“Whatever,” Thorley said.
Peter saw Thorley’s running shoes were caked with dust, the bottoms of his jeans also edged with brown. Where had he been?
“Jane, my client and I need to discuss a situation. Right now. And at some point, it might be a story for you. I could ask you to go upstairs or something, but since we have a deal about the other matter, I’m hoping we can continue it with this case. Agreed?”
Jane rolled her eyes, clearly dubious. Her T-shirt had come untucked, her hair out of its rubber band, one leg smeared with caking brown dirt.
“Curiouser and curiouser.” She shrugged, waving the knife-then apparently realized what she was doing. “And curiouser. Okay if I put this thing down? Your ‘client’ going to threaten me with something else?”
“Jane?” Peter had to admit their situation was through the looking glass but the clock was ticking, and he had to decide what to do about Thorley. Peter couldn’t be harboring a fugitive. He’d have to advise Thorley to turn himself in, make a deal with the cops. But not with a newspaper reporter hanging around, unless she’d play ball. “Agreed? We don’t have much time to-”
“Agreed,” Jane said. “I hardly have a choice.”
“So, Mr. Thorley,” Peter said. “What the hell are you doing?”
At least she was going to hear the explanation. Jane leaned against the kitchen doorjamb, regrouping. Failing. Her knees weren’t feeling quite right, nor was her brain, and it had crossed her mind, out of the blue, that if something happened to her-whatever “something” would be-no one had any idea where she was. She flashed on the body of Shandra Newbury. The cops had found her simply by chance. Today Jane had gone off, without a second thought, with this Peter Hardesty-a man she didn’t have a chance to research because she hadn’t known he was coming to her office-and now she sat in his house while he held a gun on a “client.” A client who’d held her at knife point. And now this Peter Hardesty, supposed to be a good guy, was asking her not to call the police.
Not how she’d envisioned this evening.
“Sorry about your friend,” Thorley was saying. “Didn’t expect anyone else to be here. I guess I freaked out. I mean, who knew what the hell she was doing here? Getting rid of the dog? Maybe she broke in, right? I could hear the shower, and figured maybe you didn’t know that she was here. I was trying to protect your stuff.”
Jane rolled her eyes. Engaged with Peter, Thorley seemed to have forgotten she was there.
“Bull,” Peter said. “I’m waiting.”
“You know the thing,” Thorley said. “We talked about.”
“I’m waiting,” Peter said.
“And you know there was another…” This time Thorley glanced at Jane, just a flicker, as if he were trying to decide.
After ten at night. A knife and a gun. Two crazy strangers making no sense. Just another night in Jane world.
“Thing,” Thorley continued.
Peter took a step toward him, one hand still on the stupid towel, wary. It was hard to take him seriously in a towel, but this did seem serious. He had to be a good guy, right?
“Yeah,” Peter said. “And?”
Code talking. The two of them were having an entire conversation without using any specific words. Oh, sure, she was hearing them talk, but it didn’t matter one bit. She had no idea what they were discussing so intently. And cryptically. But from the look on Peter’s face, it was not good news.
“Well,” Thorley said. “I did it. And like I tried to tell you, the other one, too.”
Tell you? Did it? The other one? Was this code for the Arboretum murder?
“Now do you believe me?” Thorley said.
“Thanks, Jane. There was no other way to do this,” Peter said. He’d told her to stand watch at the door of his Jeep, guarding a now-disarmed and seemingly indifferent Thorley who sat slumped and seat-belted into the passenger side, while Peter ran back inside and threw on his pants. Finally. Couldn’t go to the police station without pants.
“Thorley’s not going to make any more trouble,” Peter continued. He waved Jane to the back seat. “And you might need to talk to the cops.”
The dashboard clock’s green numbers flashed to 10:37 P.M. Peter’d been told Branford Sherrey’s shift started at ten. He got in, closed his door. Thorley’s rattletrap sedan would have to stay in the driveway until they figured out how to handle it. Thorley. The Lilac Sunday killer? How would Thorley’s sister, Doreen Rinker, and her family handle that? “Guess you’ll get more story than we bargained for.”
“Someday.” Jane dragged her seat belt across her chest. “A story’s the last thing on my mind right now, I’ve gotta say. I’m not dead. And I have my wallet back. Thank you so much for a lovely evening.”
“I know, I’m so-there’s no way I could have-again. I’m sorry,” Peter understood her sarcasm. Didn’t blame her.
Now to the police station. He couldn’t begin to predict what would happen there, or after that. Was this latest victim dead because Peter had engineered Thorley’s release? People-even people who confessed-were innocent until proven guilty. It was his job, he reminded himself, to make sure that right was protected. Still, could he have prevented this murder? Could he have predicted-no, he decided.
Peter buzzed down his window and cranked the ignition. The law wasn’t about predictions. It was about rules. His sworn responsibility was to play by them.
Jane, though. She must be incredibly confused, and he wouldn’t blame her for being terrified, but she’d come through two harrowing incidents without tears or panic. Now she was sitting in the backseat of a Jeep with a nutcase and his lawyer in the front, like it was merely another night on the job. Tough woman, he thought. Like Dianna.
He backed out of the driveway into the spring night, streetlights illuminating the empty neighborhood, so quiet he could hear the hiss of his tires along the asphalt. He even smelled Dianna’s pink peonies, in full first bloom, as he rounded the corner and headed for downtown.
Once again it was his job to do the best he could for Thorley. A confessed double murderer. Who in the eyes of the law was still innocent.
32
“He what? Confessed? Again?” Jake was right, he knew he’d be right. It simply would have been better if he’d been right sooner. Now this Thorley-hell, the Lilac Sunday killer!-had apparently killed someone else to prove his guilt. Why else would he murder another woman?
The phone call from Sherrey had come as Jake was heading for the exit. He swerved his BPD-issue cruiser off Storrow Drive-sorry Jane, so much for the lilacs-and toward police HQ.
“Be there in ten,” Jake said. “Don’t let him say a word until I’m in the room. Not that his lawyer-Hardesty?-would let him, until we get some kind of a deal. Should we get the parole officer to confirm he didn’t report in? You’re calling the DA, right? She’ll love this. Big headlines.”
Big as headlines could be. Thorley was on his way to the cop shop, turning himself in. That closed the new Arboretum case, closed the old Lilac Sunday case, and made Jake’s day.
Still.
He stopped at a red light and let the entirety of the situation sink in. Someone had been killed, some innocent person, because he-sure, and the other cops-hadn’t trusted Thorley’s initial confession, hadn’t possessed the evidence to prove his involvement. If they had-and if that Peter Hardesty hadn’t reminded them of their shaky legal standing-they’d have kept him in custody. And the newest victim would still be alive.
The light turned green. One step at a time. Jake couldn’t control the universe. He could only make sure those who broke the law were brought to justice. That, at least, was definitely going to happen.