Truth Be Told

13

The phone rang just as Peter stepped toward his office door. Five o’clock. Officially, the law firm was closed for the day. But the phone on Nicole’s reception desk rang again, insistent. Thorley didn’t have that number. This was someone else.

Through his tenth-floor window Peter could see happy people, normal people, a couple feeding the ducks, throwing bread crumbs or something at the mallards gathered in the pond. A sunset swan boat glided by, full of tourists, probably, and people who didn’t have to think about cold-case murders of high school girls and the misguided men who were inexplicably confessing to the crimes.

Why would Thorley confess? One easy answer. He was guilty. Fine with Peter-he’d represented worse. Even the guilty ones needed lawyers. Especially the guilty ones.

The phone rang again.

Peter blew out a breath, remembering the lawyer’s prayer. This phone call might bring him his case-of-all-cases. Tobacco, or lead paint, or a new Dalkon Shield. Some hideously widespread but provable injustice, or a victim with a stash of incriminating e-mails, finally ready to blow the whistle on some big-bucks government corruption. If Peter ignored the phone, the desperate plaintiff would call someone else, and someone else would get the glory. And the 30 percent.

His assistant, Nicole, was long gone, headed out at close of business to do whatever paralegal slash secretaries did on a Boston spring evening, sail or skateboard or dance or drink a pink cocktail with friends. Defeated, Peter picked up the phone.

“Hardesty and Colaneri,” he said. Too late to turn back now. “This is Peter Hardesty.”

He paused, listening to the person on the other end.

“Yes,” he said. He put down his briefcase. Lowered himself into his desk chair. Grabbed a yellow pad. Clicked open a pen. Still listening. “Yes.”

“I’m telling you, Jake, it’s a slam dunk.” D was still trying to convince him, had not stopped trying for the past few miles, that the person they were about to go visit was Shandra Newbury’s killer. Jake stopped at a red light, almost tuning D out. Sure, that would create a certain symmetry about the whole thing. Irony, too, since the suspect was right out of Mornay and Weldon’s own real estate listings.

“Do me a favor, D.” Jake turned onto Olivet Street, then onto Champlain. “Look for number four-twenty-five. Then try to stay a little objective. Maybe the guy’s innocent, that ever cross your mind?”

“Oh, mos’ def,” D said. “He’s innocent, and so is Gordon Thorley. Everybody’s innocent. It’s a wonder we still have our jobs, with all those innocent people out there.”

“It’s only one day until your vacation, D.” Jake pretended to be sympathetic. “Once you and Kat hit one of those sandy beaches, all your pent-up hostility will vanish. You’ll be better when you get back.”

“There it is.” D pointed. “Tan siding, dead grass. Crappy pickup truck in the driveway. Bad guy inside.”

“We’ll see.” Jake eased the unmarked cruiser to the curb, slid into a just-barely-legal spot north of the fire hydrant. A few random kids sauntered up the sidewalk, baseball caps backward, shapeless T-shirts, skateboards under their arms. Most driveways had cars, nothing fancy. Middle class, lower, seemed like. Struggling strips of gardens, homeowners clearly losing the battle with their yellowing lawns. Someone was grilling out, Jake could smell the charcoal. “He didn’t bolt after you called. That’s a not-guilty, right there.”

“Maybe it’s the wife.” D opened his door, eased onto the sidewalk.

Just past seven, and it was still as sweltering as it had been this noon on Waverly Road. Jane, he thought. He’d see her again in less than two hours, if all went as planned. This time, by themselves. They could talk without using code.

“Doesn’t take much to clobber someone with a two-by-four,” D was saying. They crossed the narrow empty street, dodged a couple of potholes, headed for the modest ranch house. Curtains hid the small front windows. They couldn’t see inside, only that at least one light was on. “I might not have left it there, just saying. But who said killers are smart. We’ll know more soon as Crime Scene takes over.”

“And the wife’s motive would be what?” Jake asked. “Buyer’s remorse? Or how about jealousy? Because her husband and Shandra Newbury were-”

“Hey, check out the truck,” D interrupted. “There in the back.”

Jake took two steps. Saw what D was talking about. A stack of two-by-fours. “We just called him, you know? Ten minutes ago. Not enough time to get rid of them.”

They stopped, looked at each other.

“Plain sight,” Jake said.

“Am I right, or am I right?” D said.

Aaron would pay for this dinner, probably in more ways than one. The Ritz Café was a splurge, all white napkins and shiny glass plates. It was the Taj now, whatever. Question was, what would be the return on his investment?

As Lizzie talked nonstop, he watched her lift the circles of red onions from her overpriced hamburger, then ferry them with a fork to her empty bread plate. Then she removed her hamburger from the sesame-seeded bun, and put the bun on the side plate, too. Lizzie sure seemed at home here, handing the waiter her scorned onions and rejected bun. Aaron took a bite of his well-done with cheddar, pretending to listen to whatever she was talking about.

At least she was drinking her wine.

The Iantosca situation churned though his mind as Lizzie continued her life saga. She was into her college business classes now, her “epiphany” from some econ professor about “banking for the people” and how the “balance of the economy” needed to be “reset” and “recalculated” to include customer service. All Aaron could think about was how to make his deal work. He had to find a solution.

“That’s cool,” he replied. Whatever she’d said. He dunked a seasoned fry into his pool of ketchup, watched Lizzie finally take a bite of burger-with her fork-and pulled out a phrase he’d heard Ack use. “Did your class discuss ‘informational silos of customer data’?”

Lizzie’s eyes widened. “It did, how amazing you know about it, yes, it did, and…” And she was off again.

It was shortsighted of him to worry about the Iantoscas. So what if their house was off the foreclosure list? Maybe he could even convince Ackerman to be happy about that info. They rarely talked, of course, and never e-mailed or texted, that was way too risky. But next time they connected, Aaron could easily make it seem like he had the scoop on the incoming properties. The real inside dope.

He nodded, agreeing with himself.

“I’m so happy you agree,” Lizzie said, watching him. “Most people don’t even think about how banks should work for the customers, not the customers for the banks.”

“Hmm,” he said. Whatever. And if he was getting the scoop, maybe this whole Lizzie thing was even more potentially productive than he’d initially imagined. He could definitely envision the well-connected Lizzie as information pipeline.

Another French fry. It made a gully as he drew it slowly through the ketchup. He did it again, watching the red separate, then move together again, seamless. As if he’d never touched it.

Now she was yapping about her first day at the bank. Interesting, she hadn’t mentioned her father at all, which seemed-well, maybe it was too early. He’d have to feel her out on that. A good salesman knew when to push. And when to wait. He was selling tonight, that was for sure.

His client-line cell phone buzzed on the table beside him, vibrating on the white tablecloth.

“You need to get that?” Lizzie asked.

He did need to, damn it, but now was not the time to talk to clients. “Not at all,” he lied. He couldn’t let this deal progress, and that was certainly what these calls were about, but he couldn’t get rid of her long enough to stop it. Bathroom, he thought. If they call again, I’ll just excuse myself.

“I feel bad, going on like this.” Lizzie blinked at him, eyed his phone. “When you’re obviously needed. By… someone.”

“No, no, nothing’s going to interrupt us tonight.” Aaron had about two swigs of his beer left. He’d need a refill. “This is Lizzie night. Correct?”

She took a sip of her twelve-dollar-a-glass rosé. She could have all she wanted. He wasn’t sure exactly what would happen later, but a two-glass-of-wine girl was more likely to be agreeable to whatever it was. Outside, he could see, it was turning dark, headlights and streetlights already on, Boston’s date-nighters heading out of the parking garage across the street. Half the people wore Red Sox caps. Still hope for the baseball season. This was only May.

Lizzie pointed to his vibrating cell phone with her fork. “Come on, Aaron. I can handle you taking a phone call.” She stood, plopping her crumpled napkin on the table. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. And I’ll have another glass of wine.”

She hadn’t taken two steps away when he grabbed his cell and hit answer.

“This is Allen,” he said, keeping his voice low. You never knew.

Aaron waited, listening. It always killed him to say his fake name. If he ever screwed up-which a couple times he actually had-he always pretended the other guy had heard him wrong.

“Thanks for calling back,” he said. “Listen, the house on Nordstand Boulevard isn’t going to work out. There were some undisclosed problems. It happens. Lucky for you, I’ve got a perfect replacement. You’ll be even happier with it, it exactly suits your needs, and I can show you tomorrow afternoon. You’ll be the first.”

He paused, as his client interrupted, yammering a whole list of questions, ending with a request. “Morning?” Aaron thought fast, figuring how he could pull this off. “Tomorrow at nine A.M.? Well, sure. Can do. The address is…”

Lizzie. Was on her way back.

“Listen,” he said, smiling across the room. Lizzie waved. “I’ll text you the address. Yes, furnished. See you tomorrow at nine.”

He clicked off as Lizzie arrived. He stood, pulled out her chair.

“Got any plans for the rest of the evening?” he said.

Lizzie looked at him from under her eyelashes. Two spots of red appeared on her cheeks, and she fiddled with a hoop earring. She’d combed her hair, Aaron saw, freshened her lipstick.

Lizzie sat down, took a sip of wine. “What do you mean, plans?”

“How’d you like to go look at a house?” He pulled his chair closer to hers.

“A-?”

“House. House,” Aaron said, teasing. “You ever really seen the ones in those portfolios of yours? You stay in your office all the time, adding and subtracting and doing amortizations or whatever. People live in those houses, all good. But the houses I handle? They’re empty, you know? Furnished, but empty.”

He raised an eyebrow, smiled at her. “We could have the place all to ourselves.”

Lizzie tilted her head, as if she were calculating. “Isn’t that…?”

“Isn’t that what? I have the keys, sweetheart.” Aaron picked up his beer, considering his strategy one last time. No harm in taking her, was there? It might even be worthwhile. “I’m the only one who legally does have access. You ought to see them, if you’re going to be handling mortgages. You know? To you, it’s all on paper, all numbers, all theoretical. To me it’s-”

Aaron eyed his glass, drained the last of his beer.

“To me it’s-real estate. Know what I mean? Real.”

Lizzie picked up her wine, stared at the pink liquid.

“Finish up,” Aaron said. “Then you and I are going to have an adventure. It’s Lizzie night, remember?”