt, sadly, but including quotes from the officious Colin Ackerman), zapped it off to the news desk, making her Friday deadline and checking that dumb assignment off her list. Maybe she should put Jake in her rearview.

  And why had Peter brought her flowers, anyway? The card said “thank you,” whatever that meant. Maybe an apology for almost getting her killed. Or missing their not-date. Which was either adorable or ridiculous. She’d have to deal with that. And with her whole life. Somehow.

  By the time she got to the Pike’s Cambridge exit, she’d considered and discarded the idea of going blond. Through the toll booth, considered and discarded the idea of leaving town, maybe moving to D.C.? Hang out with her friend Amy. Or even going home to Lake Forest and starting over.

  Starting over. A person could do that, right? Passing the Prudential exit, she made her final decision. No. Her life was in Boston, and here she’d stay. She’d make the best of it. Make it work.

  She punched up her phone. Time to start making it work.

  “Hey, Chrystal?” Rats. Impossible to hear with the top down. “It’s Jane Ryland. But hang on a sec, okay?”

  Jane swerved to the South Station exit, spotted a parking spot outside the Federal Reserve. Banged into reverse, did the parallel park in one try. “One more second.” She aimed her voice at the speaker.

  She wouldn’t be here long enough to have to feed the meter. She hit the UP button for the top, decided for the hundredth time that it should say DOWN, and waited, briefly, as the black canvas descended, with a whump, over her. Finally, quiet enough to hear.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Jane began again. “I know you’re sick.”

  “No problem.” Chrystal’s voice came over the speaker, then another sneeze.

  “So sorry. I know this is rude. But I finished the bank story, so that’s all set, okay?”

  “You hear about Liz McDivitt?” Chrystal asked. “Incredibly disturbing.”

  “I know,” Jane said. “It’s awful. I kind of feel—but no, nothing new. Anyway, quick qu
estion. You know that list of bank customers you had? In your notebook? I couldn’t read them all, and was wondering, does the name Gordon Thorley sound familiar? Or anyone Thorley? Was it on your list?”

  Jane heard only silence.

  “I know a Gordon Thorley,” Chrystal finally said. “I covered his parole hearing, a million years ago. He was one of the last cons to get paroled, remember? Before the new law-and-order regime? Oh, right, you weren’t here. But anyway, yeah. Armed robbery, he was in for. It was a big deal—” She sneezed again. “When he got out. They fired the parole board chairman.”

  Jane tried to envision a calendar, tried to make a timeline. A car pulled up next to her, window down, seemed to be inquiring about the parking spot. Jane waved him off, sorry, not leaving.

  “Was Thorley in prison on Lilac Sunday?” Jane asked. “When that girl was killed?”

  “No, the armed robbery was after that.” Chrystal’s voice had changed. “What’re you really asking, Jane?”

  “Huh? I’m losing you,” Jane made some scratching noises on the phone, hoping they didn’t sound too fake, moved away from the speaker. She didn’t want to share with Chrystal. She needed Chrystal to share with her.

  “About Liz’s customer list,” Jane said. “It was a little difficult to read. You have quite the handwriting, you know? Anyway, was Gordon Thorley’s name on it?”

  “No,” Chrystal said. “It wasn’t. But listen, if you’ve got something on Thorley, you should let me know. I covered that.”

  “I will,” Jane lied. Better nip this in the bud. “Hope you’re feeling better soon, Chrystal. Thanks so much.”

  She clicked off, hands on the steering wheel, looking out the windshield. Into the oncoming traffic, and into possibilities. What if Gordon Thorley had killed Carley Marie Schaefer, then gone to prison for something else? No wonder they couldn’t find the bad guy. He’d gotten paroled, and then, a few years later, confessed. The cops had let him go—because of Peter? And then, according to Jake, he’d confessed to killing Treesa Caramona.

  The Lilac Sunday killer had walked into the police station, confessed, and the cops had freed him to kill again. Is that why Peter showed up at her door? Had the legal system and the cops combined to release a murderer? No wonder Jake was distracted.