Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (31 page)

He’d deal with Jane later.

*   *   *

Jane looked up at the sound of a car door slamming. She’d heard the siren, figured more cops were on the way, wondered who’d show up. The instant she saw the silhouette, she knew.

Jake.

She tried to focus on what the man she was interviewing had just said. Tried to ignore the continuing worry about Jake. And that she hadn’t heard from Peter. This wasn’t a car accident, so that fear was unfounded. There’d be no reason for Peter to be in some random house in this random neighborhood. Would there?

“Ah, excuse me, you said ‘no one’ lives there? I mean—I’m talking about sixteen Kenilworth? Where they apparently found—”

“Yup, nope, no one,” the man said. He adjusted his cap, put the bill in the back, then back to the front. “That’s why we’re all out here, you know?”

“Did anyone ever live—?” Jane began.

“Evicted,” the man said.

TJ lowered his camera, then quickly put it back up. “Evicted?” he said. “Whoa.”

“Evicted?” Jane tried to process this. If the eviction was by Atlantic & Anchor Bank, that’d be interesting. “Do you know what bank? I mean, where the people had their mortgage?”

“Colonial,” the man said. “Colonial Bank. I know because we have ours there, too. And the Gerritys, they lived there, used to complain about what hardasses they were about paying.” He shrugged. “What are you gonna do, though, right?”

“Right,” Jane said, just to keep the guy happy and talking. She looked at TJ, raising her eyebrows. “So, Mr.—?”

“Doctor. Dr. Alvin Wander.”

“Dr. Wander. So they moved out—”

“Not happily,” Wander said.

“Got you,” Jane said. “When was that?”

“Month ago, I’d say.”

“And—”

“And there’ve been, I don’t know, people, hanging around since then, time to time. Suits. And some women, too. Don’t get me wrong—real estate, bank types, I figured. Wanting to sell it.” He frowned. “Going to create a serious property value situation now, isn’t it? If someone’s dead inside?”

45

“And you are?” Jake said.

The young officer saluted, looking him square in the eye. “Rosie Canfield,” she said. “I mean, Officer Roslynne—”

“No need to salute, Officer Canfield,” Jake said. It hadn’t been that long since he was the new kid. He pulled out his BlackBerry, opened a new file to take notes. “So what’ve we got here?”

“At approximately nine twenty-seven
P.M.
, dispatch received a nine-one-one call for an open front door at this address, sixteen Kenilworth,” Canfield said. She kept her hands at her sides, fists clenched. A strand of brown hair escaped from under her billed cap, and she puffed it away out of one side of her mouth as she continued her recitation. “Two units responded to the scene, and upon entering through the open door, discovered a—”

“Detective Brogan? This is dispatch,” Jake’s radio squawked from his jacket pocket.

“Excuse me, Officer,” Jake said. He stashed his BlackBerry, pushed the talk button. “This is Brogan.”

“Are you ten-eight, sir?” Dispatch’s voice, measured and careful.

What the hell? Jake bit back a curt response. Why were they checking on him?

“Superintendent Rivera is inquiring,” dispatch said, her voice telegraphing
it wasn’t my idea, but I’m following orders.

“Gotcha,” Jake replied. He rolled his eyes at the young officer, bringing Rosie onto his team,
can you believe the big shots?
“Yes, Dispatch, I’m at the address.”

“Superintendent said please report on the situation ASAP.”

“Will do in five,” Jake said.

“Copy that, thank you, Detective.”

A siren wailed in the distance, the high-pitched howl of Boston Medical Center’s go team. About time. Although since whoever was inside was apparently DOA, it wouldn’t matter when they arrived. To the victim, at least.

In this case, Jake thought as he pulled out his phone, the bad guy couldn’t have been Elliot Sandoval or Gordon Thorley. Both of them were in custody. “Okay, then,” Jake said. “You heard the dispatcher, Officer Canfield. The Supe himself is standing by to hear the latest. What’ve we got?”

*   *   *

The house was empty? Foreclosed? Maybe Jane had chosen the perfect person to interview, proving man-on-the-street sound bites could be more than filler.

“Thanks, Dr. Wander,” Jane said. She gestured to TJ, drew a fast finger across her throat.
Cut.
Was this guy making stuff up to get his name and face in the paper? Didn’t seem like it. It was all easy enough to confirm, and if true—pretty darn interesting. “Give me a wave if you hear anything more, okay?”

Jane sneaked a look at the now-closed front door of the house. Jake stood, right under the porch light, the screen of his BlackBerry catching the glow. Typing notes, as always, in his usual black T-shirt and those jeans, talking to the uniform stationed near the door.

That was the frustrating part. How she knew the Jake thing would have to change. Any other crime scene, any other detective, Jane’d be right up there on the front lines, not pushing, but persistent, probing, making her presence known, asking questions and trying to get the story. Nothing on the record came from inquiries like that, cops and reporters tacitly—well, openly—agreeing that attributable stuff came only from the PR flak. But a little judicial pointing-in-the-right-direction was the currency of those relationships.

Cops would give reporters a bit of juicy takeaway, something exclusive, and reporters would make sure the cop shop looked good, if they could. Mutual trust bred mutual benefit.

But with Jake, there was baggage. He had to be careful not to treat her any differently, she knew that, and as a result, he treated her completely differently. No scoops, no exclusives, no insider info. Good for him, bad for Jane. And she knew she often might do the same with him—holding back, being one level less insistent. Also good for him, bad for Jane.

Their whole existence was out of balance. And even more now, she realized, that Jake’s going-to-Washington story cast a shadow of mistrust between them. He had been called to D.C. “unexpectedly.” Then came home “unexpectedly.” What was “unexpectedly,” except an excuse to do whatever he wanted?

“Now what?” TJ asked. “Siren.”

The wail got closer, screaming onto Kenilworth, the crowd, as one, stepping away from the street, as if the high-speed arrival of the ambulance might mean the driver would skid out of control. The swirling red lights slid across each bystander’s face, glowing each one red for a fraction of a second. Soon as the ambulance stopped, the crowd inched forward again, closer to the action. The streetlights made amber pools on the sidewalks; the red ambulance lights, silent now, continued to spiral; the stars were full out in the expanse of velvet night sky. The neighborhood light show, Jane thought, all illuminating tragedy.

“Let’s see what’s going on.” Jane pointed to the jumpsuited EMTs emerging from the red and white van. The phone in her jeans pocket had stayed silent. Where the hell was Peter? If he was in this house—but, she silently repeated her mantra as she and TJ headed across the street.
Whatever happened, happened.
Nothing she could do about it now but wait and see. And ask questions.

She was a reporter, no matter what detective was in charge at the crime scene. She’d do her job. She’d ask the professional questions now. The personal ones later.

*   *   *

Jane.
A few steps away, down the front walk, behind the crime scene tape. In the shadows from the streetlights, Jake couldn’t read her face.

“Hey, Jane,” he said. Sure, they usually used their full names on the job, elaborately careful, but at ten at night at a crime scene, he figured he could ditch the formality. Who were they trying to fool, anyway?

“Detective Brogan.” She gave half a wave. “You remember TJ Foy.”

Jake nodded. He hadn’t finished talking to the officer at the door, and until he did, he had nothing for Jane. He’d give her the lowdown, he figured, then make her call the cop’s PR flak to confirm before she went with the story. He’d do the same for any reliable reporter, he reassured himself, so why not for her?

Although they each sought the same information, right now, the balance was on Jake’s end. He had access, she didn’t. He could go inside, she couldn’t. The flimsy yellow crime scene tape was the inviolable barrier, the delineation of the information battle lines. She’d have to wait for him. This time. She recognized it, too. She’d called him “detective.”

“Give me five minutes, Jane,” he said, holding up a palm, five fingers. He pointed to himself, then to her, pantomiming,
then I’ll talk.

He saw her agree, nodding, then whisper to her photographer. The crowd across the street stood three deep now. Where had all these people come from, giving up their TV shows and their families and their sleep to get a close-up look at someone else’s disaster? He’d never understand that. As a detective, his job wasn’t to prevent crime—by the time he was called in, the bad thing already happened. That was his whole life, now that he thought of it, dealing with one bad thing after another. Was he drawn to that, same way the bystanders were?

No,
he decided.
I solve crimes. I don’t watch.

“Officer Canfield?” he said. “What have we got here?”

“White female,” Canfield pulled out a pocket-sized spiral notebook, already open, the pages dog-eared and wrinkled. She smoothed out the top page with one finger, then squinted at her handwriting. “According to the identification, it’s one Elizabeth McDivitt, age thirty-three.”

“Mc—” Jake typed the name into his own notes.

“Divitt.” Canfield spelled it out. “It was on a Mass driver’s license, and on her work ID. Officer Vitucci’s inside.”

“She live here?” Jake asked, listening and typing at the same time.

“No, sir,” Canfield said. “The license gives an address in Brighton. This house is empty.”

Jake kept typing. “Empty as in—no one else was there?”

“No, sir,” Canfield said. “Empty as in—there’s nothing in it.”

Jake looked up, thumbs poised, stopped typing. “Huh?”

“Like, no furniture, you know? Nothing.”

Jake turned, his eyes locking briefly with Jane’s. He saw her take a step forward, gesturing to TJ, expectant, but he held up two fingers. Two minutes, he mouthed.

“Is there a car?” Jake frowned, surveying the driveway, the curb, the neighborhood. “I don’t see a car. How’d she get here?”

Canfield shook her head. Jake saw the trace of a smile. “That’s why you get the big bucks. Sir. Ready to go inside?”

46

Reporters don’t cry, not ever, not in public at least, that was a sacrosanct tenet of objective journalism. Jane had never felt so close to breaking the rules.

“Are you sure?” was all she could come up with. She’d felt the blood drain from her face as Jake related the details, the row of onlookers across the narrow street now a sea of colors blurred by her welling tears. The crickets had started, a raggedy underscore of chirping, accompanied by the low buzz of the crowd and the hum of the idling ambulance. Jake hadn’t been inside yet, but too impatient to wait any longer, Jane had come to the porch, pressing for details. Now she almost wished she didn’t know. “Elizabeth McDivitt? Is—was—her name?”

“You know her?”

Jake was frowning at her. She didn’t blame him. This whole thing was suddenly even more out of control than it had been five minutes before, when she secretly was convinced it was Peter Hardesty inside.

“Jane? I said Elizabeth McDivitt. Might have worked at A&A Bank?”

“Yeah.” Jane stared at the house, almost unseeing, trying to make heads or tails or anything that made sense. She’d been with Liz McDivitt this morning. Liz McDivitt. A conservatively blue-suited bank executive, fast-tracked, office and secretary, a job she seemed to enjoy. A person with some scruples—she’d tried to keep her customers’ names private. A person with a heart. She’d shown Jane that picture of her boyfriend. Jane let out a sigh. Now someone would have to tell him what happened, too. Whatever that was. But what was Liz McDivitt doing in a—the neighbor guy had said the house was vacant.

“Who lived here?” Jane said. TJ was still at her side, camera on his shoulder. “Do you know the”—how would she say this if the victim was a stranger?—“cause of death?”

“You didn’t answer me, Jane. Did you know her? Pretty intriguing that you’d show up at the scene of a—of someone you know. And turn off that camera. You can’t go with that name. Understand? Like I said. We’re still checking next of kin.”

Jake’s face had gone hard. She could tell he was deciding how to deal with her. She knew him well enough. How his chin came up when he was thinking, how his eyes narrowed, even how he took a step away from her. This wasn’t Jake and Jane. This was cop and reporter.

“Yes,” she said. “Well, ‘knew,’ maybe that’s not exactly the word.”

She signaled TJ with one finger again,
cut the camera
, adding a shrug and an eye roll to signal “it’s okay.” She knew TJ would never stop simply because a cop told him to, quite the opposite. Only Jane could give that order. But now it was more important to get information than to try to get Jake on camera. According to protocol, he wasn’t supposed to be talking to her, anyway. Possibly she shouldn’t be talking to him, either. They’d stepped up to the line so many times it was becoming harder and harder to gauge what was acceptable.

“I interviewed her,” Jane continued. “Met her for the first time, this morning. I was asking—”

“What? About what?” Jake was in full investigative mode, thumbing in notes on his BlackBerry. “Did she seem—worried? Did she say where she was going this evening? Did she say she was—”

“Sir?” A young cop tapped Jake on the arm, ripped a page from her little spiral notebook, handed it to him. “Um. NOK information, sir. I thought you’d want to—”

Next of kin, Jane knew.
Liz’s family.

Jake took the paper, and Jane watched his expression change as he read whatever was there. “You sure?” Jake said. “This info is direct from the Supe?”