If there was a homicide, and the cops were looking for Thorley, he wasn’t the victim. Was he a suspect?
Peter turned his back on Jane and the other reporter, his forehead touching the wall, focusing on this new development. Sherrey was reportedly not a devotee of the rules. But if he’d deigned to call about Thorley’s whereabouts, he apparently decided to toe the legal line. Why? And what he was saying was absurd.
“‘Fleeing after an interrogation’? Where’d you come up with that? Suspicion? Of what? Listen, Detective. How do you know Mr. Thorley isn’t at the grocery?” Peter got more annoyed by the second. “Or having a real life, visiting his sister, or seeing the doctor, or having his tires rotated? I’ve seen his records. He’s no slacker about his parole reporting. God knows the department doesn’t go after every ex-con who’s ten minutes late calling in, Detective. You want to tell me what this is really about?”
“Yeah,” Sherrey said. Peter could hear the smile in his voice. He remembered he didn’t like Sherrey’s smile. “I do. Stand by one, okay?”
The connection went muffled, as if Peter were suddenly listening to cotton. This cop had put him on hold?
“Peter?”
He turned, surprised at the brief touch on his back. Jane.
“Oh, sorry.” She pointed down the hall. “I’ll be at my desk.”
“Thanks.” He mouthed the word at her, held up two fingers. Two minutes.
“Gotcha,” she said.
She had a great smile.
The line clicked, the connection opened.
“Detective?” Peter’d let this guy jerk him around long enough. “Suspicion of what?”
“Here’s what, Mr. Hardesty. We’re actively looking for your client. If you find him first? You’ll bring him to the station ASAP. If we find him first, well, he’ll get his one phone call. I assume he’ll call you. If not, then, we’ll see you around campus.”
“On suspicion of fricking what?” This was harassment, pure and simple.
“Oh, my error.” Sherrey’s voice had that arrogant smile again. “But you know what? We’ll fill you in when we see you. With your client.”
22
Something was certainly up.
Jane moved back into Marcotte’s reception area, watching Peter on the phone. His body language screamed bad news. Forehead touching the wall, one hand gesturing, whispering into his cell. Maybe Sandoval had been arrested?
If Sandoval was in custody, or about to be, at least that’d take her mind off whatever assignment Marcotte was now apparently giving Chrystal Peralta. Chrystal was a veteran reporter, around for maybe twenty years. Maybe more. Her stories were fine, straightforward, Jane supposed, not much flair, but she apparently made her deadlines and had some good connections. Who wouldn’t, after twenty years, if you were worth your salt.
Twenty years from now, when Jane was Chrystal’s age, where would she be? Still banging out murders at the Register? That was a question she wasn’t quite ready to face.
Right now, though, Jane still craved the headlines. A good reporter always does. Maybe someday she’d stop caring. Maybe.
Chrystal opened Marcotte’s office door, whooshing back into the reception area with a blast of musky perfume and a hint of cigarette.
“No problem, Victoria,” Chrystal was saying over her shoulder. “I’ll give you a buzz when-oh, hey, Jane.”
Jane smiled, oh so friendly. “Got a good story?”
“Dead girl near the Arboretum.” Chrystal stuck her pencil into her curls, left it behind her ear. “A week before Lilac Sunday? And there’s another murder around the Arboretum? City’s gonna go nuts.”
What did Lilac Sunday have to do with anything? “What about Lilac Sunday?”
“Lilac Sunday? The festival at the Arboretum. Every May, around Mother’s Day. Picnics, families, you know. And that girl was killed? Like, twenty years ago. They never found the guy.”
“Oh, right. I know that,” Jane said. “So they think this is connected? Why?”
Chrystal turned to Peter, who’d come up beside her from the hallway. “Can I help you?” she said.
“He’s with me. We’re working on a story together.” Jane answered before Peter could, no need to tell Chrystal about this. “See you later, Chrystal. Good luck with the-”
“Hang on, Jane, sorry.” Peter took a step toward Chrystal, holding out a hand. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
Chrystal checked with Jane, eyebrows raised. He okay?
Jane shrugged. Whatever. Sure.
“You said there’s a-,” Peter went on.
“Homicide, I should have said,” Chrystal interrupted. “Apologies. Not ‘dead girl.’ Though the police haven’t formally called it a homicide. So far. But yeah, apparently there’s a young woman they found, strangled, so says our source. And since you can’t strangle yoursel-oh, sorry.” Chrystal held up both hands. “Sorry. Been in the business too long.”
“It’s okay. Peter’s a lawyer, and-,” Jane began.
“When was she killed?” Peter asked. “Where? Exactly, where?”
Chrystal took a step back, made a skeptical face like, who is this guy? “Forgive me, sir. I’ve got to head out.”
Jane watched Chrystal trot away down the corridor, her sturdy black sandals clopping against her bare heels, her curls hardly moving.
“Peter?” He’d come in all confidence and conviction. Now he looked upset, like someone had changed the rules. “Did something happen? Is this about Elliot Sandoval? Was he arrested?”
He didn’t answer, and Jane frowned, trying to arrange the puzzle pieces in some logical way. Chrystal had said there was another homicide. “Do police think Sandoval killed someone else?”
That didn’t make much sense, but neither did Sandoval killing Shandra Newbury, even though apparently police suspected he had. Who knew what “made sense.” Jane had covered enough stories of arbitrary and random disaster to appreciate that “making sense” was not always achievable. Reality was impossible to predict. That’s what made it headlines.
“Sando-oh. No. Its not that.” Peter shook his head, pulled out his phone. Now he was checking his screen and talking to her at the same time. “Listen, Jane? Could you find out more about this possible homicide? Who the victim is? When it happened?”
“Maybe.” Could she? Should she? “You have to give me some reason, though. I can’t march into the city editor and-well, what’s up, Peter? We’re working together on the Sandoval case, but that doesn’t mean you have access to everything.”
“Jane.” Peter stashed the phone in his jacket pocket. “Listen. Can you keep a secret?”
“Are you from the bank?”
Those were the last words Lizzie expected to hear. She actually didn’t expect to hear any words, since every document indicated this house would be vacant. She’d checked the listings on Aaron’s logs, and this address had been foreclosed on months ago, the deputies had evicted the family soon after, and it had been vacant and for sale ever since. But now a college-looking girl in a white Sam Adams T-shirt, cutoffs, and flip-flops stood in the doorway. Looking worried.
Lizzie wondered how she looked. She pulled the keys from the lock.
“The bank?” Lizzie said. Why would this girl think she was from the bank? Why was this girl even here?
“Oh, I get it, not the bank. From the real estate agency, maybe? Sorry, I was in the shower.” The girl canted her hips, sticking one hand into a pocket, making the lining stick out past the frayed edges of her little jeans. Her sunburned face spackled with freckles, her wet hair pulled back in a scrunchy, she seemed unaware of Lizzie’s bafflement. “It’s not about the rent, right? We paid that. I’m sorry for the mess. Long weekend. I’m Maddie Kate Wendell.”