Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (43 page)

Jane sat in the front seat of her car, waiting for the Sandovals to meet her there. Just past three fifteen, but everyone was late in Boston’s Friday afternoon traffic. With the baby so close, it must be such a relief that Elliot was released. Bummer, though, that the DA hadn’t given evidence. Would have been interesting to know what they had on him. If anything.

Jane checked her messages. Nothing from the Sandovals. Nothing from Chrystal, either, on the Lilac Sunday witness names. Nothing from Jake. Nothing from Peter, though she’d see him with the Sandovals, at least, in a minute. Where was everyone?

A light went on inside the house. Didn’t it? Hard to tell, with the glare of the sun. Yes, there. Movement behind an upstairs curtain. Were they already there? Maybe their car was in the garage? She was an idiot.
She
was the one who was late.
Dummy.

She grabbed her bag, crossed the street, trotted up the broken flagstone path. The justice system had worked for the Sandovals, Jane thought. And she was about to share the results.

Three steps, two and a half, to the front door. A doorbell hung, dead, from two blue wires.

She knocked. Waited. Knocked again.

*   *   *

What the hell was taking so fricking long?
Aaron had paced this office in police HQ so many times, he knew it was ten steps from the window to the door. The closed but not locked door. He’d opened it long enough to see the uniform in the hallway, a stubby guy who scowled at him, hand hovering over his weapon, as he quickly closed the door again.

Aaron had made his first move, calling police headquarters, almost at midnight. Arrived this morning, well, afternoon actually, after he slept off the night before. A cop named Sherrey had taken his statement. Aaron told Sherrey he knew who’d killed Liz McDivitt. And would give them the name if they made a deal.

Above my pay grade, the cop had said. But I’ll check with the boss.

That was freaking hours ago.

Christ. You’d think they’d send in the freaking cavalry. Didn’t they want to solve this? His ace in the hole, the insurance for the soon-to-be-deal, was the threat Ackerman had made about that reporter.

Better hope nothing happened to her in the time they’d kept him waiting. Wouldn’t be his fault if—

The door opened. A big guy, obviously the boss, came into the room first, striding like a drill sergeant. An old drill sergeant. Aaron recognized him from TV, Francis Rivera, the ex-Marine police superintendent. Sherrey, the chubby weasel who’d taken his statement. A woman in cop uniform, then a preppy guy in a sport coat and jeans.

“I’m Jake Brogan,” the preppy one said. “Detective Jake Brogan. Sorry we kept you waiting, sir, I was dealing with an—incident.”

Aaron tried to gauge how to play this. What “incident” would be more important than solving a murder? But fine. Whatever.

“I know who killed Lizzie McDivitt,” Aaron said.

“So you said. Detective Sherrey has filled me in,” the detective said. “Sit down, Mr. Gianelli. Just to clarify? Tell me from the beginning.”

This was the moment, Aaron knew, when the deal went down. He’d tell them all about Ackerman, but only after he got immunity in the rental scam. He’d go over what he’d already said, fine. But he wouldn’t sit down. They were standing, he’d stand. He’d stand tall.

“I know who killed Lizzie McDivitt. The person as much as told me they were gonna do it. In fact, at one point, I was potentially,
unwillingly
”—he’d already revealed this, so guess no harm in saying it again—“semi-involved.”

“Like I told you, Brogan. With the chocolate stuff,” Sherrey said.

“Exactly,” Aaron said. At least they were listening. “That’s what brought me here. I
know
what’s gonna happen. That person is going to blame
me,
and hell if I’m gonna let that go down. There’s a bunch of other stuff, too. I’m sure you know the Waverly Road murder? The one in the empty house? I know about that, too. All connected.”

Brogan looked at Sherrey. Sherrey looked at the superintendent. The superintendent looked at Brogan.

How about that, big guys?
Aaron hadn’t told them that part before. Now they had to play ball.

Brogan took out his cell phone—a BlackBerry, what was this, 1990? Checked the screen. Clicked it off.

“Mr. Gianelli?” the detective said. “Look. We’re not dumb TV cops, Aaron. We know the only way you could know for sure who killed Liz McDivitt is if you killed her yourself. What’s more, and it’s corroborated by forensic tests on Miss McDivitt, we found rohypnol in her system. As well as traces of chocolate chip.”

Brogan nodded to Sherrey, who started fussing with something on his belt, then came toward him.

“Aaron Gianelli,” Brogan was saying. “You are now under arrest for—”

What was going on here? This was not going according to his script. And the chief was obviously trying not to smile, which was ridiculous. Asshole.

“—the murder of Elizabeth McDivitt. And for the murder of Shandra Newbury. You have the right to remain silent…”

Aaron’s head exploded, totally. He barely heard the words coming out of that cop’s mouth, barely felt the handcuffs click around his wrist. Holy freaking—he’d come there to tell them the truth, that he knew—he guessed he knew—Ackerman had killed Shandra Newbury, somehow,
and
that teenager in the Springvale Street house, the one the idiot cops decided was an accident.

Now they thought
he
—killed—?

“No way, no way,” he said. He wrestled himself away from Sherrey, would have punched the guy, but his hands were—
cuffed?
“I don’t wanna be silent! Kidding me? I trusted you! I came here to tell
you—
”

“Do you know how many times this kind of thing happens?” The big guy, Superintendent whoever, was talking, all patronizing. Leaning against the desk, like he owned the place. “Moke like you comes in here, guilty as hell, tries to throw another poor slob under the bus. They think we’ll let ’em off their pissant drug charge, something like that, if they rat out a pal. Suckers.”

“Thing is, Mr. Gianelli,” Brogan said. “It has to be
true.
”

“You can’t just make shit up.” Sherrey leaned toward him, one hand on his arm, whispering.

“It’s not made up, that’s—that’s—” Aaron looked at the ceiling, looked at the floor, looked at the ceiling. And now he had nothing, no leverage, if he told, he’d have nothing to trade. “That’s crap.”

And suddenly, the answer. The freaking fabulous answer, the reason the cops were idiots and the reason Aaron was about to leave and walk free and if that reporter got killed, who cared, it was their fault for being idiots.

“I couldn’t have killed Shandra Newbury,” he said. He mustered all the venom he could, imagined himself winning a big fat lawsuit, maybe, for false arrest and whatever else there was, screw ’em. “I have an alibi. A big honking alibi. I was with someone that night. I was—”

And then, all the air went out of him, and the room almost went black, he swore it did, the shapes of the cops faded, along with his future. He sank into the chair, his cuffs hitting the padded upholstery behind him.

“Alibi?”

Brogan was actually smiling now, not trying to hide it. What a complete jerk.

“Yeah. Crap. I was with Lizzie McDivitt the night Shandra Newbury was killed.”

Brogan shook his head. “That sucks.”

“Sucks,” Sherrey said.

“Sucks,” the chief said.

“Listen, listen,” Aaron said. He had to make this work. “It’s Colin Ackerman, okay? You know? The guy from the bank. It’s him, all him, and I don’t know, someone he works with, all I know is Brian. Brian something, he’d never tell me. It was all about the rentals, the damn rentals.” Aaron was talking as fast as he could, the words tumbling out, one track of his brain wondering about calling a lawyer, the other track panicking, having to tell, having to get away. He was trapped and about to be nailed for a murder.
Two murders!
That he hadn’t done.

“The rentals.” The Superintendent was scratching his bald head, all dramatic, like he didn’t understand the word.

“We were
renting
bank
properties,
you know?” Aaron couldn’t stop talking, needed to make them understand. “Ackerman’s deal, totally, I was only a—so what, you know? But then Emily-Sue showed up, that girl, and found out, she was in the Springvale Street house when the construction guy was there, and—Ackerman told me they took care of it. I don’t know. I don’t know what they did, I don’t know what that means, I’m only a—and Shandra, too, she found out—”

“We know,” Brogan said.

“Yeah,” Sherrey said.

“Okay then fine, fine, so find Ackerman, ask him, I’ll testify, I’ll do anything, I’ll find out who Brian is, I’ll wear a wire. I didn’t kill Shandra Newbury, couldn’t have, because I was with Lizzie McDivitt, and now she can’t tell you it’s true because she’s frigging dead.”

“Or not,” Lizzie said.

62

Jane waited, knocked on the door again. Heard nothing. Shrugging, she tried the door knob. It turned.

Was anyone actually inside? She’d seen a light, but that could have been on a timer or something. Now she was making up reasons, but—

Her phone rang. “Jane Ryland.”

“It’s Elliot,” the voice said. “I have you on speaker.”

Jane craned her neck. Saw a shadow at the window.

“We thought we heard knocking. We’re ripping off wallpaper, right in the midst of it, and it’s hard to stop the steam machine.”

More movement. Maybe it was the steam thing. Her neck hurt from looking up.

“That’s a tough job,” she said. “Do you want me to—”

“The door’s open, right? Come on in. We’re upstairs.”

*   *   *

“Okay, Thorley, it’s you and me now.” Peter Hardesty sat toe-to-toe across from his client—his not-guilty client. Brogan had gotten some kind of crisis call, left them alone. A cadet had brought Thorley another can of ginger ale, Peter had a cup of bad coffee. He’d turned their metal chairs so their backs were to the mirrored window, just in case. It was lawyer-client now. Private. Time for the truth.

“I need answers,” Peter said. “Legally, you’ve recanted your confession, so that whole charade is over. The mortgage payments, the house, that whole thing—done. But you could go to jail anyway. You’re still guilty of obstruction of justice, providing false testimony, and no doubt a litany of other illegalities. You want to see daylight again before you die? See your family? Your house? You need to tell us who convinced you to confess to a murder you didn’t commit.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed, and one, with a snap, flashed, and popped to black.

“Walsh.” Thorley stared him down for a moment, defiant.

“The parole board chairman. The one who set you free.” Peter tried to make the pieces fit. The parole board chairman had power, but an entire board had to vote to release a prisoner. “But it couldn’t have been a quid pro quo—a deal.”

“Uh-uh. No.” Thorley was shaking his head, looked authentically dismayed. “My release was all on the up and up. Fair and square. God knows I’d worked for it. Deserved it. Turned out Walsh kept a watch on all the parolees’ health records. Guess he had access to them all,” Thorley said. “Seemed like he’d shopped for a—I don’t know.”

“Shopped for a sick person? A dying person? Someone who had nothing to lose?”

Thorley shrugged. “I was released back in 2010. Then last December? They called me, told me they knew my family was in trouble. I was told to confess, that there wouldn’t be any evidence to prove it wasn’t me. I was dying anyway. If I did what they said? The Cape house mortgage would be paid for, the back payments, and every month on time till it was all paid off. If I didn’t—my family would never get to keep the house. They’d make sure.”

“How did they—?”

“If I didn’t play ball?” Thorley put up a palm, stopping Peter’s question, “They’d revoke my parole. Put me back in. Said it wouldn’t be hard to do.”

“Gary Lee Smith told you.” A guess, but based on what Jake Brogan had uncovered, it made sense. “The parole officer. Your friend. The catcher. Talk about playing ball.”

“Yeah.” Thorley coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What did I have to lose? I was out, but long enough to see I’d never fit in. Long enough to see the Cape house again. Long enough to finally do something good for my family.”

“How’d you know what to say? The details of the crime? Didn’t you figure—this must be the person who did it? Or know who did?” That gave Peter an idea. A very intriguing idea. He’d wait, though.

“I always wondered if it was Walsh, you know?” Thorley made a breathy half-sound, almost a laugh. “He was a county sheriff back then, big shot, maybe knew Carley Marie’s family, maybe knew her. But hell, he was never arrested, so maybe it wasn’t him. He got rich being a ‘consultant,’ whatever that means. Guess it means money.”

“Was Walsh the one who locked you all up that night? As kids? Did he even know about that?”

“Nope, that was the Attleboro cops. And they’d sealed our case, Gary and I knew that. But Sheriff Walsh—he was fired as parole commissioner, you know? At least he didn’t get a death sentence. Like I did.”

“Did Walsh ever tell you he did it? Killed Carley Marie?”

“Nope. But he had that Treesa Caramona killed. She was another of Walsh’s parolees, had like, Hep C. Bad. That I
do
know. Guess that was so I could confess again, prove it was me. So now what?” Thorley said. “You need me to testify, better hurry the hell up, right? I don’t have long.”

“You’ll have to go back into lockup,” Peter said. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Like it matters,” Thorley said.

“It matters,” Peter said.

*   *   *

Jake almost started laughing. The look on this moron’s face was beyond priceless. The woman standing at the office door provided the proof that Aaron Gianelli, dupe extraordinaire, was not involved in Liz McDivitt’s death. He’d truly believed she was dead.

Jake knew she wasn’t.

So did the others on the Supe’s hastily organized task force. It had been the Supe’s idea to pretend Liz had met her fate and see who came out of the woodwork afterward. The
real
bad guy would know Liz was not dead, because he—or she—had not shown up that night to kill her. What came out of the woodwork was a rat.