“I’m set, Stephanie,” she told the intercom. Time to meet the Iantoscas.
She took off her black-rimmed glasses, considered, put them on again. Slicked her hair back, tucking a stray wisp into place. She checked her reflection on the computer monitor. Lipstick, fine. Portrait of a happy magna cum laude MBA. Good job, her own apartment, a potential boyfriend-she clasped her hands under her chin, thanking the universe and embracing her karma. Math geek no more. Future so bright, she ought to wear shades.
Liz, she decided. Compassionate, but knowledgeable. Approachable. And, starting today, starting now, Liz McDivitt was in control.
Five more minutes. He’d give them five more minutes.
Aaron Gianelli waited on the front steps of the triple-decker, peeled the last of the waxed paper from his tuna melt wrap, took a final bite. A mayo-soaked glop narrowly missed his new cordovan loafer, landed on the concrete beside him. Too damn hot for a tuna melt, Aaron decided too late, but this “meeting” was his only chance for lunch. He crumpled the paper, aimed, and hit the already brimming Dumpster over by the driveway.
His first score of the day.
If the others didn’t show up pretty damn soon, it’d be his only score. That, he could not afford. He wondered how his partner was doing, at his meeting. They’d talk later. Compare notes. Not that there were notes.
Standing, Aaron brushed the dust from his ass. Squinted out at Pomander Street. No cars. Nothing. They’d agreed to meet here at 1:30 P.M. He checked his annoyingly silent cell phone. If they were going to be late, they should have called. If they were jerking him around, they’d be sorry. But no biggie. He’d find other customers.
He’d parked his car down the street, left his suit jacket inside, thank God. It was brutal out here. He’d be a sweat machine when he got back to the office, but the AC would take care of that before anyone noticed. And Lizzie would believe whatever he told her. He smiled. He loved Lizzie.
He patted his pockets, still smiling, feeling for the ring of keys. He’d go in without the clients, check it out. House was empty, that was certain. The bank had made sure of that.
Aaron was still smiling. He loved the bank.
5
“Uh-oh,” Jane said. TJ’s camera lens still trained on the now-open front door. The two EMTs emerged. Not running. “That’s not good.”
The EMT carrying the defibrillator shouldered his way out, followed by the stocky one lugging the medical bag. Jane couldn’t read their faces, both squinting in the glare, the heat radiating from the hot sidewalk and crushed gravel driveway. The ambulance siren was off, but the red light on the hood swirled silently through the sunshine. The ambulance, rear double doors flapped open, poised for a fast getaway to Mass General. But the two EMTs stopped. Put their bags down. Stood on the porch.
“Whatever happened, it’s over,” Jane said. “Come on, Teege. Let’s get closer. Sorry this is taking so long, your shoulder must be killing you. But look, the guy’s radioing now. Can you hear what he’s saying?”
Jane followed behind TJ, straining to grasp the EMT’s words as he transmitted over the sputtering two-way radio. The bank guy-if that’s who he was-stayed in his Lexus. The splintered bed frame, two chairs, and a couple of fringed pillows baked on the parched front lawn.
“Copy, Unit Bravo.” The dispatcher’s voice on the other end squawked through the static. “We’ll notify. Stand by. We’ll inform when you are clear to transport.”
“Transport,” Jane whispered. She’d edged in so close, she could now hear the hum of TJ’s camera, hear her own voice buzzing through his earpiece. “Transport who?”
“You gonna answer that?” DeLuca’s radio was squawking, but Jake couldn’t take his eyes off Thorley, watching him through the interrogation room glass, knowing the guy couldn’t see him and DeLuca in the hallway. Thorley didn’t know they’d heard what he’d told Detective Bing Sherrey. Didn’t know they’d be taking over the case.
There’d been silence for the past few minutes, Thorley staring at his fingernails while Bing scribbled on a yellow pad. Probably a confession he hoped Thorley would sign.
“Now what?” Jake pointed to D’s radio.
DeLuca’s two-way beeped again from its leather pouch. Dispatch calling.
“We shall see.” DeLuca keyed the mic. “DeLuca.”
Jake, cell phone to his ear, was still waiting for Dr. Nathaniel Frasca. After blowing open the Memphis copycat sniper case, Frasca had been called to D.C. to be a big-time consultant for the feds. He’d have to rib supposedly retired Frasca about that when they finally connected.
Plus, Frasca still owed Jake a beer from the Stockbridge Street murder. The young woman the state troopers had browbeaten into a false confession was now back home with her family. The real bad guy, thanks to Jake and the veteran Frasca, was in the slammer for a good long stretch.
DeLuca’s two-way radio buzzed static again. “Detective DeLuca, do you copy?” dispatch’s voice came through. “What’s your location?”
“This is DeLuca, like I said. Detective Brogan and I are downtown. Two floors above where you are.”
Jake rolled his eyes. DeLuca was always a trip on the radio.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jake said into his cell. “Yes, I’ll continue to hold. Yes, Brogan. B-R-O-G-A-N. In Boston. Dr. Frasca actually knows who-”
“Copy that, Detective DeLuca,” dispatch said. “Stand by for instructions.”
“Standing by to stand by. As always.” DeLuca clicked off his two-way, pointed it at the one-way glass. “Jake. Check it out. We have company.”
The back door to the interrogation room had opened.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Peter Hardesty closed the interrogation room door behind him, plunked his leather briefcase on the metal table, held out a hand. He’d already heard the cops were calling this guy the Confessor.
Confessor or not, Gordon Thorley was innocent till proven guilty. And, like so many others Peter had represented, profoundly in need of counsel. In this place? Alone with a detective? A legal minefield.
“Gordon Thorley?”
“Who’re you?” Thorley twisted in his folding chair, scooted it as far from Peter as the cinder-block wall would let him, metal scraping against concrete. Thorley’s sallow skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, weary eyes too big. Peter could almost hear the guy’s brain shift gears. Surprise. Then fear. Then calculation. Thorley flickered a hard look at Peter, jerking a yellowed thumb in his direction. Spoke to the detective. “He a cop, too?”
“Holy sh-How’d you get in here, Hardesty? Who called you? Mr. Thorley here hasn’t asked for a lawyer.”
Peter recognized the plainclothes detective in the weary brown suit and ugly tie-Detective Branford Sherrey. “Bing” Sherrey. Veteran cop, beloved of the district attorney’s office, and a remarkable asshole. Now he looked like he’d been socked in his shirt-straining gut. Sucks when the system works, Peter thought. When you have to provide legal advice to a nutcase who’s trying get himself a life sentence. Justice. What a concept.
Peter glanced at the obviously one-way glass along one wall, gave a brief salute to whoever was on the other side. He’d find out soon enough. Other cops listening? A witness, maybe? To what? He’d gotten the call from Doreen Thorley-now Doreen Rinker-only half an hour ago. He’d left half a perfectly good turkey on rye on his desk downtown. Here, things were already out of hand.
“Hasn’t asked for a lawyer? I’m aware of that, Detective Sherrey. Nevertheless, here I am. At the request of his family. If you’ve got an open mic in here? Someone listening behind that glass? You need to turn it off. Now.” Peter clicked the two silver latches on his briefcase, opened it. Took out a manila folder and turned to his newest client.