“Too late now,” Elliot’s voice rasped, harsh and final.
“Elliot!” MaryLou ran to him, but Sherrey stepped between them, a barrier. “In custody” as reality. She stopped, arms at her side, the picture of defeat. This was never easy, but Peter always tried to see it as the first step on the path to justice. These two would be smiling again. He was sure of it. Almost.
“Listen. Elliot. Not a word. Not a word to anyone, not to these gentlemen, not to anyone you see in the police department lockup, not to anyone who seems friendly or helpful or solicitous. Nothing. Zero. Not a word. Got me?”
Elliot nodded.
“Brogan? You, too,” Peter went on. This had to be on the record. No telling what those two would try to pull once they had Elliot alone. “Do not to talk to my client unless I’m present. Not a word.”
Brogan nodded, Sherrey not so much. But they’d been warned.
“Good.” Peter turned to his client. “This’ll be behind us soon. I’ll see you in court.”
Brogan pulled the front door open, waved Elliot through, Sherrey right behind him. MaryLou whirled, hands clamped over her face, and sank into the couch. A woman appeared at the entrance to the hallway. The sister? There was nothing Peter could do for MaryLou. No comfort, no reassurance, no solace. “Don’t worry”? “It’ll be okay”? “He’ll be fine”? Whatever he told her-he couldn’t be certain it was true.
Peter watched as the three walked away into the May morning, one tall, one stocky, one in handcuffs, seeing the blast of sunshine through the open door, the tiny patch of browning lawn, some dumb bird twittering away as if nothing had happened. In a flash, the cops and their suspect were inside the unmarked cruiser, door slamming, taking his client away from freedom. Jane hadn’t returned his call, surprising, but just as well she wasn’t part of this.
MaryLou was sobbing in the woman’s arms.
“See you in court,” Peter muttered. Court was Elliot Sandoval’s only chance.
37
Where was Elizabeth McDivitt?
“Not here yet,” the secretary had just told Jane.
“Have you heard from her? No?” Odd. This Stephanie was the one who’d made the appointment. Jane couldn’t write the story until she confirmed her quotes and got a few leads on customers. So here she’d stay, long as it took. “I’ll wait.”
The elevator bell pinged, then the doors rumbled open behind her. Jane saw Stephanie check her watch, raise an eyebrow, then erase the judgmental expression from her face.
“There she is,” the receptionist said, pointing. She cleared her throat. “Finally.”
Jane turned to see a young woman coming toward them, attractive enough, slim-ish, hip eyeglasses, wavy dark hair twisted into a messy bun. This was a bank executive? Her navy linen suit was off, somehow, the hem askew and the jacket rumpled, the white silk tee underneath clearly having seen better days. Bare legs with little black heels. Even carrying that obviously expensive briefcase, she looked like she’d just come from the gym, hadn’t had time to pull herself together.
“I’m Lizzie-Liz, I mean-McDivitt.” The woman approached, holding out a hand to Jane. She looked at Stephanie, tilted her head. “Do I… is she a… did we have an-?”
“She’s with the Register,” Stephanie said. “A colleague of that Chrystal Peralta, who’s doing the story? She wants to-”
“Follow up a bit,” Jane said. Someone had to finish a whole sentence around here. “Do you have a moment?”
The elevator doors swished again, opening. Jane followed McDivitt’s eyes as she turned to follow the sound, just in time to see a dark-haired man, suit and striped tie, raise a hand in greeting, then disappear as the doors closed and elevator went up. McDivitt had waved back, kept her hand poised even after the elevator had gone.
“Ms. McDivitt?” Jane said.
“Oh, sorry, sure.” The woman shook her head, two little shakes, as if transporting herself back to the present. She gestured toward the closed office door. “Come on in.”
“May I speak to Richard Arsenault, please? Yes, I’ll hold.”
Jake stirred another sugar into yet another cup of coffee, propping his forehead in one hand as he waited for the answer in the open-air squad room. We got no secrets, the Supe had recently proclaimed. Not after one of their veteran beat cops went down for accepting kickbacks from a crime scene cleanup company. Supe gutted the old warren of high-walled offices, replacing confidentiality with waist-high barriers and putting all communications in full earshot of everyone in the room.
Jake fidgeted at his new desk, banging one knee into the too-close fabric divider. Best for a cop to be out on the street, his grandfather always told him. Now Jake’s cruiser was bigger than his cube. And more private. Sandoval was in lockup, awaiting arraignment, so at least that case was progressing.
Still on hold.
Parole officer Richard Arsenault, the guy who’d reported Gordon Thorley’s missed call, hadn’t returned any of the messages Jake left. Jake needed Thorley’s complete file, all the way back to the armed robbery days nineteen years ago, not only this latest episode. No surprise. The parole department was notoriously understaffed, over-egoed, and a general morass of incompetence.
Jake shook his head, clearing the gunk and extraneous thoughts, trying to power though this. At least Diva was at his mom’s. Mom had pretended to complain, just like I took care of your pets when you were a little boy, honey, but by now she understood Jake’s work. Accepted it, at least.
She and his dad had tried their best-even before Jake went to the Academy-to deter Jake from his detective ambitions. Now, finally, after four years and some headlines, they’d adjusted, sometimes even embraced, his decision. Jake’s own father had rebelled from Grandpa Brogan’s “blue blood” legacy by becoming a big-shot financier and married an actual blue blood, a Dellacort. The family loyalties had battled over him all the way through Harvard, but in the end, Jake was more cop than Brahmin, and both sides had relented. Some days, though, the lure of law school offered a certain temptation. At least he’d have wound up with an office where his legs fit under the desk. And a door he could close.
“Yo.” A voice came over the phone. “What can I do you for?”
“Richard? Arsenault?” Great. Tucking the phone between cheek and shoulder as he gathered his stuff, Jake explained what he needed. If Arsenault had the records at his house or office, or wherever, Jake could pick them up and save everyone a lot of admin hassle.
“Calling about Gordon Thorley,” Jake said.
“Poor guy,” Arsenault said.
Within fifteen minutes, Jane and “Liz,” as she insisted on being called, were on the road to BFFhood, even though Jane sat in a tweedy visitor chair and Liz in ergonomic black leather behind her new-looking desk. A silver pen holder, full; a silver business card holder stacked with cards and a pile of glossy bank brochures were aligned with the front edge of the desk. A silver computer keyboard sat behind a sleek black monitor. A couple of black lacquer picture frames faced Liz, so all Jane could see was their maroon-velvet backing. Personal photos, Jane theorized, not power portraits set out to impress guests.
“So, Liz? According to Chrystal-” Jane tried to get the news train back on track as Liz prattled on about her new position at A &A bank, her customer service department, her jargon-riddled ideas for streamlining the banking process and making it “numbers-friendly,” whatever that meant. It seemed the woman’s mother-“she died a few years ago”-would have loved that she’d gone into banking.