“Advice?” She tried to read the look on his face. Tried to keep her own face composed. Tried to predict-advice about what? Could he know she’d talked to Maddie Kate Wendell and Mo Heedles? If so, what would he make of that? What would she tell him?
“I know you understand the bank, like I do,” Aaron was saying. “It’s in your blood, in a way, right?”
She supposed it was. With her dad and all. But where was this going? “Sure, yes, I-why?”
“So I was wondering if you might be able to help me. With a kind of project I’m working on. It’s secret, though, so you’d have to promise it’s just between us for now.” He let the seat belt go, and it snapped back into place. He turned to her, touching her shoulder again for the briefest of seconds. She felt the exact place, even through her jacket, even after he took his hand away.
“Kind of-a surprise for you,” he said.
Sitting in a car, in an empty parking lot, in the middle of the-well, not exactly the middle of the night. She wanted him to like her, she admitted, she did, but her brain was full and confused and-what did he mean by “surprise”?
“And thing is”-Aaron was still talking-“I had hoped… you’d come upstairs and come see it. You’ll be the first, you know? Because I trust your judgment, and I trust your skills. You’re my soul mate, Miss Lizzie. I feel it-” He touched his chest. “Right here.”
Despite her misgivings, she could feel herself melting. Soul mate? No one had ever-ever-said that to her before. Maybe it was bull. One of his lines. But what if it wasn’t?
“So, okay?” he said.
“I admit you have me curious,” she said.
“As long as I have you.” Aaron smiled at her, that smile.
She heard the whir as her seat belt retracted, watched Aaron reach into the back seat for the champagne and Cinzano’s box, felt the car shift as he opened the door and got out, waiting for her in the quiet parking lot. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of a big maple above them, the lowest branches tangling against her hair as she got out of the car.
Taking the champagne inside? Why not. She was trying a new life now, her new life, and the lovely wine would seal the deal.
34
“Gotta say. That’s the first guy I’ve ever seen who’s happy to take that walk,” Jake said. He and Peter Hardesty watched Gordon Thorley, escorted by a gloating Bing Sherrey, head off to lockup. No one should be thrilled to be confined by three walls of gray concrete and one wall of bars, but Jake could’ve sworn Thorley smiled.
“Who knows what he’s thinking.” Hardesty shrugged. “Or what he’s smiling about.”
Jake understood the lawyer was only doing his job with Thorley. But his deal with Jane? That Jake did not understand. At Hardesty’s apartment? That time of night? Taking a shower? In a towel? Hardesty, separated from his client, had related the whole story before they sent Jane home in a cab. Jane hadn’t even seemed embarrassed. What the hell?
He and Hardesty had just finished two additional hours of question and answer, bracketed by confessions, including Thorley’s recitation of the events of that Lilac Sunday long ago and his acknowledgment that he’d bagged his parole check-in call. He’d refused to discuss exactly what had happened on Moulten Road.
Even so, Thorley knew the victim’s name, Treesa Caramona, rehab-needy and a longtime parolee, now a person well-known to Southie’s notorious Harvest House Shelter, a seedy brick almost-tenement that was hardly home and barely shelter to ex-cons and transients. Thorley knew she’d been strangled from behind with an electrical cord. Told them where they’d find her backpack. Exactly where they already found it. None of that had been made public.
“Did you know her?” Jake had asked.
“Yeah, sure, all us parolees know each other,” Thorley said. “Everyone else thinks we’re invisible.”
“How’d you get her to Moulten Road?”
“Bus.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Front window. Easy.”
“Why’d you kill her?”
“Why does anyone do anything?” Thorley said. “She pissed me off.”
“And you just happened to have an electrical cord?”
“Found it in the trash,” Thorley said. “Where she belonged, too. No one will miss her.”
Jake paused, staring at the guy. The Lilac Sunday killer.
“Now do you believe me?” Thorley had said. “You should have stopped me when you could.”
Jake knew that was correct, incredibly correct, tragically correct. As he’d feared, it seemed the legal system-supposedly protecting the rights of the accused-had produced a second Lilac Sunday victim. Too late, and too disturbing, to think about that now. The handcuffs clicked on. And Thorley and Bing were gone.
He’d have to be satisfied with tomorrow’s arraignment. The judge, any judge, would certainly keep Thorley in jail awaiting trial-a trial Jake had no doubt would send the guy downstate to Cedar Junction for life. There might even be video of him and Caramona on that bus to Moulten Road, if the onboard surveillance camera was rolling.
Because of the death of Treesa Caramona, a Brogan might put the Lilac Sunday killer behind bars. Carley Marie Schaefer’s family might finally get their closure.
Gramma, too.
Jake wished his grandfather could know that.
He also wished he could’ve beat the hell out of Thorley for pulling a knife on Jane. So much for parole as rehabilitation. Crock of shit, some of the time, only you could never predict which times. Murderers weren’t like most people. Jake could catch them, but it didn’t mean he understood them. Thorley would get his just punishment soon enough.
“So. See you in court tomorrow,” Hardesty interrupted his thoughts. He hoisted a canvas briefcase over one shoulder as they walked toward the elevators.
Hardesty had argued to keep Thorley out of custody, but it was a losing battle with a client like that. Now a plea agreement-if one should happen-was in the district attorney’s hands.
“I’ll expect your call,” Hardesty went on. “The instant you hear from the DA.”
“Yeah. Sure.” But Jake had one more question. A personal one. Why was Jane at Hardesty’s apartment anyway, ten at night, or whenever? The moment he went out of town, she’d gone off with Peter freaking Hardesty. Peter Hardesty and a freaking towel. That’s why she hadn’t answered his phone call.
He turned to Hardesty, keeping his voice professional. “So. The Jane Ryland ‘episode.’”
“What about it?” Hardesty kept walking. Almost to the elevators.
“We’re supposed to forget all that?” Jake went on. “As if it never happened?”
“Misunderstanding.” Hardesty jabbed the lighted arrow on the down button. “She seems pretty cool, huh? She said you guys knew each other. Professionally.”
They’d talked about him? Why? High school, he thought, but Jake had to ask.
“Why was Ms. Ryland with you in the first place?” He couldn’t let Hardesty know why he really cared. Or, he realized, how much he cared. A towel?
The elevator doors opened.
“You’ll have to ask Jane,” Hardesty said. “We done here?”
“Do I want-more?” Lizzie said.
She opened her eyes at Aaron’s question, felt his touch on her bare arm. A glow filtered in through the lace curtains of the unfamiliar bedroom-what time was it?-a pale glimmer from the streetlights licking shadows on the white walls. But he was holding a slim crystal glass. Of course, he meant champagne, did she want more champagne.
“Mmmm…” Her brain was not finding words. Her body was floating, or weightless, or something it had never been before, strange, the incredible pillows and the scent of Aaron, Aaron, next to her.