Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (48 page)

Superintendent Rivera told her they were charging Aaron and Colin Ackerman and Brian Turiello with attempted murder and conspiracy to murder. Brian hadn’t known his pawn, Elliot Sandoval, was in custody. No way he could have gotten to that empty house to kill her.

Turned out, if Lizzie hadn’t gone to the police, she’d have been safe that night. But what about the night after that? She’d gone to the police, told the truth. And it had saved her life.

Now Aaron was blaming Turiello, Rivera had told her. He’d insisted his own life was being threatened. If Aaron didn’t plead guilty, Lizzie would have to testify at his trial.

Again, she’d tell the truth.

She clicked open her computer, pulled up the mortgage files. Smiled.

As much as she could.

*   *   *

Jake’s warrant gave him the legal right to search, examine, read, and confiscate whatever he wanted in Edward Walsh’s now vacant house. Three more desk drawers to open, but Jake had already found what he needed.

Crime Scene was finished here, and the cleanup crew as well. The study reeked of disinfectant, crackling strips of brown paper protected the still-damp oriental rug. A white drop cloth covered Walsh’s leather chair. He’d died here, by his own hand, died out of panic and fear. Died when the truth caught up with him.

Walsh couldn’t have predicted this Lilac Sunday would be his last. Couldn’t have predicted he’d need to hide anything. Like the letter.

Unfolding it with his gloved fingers, Jake slipped the cheap lined paper into a glassine evidence bag. The crabbed signature showed though the transparent plastic, answering the final question. Treesa Caramona.

In painfully drawn letters and determined underlines, a chaotic mix of capitals and lower case, Caramona’s threat was clear.

“I will NOT say
I
did it,” her letter said. “But I WILL tell the COPS I know that YOU did. Unless you give me…”

Caramona had been paroled on Walsh’s watch, like Thorley. And she was dying. Hep C. Thorley had told Jake.

What if Caramona refused Walsh’s “offer” before Thorley accepted it—then mistakenly hoped she could call his bluff by using some blackmail leverage of her own? Maybe Walsh had lured her to Moulten Street with the promise of a payoff.

That’s where Edward Walsh tried again to extinguish the truth. And failed.

Edward Walsh. Murderer and manipulator. The final victim of Lilac Sunday.

70

“After all these years, we’re so grateful to the Boston Police…”

Jane watched the woman at the stand of microphones touch frail fingers to her throat, glance at her husband beside her. For the past fifteen minutes, answering questions from the gathered reporters, the couple stood shoulder to shoulder, centered in a grove at the Boston Arboretum, pillars of gray and sorrow. Behind them, a froth of lilac blossoms, lavender and white, ruffled with green leaves, surrounded them with color in the midmorning sunlight.

Gerald and Maureen Schaefer, in Boston for Lilac Sunday, as they’d been every year since their daughter Carley Marie was found murdered twenty years ago. Carley Marie, forever seventeen. Now they knew who’d killed her, and how he’d gotten away with it for so long.

Jane, with Jake beside her, stood next to an ancient maple, needing to hear the final moments of the drama played out.

Gerald Schaefer stepped to the mic stand, looked left, and then right. Took a deep breath. “If you have no more questions? Thank you so much. We’ll come back next year, of course. To say good-bye, once again, to our Carley Marie. We love our daughter. And we miss her still.”

Maureen Schafer cradled a framed photo of Carley Marie, the same one Jane had seen in the newspaper archives, pink sweater and pearls. Maureen wore pearls today, too. Jane wondered if they were the same ones.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered.

Carley Marie’s mother clutched the frame to her chest as the couple turned their backs, linked hands, and walked across the grass, down a lilac-lined slope and away from the reporters. The group of journalists, for once, not shouting questions or calling out for answers, not chasing after them for one last quote. There was a moment of silence, then with murmur of thank-yous and a rustle of notebooks, the crews walked quietly to dismantle their equipment.

Case closed,
Jane thought.

“Case closed,” Jake said. He reached for her hand, held it briefly, let go.

The sounds of laughing commotion, children and families, floated across the lush expanse, picnics and celebrations underway, as they were very year, under the fragrant branches of the Arboretum’s famed lilacs. Every year, on Lilac Sunday, somehow at their peak.

“Every year, on Lilac Sunday,” Jake said, “my grandparents used to come see the Schaefers, out of respect. Grandpa said it was his duty, even though it reminded him, every time, of his failure. Wish he had known it wasn’t his fault. When I told the Schaefers about Walsh, they both cried. I almost did, too.”

“It’s over now,” Jane said. “Because of you. And your grandfather knows. He knows.”

They stood on the soft grass, in silence, Jane allowing Jake his own “closure,” even though she knew he hated that word. Come to think of it, she needed a bit of closure of her own.

“Jake?” She took a deep breath, unsure of her timing, but unable to resist. “Those flowers from Peter were an apology for the Thorley-and-the-knife episode. Nothing more.” She took one step away, so she could look him in the eye. “But Jake? ‘Have a nice life’? That was—”

“I know. I’m a jerk.” Jake took her hand again, not letting go this time. Drawing her back. “Listen. Jane? What if your ‘nice life’—is with me?”

Footsteps behind them.

Jane turned, dropped her hand, saw two women approaching. One chic and fashionable, all cheekbones and linen, the other maybe thirty years older. The older one, walking with a shiny cane, raised a hand in greeting.

“Gramma Brogan,” Jake whispered. “And Mother. I can’t believe—”

Jake’s mother?
Jane patted her hair, considered her black pants and white shirt, almost exactly what Jake’s mother—
Jake’s mother!—
was wearing, minus the jewelry and expensive flats. And Jake’s Gramma Brogan. The commissioner’s wife. Here again, on Lilac Sunday. Jane’s eyes misted.
Strange,
somehow, here in this fragrant garden, the past and the future were meeting.

“We’re here for Lilac Sunday, dear.” Jake’s grandmother had tucked her arm through his. She was no taller than his shoulder, Jane saw, her lacy white cardigan next to Jake’s pale blue shirt. A brace of lilacs framed the two, the lavender and green coloring the portrait of springtime and family. “I suppose it will be the last time. Your grandfather would be—”

She paused, looking up at Jake, her cheeks a soft pink, and her eyes welling with tears. “Good job, dear.”

“We’ll come next year, too, Gramma.” Jake patted her hand, quickly kissed the top of her head. “Time to make our own history.”

“Where are your manners, Jake?” his mother said. She turned to Jane, one hand outstretched. “I’m Priscilla Brogan. This is Jake’s grandmother, Evelyn.”

“So lovely to meet you,” Jane said. “I’m—”

“Jane Ryland. Of course. Your story in this morning’s paper was quite the tale,” Priscilla Brogan continued. “You must have reliable sources in the police department. Wonder who—?”

A little girl wearing a white dress and shiny black shoes ran past them, waving a branch of dark purple lilacs, squealing with laughter, as a little boy in a Boston Strong T-shirt chased after her.

“Mother,” Jake interrupted. “Jane and I are simply—”

“—colleagues,” Jane said. Even though she wasn’t quite sure what she would do, now that the
Register
apparently planned to hide the truth instead of tell it.
Have a nice life?
Did she have a different future to contemplate? “Jake and I are simply colleagues.”

The little girl’s laughter faded into the afternoon.

Evelyn Brogan, her face creased with a smile, still held her grandson’s arm. She briefly pointed the rubber tip of her silver walking stick at Jane.

“Oh, my silly dears,” Jake’s grandmother said. “Truth be told? I don’t think that’s the whole story.”

FORGE BOOKS BY HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN

The Other Woman

The Wrong Girl

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN
is the investigative reporter for Boston’s NBC affiliate. She has won thirty-two Emmys and ten Edward R. Murrow Awards for her groundbreaking journalism. The bestselling author of four mystery novels as well as
The Other Woman
and
The Wrong Girl,
Ryan has won the Agatha, Anthony, Macavity, and Mary Higgins Clark awards. She is on the board of Mystery Writers of America and is past president of Sisters in Crime.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

TRUTH BE TOLD

Copyright © 2014 by Hank Phillippi Ryan

All rights reserved.

Cover photographs © Trevillion Images and Getty Images

A Forge Book

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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-7653-7493-6 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-0-7653-7497-4 (e-book)

e-ISBN 9780765374974

First Edition: October 2014