“Reported it as soon as he missed his slot.” Arsenault took a slug of tea, ice cubes clattering. “Can’t understand it. Before that? He’d been clockwork, you know?”
An ancient air conditioner struggled, wheezing, in the front window. His wife, Margy Mary-Jake had confirmed the name, twice, thinking he’d heard it wrong-brought cookies on a flowered plate, and sweetened iced tea, the icy brown liquid sweating a glass pitcher she carried on a clear plastic tray. “I know you boys have a lot to talk about,” she said. “But you’ve got to eat.”
“Thanks, doll,” Arsenault said, dismissing her with a wave. Margy Mary bustled out of the room. Jake imagined he’d smell something baking soon. Betty Crocker meets Tommy Lee Jones.
“So Arsenault, about Gordon Thorley.”
“Like I said, clockwork.”
“Right.” Jake shifted on the couch, plastic crinkling underneath him. Who were they saving the couch for, he wondered? Who would be important enough to sit on actual fabric? “But you interviewed him, right, every week? He ever indicate any problems, or anger, anything going on in his life? He ever mention a Treesa Caramona?”
“Nope, zip,” Arsenault said.
“Carley Marie Schaefer?”
“The Lilac Sunday girl?” Arsenault’s eyes widened. A phone rang at his mission control setup, a light flashed red, then green, then steady green. “My two-thirtys are gonna start calling,” Arsenault explained. “Long as we hear five calls, we’re fine. It’s hooked up to a machine, they’ll click in, they’ll be recorded. Anyway, Carley Marie Schaefer? How come?”
“Not at liberty to tell you exactly why, right now,” Jake said. “You know the drill, right? Under investigation? Trying to get your take on it. He ever mention her? Anything about that?”
“Nope,” Arsenault said. “You got me interested, though. You think he’s the-” Arsenault stopped, seemed to be calculating. “Ah. Caramona’s the one in West Rox. By the Arboretum. And I’m thinkin’ that you’re thinkin’-okay. Huh. Okay, then.”
He nodded, conspiratorial, pretending to zip his lips.
“Thanks,” Jake said. “So Thorley’s file, his history, you got that?” He held up a palm, heading off what he knew would come next. Arsenault had already opened his mouth in preparation to say no. “Yeah, I could get it from HQ, but you know how long that’d take?”
Arsenault’s incoming rang again, the lights flashing, then again, with a different ring.
“Two more to go,” Arsenault said, “then the city’s safe until four P.M., far as I’m concerned. Anyway. The files.” He pressed his lips together, drummed his fingers against the side of his nubby green glass, now filled only with melting ice. With a clink, the ice settled.
“Yeah, the files,” Jake said. “And listen. When we talked earlier, and I mentioned Gordon Thorley, you said-‘poor guy.’ Why was that?”
“I said poor guy?”
“Yup.”
Arsenault cleared his throat, swirled the ice cubes. “Well, he missed his parole call, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That means he could go back into the slammer, right?”
“Yeah.”
Arsenault nodded, agreeing with himself. “So, ‘poor guy.’ Right? Or ‘stupid guy,’ if you look at it that way.”
“I suppose,” Jake said. “So-the files?”
The phone rang. The final green light flickered, then stayed on.
“Life is good,” Arsenault said. “You can see the files. Sure.”
“Great,” Jake said. “So-”
“At headquarters,” Arsenault said. “You know the drill, right? They’d kill me if I gave ’em to you, or even told you anything that was in ’em. It’s all personal and confidential, even to you, Detective. Want some more tea?”
40
“So much for that.” Jane poked the elevator button for emphasis, having been summarily dismissed from Liz McDivitt’s office right when things were going so nicely. What had stopped the woman, so abruptly? The texts she’d received? Jane shook her head, frowning at the thin gray pile of the bank’s carpeting. Jabbed the down button again. No question, this story completely stunk, stunk from moment one.
The elevator doors swished open, and Jane stepped forward, trying to plan her next move. “Oof.” She backed up, surprised by a near collision with a suit.
“Jane Ryland?” he said.
Was she supposed to know him? She didn’t, she was pretty sure. Pinstripe suit, tie, shiny shoes. At least he didn’t have a knife.
“I’m Colin Ackerman. I handle PR for the A &A.” He gestured Jane out of the elevator and back into the hall. “Liz McDivitt just called me.”
Disaster. Or lucky break? Here was someone Jane might negotiate with, someone who could make decisions, someone with the access to get what she needed. Or someone who could get her ejected from the building.
“Terrific,” Jane said, choosing the optimist’s view. She didn’t want to get Liz in trouble, so she’d couch her request carefully, not mentioning customer names quite yet. “Liz and I were talking about the bank’s customer service department. As I’m sure she told you, the Register is doing a little consumer story on it. I was hoping-”
Ackerman raised an eyebrow, interrupting her request.
“A ‘little consumer story’?” he said.
“Yes, we’re-”
“Not what you usually do, if I remember correctly, Jane.”
Ackerman still looked pleasant enough, his muted plaid jacket open, his yellow tie appropriate for relating to the public. “Right? I mean, you’re usually on the trail of some nefariousness. Corruption? Malfeasance? You certainly understand why that’d be pinging my news radar.”
“True.” Jane did understand. She’d been guilty in the past, like any good reporter, of journalism “downplay,” soft-pedaling a story to get in the door. If this guy was suspicious because she usually did investigative stuff, it was ironic that this time she was actually telling the truth. Funny to be caught in her own trap for a consumer puff piece.
“The other reporter, Chrystal Peralta? Has the flu. I’m here as designated hitter while she’s on the injured list.” This day was a teetering house of cards. The story probably wouldn’t matter that much, but always better to succeed, no matter what the assignment. “The story has to run Sunday, so the deadline is…” Jane paused. He didn’t need to know the real deadline. “Today.”
Wait. Idea. “Hey,” she said. She glanced at Stephanie, caught her brazenly listening. Suddenly Stephanie had to flip through some very important papers on her desk. She was probably passing along everything they said to her boss, maybe even had the intercom open. If so, it was an opportune moment for Jane to let Liz know she was trustworthy. “I’d asked Liz to do a quick on-camera interview with us about customer service, but she was reluctant. Maybe because that’s your bailiwick?”
Jane tried adding an encouraging smile. This might be the perfect solution, or at least a solution. “My photog is downstairs right now. How about if we bring him to your office? I can ask you a few quick questions about-”
“Not about specific customers,” Ackerman said.
“Nope, nope, no specific customers, that’s exactly what Liz said, too.” Jane raised her voice, just a little, in case Liz was listening. “Customer service, that’s all. Really. Five minutes, ten, and we’re gone.”
Ackerman nodded, seemed to be considering. He checked his iPhone, typed in something.
Jane crossed her fingers. Come on.
“Sure,” he said. He smoothed his tie with one hand, clicked off his phone with the other. “Can you meet me on the fifth floor? My assistant will point you to the conference room. You may have to wait a bit, I need to make a few phone calls first. And Miss Ryland? You promised ten minutes. That’s all you get.”