“A consumer story?” Jane didn’t really enjoy doing those puffy little pieces. Valuable info, she supposed, readable, and good for the paper. Just not her style. “Banks?”
“You’re already working on that foreclosure piece, so it’s right up your alley.” Marcotte opened her top desk drawer, pulled out a reporter’s spiral notebook and a manila file, offered it to Jane. “This is her notebook, it has all her contacts and info, and there’s even a printout of her first draft of the story. We only need twelve column inches, we’ll run it online and in print, and use a quick video sound bite as sidebar, maybe two, from whoever you interview, office, customers, your call. Have it in by Friday. Plenty of time.”
Jane accepted the notebook and file, feeling a looming cloud of cranky that she didn’t try very hard to dismiss. “I feel odd, taking another reporter’s story. And what if Elliot Sandoval is arrested? And are we just ignoring the Moulten Road body?”
“I’ve got a nightsider on that. It’ll be nothing, I predict.” Marcotte waved at her open office door. “So, better get on it, right? As for Sandoval, I don’t know how it works in television, but in newspapers, we can handle more than one assignment at a time. Any questions-shoot me an e-mail. The rest of it, you don’t need to worry about. We clear, Jane?”
Marcotte paused. Jane could have sworn she saw a hint of a smile.
“I tapped you for this because I know I can trust you,” Marcotte said. “We’re short-staffed, as you know, and trying to make do. You and TJ did a great job on Waverly, and I know you’ll get the rest of the story. I know you won’t let me down.”
Well. Imagine. A compliment.
Jane’s phone, clicked to mute for the meeting, buzzed in her tote bag. This wasn’t the time to put Marcotte on hold.
“No problem.” She raised Chrystal’s notebook, saluting authority and teamwork. And employment. “Happy to help.”
Felt strange to have Bing Sherrey beside him instead of DeLuca. They tramped up the front walkway to Elliot Sandoval’s place with a warrant for his arrest for the murder of Shandra Newbury. If all went as planned, Jake and Bing would soon be walking back to their cruiser, and putting a handcuffed murder suspect in the backseat.
D would be pissed to miss out, but he’d be in on the rest of it. Lilac Sunday was only days from now, and the confessed killer was in custody. Things were going Jake’s way. The way of “case closed.”
“You all set, Sherrey?” Jake raised a fist to knock on the metal jamb of the screen door, then decided to press the doorbell instead. Sandoval’s white pickup sat in the driveway, two-by-fours stacked in the flatbed. With the impound squad on the way, the truck wouldn’t be there much longer. Jake had called Peter Hardesty, professional courtesy, to warn him of the impending tow and the Sandoval takedown, but so far, no lawyer. Jake felt semi-guilty about proceeding without him, but Hardesty’d been warned. All still by the book.
“Ready or not, here we come,” Sherrey said. He opened the lid of the metal mailbox mounted on the vinyl siding, peered inside, closed it. Smoothed the rumpled tie he’d yanked over his head in the car, pulled at the now-open collar of his shirt. “Most people, if they’re ticked off at a real estate agent, they just fire ’em, you know? They don’t kill ’em.”
Jake heard the bing-bong of the doorbell echoing inside, squinted his eyes, listened hard for movement inside the house. Kids’ voices, laughing, floated in from some backyard, not this one. The street-sweeping truck whooshed by, kicking up dust and brushing away nothing. A window air conditioner hummed, drops of water splatting on some kind of lush green plants below. The rest of the foliage was in bad shape, heat baked and struggling. The month of May could be a killer in Boston. He pushed the white button again. Heard the bell, and the echo, then nothing.
Pregnant wife, Jake remembered. Living with relatives. Going to be tough for them. “Not that it helped her, you know? But Shandra Newbury was smart, she’d kept some angry letters Sandoval sent her. All in that real estate transaction file we finally got from Turiello. Instant motive.” He rang the doorbell again. “Not to mention the fingerprints. Pretty much got him dead to rights. Damn it. Where the hell are they? If Hardesty-”
A car door slammed behind them. Jake turned. Sherrey did, too.
“Gang’s all here,” Sherrey muttered. “And party’s over.”
Peter Hardesty strode up the flagstone walk, canvas briefcase slung over one shoulder, his Jeep’s engine ticking in the heat. He lifted a palm in greeting, then pointed to the doorbell.
“Don’t bother, gentlemen,” Hardesty said. “My client is here, and well aware you’re here. But I instructed them not to answer until I arrived, assuming you wouldn’t wait. Apparently I assumed correctly. The old constitutional rights thing must have slipped your minds.”
“Sor-,” Jake began. Then stopped. There was no damn time for sorry.
36
“We’re here to see-” Jane checked Chrystal’s spiral notebook again. Peralta used both sides of every page, with no recognizable organization, incomprehensible shorthand, and lots of globby purple ink. Maybe the notes helped her, but they were driving Jane crazy. “Elizabeth McDivitt? I think she’s on three? I’m Jane Ryland from the Register, and this is TJ Foy.”
Jane and TJ had wandered past the zigzag rope line until a blue-suited greeter approached and pointed them to the “welcome” desk in front of a bank of elevators. Cardboard advertisements bracketed the guard’s desk, smiling faces in aluminum frames headlining low interest and free checking. A row of security video monitors blinked in fuzzy black-and-white. Jane resisted the temptation to wave and make a face, see if anyone noticed. She’d dumped her almost-finished coffee in the trash can by the ATM-not the most confident image, appearing for an interview clutching a cup of caffeine.
According to the lavender scrawls in Chrystal’s notebook, Elizabeth McDivitt was eager to help with the story, and seemed chatty about her new duties as bank customer service rep. But Chrystal’s barebones first draft needed a lot of work and, annoyingly, there was no way to do it without a follow-up. With sketchy notes like these, Jane had to wonder how Chrystal managed to write her stories. Happily, when Jane called to arrange the interview, a secretary recognized Chrystal’s name, said Miss McDivitt was expected “shortly,” and told Jane to come right over.
So. All good. And yes, Victoria, she could handle more than one story at a time. Unless Elliot Sandoval was arrested today, in which case her brain would explode and deadlines along with it. But so far, no call from Peter. She frowned. That call in Marcotte’s office. She needed to check her messages. As soon as she-
“Ma’am? Picture identification?” The guard’s demand interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh, right, sure.” She showed her laminated news ID to the security guy, gestured to TJ to do the same. A sinewy ninja-wannabe in starched polyester and a shiny badge, the guard perched on a high stool behind the sleek marble desk. He scrutinized their IDs, Jane’s, then TJ’s, then Jane’s again, as if the two of them were trying to pull a fast one.
TJ kept his camera at his side, his non-intimidating stance.
“No cameras,” the guard said.
Arguing with security. Always a pleasure.
Maybe she could charm the guy, make it seem like a personal request. “Sir? Could you make a call for me?”
She read the ornate brass and marble nameplate on his desk. William John Leaver, III.
“Sir? Mr. Leaver? William? Bill? Like I said, I’m Jane Ryland, from the newspaper? Ms. McDivitt is expecting us.”