Jake took a deep breath, letting his fears evaporate and steeling his will. “A cop doesn’t need easy,” Grandpa Brogan always told him. This one sure hadn’t been easy. Justice for Carley Marie Schaefer had taken almost twenty years-starting with the killing at the Arboretum and ending with tonight’s murder on Moulten Road, just a block from the initial crime scene. Now it was all approaching the grand finale. He wished his grandfather could be here to share what was about to happen.
“No, no. Turn left!” Had she said “right” when she meant “left”? Lizzie’d been giving Aaron directions to her apartment, and she knew she’d said left, but he was turning right.
“I’m so sorry, Aaron, did I say right? I meant, um, the other right.” Lizzie noticed how his tanned hands rested on the steering wheel, how his face came in and out of the lights as they passed the neighborhood street lamps. Full moon, she saw.
“Nope, got to make one stop first.” Aaron was smiling, thank goodness, but wasn’t looking at her. “Okay with you? Two seconds. You don’t mind, do you, Miss Lizzie?”
He’d started calling her that, “Miss Lizzie,” all through their small talk on the way from the bank. He’d asked about her family, and her job, and her college. Again, even though she knew she’d already told him the same stuff at dinner the other night. Maybe he was trying to forget that whole episode. Like she was.
Was he taking her to his place? Was that a good thing? What would she do? She clasped her hands in her lap, and tried to look nonchalant. Like a successful person, on an actual date.
Even this time of night, the BU students were outside. Lounging on porches, smoking whatever, savoring the last of the spring evening, a few mismatched dogs teasing each other on one front lawn. People were happy, appreciating their lives, knowing how to be loved. Maybe she could start that soon. If she wasn’t too picky.
She sneaked another glance at Aaron, driving so confidently, back straight and his hair a tiny bit too long over his starched collar. A cool guy-“preppy,” she’d have called him when she was in college. He’d have called her a nerd.
Here they were. Together.
“Here we are,” Aaron said. He pulled into a driveway, then made the turn into a parking lot behind a faded beige brick apartment building, a concrete plot bordered on two sides by craggy maples and newly piled mulch. Most of the yellow-lined spaces were filled, which made sense. Brookline cops were draconian about on-street parking, their enforcement relentless, and that upped the value of the properties with off-street spots like these.
“Is this where you live?”
“Nope.” Aaron pulled into space 303-she noticed because it was a numerical palindrome-turned off the ignition, and unclicked his door. “I’ve got to pick up something in one of our REOs.”
Lizzie felt her chest clench, a quick dark gathering of suspicion and panic and inevitability. But she was being silly, right? This was a date, on a soft spring night, and they were bank employees.
If she was right, bank employees with secrets. But she couldn’t be sure.
He touched her arm, his eyes-well, they were actually twinkling. Like in books. “I know. Silly coincidence, right? But like I said, two seconds. And no pressure. So, Miss Lizzie. Want to come in with me?”
“They’re definitely going to throw me out of here,” Jane said. “They know I’m a reporter. Cops hate when reporters show up at headquarters.”
In the car, she’d heard Peter’s terse phone call to some detective-not Jake, since he was in D.C.-relating the “situation” with Thorley. They were also madly code-talking, incredibly annoying, but she could infer this was a continuation of some ongoing discussion. Peter had promised to tell her, so all she had to do was wait. It was not yet midnight, so plenty of time to make deadline. If there was a story she was allowed to write.
What did Thorley do? Why were they here at the cop shop? It was clearly more than what happened at Peter’s house. But what?
At least Jake wasn’t here to make things even more complicated.
In the fluorescent glare of the Boston Police headquarters lobby, they’d checked in with the night-shift desk sergeant and were awaiting the call to go upstairs. He’d asked Jane for ID, the first step toward Jane’s inevitable ejection from the interview, but when she simply offered a driver’s license, the desk guy carefully printed it on the intake log without comment. Jane had no doubt the “comment” would come soon, probably followed by her being tossed out on her ass.
Right now, though, the sergeant was ignoring them.
“You may be a reporter, but you’re also a victim, remember?” Peter kept his voice low, tapping his fingers like he was playing invisible piano on the black laminate of the reception desk, the starched and buzz-cut officer perched on a stool behind it. Still actively ignoring them. With a cadet stationed beside him, Thorley sat in a row of molded plastic visitor chairs, legs crossed and gnawing a thumbnail. Ignoring them.
To get upstairs, they’d go through a turnstile and a metal detector, then take the elevator to the interrogation floor. Press were usually relegated to a bleakly uncomfortable room on the civilian side of the lobby, a windowless pen with unforgiving benches and no electrical outlets, clearly designed to make reporters give up and go home.
“This isn’t just about what happened at your house, is it?” Jane matched his tone, protecting their conversation. She was playing some role in all of this, but she still had no idea what it was. Journalists had rules, but how could she follow them if she didn’t know where they were in the game? Should she call Marcotte? “But d’you you think the police will want to interview me about that?”
“Probably.” Peter’s voice was barely audible.
Jane fingered her cell phone, considering. She might regret calling, but it might be worse if she didn’t. Sometimes a decision like this was better left to a higher pay grade.
“I need to call my editor.” Jane turned away from the desk, not wanting anyone-not Peter, not Thorley, not desk guy-to hear the conversation she was about to have.
A door opened behind the reception desk, a uniformed young woman approached Peter. “Sir? I’m Cadet McClelland. Jean McClelland.”
Jane was sure this cop’s elaborate makeup was not in the BPD official manual, and she’d certainly had her sleek blue uniform blouse subtly altered from the boxy standard issue. Jane denounced her own snap judgment. Unworthy. Being a knockout didn’t make someone a bad cop. Probably Jane had low blood sugar. She decided to be nice. Nicer.
“You’re…” The woman consulted a silver clipboard. “Attorney Hardesty? Mr. Thorley? And you’re-”
Cadet McClelland frowned.
Jane tried to look innocent as well as nice. She stashed her cell in her tote bag. Not good to be on the phone with the newspaper while Peter was trying to convince this cadet she was legitimately here on non-news business.
“Are you the same Jane Ry-,” the cadet began.
“She’s a victim,” Peter interrupted. “She’s not here as a reporter.”
“Nevertheless.” The cadet flipped her clipboard at Jane, pointed with it toward the dreaded media room. “You’ll have to wait over there.”
“Come on,” Jane said. So much for nice. “If I was bleeding, or shot, would you make me sit in the press room?”
“Hold it.” Peter stepped forward, shaking his head. “Detective Sherrey knows the situation. He’s aware she’s involved.”
“If you’d like to talk with the detective, he may be authorized to arrange it. But press is press, nothing I can do to modify that, sir,” the cadet said.