Jane’s “half” of the bulletin board had a snapshot of a sunset in Nantucket, a souvenir from a political scandal she’d uncovered, and a goofy-toothed school picture of a little boy, now happily adopted, from her investigation on foster care. She’d saved a space for a new picture of a pink-sanded beach. A photo not yet taken.
Chrystal sneezed again.
“Sick? Big time.” Chrystal wadded a shredded mass of tissues and tossed them toward the tissue-filled wastebasket. Jane cringed, dodging. “I’m not contagious, though. Probably.”
If Chrystal was sick, Jane was bailing. She absolutely could not afford to be sick this weekend. No sneezing, no runny nose, no puffy eyes, no-she smiled at the mental picture-snoring. Jane backed into the hall. “I’ll work down in the conference room, okay? I only have fifteen minutes-fewer now, actually-to bang out this story.”
“It’s probably allergies,” Chrystal went on as if Jane hadn’t said anything.
“No, really. You stay here. Feel better.” Twelve minutes. Jane almost ran down the hall, yanked open the heavy glass conference room door, hit the mouse to wake up the computer on the mahogany table. Nothing. Tried it again. Nothing. On the fritz. Again?
Eleven minutes. Damn. She raced back to her own desk, swiveled into her chair, hit her own mouse. “Hey Chrystal, I’m back, gotta do this.”
Chrystal sneezed.
Maybe Jane could avoid breathing for the next ten minutes. She pulled up her story page, typed almost without thinking. Former owners of a now-foreclosed home in Hyde Park were shocked this afternoon when they were told police had discovered the body of a potential homicide victim in a second-floor bedroom.
The cursor blinked at her, taunting, as she tried to figure out what to say next. Victoria was insisting on a story about the Sandovals’ reaction, but they really hadn’t reacted. Two paragraphs, she told herself. Everything doesn’t have to be Pulitzer material. She dug into her bag, pulled out her notebook, flipped the pages.
“Damn,” she said.
“What?” Chrystal’s chair squeaked as she turned to her.
“Marcotte wants quotes, I got nothing.”
“Make something up,” Chrystal said.
“Right, great idea,” Jane said, cocked an eyebrow. “Sure would make life easier.” Back to the keyboard.
The Sandovals’ eviction was finalized last week, according to Suffolk County Registry of Deeds documents.
At least she had those.
Police say they have not identified the victim, nor has the medical examiner determined the cause of death.
The cursor blinked, silently demanding, as Jane struggled. Seconds ticked by. She grabbed her cell phone. Punched in a number. Prayed.
“Mr. Sandoval? This is Jane Ryland at the Register.” Thank goodness. He was home. She paused, knowing she had to be polite. She was on deadline, but she was asking about a murder. “Fine, and I’m so sorry to bother you, but I have to write my story about what happened this afternoon at your… on Waverly Road. And I wonder-”
Elliot Sandoval interrupted, talking faster than she’d ever heard him.
“What?” Jane said. “When? Then what?”
Sandoval answered, still at top speed.
“Mr. Sandoval? Sir?” Jane tucked the phone between her shoulder and cheek, and turned back to her computer keyboard. Sandoval barely took a breath between words. “Excuse me? Sir? Did they give you a name?”
Five minutes.
Plenty of time.
13
The phone rang just as Peter stepped toward his office door. Five o’clock. Officially, the law firm was closed for the day. But the phone on Nicole’s reception desk rang again, insistent. Thorley didn’t have that number. This was someone else.
Through his tenth-floor window Peter could see happy people, normal people, a couple feeding the ducks, throwing bread crumbs or something at the mallards gathered in the pond. A sunset swan boat glided by, full of tourists, probably, and people who didn’t have to think about cold-case murders of high school girls and the misguided men who were inexplicably confessing to the crimes.
Why would Thorley confess? One easy answer. He was guilty. Fine with Peter-he’d represented worse. Even the guilty ones needed lawyers. Especially the guilty ones.
The phone rang again.
Peter blew out a breath, remembering the lawyer’s prayer. This phone call might bring him his case-of-all-cases. Tobacco, or lead paint, or a new Dalkon Shield. Some hideously widespread but provable injustice, or a victim with a stash of incriminating e-mails, finally ready to blow the whistle on some big-bucks government corruption. If Peter ignored the phone, the desperate plaintiff would call someone else, and someone else would get the glory. And the 30 percent.
His assistant, Nicole, was long gone, headed out at close of business to do whatever paralegal slash secretaries did on a Boston spring evening, sail or skateboard or dance or drink a pink cocktail with friends. Defeated, Peter picked up the phone.
“Hardesty and Colaneri,” he said. Too late to turn back now. “This is Peter Hardesty.”
He paused, listening to the person on the other end.
“Yes,” he said. He put down his briefcase. Lowered himself into his desk chair. Grabbed a yellow pad. Clicked open a pen. Still listening. “Yes.”
“I’m telling you, Jake, it’s a slam dunk.” D was still trying to convince him, had not stopped trying for the past few miles, that the person they were about to go visit was Shandra Newbury’s killer. Jake stopped at a red light, almost tuning D out. Sure, that would create a certain symmetry about the whole thing. Irony, too, since the suspect was right out of Mornay and Weldon’s own real estate listings.
“Do me a favor, D.” Jake turned onto Olivet Street, then onto Champlain. “Look for number four-twenty-five. Then try to stay a little objective. Maybe the guy’s innocent, that ever cross your mind?”
“Oh, mos’ def,” D said. “He’s innocent, and so is Gordon Thorley. Everybody’s innocent. It’s a wonder we still have our jobs, with all those innocent people out there.”
“It’s only one day until your vacation, D.” Jake pretended to be sympathetic. “Once you and Kat hit one of those sandy beaches, all your pent-up hostility will vanish. You’ll be better when you get back.”
“There it is.” D pointed. “Tan siding, dead grass. Crappy pickup truck in the driveway. Bad guy inside.”
“We’ll see.” Jake eased the unmarked cruiser to the curb, slid into a just-barely-legal spot north of the fire hydrant. A few random kids sauntered up the sidewalk, baseball caps backward, shapeless T-shirts, skateboards under their arms. Most driveways had cars, nothing fancy. Middle class, lower, seemed like. Struggling strips of gardens, homeowners clearly losing the battle with their yellowing lawns. Someone was grilling out, Jake could smell the charcoal. “He didn’t bolt after you called. That’s a not-guilty, right there.”
“Maybe it’s the wife.” D opened his door, eased onto the sidewalk.
Just past seven, and it was still as sweltering as it had been this noon on Waverly Road. Jane, he thought. He’d see her again in less than two hours, if all went as planned. This time, by themselves. They could talk without using code.
“Doesn’t take much to clobber someone with a two-by-four,” D was saying. They crossed the narrow empty street, dodged a couple of potholes, headed for the modest ranch house. Curtains hid the small front windows. They couldn’t see inside, only that at least one light was on. “I might not have left it there, just saying. But who said killers are smart. We’ll know more soon as Crime Scene takes over.”