Truth Be Told

56

It felt great to tell her. Jake hadn’t discussed the possibilities with anyone. Not the Supe, not DeLuca, not even his grandmother, because they had stakes in it, and what if he was missing something or on the wrong track? But he was close. He was sure of it. Jane had promised the Peter thing was all in his imagination. Someone you-love-you have to trust. Even if it was complicated.

And Jane was the perfect sounding board. Her reporter instincts were on the money, almost coplike. He thought about those airport lilacs, wilting in the backseat of his car. Wished he had thought to bring her new ones.

“You have the Lilac Sunday killer?” Jane’s eyes went wide, she’d moved to the edge of the couch, crossed her bare legs, carefully closing that thick white robe over them. “I wasn’t in Boston when it happened, but Chrystal Peralta was just talking about it. And your grandfather was in charge? That I didn’t know.”

Jake watched her process the whole thing, the cold case, his grandfather, the girl’s family, the looming anniversary, the confession. The parole board’s controversial decision to let Thorley out after serving most of his robbery sentence. The murder of Treesa Caramona, which might prove Thorley was guilty. Or not.

“Now, his mortgage payments at A &A are up to date,” Jake said. “He owns a home in Sagamore, with his sister, and it was almost in foreclosure. Now it isn’t. Hey. You were working on that foreclosure story. Anything I haven’t considered?”

Jane stared at him, her body still except for one foot, snapping the bottom of her black flip-flop.

“A &A Bank,” Jane said.

“Yeah.”

The flip-flop snapped again.

“You know Liz McDivitt,” Jane finally said.

“Yeah,” Jake said. Risky ground here. “I know of her.”

“Well, listen. I may know what happened. And the change in Gordon Thorley’s mortgage may be connected to her. I didn’t see his name listed, but-”

Jake couldn’t read her expression now, except to see her brain going a mile a minute. He stood, came to the couch, sat down next to her, one cushion away. He could still smell her grapefruit shampoo and something like peppermint and lemons and summer.

“Listed? Gordon Thorley connected to Liz McDivitt?” Jake said. “Jane? How?”

Jane was shaking her head, droplets of water from her wet hair sprinkling the navy leather of her couch. She swiped them off with a corner of the towel, one by one.

“Now I have to ask you.” Jane draped the towel around her neck again, and looked him square in the eyes. “Now that we’re confessing to each other. Now that we’re trusting each other. Now that we’re trying out our new-relationship.”

She eyed her empty glass. Put it down.

“Ask me what?” Jake said.

“Can you keep a secret?”

Jane told him as much as she knew, the Gantrys, the Detwylers, and the Rutherfords. And now-Gordon Thorley, too?

“If the bank made ‘mistakes’ on the mortgages, they’ll have the Banking Commission and the Justice Department and the Comptroller of the Currency and the Attorney General fighting to see who could nail them first. It’ll be at least a major-league scandal, possibly the end of Atlantic & Anchor. End of Hardin McDivitt, that’s for sure. Liz’s father. So then maybe, somehow-ah…”

She shrugged.

“Liz McDivitt,” Jake said.

“Yeah.”

“Did those people, Miss McDivitt’s customers, mention anyone else’s names?” Jake asked.

Such a cop. Here it was almost midnight, the wine gone, the street sounds fading, Jane still starving, the cheese and crackers down to crumbs and crumbles.

“Nope,” she said. “But-”

Jake was thumbing something into his phone, such a cop-and Jane knew a line had been crossed, they’d crossed it together, sharing things they shouldn’t. But clearly they both had information about the same stories, and clearly there were threads that connected them. It was frustrating not to know how, or which ones, or who would know.

Chrystal Peralta, Jane thought. She might have a whole list of clients. Maybe other notes she hadn’t given Jane, or that Jane couldn’t decipher. Chrystal seemed knowledgeable about Lilac Sunday, too. She paused, tucking that away.

What if Jake caught the Lilac Sunday killer?

“Honey?” Jake had put away his cell and moved closer to her on the couch, now touching her still-damp hair, moving it away from her neck. He traced the edge of her ear with one finger. “Can we stop talking business now?”

“Hmm?” With his touch, somehow, the long-ago cases and the search for headlines, the swirl of possibilities and the potential bad guys and the stakes of being a reporter and-whatever-it all fell away. They couldn’t figure out the answers tonight. There was only Jake, and her, and midnight, and they were alone.

She turned to him, agreeing, accepting, wanting-the terry cloth opened, and the belt seemed to loosen, who was doing that? Someone’s wineglass tipped, rolled on to the carpet, it didn’t matter, there was only-

Jake’s phone buzzed. Buzzed again.

“Never mind, never mind,” she said. “You were saying…”

Jake stopped. She could feel the difference in his muscles, in his skin, in the sound of his breath. She closed her eyes, letting go.

“Go ahead,” she said. Would she have done the same thing? She had answered her front door, two hours ago, when Peter buzzed.

Jake kept his arm around her shoulders, she didn’t try to move it, and she leaned with him as he took the cell from his jacket pocket. He turned the screen so she couldn’t see it.

She felt his arm slip away as he stood.

“Jane. Honey.” He held the BlackBerry in one hand, the other he held out to her. “I have to go.”

“Why? Did something-”

He shook his head, the picture of regret, but she didn’t care, it would never change. “I can’t say.”

Jane rewrapped her robe, tied the belt in the tightest knot she could. She smiled, had to, what else was there to do about reality?

“You want to live this way?” she said.

“What other way is there?” Jake said. “I’m sorry, Janey. I have to go.”

And he was up, and over, and out, and gone.

A minute later, less, thirty seconds, the downstairs buzzer rang.

“It’s Jake.” His voice came over the speaker.

A wash of relief, of desire, of joy, she felt it to the back of her neck and in her suddenly tightening heart. He was back. She buzzed, not saying a word, heard the opening of the outside door, heard his footsteps on the landing, on the way to her.

He appeared, her Jake, and there were-flowers?

“Your ‘package,’ I assume.” Jake said. “From Peter Hardesty.”

He handed her the bouquet of white roses, wrapped in pink tissue paper, tied at the bottom with a trailing lavender ribbon.

“Business,” he said. “I see. Have a nice life, Jane.”

He turned, and was gone again.