Liz’s cell phone pinged, the third time. Apologizing, she texted an answer with a few quick stokes. “Chrystal seemed nice,” Liz said, stashing her cell in the desk drawer. “Sorry about the texts. I’m surprised she’s not here.”
“Flu,” Jane said, wrinkling her nose. “I’m backing her up. Confirming her story.”
“Got it,” Liz said. “I’m a numbers girl, so I know how important it is to be accurate.”
“Right.” Jane smiled, opened Chrystal’s notebook again. “So, trying to read Chrystal’s notes here, she has you quoted as saying, ‘The first step in finding the best mortgage is to check rates online, then visit local banks to discuss their services with mortgage experts.’ Sound right?”
Liz blinked, scratched her cheek with a forefinger. “Yeah.” She drew out the word, seeming to consider. “I suppose so. True enough. I don’t really remember talking about mortgages, but sure.”
Jane peered at the notebook, deciphering. Maybe she’d read it wrong. “It’s difficult to read her notes, frankly, so tell me, what would you say about that?”
“Well,” Liz said, “I suppose it would be-”
“Hang on.” Jane found a blank page, then patted her pockets for a pen. Lizzie stood, anticipating.
“Need a pen? Here,” she said. “Courtesy of the bank.” She pulled a red ball point from the container, the A &A logo emblazoned in white. She leaned across the wide desk as Jane stood to accept it.
Both picture frames fell forward onto the desk, clattering, facedown. “Oh, sorry.” Jane stepped back. “Moved too fast. Hope they’re okay.”
Liz righted the frames, set them back into place. A wisp of a smile flickered across her face. “No problem.”
“Family photos?” Jane asked. They were BFFs, after all.
Liz picked up one of the frames, turned it to face Jane for an instant, then set it back into place. “Boyfriend,” she said.
Tasting the syllables, Jane noticed, almost as if the word was new.
“Ah,” Jane said.
“New,” Lizzie said. “He just gave it to me. Recently.”
As Jane predicted. Maybe that explained the uncooperative hair and untidy hemline. Ah-ha. “Nice.”
“Yeah.” Liz tucked a curly strand behind one ear, where it stayed only briefly. Jane could tell her mind was elsewhere. Maybe the new boyfriend had texted her, that’s why she’d answered so quickly. Nothing like the first tingly throes of new love. Jake, Jane thought.
Liz picked up the picture frame, now turned it toward Jane, full face. “He handles the bank’s foreclosed properties.”
“Oh. Nice.” The reporter-subject relationship was always a tightrope. Reporters had to be genuinely interested-were genuinely interested, at least for as long as it took to do the story-in what their interview subjects had to say. From time to time, though, an interviewee would decide their interest and focus meant they wanted to be friends, and the sharing would go a little too far.
Jane took in the smile, the mop of curls, the rep tie just so in what was clearly a corporate head shot. The dark-haired guy on the elevator, Jane realized. The one Liz had smiled at this morning when she arrived. Ah-HA.
“You also want more names of happy customers, you said?” Liz gave the photo one last look, then replaced it on her desk.
“I do, yes. The ones here are difficult to read.” Jane flipped to a new page in Chrystal’s notebook, relieved the boyfriend discussion seemed closed. The short list of customers had been scribbled in Chrystal-glyphics, so Jane needed to get her own names. Ones she could read. She’d find them, call them, interview two or three, bang out the story, and then be free to fight her own battles.
Jane clicked open the bank pen. She’d give it back, of course, when they finished. “Ready.”
38
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks, Mom. Always a treat to see you, too.” Jake leaned in and gave his mother a quick kiss as she let him into the foyer of their Back Bay brownstone. Two-forty-three Marlborough Street, circa 1860, where Jake grew up, was an elegant sliver of history fronted by an ancient dogwood and a tiny emerald patch of front lawn. He heard a woof from somewhere in the back of the house, Diva probably so comfortable on the elaborate dog bed Mom kept in the mud room that the pooch decided it wasn’t necessary to get up. Jake had half an hour before he was due at Arsenault’s house in Southie. Just enough time to check in on Diva-and on Grandpa’s files in the basement.
“Coffee?” she said. “Did you have breakfast? I can get Mrs. Bailey to make-”
“I’m great, Mom.” Diva finally deigned to greet him, her plumy tail signaling her affection. A great dog, but how the hell had he figured he could take care of her with his unpredictable schedule? Diva turned her attention to his mother, snuffling at the pockets of her turquoise linen tunic.
“Are you giving her treats?” Jake asked. Diva had clearly worked some kind of magic on his usually fastidious mother. A few years ago at the animal shelter, the golden pup used the same tactics on him.
“It’s our house,” his mother said. Diva chomped, devouring some sort of dog treat in two retriever bites, then turned to Jake, luminous eyes begging for more. “I can do what I want for our guests. And Diva can stay as long as she likes. Now. To what do I owe this visit, kiddo?”
“Business. Grandpa’s files, downstairs.” Jake scratched Diva behind her ears. “Stay here, pooch.”
“What files?” His mother followed him to the basement door, Diva right behind.
“Lilac Sunday,” Jake said. He put his hand on the light switch at the top of the stairs. “If I can find them.”
His mother frowned. “Sweetheart, is that really necessary? You know how your grandfather-”
“It’s a cop thing, Mom.” He leaned in, kissed her on the cheek. And a Brogan thing. “Don’t worry.”
Jake flipped on the light and closed the door behind him, down the splintery wooden stairs, smelling the dank earth and cool brick walls. Even when the day was blazing hot, the basement was always like another world. Jake had taken books and flashlights down here as a kid, hidden in his special dark corner reading Justice League of America comics, or pretended to be tracking down clues to the escaped bad guys, who were often found-after Jake’s superpower detective skills were unleashed-hiding behind the washing machine.
Now the basement served as a cedar closet for Jake’s mother’s out-of-season clothing, one rack of clear-boxed shoes lining a side wall. Skis, golf clubs, and tennis rackets were stacked along another, but the back corner stayed pristine, reserved for a pair of battered black file cabinets, full of folders Jake’s grandfather brought from the old police station on Clarendon Street. That building was now a chic hotel, housing a hip restaurant called Verdict.
While he was alive, Grandpa kept the file cabinet locked. Years after his funeral, newly-minted cop Jake decided he could look inside. He’d taken the oath, after all, so there could be no more secrets. Although Jake never articulated it to anyone, looking at the files, just looking at them, seemed a way to connect with his grandfather. The commissioner never got to see Jake awarded his badge or receive his ticket to the Homicide squad. Jake always regretted that.
Jake pulled out the rickety file drawers once again, this time with a purpose. He heard the faintest of squeaks, felt a tug of hesitation from the seldom-disturbed metal. Grandpa’s rows of manila file folders appeared, the paper now softened by the damp, edges fluting. The labels on each one, handwritten in fountain pen, had blurred with the passage of time, faded into the otherworldliness of forgotten paperwork. These were Grandpa’s personal case notes and newspaper clippings, the equivalent of a scrapbook, Jake realized.