“… and now, according to some police source who just called one of our reporters, Elliot Sandoval has been arrested! You didn’t even leave a specific message that-”
“I didn’t,” he admitted, interrupting. “It was kind of a crazy time.”
“Crazy?” Jane’s voice went up an octave. “Crazy? Critical, I’d call it. And what’s more, that was a specific event you’d promised to share with me, exclusively, if we promised not to run a story. Remember that? I lived up to my side of the-”
“Yeah, I know.” Peter had to interrupt again. “But what could I do? You didn’t answer the phone, and my primary concern was with my client, who at the moment was about to be arrested for murder.”
“Duh,” Jane said. “My point exactly.”
“But all is not lost.” Peter tried to advance the conversation, distract her from her sarcasm. She was so intent on this, she probably wasn’t even listening. Peter could picture her face, her frown, a pencil behind her ear, her hair coming out of that ponytail. It was-charming, how devoted she was. He was glad they were on the same side in this one. Even though she wasn’t acting like that now. “The arraignment is slated for ten A.M. tomorrow, so how about if we go from there?”
Silence.
“The detectives would never have let you in, anyway.” Peter kept trying. Somehow, it was important that she not be angry with him, that she trusted him. He’d made a battlefield decision, under pressure, and his client had to come first. Deal or not. And of course, Jane could renege on her end of it, too. She and that imperious editor could decide to make the Sandovals’ life miserable while they awaited the disposition of his case.
“Jane?”
Silence. He heard a toilet flushing somewhere down the hall. He didn’t have long for this conversation to stay private. “Jane? Are you still there?”
Jane leaned back in her office chair, phone in hand, stretching out as far as she could, balancing with practiced precariousness on the two back legs. She’d figured on writing the bank piece, then heading home for an early dinner and falling asleep in front of Masterpiece. But then, a colleague had e-mailed her the scoop from the cops. She’d read it fifteen or sixteen times, incredulous, before it actually sank into her brain.
Of all the ridiculous and double-dealing… She’d sat in Marcotte’s office with Hardesty, and against her better judgment agreed to keep things under wraps in order to get the exclusive. So much for that brilliant idea. She was surprised Victoria Marcotte hadn’t swooped in on her broom to cackle over Jane’s defeat. Although Marcotte herself agreed to the collaboration.
Jane was just-she clunked her chair wheels back onto the floor. A peon.
“Yes, I’m still here. I’m trying to keep my language appropriate.” Jane sighed, puffing out a breath of defeat. It was one local story, not Watergate. “Can you bring me up to date, then? If you tell me what happened, who said what, all that, I suppose we can go from there.”
She jammed the phone between her shoulder and cheek, clicked open a blank Word file on her computer. The e-mail had warned the Sandoval arrest was on the down-low, cops weren’t making it public, so the paper couldn’t run it anyway. Did Jake know? Had he made the arrest? She hadn’t heard from him, either. Jake. What was up with him? Jane poised her fingers over her keyboard. “Peter? I can take the info right now.”
She heard sounds on Peter’s end of the call, someone talking. “Peter? Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry, Jane,” he said. “I’m at a consultation actually, and I can’t-”
Silence. Had they lost the connection? She could feel Peter thinking, though, in the empty space on the other end. And certainly there was a clattering, like dishes. A consultation? Maybe in a restaurant? Or maybe she just thought so because she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since-she couldn’t remember.
“Peter?” she said again. It was pushing five P.M., and she was on her last reserves of adrenaline. There was still the bank story to write, accompanied by Colin Ackerman’s canned video bites. He’d actually offered her another ball-point pen-“For being such a good customer,” he’d said. She declined. The paper’s rules said you could accept gifts if they weren’t valued over twenty-five dollars, but Jane went by her own rules. An honest reporter never takes anything free.
“Yeah,” Peter said. “Like I was saying, I can’t now. But how about tonight? Over dinner?”
Jane took the phone away from her ear, looked at it as if she could see him through the little holes in the receiver. She put it back to her ear, realizing she was smiling.
“Dinner?”
“Low-key,” he said. “I’m tired after last night, and I’m sure you are, too. But we’ve got to eat. We’ll go early, Legal’s or someplace, and I’ll give you the whole story.”
Jane took a long shot. “You didn’t happen to take photos of the arrest, did you?”
She heard his quiet laugh. “No photos, Jane. Do you ever stop? But I do have some interesting info about the case. I’m out on the Cape, though, so how about seven thirty? Grilled shrimp, white wine, and the scoop.”
Jane assessed her jeans, she was wearing good ones at least, her black T-shirt, and linen jacket, acceptably wrinkled. Black flats. She could go into the ladies’, fluff her hair, wash her face, be presentable. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. It was a work dinner, not a date. Better to be on good terms with this guy than be angry. Nothing was ever gained from holding a grudge.
“We’ll split the bill,” she said. “You’re very persuasive.”
“Just ask my juries,” Peter said.
42
“Richard Arsenault, with A-U-L-T,” Jake said into the phone. Slowing down, he scanned Marlborough Street for an available parking place near 243, as if such a thing would be possible at six in the evening in the heart of Back Bay. If Mother was out at some event, he could use her deeded parking place in the narrow alley behind the building. Otherwise, he’d be tempted to use his police department leverage to park in the no-standing zone. It was official business, after all.
“Arsenault’s who I talked to, Nate,” he continued. “He never said a word about a controversial parole. Do you know him?”
Jake spotted a space-miracle-near enough to the front of 243, and edged in between a high-end Bimmer and a Volvo convertible. Ignored the resident-parking-only sign. He was a resident, technically. Just not right now.
“Arsenault?” Frasca paused, his staticky silence continuing as Jake shifted into park. “Ah, no. That name is not familiar. Thorley’s parole officer was-wait. Hang on.”
Jake checked his face in the rearview. He needed a shave, his jacket had seen better days, and he hadn’t been home since yesterday. Mother would make some sort of comment, he was sure. He’d finally decided her attitude came from affection, not criticism. He was still her little boy, weapon-toting badge-carrying police detective or not.
“Smith,” Frasca said. “Gary Lee Smith. That’s the name on these records I have. That’s who he was assigned to, back four, five years ago. When he was first paroled.”
“But now he has Arsenault? What happened to Gary Lee Smith? And why?”
“Why? You’re asking me, Detective?” Frasca’s laugh came through the speaker, accompanied by the rush of a motorcycle outside Jake’s window and some rat-sized dogs, tangled in their leashes, yapping around the frazzled-looking teenager walking them.
“Good point,” Jake said. The machinations of the parole department were legendary. Jake would have to investigate whether the PO reassignment was anything but by-the-book. Those guys were legal system nomads, like correction guards and court officers, always shopping for a better gig or cush assignment. At a certain age, though, they were all about the pension. Unless they got caught in some scam or scheme or misguided palace intrigue, in which case they were out on their ass. “Thanks, Nate. Keep me posted.”