This guy-khaki suit, hair darker than Jake’s, navy-striped tie in place, and an aura of casual confidence-arrived at the open door of Victoria Marcotte’s office as if he’d been there a million times. He paused, briefly, then entered the room, hand extended.
“Ms. Marcotte. I’m Peter Hardesty, of Hardesty and Colaneri. Peter.” He stepped to her desk, shaking her hand as she half-rose, then turned to Jane, giving her a polite once-over. “You must be Jane Ryland. I’ve seen your byline, many times. Great job on that big adoption story you wrote. Elliot Sandoval speaks highly of you. My law firm consulted on his foreclosure, that’s why he called me. Thank you for hearing our proposal.”
He stood between them, the apex of the triangle. Each of them wanted something. Maybe even the same thing. Maybe not.
Hardesty’s loafers were shiny, but not too shiny. Cool wire-rims, but not pretentious. His suit fit, but not perfectly. Thirty-something, she guessed. Her age, a little older. Independent enough to have his own law firm. Okay, she liked him. Snap judgment, but that’s how it sometimes worked.
Marcotte yanked off a chunky earring, examined it, clamped it back on. A tendril of artfully streaked hair fell into place over the glisten of gold. Making him wait.
“Of course. Have a seat, Mr. Hardesty,” she said. “The ball is in your court.”
Hardesty eyed the couch, then pulled up a side chair next to Jane. “Okay, bottom line. It’s simple. My firm is tired of cases being tried in the media.”
The lawyer looked at Marcotte, then at Jane, shrugging almost apologetically. “Mr. Sandoval is innocent until proven guilty. His wife is pregnant. We can’t do anything about the TV types-sorry, Jane-and their coverage is shallow at best. But the Register is the paper of record in Boston. As I told you on the phone, Ms. Marcotte. You leave him and his family alone, we’ll give you an inside look at the case. You can do a quality story for your readers. An exclusive. Afterward.”
Jane exchanged glances with Marcotte. This was a new one.
“Your client’s okay with that, Mr. Hardesty?” Jane said.
“Who wouldn’t be? And it’s Peter.” He looked at Jane. “Right?”
“Sure,” she said. “Jane.”
“Okay then,” Marcotte said, ignoring them. “Off the top of my head? We love new. We adore exclusive. I ran it by legal, of course. So far, so good. We’ll let you know if there’s a snag.”
“Of course,” Peter said.
“Nothing signed, nothing on paper, and we pull out whenever we want.”
“Fine,” Peter said. “At that point we’d be free to give the exclusive to another news outlet.”
Jane watched the news negotiation, the two sides volleying their points. Peter had the advantage of preparation-but Marcotte could kill the deal in an instant.
“Fine. We’re on board.” The editor stood, reaching out a hand. “Deal.”
Peter stood, returned the handshake. “Deal.”
“We’ll take Jane off day-of coverage of the Shandra Newbury homicide,” Marcotte said.
“And we’ll provide you”-Peter nodded in Jane’s direction-“with exclusive access to all of the evidence, the police interviews, as well as…”
Jane sat, half-amused, as the editor and the lawyer planned her future. The participants in this drama were certainly rearranging. Jake out of town, probably in D.C. by now. DeLuca and Kat wherever they were going. Jake had told her other detectives would handle the Shandra Newbury-Waverly Road homicide. So instead of Jake and Jane having to dance around reality, hiding the truth from each other, Jane’d finally be able to dig into a case with someone who was providing information, not protecting it. This time she didn’t need cop sources. She’d get her scoop from the other side.
And, hooray, Peter Hardesty would not have to be aware of her relationship with Jake. Another life problem successfully solved.
“Peter?” Jane managed to wait until this conversation wound down, but there was a key question the editor hadn’t asked. “Do you expect Mr. Sandoval to be arrested? When? And why? I’m wondering, frankly, what’s the point of this arrangement if you don’t?”
Elliot Sandoval had told him Jane Ryland cut right to the point. Here was proof. Peter was surprised this Victoria Marcotte-the Wizard of Oz witch theme hummed in his head, though the stylish and superior Marcotte was not green-had posed every damn question but the critical one.
He’d seen Jane on TV, of course, one, maybe two years ago, before she was fired from Channel 11 in the fallout from that defamation case judgment. She seemed to have come through it unscathed. She looked better in person than on TV-younger, maybe, and thinner. She never smiled on the air, he realized, maybe that made the difference. He’d focused on her boss for this meeting, figured winning over Marcotte was key. But it was Jane who’d asked the big question. Now he had to answer.
“Yes, we’re expecting it,” he admitted. He pulled out a manila folder, placing it on the edge of Marcotte’s glass-topped desk. “The police, two homicide detectives, tried to interview him, you’re aware of that.”
Jane nodded. She turned toward him in her chair, a thin black sweater tied around her shoulders, wearing some kind of little sleeveless dress, bare legs, flat shoes.
“But they didn’t charge him,” Jane said. “Why not?”
Peter opened his file, pulled out the stapled paperwork, handed it to Jane. “Good question. This is a cobbled-together transcript of what the police asked my client and his wife prior to my arrival. Before the Sandovals forgot, I questioned them about it, made sure it was documented.”
“The Sandovals talked to the police?”
“Cops.” Peter shook his head. “They pushed. Hard. Clearly took advantage of the Sandovals. You know the bullsh-sorry, stuff, those detectives always try to pull.”
Jane had a funny look on her face. “Yeah.”
“Take a look at the transcript, such as it is. It’s not admissible, in any way, it’s simply their memory of a conversation that I think, frankly, was improper.” Peter leaned closer to Jane, wanting to point out a certain paragraph. Got a whiff of some kind of citrusy-floral fragrance, clean and fresh. She’d pulled her hair back in a stubby little ponytail, strands falling out and curling over her cheek. He looked at her left hand. Looked away. Looked again. Bare. Couldn’t believe what he was thinking. “We’ll fight them on it, if need be. It’s arguably a Miranda violation if they suspected Mr. Sandoval. Let me show you, here’s where they-”
“Did they?” Jane looked up from the transcript. “Suspect him?”
“Page four,” he said. “You know he works construction, freelance. The detectives mention a two-by-four as the murder weapon.”
“And then, according to this, Elliot refers to the ones in his truck.” Jane turned the pages of the printed transcript. “Which Ja-I mean, the cops-say they’d already noticed. So, yeah, I understand what you mean. Seems like they were on a mission, and not simply fact-finding.”
Peter nodded. “Exactly. If they considered him a suspect, and didn’t read him his rights, then by law-”
Marcotte’s desk phone trilled, a sharp triple tone that cut through what Peter was trying to explain. The editor rolled her eyes, apologizing, then narrowed them as she picked up the receiver and listened.
Peter checked with Jane. She shrugged, smiling.
“Where?” Marcotte trapped the phone between her cheek and her shoulder, pulled a pen from a silver container, began writing on a white legal pad. Peter noticed she glanced at Jane several times as she listened. “Really? When? Do they have an identification yet?”
Jane stood and turned for the door, so Peter did, too. Maybe Marcotte expected privacy.