“But you can’t just-” Sherrey gestured toward the one-way glass. Pushed a button. “I mean, this is an ongoing-”
Peter ignored his whining.
“Mr. Thorley, I’m Peter Hardesty, from Hardesty and Colaneri? Your sister called, asked me to come make sure you weren’t saying anything without legal advice. Good thing, because apparently that’s what Detective Sherrey here is leading you to do. My first piece of advice? Don’t say another word.”
“I can’t-I don’t-she wasn’t supposed-I don’t want-,” Thorley sputtered, looked at the ceiling, then frowned at the floor. “Anyway, Doreen doesn’t have the money to-”
“As you hear, Mr. Hardesty.” The detective pointed a yellow legal pad at him. “Apparently Mr. Thorley, obviously of sound mind and clear intent, fully appreciates and understands the significance of what he’s said. What he’s actually already told us on tape. Several times. In the interest of justice, and perhaps his conscience.”
Interest of justice? Right. Still, this was a new one. Thorley had left his sister a “good-bye” and “I’m sorry” note on the kitchen table of their family home. He was either crazy or-well, Peter would discover that soon enough. But not while the cops were listening.
“Let’s get you straightened out here first, sir. That’s more important than the money. Your sister, Doreen, got your note, called me, explained the situation. Now, Detective? You’ll need to give us some time. Here, or elsewhere. Alone.” Peter smiled, gestured toward the inner window. “With no one-way glass, and no other cops listening.”
“Not if Mr. Thorley doesn’t want you.” Sherrey reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a package of Winston Reds. Tapped the end, held out the pack to Thorley. “Smoke? Another ginger ale?”
Thorley reached two thin fingers toward the Winston. Guy seemed in bad shape, the ribbed collar of his T-shirt twisted and too big, jacket sleeves fraying at the wrists. Like life had dealt him a losing hand, and he’d decided to fold. Peter’s job-any good lawyer’s job-was to keep him in the game.
“Your hospitality is admirable, Detective,” Peter said. “And theoretically, I suppose, you could ask me to leave. But play it out here. You just told me my client has already talked with you on tape-a tape I’m now formally requesting you to produce and provide. Given that circumstance, how can it cause you a problem to leave us alone for a while?”
Sherrey seemed to be considering it. He snapped a red plastic Bic, lit his own cigarette, aimed the smoke at the ceiling.
“Plus,” Peter went on. “You charge him with whatever it is. We go to court. What’s the first thing I’m gonna tell the judge? I’m gonna say you tried to keep me away. Poof. Your precious tape is inadmissible. Mr. Thorley goes home. You lose.”
Thorley was already stabbing out the cigarette he’d sucked down, grinding it into a metal ashtray on the table. He eyed Sherrey, a hungry dog. But in fact, Thorley needed more than a cigarette. He needed Peter.
Doreen Thorley Rinker had explained her brother’s handwritten note said he was confessing to a murder, and begged forgiveness. Said he was “doing it for the family.” What family? The victim’s? Bizarre. And more bizarre that Thorley didn’t want a lawyer. But hey. Everybody hated lawyers. Until they realized they needed one.
“Detective?” Peter pointed to his watch. “Tick, tock. The more you stall, the more the judge’ll be convinced you’re up to no good. Remember, Mr. Thorley’s already on parole. Correct? Why not let his parole officer look after him? Like he has for the past few years? He’s clearly not a flight risk, correct? I mean, he’s sitting here of his own volition.”
“Lawyers.” Sherrey stuffed the cigarettes into his jacket pocket.
“Can’t live with ’em…” Peter didn’t finish the sentence.
“Okay.” Thorley’s voice was a whisper. “I guess I should have a lawyer. But only so the system works fair. That doesn’t mean I didn’t do-”
“Not another word, Mr. Thorley,” Peter said.
Sherrey strode two steps to the door, opened it, then turned to glare at Peter. “This is bull,” he said.
“Thanks,” Peter said. The door slammed closed. “We’ll be in touch.”
Peter might have won this round. But the road ahead was not going to be pretty. Not when the client himself didn’t want to be saved.
6
“Somebody’s dead. Got to be.” Jane flapped her notebook against her leg, impatient. “If someone’s just hurt, the EMTs would’ve been running like hell.”
The screen door stayed closed.
“Yup.” TJ aimed his voice at her, kept his eyes on the door. “But listen.”
A blue-and-white Boston police cruiser, blue lights whirling, siren screaming, peeled around the corner of Sycamore, flew onto Waverly, skidded to a stop at the end of the driveway.
The cruiser’s blue light mixed with the ambulance’s red. The tall EMT jogged toward the car.
“Here we go.” Jane squinted against the sunshine, hoping to ID the arriving cops. If they were pals, she might have an inside track to the story. She yanked on her sunglasses to cut the glare. That made it dark. Tried again without them.
The passenger side door opened.
Work boots. Levis. Black T-shirt. Sandy hair. Sunglasses.
Jake.
Jane?
Jake slammed his cruiser door, waited a beat for DeLuca to join him. Shaded his eyes, surveyed the crime scene. Some man in a Lexus, on the phone. Who was he? A neighbor? Two EMTs standing on the porch. Jake pointed at them, then at the house. One gave a thumbs down. Jake nodded. DOA.
And Jane.
Jane raised a palm at him, acknowledging, but stayed where she was, whispering with the guy shooting video. Must be the new on-line gig she’d described. Weird to see her with a camera again, after all the-
“My, my.” DeLuca cocked his head toward Jane. “You two lovebirds have got to stop meeting like this.”
“Right,” Jake said. “Let’s get in there. See what they got.”
He and DeLuca had a sometimes-silent truce about their private lives-DeLuca knew about Jane, enough at least, Jake knew about DeLuca and Kat McMahan, the medical examiner who’d soon be arriving, if the deputies had their facts right.
Jake knew he and Jane were going to have to make a decision. Soon. In fact, by this weekend. They couldn’t keep sneaking. Cop and reporter? Reporter and cop? Right at the edge of ethical. Over the edge, according to police SOP. The newspaper’s, too. They’d tried to stay apart, but that was a miserable failure. To stay together, one of them would have to quit. Which was impossible. The whole thing was impossible.
Jake raised a hand back as they passed. Jane’s shooter was getting it all on tape.
“Eviction, huh?” Jake pulled out his cell phone, opened a file. Thumbed in his to-dos. He’d have to check the sheriff’s paperwork. Get bank stuff. Get registry records, check ownership, track down tenants or whoever once lived here. “Whoever got thrown out, they’re not gonna be happy, that’s for sure. There’s a motive.”
The EMTs moved aside, let them through as the screen door squeaked open.
Inside, dust motes floated on sunlight streaming through curtainless windows, the living room empty, the hardwood floor bare. A pile of rags teetered, stashed in a charred brick fireplace. Place smelled like fire, and bleach. One flight of bare stairs to a second floor. Two uniforms blocked what was probably the opening to the kitchen. Vitucci and Callum. Good guys. Who did not look happy. They’d been detailed here, off duty. Not expecting to actually do any work. Surprise, surprise.
“Hey, Vitooch. We were at HQ, dispatch just radioed us the call. Got here fast as we could. Thanks for holding the fort,” Jake said. “Where’s…?”
“Hey, Jake,” Vitucci said. “Upstairs. With the sheriff’s deputies. It’s an eviction, right? Look, uh, Jake? Thing is-”
“Thing?” Jake said. “Thing” meant problem. Glitch. Snafu. “Thing” meant Jake’s day was about to get complicated. “There’s a ‘thing’?”