Truth Be Told

9

“Maybe Gordon Thorley killed this vic, too.” DeLuca sniffed, scratching the back of his neck as he looked at the body on the floor. “Maybe we could get him to clear all our cases. It’d be like, a public service.”

“Have a little respect, dude.” Jake took a final reference shot with his cell phone. Crime Scene would be here on Waverly Road soon, but he kept his own records. Like his grandfather taught him. Jake had been thinking about Thorley, too. But that case had to go on hold. “So. The victim’s lapel pin. ‘M’? Or ‘W’?”

“It’s both.” The voice came from behind them. “And she’s a real estate broker. What do I win?”

The gang’s all here, Jake thought. His cell pinged for the second time in two minutes. He knew it was Jane. He also knew he could not answer. They’d relaxed the rules a bit, impossible not to. But he couldn’t give her the scoop, especially not in front of DeLuca. And now the medical examiner.

“Hey, Kat,” he said. “Perfect timing.”

“As always,” DeLuca said. “Hot enough for you?”

“You should know, Detective.” Dr. Kat McMahon looked at D, a fraction too long. Today her white lab coat was unbuttoned. Underneath, the T-shirt tucked into her blue scrubs read SUMMER IN THE CITY.

Jane always described the ME as one of those curvy Russian dolls in a doll, all red lips and sleek hair. The two women had clashed at a couple of news conferences since Kat came to town last year, Jane demanding information about the latest homicide, Kat refusing to give it. Doing their jobs.

“Real estate broker?” Jake said.

“Yeah. Mornay and Weldon.” Kat snapped open her boxy black ME bag, yanked out two lavender latex gloves. “Don’t you watch late-night cable? Real estate brokers. That’s their logo. It flips upside down in the ad, you know? ‘M’ or ‘W’? They found me my place when I moved here.” A glove snapped onto one hand, then the other. “This how you found her? You got photos? I take it you don’t know who she is?”

“That’s a one phone call, now, thanks to you,” Jake said.

A real estate broker. Huh. If that was true, maybe the bad guy was a potential buyer. He tested that idea, his mind spinning out theories. Maybe she’d been here showing the house. The would-be buyer shows up, maybe attacks her? Some kind of robbery? Maybe to get keys? She struggles, he panics, and… If that was true, so much for his initial focus on the former owner. Or-maybe not. It was okay to speculate at this point in a case. Had to. But kiss of death to make a decision early on. That’s how cops made mistakes. “Yeah, this is how we found her. She fell when the deputies opened the closet door. That’s why she’s like this. Any hope for a cause of death?”

“Ninety degrees outside? The body moved?” Kat crouched in front of the victim. “Could be tough, because-ouch. Strike that. Look at the back of her head.”

“What the heck are they doing in there?” Jane’s back was soaked; her now-grimy white T-shirt would never be white again. Her black flats were caked with dust, her hair plastered to her head, and if she didn’t get water she would die. There was a big bottle of it in the car, but it was too risky to leave their stakeout spot in front of 42 Waverly to go get it.

Had they missed something? “TJ? Maybe the cops went out the back.”

TJ pointed to the ambulance. “Chill,” he said. “We’re fine.”

He was right. Her real problem wasn’t the fact that Jake and his posse were taking forever, or even the heat. The problem was that her boss was at that very minute, probably, going online with a story that there was a murder victim inside 42 Waverly Road, and Jane simply wasn’t sure that was true. What if Marcotte put her byline on it and it was wrong?

“Am I overreacting?” She pointed to herself with one finger. “You know I got fired, right, by the jerks at Channel Eleven? When they lost that lawsuit? When the jury said I was wrong?”

“Yeah, sure,” TJ said. “Everyone knows-”

“All I need,” Jane interrupted, “all I freaking-excuse me-need, is to have my byline on a story that actually is wrong. I could never salvage my career from that. I’d have to leave town and change my name.”

“Jane.” TJ, camera now on his lap, aimed a puff of air at the lens to get rid of the dust. “The medical examiner is inside. That’s a, well, I don’t want to say a good sign. But you know what I mean. There’s probably a dead person. The story will be correct.”

Jane had to give him that. She probably was overreacting. Being unfairly fired would do that to you. Having a crazy editor would do that to you.

“And, I hate to say it,” TJ added, “but would people really care? If it turned out there wasn’t a body?”

“I’d sure as hell care.” So would Jake, Jane didn’t say. He’d be pissed if the paper got his case wrong. Victoria Marcotte’s zeal for headlines could ruin everything. Jane’s career. Jake’s. Their relationship. Such as it was. “If the story is wrong, what’re they gonna do, run a correction on page twenty-six? Or some tiny online brief? People remember what they read. That’s what makes it history. Like I said, there’s only one true.”

“We’re about to hear it,” TJ said, hoisting his camera to his shoulder. “Check out the door.”

Jake pulled open the wooden front door, saw Jane and her photographer through the closed screen. Lens pointed right at him. No other reporters were on the porch, at least. Score one for Jake.

“Detective Brogan?” Jane said. “Couple of questions?”

They were always formal in public.

Jane had a smudge of what appeared to be dust across one cheek, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’d pushed up the sleeves of her white T-shirt, and held a little microphone toward him, its thin cord stretched to the max and attached to the camera.

“I’ll tell you as much as I can tell you,” Jake said. “Which isn’t much. We have a white female, mid-thirties. The medical examiner, at this early juncture, is calling it a ‘possible homicide.’ That’s all we can say at this time.”

Jane had a funny look on her face. Wonder why? But Jake went on.

“No cause of death at this time. That’s about it.”

“Do you have a name of the victim?” Jane asked. “Why she was here?”

“Not at this time, Ms. Ryland,” Jake said. “The Crime Scene unit will arrive soon, we’ll continue our investigation. Anything else will have to come from PR at HQ.”

“Any connection with the former owners?” Jane asked.

“Like I said, Ms. Ryland, any further communication will have to come via our headquarters’ public affairs office.” He tried to look stern. “If you have information that you feel might aid us in the investigation, we’re eager to hear it.”

He paused. Knowing Jane wouldn’t-couldn’t-tell him anything. Although, of course, she already had. Former owners.

“Anything else? No?” he said. “And we’re done.”

“Thanks, Detective,” Jane said. “As always.”

He caught a wisp of a smile. He’d see her later. Alone.

“Jake!” a voice came from within the house. DeLuca appeared at the screen door, gesturing him to come closer. “When you have a minute?” he said, voice low. “Got something.”