Truth Be Told

22

Something was certainly up.

Jane moved back into Marcotte’s reception area, watching Peter on the phone. His body language screamed bad news. Forehead touching the wall, one hand gesturing, whispering into his cell. Maybe Sandoval had been arrested?

If Sandoval was in custody, or about to be, at least that’d take her mind off whatever assignment Marcotte was now apparently giving Chrystal Peralta. Chrystal was a veteran reporter, around for maybe twenty years. Maybe more. Her stories were fine, straightforward, Jane supposed, not much flair, but she apparently made her deadlines and had some good connections. Who wouldn’t, after twenty years, if you were worth your salt.

Twenty years from now, when Jane was Chrystal’s age, where would she be? Still banging out murders at the Register? That was a question she wasn’t quite ready to face.

Right now, though, Jane still craved the headlines. A good reporter always does. Maybe someday she’d stop caring. Maybe.

Chrystal opened Marcotte’s office door, whooshing back into the reception area with a blast of musky perfume and a hint of cigarette.

“No problem, Victoria,” Chrystal was saying over her shoulder. “I’ll give you a buzz when-oh, hey, Jane.”

Jane smiled, oh so friendly. “Got a good story?”

“Dead girl near the Arboretum.” Chrystal stuck her pencil into her curls, left it behind her ear. “A week before Lilac Sunday? And there’s another murder around the Arboretum? City’s gonna go nuts.”

What did Lilac Sunday have to do with anything? “What about Lilac Sunday?”

“Lilac Sunday? The festival at the Arboretum. Every May, around Mother’s Day. Picnics, families, you know. And that girl was killed? Like, twenty years ago. They never found the guy.”

“Oh, right. I know that,” Jane said. “So they think this is connected? Why?”

Chrystal turned to Peter, who’d come up beside her from the hallway. “Can I help you?” she said.

“He’s with me. We’re working on a story together.” Jane answered before Peter could, no need to tell Chrystal about this. “See you later, Chrystal. Good luck with the-”

“Hang on, Jane, sorry.” Peter took a step toward Chrystal, holding out a hand. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Chrystal checked with Jane, eyebrows raised. He okay?

Jane shrugged. Whatever. Sure.

“You said there’s a-,” Peter went on.

“Homicide, I should have said,” Chrystal interrupted. “Apologies. Not ‘dead girl.’ Though the police haven’t formally called it a homicide. So far. But yeah, apparently there’s a young woman they found, strangled, so says our source. And since you can’t strangle yoursel-oh, sorry.” Chrystal held up both hands. “Sorry. Been in the business too long.”

“It’s okay. Peter’s a lawyer, and-,” Jane began.

“When was she killed?” Peter asked. “Where? Exactly, where?”

Chrystal took a step back, made a skeptical face like, who is this guy? “Forgive me, sir. I’ve got to head out.”

Jane watched Chrystal trot away down the corridor, her sturdy black sandals clopping against her bare heels, her curls hardly moving.

“Peter?” He’d come in all confidence and conviction. Now he looked upset, like someone had changed the rules. “Did something happen? Is this about Elliot Sandoval? Was he arrested?”

He didn’t answer, and Jane frowned, trying to arrange the puzzle pieces in some logical way. Chrystal had said there was another homicide. “Do police think Sandoval killed someone else?”

That didn’t make much sense, but neither did Sandoval killing Shandra Newbury, even though apparently police suspected he had. Who knew what “made sense.” Jane had covered enough stories of arbitrary and random disaster to appreciate that “making sense” was not always achievable. Reality was impossible to predict. That’s what made it headlines.

“Sando-oh. No. Its not that.” Peter shook his head, pulled out his phone. Now he was checking his screen and talking to her at the same time. “Listen, Jane? Could you find out more about this possible homicide? Who the victim is? When it happened?”

“Maybe.” Could she? Should she? “You have to give me some reason, though. I can’t march into the city editor and-well, what’s up, Peter? We’re working together on the Sandoval case, but that doesn’t mean you have access to everything.”

“Jane.” Peter stashed the phone in his jacket pocket. “Listen. Can you keep a secret?”

“Are you from the bank?”

Those were the last words Lizzie expected to hear. She actually didn’t expect to hear any words, since every document indicated this house would be vacant. She’d checked the listings on Aaron’s logs, and this address had been foreclosed on months ago, the deputies had evicted the family soon after, and it had been vacant and for sale ever since. But now a college-looking girl in a white Sam Adams T-shirt, cutoffs, and flip-flops stood in the doorway. Looking worried.

Lizzie wondered how she looked. She pulled the keys from the lock.

“The bank?” Lizzie said. Why would this girl think she was from the bank? Why was this girl even here?

“Oh, I get it, not the bank. From the real estate agency, maybe? Sorry, I was in the shower.” The girl canted her hips, sticking one hand into a pocket, making the lining stick out past the frayed edges of her little jeans. Her sunburned face spackled with freckles, her wet hair pulled back in a scrunchy, she seemed unaware of Lizzie’s bafflement. “It’s not about the rent, right? We paid that. I’m sorry for the mess. Long weekend. I’m Maddie Kate Wendell.”

Lizzie stood still, staring at a person who should not be there. Music, faint but insistent, came from upstairs, and an entryway side table held a haphazard pile of textbooks. Students? Students in the empty house. The not-empty house. Paying rent.

“Ma’am?” the girl was saying.

Maybe the records weren’t up to date. Maybe the place was sold and rented, but the bank’s internal paperwork had failed catch up. Certainly its record-keeping systems weren’t foolproof. She herself was evidence of that. Lizzie almost nodded, mentally agreeing with this logical explanation.

“Sorry, Miss. Yes, it’s about the-” Lizzie paused, considering what it was about. It was about her own curiosity. Her compulsion to make things add up. Which now, faced with reality, might not be prudent.

Because reality could create problems.

What if Aaron got wind of her visit? Would he have something on her? Or would she have something on him? The girl, Maddie, was waiting for an answer. Lizzie needed answers, too.

“It’s about the rent,” Lizzie said. The words tumbled out almost before she realized. “I’m checking, routine, to see if we have the correct address where you’re sending the rent check. Can you confirm it?”

Lizzie hoped the girl’s definition of “confirm” didn’t include Lizzie having to provide something for her to confirm.

Maddie nodded her head. Like she was eager to help. Good.

“Oh, no prob. We send it to, like, a post office box in Boston. I don’t have the exact-exact place, you know, because Frank, he lives here, too, always pays it, after we pay him. So, um…” She brightened. “I could have him call you?”

“Who at the post office box? I mean, can you confirm the name on the P.O. box?” Lizzie was Miss Helpful. Miss Unthreatening.

“I can look,” Maddie said. “Want to come in?”

She did, and she didn’t. Decide.

She did. Lizzie took a step across the threshold as the girl scurried away. Two laptop computers were open on a coffee table, a big-screen TV on mute, showing some music video with singing dogs and what must be hookers on motorcycles. Music continued from upstairs, louder now, thumping through the ceiling. Certainly several people were living here. Why? How? And if the house was sold, why did Aaron still have the keys?

Maybe they hadn’t changed the locks. But still, even if the sales and transfer paperwork was delayed, it shouldn’t be this delayed. Certainly Aaron would be interested in hearing about that. It wouldn’t be Aaron’s fault, of course, he didn’t handle the sales end of it.

Problem was.

Would those questions domino onto her own… “activities”? The housing market was coming back, all the analysts agreed. Not a full recovery, but the outlook was positive. What if they started auditing the foreclosed properties and the transactions connected to them? Would the audit fingers reach into her files? They might. They would. They definitely would.

Best to leave it alone.

If the numbers were taken out of her control, it would ruin her plans. Ruin her families’ lives. Because they were her families now, and no way near recovered. They needed her, relied on her.

“Might be upstairs.” Maddie came back into the foyer, empty-handed. “Two more seconds.”

Lizzie blew out a breath as the girl trotted up the stairs. An array of running shoes, laces dangling, lined each step. Maddie kicked a pair out of the way as she came back down.

Lizzie’s mind computed risk and reward, curiosity versus consequences. She’d simply imagined the place would be empty. She’d overanalyzed, like she always did, and now, bottom line, it put her where she had no business being.

“Sorry, I’m no help at all,” Maddie was saying. “But seriously, I can have them call-”

“Never mind,” Lizzie said.