“But we should have-,” Vitucci began.
“Go. Find me the assholes.” Jake pointed toward the street. “And find out who that guy is. The suit with the Lexus. We’ll need to chat with him.”
At this, Vitucci perked up, all business. “We asked when he showed up, we did that, says he’s the real estate guy,” he said. “So-”
“Go,” Jake said. “Bring back those deputies.”
“Look at this.” DeLuca scanned the small room as the cops bolted. “There’s no purse, no possessions. No nothing.”
The deputies had done their stuff all right. Dresser, drawers pulled out, empty. Closet, now open, empty, a few metal hangers. Window open. “Whoever killed her took the purse, maybe,” DeLuca continued. “Maybe a robbery? Think she was the owner, maybe? Former owner, I mean.”
“Maybe.” Jake said. Well-cared-for, short dark hair. A slash of pink lipstick clownish on her pale skin. Bare legs, sandals, a simple dress like Jane always wore, a light navy blazer flapping open. A necklace with a tiny gold horseshoe dangled from a delicate chain around her neck. “But check it out. She’s got a diamond-looking ring, a good haircut, that manicure. Gold necklace. Doesn’t seem like a foreclosure type. No gunshot wounds visible. You calling the ME? Tell her no bleeding, no sign of-well, wait.”
“Yeah,” DeLuca said. “I see it.”
Jake crouched, keeping his balance on the hardwood floor, as close to the victim as he could without touching. The sun blasted through the eight-paned window, making a shadow latticework on her motionless form. Jake squinted at the tiny gold insignia pinned in the lapel of the blue blazer, shining in a patch of light.
“Whaddaya think?” Jake asked. “‘M’ or ‘W’?”
“I’m trying to get all that right now,” Jane said. She’d borrowed TJ’s phone so she could brief the city editor and use her own cell to text bullet points to the copy desk at the same time. This was no longer a straightforward foreclosure on Waverly Road. But that’s all Jane knew for sure.
She hit SEND, multitasking, T. J.’s phone clamped between her cheek and shoulder. Victoria Marcotte, the new city editor, continued to fire off questions. Jane surveyed the scene as she answered.
“Yes, cops. Nope, no movement. We’re on the sidewalk. The EMTs are in the front seat of the ambulance, probably soaking up the AC. Bank guy, or whoever he is, just got into his Lexus,” Jane said. “So listen, Victoria, if there’s a body inside, we’ve got it. Exclusive.”
TJ had risked setting his camera on the sidewalk and now sat on the curb next to her, feet splayed onto the pot-holed asphalt of Waverly Road. He looked as dust-coated and sweaty as she felt. But she was relentlessly curious. And patient enough to wait.
“I can send you a cell phone photo, even video, soon as I see anything,” Jane told her editor. After three years in TV battling the deadlines and stress and pressure for live video, her admittedly unenthusiastic entry into newspapers had-at least for a while-removed that tension from her work equation. Now, with the Register’s online edition, she was back to instant news. Not only getting the info, but often taking the pictures. It was fun, juggling it all. When it worked.
A change in the light. The front door was opening.
“Victoria? Gotta call you back.” Jane saw TJ was already rolling, headed toward the house. She had to catch up with him.
Victoria was still talking.
“But-,” Jane tried to get a word in. “Yes, yes, forty-two Waverly Road. But you can’t say it’s a ‘possible homicide,’ because we don’t know if-well, sure, I suppose it’s a possible homicide until it isn’t. But I think we should wait until the police-”
The front door had closed again.
“Fine,” Jane said. Marcotte had not let her finish the sentence. “Watch for my e-mail.”
She clicked off, caught up with TJ, gave back his phone, and switched hers to photo mode. Snapped off a shot of the exterior, door closed, one of the ambulance, one of Lexus guy, one of Jake’s cruiser. Jake, who was still inside. Jake, who had not answered her text. Jake, who, well, that was for later. She punched in Victoria’s number again, muttering. Hit SEND. Photos were on the way. Fine.
“It’s bull,” she said as she caught up to TJ. “Marcotte demanded photos, so they can do a breaking news in the online. ‘Possible homicide’”-Jane made quote marks in the air-“in Hyde Park.”
“We have no idea if it’s a homicide.” TJ took his eye from the viewfinder, frowned at her.
“Exactly what I told her.” Jane kept her eyes on the front door. “She didn’t care.”
Jane pitched her voice into the imperious Marcotte manner. “‘Are you saying it’s not a possible homicide?’ That’s what she actually said to me. She’s like, ‘I understood that’s why you were calling me. Possible means possible. I’m only repeating what you told me, is that not correct? Are you calling me with information that’s not correct?’”
Jane stuck out her tongue. TJ’s eye was back on the viewfinder, and he couldn’t see her probably inappropriate gesture. “I hate that,” she said. “She doesn’t seem to care what’s true.”
“It’s as good as true, right?” TJ told her. “If it’s in the paper? If it turns out it isn’t, we correct it. Usually.”
“And when we don’t, the truth disappears,” Jane said. “Exactly what I’m afraid of.”
8
If Aaron were any handsomer, Lizzie thought, she literally would not be able to stand it. Stephanie was still at her desk, Lizzie supposed, but as far as the secretary knew, Aaron Gianelli was coming to her office to talk business. Aaron had a way of talking business that made her feel not very businesslike.
“You been outside?” he said. He’d loosened his tie, and leaned against the doorjamb, lounging, both hands stuffed into pockets of his pants. “It’s incredibly hot.”
Lizzie tried not to stare, but that meant she had to look into his eyes, which was even harder.
“You don’t look hot.” Lizzie blushed, dying. “I mean-”
“Hey, Lizzie. Now you owe me.” He gave her that smile, then unbuttoned one shirt cuff and rolled it up to his elbow. Then the other.
She wondered how the rest of him looked. Her skin, if it were right next to his, would not be as tan. Now she was probably blushing again. She wished her phone would ring. The intercom buzz. Fire alarm. Anything.
“I came to check out your new digs. Welcome to the big time.” He gestured at her office. “Looks terrific, Lizzie. Nice chairs, nice desk, all the comforts of home.”
He walked toward her, before she even had a chance to say anything. Came around behind her chair, she could feel his presence there, imagined she could smell him, even though she couldn’t, felt the back of her neck prickle, felt her brain catch fire.
He leaned closer. She didn’t move, couldn’t move.
His breath was in her ear.
One arm, so close she could see the freckles dotting his suntan, reached past her, opened a file on her desk. The Iantoscas’ file. Labeled with their name in big Sharpie block letters.
Was he going to kiss her? Right now? At work?
But Aaron had snatched up the Iantoscas’ file and stepped away from her, leaning against the windowsill. Now he was actually paging through the paperwork inside.
“Whatcha working on here?”
He was smiling, but he didn’t look happy. She’d never seen that expression on his face before.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. This was her secret. Her. Secret.
“Five-forty-nine Nordstand Boulevard?” Aaron turned one page, then another. She could hear the swish of paper as he thumbed through the financial disclosures and deeds and legal documents. “Christian Iantosca. This is one of our REOs. From our department. Why’s it on your desk?”