Truth Be Told

16

Finally. Jane’s annoyance evaporated the instant her cell phone rang. Blocked, her caller ID said.

“Hey-” She stopped herself from saying “sweetheart.” She was so sure it was Jake, the words almost escaped, but of course, it might not be him. “I mean, this is Jane.”

She put the phone on speaker so she could multitask, getting some pepper jack and a thing of Brie out of the fridge.

“Miss Ryland? This is Elliot Sandoval. Again. Sorry to bother you at home.”

“Oh, hey, Mr. Sandoval, no problem.” She projected her voice as she grabbed a cheese board and tried to peel the plastic wrap from the gooey ripe Brie. When Jake got here, they could have it with some crackers and wine. And talk about lovely Bermuda. “The story worked fine, thank you. Ah, listen, Mr. Sandoval? I know you told me the officer who called didn’t give you a victim’s name-that’s correct, right?”

“No,” the fuzzy voice came from the speaker.

“Okay,” she said. Had to make sure. She scrabbled in the utensil drawer for a ceramic-handled cheese knife, leaning toward the phone. “You said the police were coming to your house. Did they? Do you remember their names? They’re gone now, right?”

“They did,” he said. “And they are. Gone. That’s why I’m calling. I’m here with-”

The doorbell. Coda dashed through the kitchen and streaked down the hall, a flash of calico. Silly cat hated the doorbell. It chimed again. Jake. Had to be.

“Mr. Sandoval? Can you hang on one second? Someone’s at my door. I’m going to put the phone down, forgive me, but don’t hang up. I’ll be right back.”

This would be a juggle. But she’d manage it somehow.

She punched her cell phone off speaker, left it on the counter. Touched her hair as she ran to her front door, stopped, took a breath. Wiggled her shoulders. After all this time, she was still nervous every time he arrived. But he shouldn’t know that.

She yanked open the door. “Hey, swee-”

“Hey, you swee.” Jake leaned in, gave Jane a brief kiss on the cheek. His black T-shirt was a mass of damp wrinkles, his jeans grimy, he needed a shave, and he was the bearer of bad news. He had to admit he was still damn nervous around her, though he tried not to show it. Did she want him as much as he wanted her? Would that change after he told her? “Sorry I’m late, Jane, but D and I had to-”

“I’m on the phone,” she was saying. “In the kitchen. Grab the couch, I’ll be back in a sec. Wine glasses are on the coffee table.” He took in her black stretch pants, Cubs T-shirt, bare feet. He’d allowed himself to imagine her in a bathing suit. Too bad that reality wasn’t gonna happen now. He’d have to tell her. Soon.

He was screwed. Doomed by a guy confessing to murder. Doomed by a probably guilty contractor protected by a hotshot lawyer. And doomed because the woman he loved-yes, he did-was probably, within the next half hour, going to kill him.

He collapsed onto the couch, moving over the spread-out pages of the morning paper and a couple of striped pillows to make room.

Worse, tomorrow the news would be full of the Waverly Road homicide. Everyone clamoring for answers and an arrest, like they were for Lilac Sunday. The public had no idea how difficult it was to close cases, even when you had a semi-suspect. Everyone watched TV, so now they all expected loose ends to disappear after fifty-two minutes. PR had already fielded a raft of questions from reporters, prodding them for “updates” on the dead woman. What if there were no frickin’ updates? They were doing all they could.

“Jerks,” he said.

“Who’s a jerk?” Jane stood in the archway to the kitchen, holding a silver tray and an open bottle of wine.

“No one.” He stood, smiling. Obviously couldn’t tell her the answer was reporters.

“Cheese,” she said. “And wine. I’m still on the phone. Two seconds, okay?”

And she was gone.

At least it put off the inevitable. D was home, packing. To add to the impending shitstorm, DeLuca would be gone for the next week. His partner, higher seniority, got to take his vacation as planned. Jake picked up the wine bottle, poured a glass, then stabbed a cracker shard into the melting brie, scooping up a chunk and crunching it down.

He toasted the universe, shaking his head. “Happy days,” he said.

Jane kept her voice low, needing to hurry, not wanting Jake to hear her. She edged away from the open door. Put her head down and clamped the phone to her ear.

“So it was Detective Brogan at your sister-in-law’s? And his partner. Okay. But you’re saying they were only asking questions. Didn’t charge you with anything. Correct? So how did they leave it?”

She nodded as she listened, even though Elliot Sandoval couldn’t see her. She heard the frustration in his voice, the worry. She’d been right, that’s where Jake had been, and that made sense, since the Waverly Road house once belonged to the Sandovals. Now she was intrigued by what Sandoval was asking.

“Your lawyer?” Jane replied. “Well, sure. Happy to chat with him. Her. Tomorrow?”

She wanted to focus on this, but it was a challenge with Jake right in the other room. Jake.

“Mr. Sandoval? Did you mention to either of the detectives that you had told me they were coming to your sister-in-law’s house?” Jane asked. This was getting complicated. Was getting? Had gotten. “No? Lets leave it that way, okay? It’s best if this is just between us.” Jane tucked the phone under her chin, dug in the kitchen junk drawer for a pencil and paper.

“And what’s your lawyer’s name?” She was incredibly curious-how had the penniless, foreclosed victim Sandoval afforded a lawyer? He hadn’t been charged, he’d said. So a public defender couldn’t have been appointed.

She had one more thing to tell him. And she hoped she was right.

“Mr. Sandoval?” She paused, considering, then went on. “Don’t worry, okay? I’m sure everything will be fine.”

She clicked off, wondering if that was true. As a reporter, it didn’t matter, really, how Mr. Sandoval felt. It didn’t even matter whether he was a murderer. All that mattered was the truth.