“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.