Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) (8 page)

He nodded, agreeing with himself.

“I’m so happy you agree,” Lizzie said, watching him. “Most people don’t even think about how banks should work for the customers, not the customers for the banks.”

“Hmm,” he said. Whatever. And if he
was
getting the scoop, maybe this whole Lizzie thing was even more potentially productive than he’d initially imagined. He could definitely envision the well-connected Lizzie as information pipeline.

Another French fry. It made a gully as he drew it slowly through the ketchup. He did it again, watching the red separate, then move together again, seamless. As if he’d never touched it.

Now she was yapping about her first day at the bank. Interesting, she hadn’t mentioned her father at all, which seemed—well, maybe it was too early. He’d have to feel her out on that. A good salesman knew when to push. And when to wait. He was selling tonight, that was for sure.

His client-line cell phone buzzed on the table beside him, vibrating on the white tablecloth.

“You need to get that?” Lizzie asked.

He did need to, damn it, but now was not the time to talk to clients. “Not at all,” he lied. He couldn’t let this deal progress, and that was certainly what these calls were about, but he couldn’t get rid of her long enough to stop it.
Bathroom,
he thought.
If they call again, I’ll just excuse myself.

“I feel bad, going on like this.” Lizzie blinked at him, eyed his phone. “When you’re obviously needed. By … someone.”

“No, no, nothing’s going to interrupt us tonight.” Aaron had about two swigs of his beer left. He’d need a refill. “This is Lizzie night. Correct?”

She took a sip of her twelve-dollar-a-glass rosé. She could have all she wanted. He wasn’t sure exactly what would happen later, but a two-glass-of-wine girl was more likely to be agreeable to whatever it was. Outside, he could see, it was turning dark, headlights and streetlights already on, Boston’s date-nighters heading out of the parking garage across the street. Half the people wore Red Sox caps. Still hope for the baseball season. This was only May.

Lizzie pointed to his vibrating cell phone with her fork. “Come on, Aaron. I can handle you taking a phone call.” She stood, plopping her crumpled napkin on the table. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. And I’ll have another glass of wine.”

She hadn’t taken two steps away when he grabbed his cell and hit answer.

“This is Allen,” he said, keeping his voice low. You never knew.

Aaron waited, listening. It always killed him to say his fake name. If he ever screwed up—which a couple times he actually had—he always pretended the other guy had heard him wrong.

“Thanks for calling back,” he said. “Listen, the house on Nordstand Boulevard isn’t going to work out. There were some undisclosed problems. It happens. Lucky for you, I’ve got a perfect replacement. You’ll be even happier with it, it exactly suits your needs, and I can show you tomorrow afternoon. You’ll be the first.”

He paused, as his client interrupted, yammering a whole list of questions, ending with a request. “Morning?” Aaron thought fast, figuring how he could pull this off. “Tomorrow at nine
A.M.
? Well, sure. Can do. The address is…”

Lizzie.
Was on her way back.

“Listen,” he said, smiling across the room. Lizzie waved. “I’ll text you the address. Yes, furnished. See you tomorrow at nine.”

He clicked off as Lizzie arrived. He stood, pulled out her chair.

“Got any plans for the rest of the evening?” he said.

Lizzie looked at him from under her eyelashes. Two spots of red appeared on her cheeks, and she fiddled with a hoop earring. She’d combed her hair, Aaron saw, freshened her lipstick.

Lizzie sat down, took a sip of wine. “What do you mean, plans?”

“How’d you like to go look at a house?” He pulled his chair closer to hers.

“A—?”

“House. House,” Aaron said, teasing. “You ever really seen the ones in those portfolios of yours? You stay in your office all the time, adding and subtracting and doing amortizations or whatever. People live in
those
houses, all good. But the houses I handle? They’re empty, you know? Furnished, but empty.”

He raised an eyebrow, smiled at her. “We could have the place all to ourselves.”

Lizzie tilted her head, as if she were calculating. “Isn’t that…?”

“Isn’t that what? I have the keys, sweetheart.” Aaron picked up his beer, considering his strategy one last time. No harm in taking her, was there? It might even be worthwhile. “I’m the only one who legally
does
have access. You
ought
to see them, if you’re going to be handling mortgages. You know? To you, it’s all on paper, all numbers, all theoretical. To me it’s—”

Aaron eyed his glass, drained the last of his beer.

“To me it’s—
real
estate. Know what I mean? Real.”

Lizzie picked up her wine, stared at the pink liquid.

“Finish up,” Aaron said. “Then you and I are going to have an adventure. It’s Lizzie night, remember?”

14

“The name on the mailbox is ‘Michaelidis,’” D said.

“Yup, that’s the one. The sister-in-law.” Jake punched the black-button doorbell. Three chimes echoed inside. He tried again. Chimes. Dented screen door over gray-painted front door. He cocked his head, listening.

“Someone’s coming.” He nodded, mentally checking—badge, weapon, radio, plan. “Ready?”

The gray door opened. A beefy guy, late twenties, sandy mustache and hair to match, stood behind the screen. Hard to read his face, shimmering through the small-gauge mesh. Jake assessed the muscles under the man’s Red Sox T-shirt, saw one hammy hand clench into a fist at his side. His other hand held an open bottle of IPA.

“Elliot Sandoval?” Jake held his gold badge up against the screen. A radio or TV played in a back room. A leftover dinnertime smell, baked beans maybe, mixed with the fragrance of Sandoval’s beer. “I’m Detective—”

“Yeah. I figured. The one who called.” Sandoval did not open the screen. “You need to call my lawyer.”

“About what?” D took one step forward. “I’m Detective Brogan’s partner, Paul DeLuca. We have a couple of quick questions, hoping you can help us out. No pressure. Happy to call your lawyer.”

D looked at Jake. Then back at Sandoval. “Of course, sir, that’ll make it somewhat more complicated.”

“True,” Jake said. “Then we’d have to go down to the station, sign you in. It’s more—shall we say—formal. We’re here to make your life easier. But your call.”

Sandoval didn’t move. Didn’t slam the door. Stood there. Jake could ask anything at this point, he’d be within his rights. Lawyer didn’t mean shit if the guy wasn’t under arrest. The logical option was go for it.

“Sir?” Jake changed tactics. “We need your help on a very sad case. As we told you, there was possible homicide at forty-two Waverly Road. You’re familiar with that address, of course. We know you don’t live there anymore, but—”

“Honey?” A smaller figure joined Sandoval at the door, tucked in behind him, only shoulder-length curly hair and pink T-shirt visible. “The lawyer said—”

The door opened, Sandoval moving the woman—his wife? pregnant wife, if that’s who she was—out of the way with the palm of his hand. She stopped talking. D and Jake stepped inside, the narrow foyer leading to a living room on one side, one table light on, TV on mute, and on the other side, a hallway. Jake could see to the half-open door at the end of the hall, the glow from a TV showing behind it.

“You told me about that on the phone. The possible homicide.” Sandoval didn’t offer them a seat. “Look. I got nothing for you. I’d help you if I could, you know? But like I said on the phone, we haven’t been at that house for weeks.”

Be that as it may.
They were inside,
invited
inside, meaning Jake could now proceed on steadier legal ground. “She was killed with a two-by-four, we believe, Mr. Sandoval. Exactly like those you have in the back of your truck, out there in the driveway. That
is
your truck, I assume.” Jake eyed the pregnant woman, who was quickly moving lower on his “possibly guilty” list. “Or is it yours?”

“It’s—this is my wife, MaryLou.” Sandoval stepped away from them and put his beer onto the glass-topped coffee table, next to an open do-it-yourself magazine and a catalog from some baby store. “As you can see, she’s—and you know what? The lawyer’s right. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“We can easily run the plate and registration. Sir.” Jake eased a few steps into the living room, taking up the space Sandoval had vacated. “Police investigation one-oh-one.”

“Listen. I’m in construction.” Sandoval’s wide forehead furrowed, and he looked at Jake, then at D, then back at Jake, as if searching for an ally. “All two-by-fours are exactly alike. The ones in my truck don’t prove a thing.”

His wife let out a sound, a whimper or a sigh, and sagged to the dark cushion of the low-slung couch, placing one hand on the round of her belly. Cute girl. No makeup. From her frown, obviously worried. As well she should be. A husband who could be on trial for murder and a baby on the way was not an optimum combination.

“Elliot!” MaryLou Sandoval whispered. Jake could see her struggle for composure, her fingers touching the sides of her forehead. “Remember. The lawyer told you—”

“I don’t care what the lawyer said. Time the hell
out.
” Elliot Sandoval turned to his wife, making the time-out sign with his hands. “If I had hit someone with a two-by-four, which, Mar, I most definitely did
not
—do you think I would have left all the other damn two-by-fours in the truck? In my driveway? Knowing the cops were on the way?”

He turned back to Jake. “You called me. Right? There’d have been plenty of time for me to—”

“Aren’t you even interested in the victim’s name?” Jake cut off the guy’s excuses, exchanged a glance with DeLuca.

Where had Sandoval been, time of the murder? Not that they exactly knew when that was. Was MaryLou his only alibi? Maybe the stay-at-home wife was now putting two and two together, Jake thought. Two by
four.

“You know, Detective Brogan, it does seem odd.” DeLuca spoke to Jake, as if Sandoval wasn’t there. “Doesn’t it seem odd? I’da thought he’d wanna know.”

D turned back to Sandoval, as if begrudgingly acknowledging his presence. “
If
you really were interested in helping, that is.”

They hadn’t told Sandoval the victim’s name, on purpose, to see how he’d react when they sprang it on him. That Sandoval hadn’t asked did seem odd. Unlikely. Suspicious. Jake mentally shrugged. Or—not.

“I had nothing to do with it. Why would I ask?” Sandoval took a couple of steps backward, eyed the door. “It’s not our house anymore. Why does it matter if I know? Why would I need to know?”

“El, you’ve gotta be quiet.” MaryLou used the edge of the coffee table to pull herself to her feet. She swayed a moment, catching her balance. “This isn’t about us, Officers, and I can’t understand why my husband is—”

The doorbell rang, the bing-bong chimes now echoing inside the house.

“Thank heaven.” MaryLou turned toward the door, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Now maybe you’ll finally stop talking.”

Sandoval put up a hand, a command. “You sit.”

She sat, the couch cushions adjusting to her weight.

The doorbell chimed again.

“You expecting someone?” Jake said.

*   *   *

It was way too early to pack. Four days until the weekend.
Their
weekend. Finally. Jane smiled as she hoisted her black roller bag from the shelf of the front hall closet. It was kind of delicious, choosing what to wear for such an occasion. She and Jake were going for it. Flying out Friday, after the
Register
’s deadline. They’d each leave from work as usual, in their own cars, meet at the airport.

Silly. But necessary.

The Cape was too risky, too public, they’d decided, everyone from Boston headed south on the weekend. Even this early in the year, from Falmouth to P-town, it’d be packed. But they’d found a not-too-expensive Boston to Bermuda flight. The tickets were purchased, and the hotel booked. Even at Logan Airport they could pretend they weren’t traveling together.

No more stalling. It had been six months, eight? They’d danced around this. Dated others, briefly and unenthusiastically. Jane, at least, always testing the unfortunate candidate against the template of Jake: his brain, his compassion, his sense of humor. And his body. The challenger always lost, so often Jane felt guilty about continuing. This weekend, she and Jake were—Jane smiled again, or maybe she hadn’t stopped—going for it. It was too difficult, they’d decided, always living in a created reality. Sneaking around was unpleasant. Distressing. Tiring.

But what could possibly happen to change their situation? Jane couldn’t imagine, now, giving up her job at the paper. She was a journalist, after all, finally back on her feet after the horrible lawsuit. Was she supposed to change careers? And Jake—his grandfather had been police commissioner. Even Jake’s father—so he’d said—teased Jake about his “blue” blood. Jake’s mother was the actual blue blood. It would be pretty fascinating when she and Priscilla Dellacort Brogan finally met.

Jake would never meet Jane’s mom. She sighed, feeling that familiar wave of memory.

“Hi, Mom,” she said it out loud, as always, looking at the ceiling. “Missing you. You’d like him.”

So. It was finally going to happen. Jake and Jane. They’d cross this bridge first. Then, if necessary, cross the next one.

Coda jumped into her open suitcase, curling up in the middle with her tail carefully wrapped, depositing calico cat hair on the lining and using one paw to bat the crinkling tissue paper Jane always used. Coda would be fine over the weekend, with a stash of cat toys and water, and fed twice a day by the super’s son, Eli, from upstairs. Jane used to pay Eli in LEGOs, the currency of nine-year-olds. This year, turned a “grown-up” ten in March, he wanted scary chapter books, which Jane was happy to provide.