He almost laughed. Almost. Around the corner, the silent blue lights, flashing on the white siding. A crowd looking on. Ambulance, parked. Cop cars. So much for making her part of his-their-operation.
He’d agreed with Ackerman. Made the decision. Knew the score. It was him, or her. Ack put it to him, simple as yes or no. You or her. Aaron had made a mistake, and he was sorry. But her snooping and prying and interfering had put Lizzie in over her head. Right where Aaron was. It was her, or him. He knew that.
A block to go. TV antenna things stuck up through the trees, those trucks they used for going live. So, reporters. The whole freaky deaky nine yards. Well, the murder-or whatever-of a bank president’s daughter would be big news.
Freaking Ackerman. This was actually all his fault. Big-shot bank guy. Big talker. Telling everyone what to say and do. Where was he, anyway? Not here, this was sure as hell the last place he’d show his face. Had anyone seen him? Before?
Aaron felt the pull of the murder scene, almost magnetic, heard an undercurrent of activity as he walked closer. Late this afternoon, he’d summoned his courage and gone to Lizzie’s office, full of the plan, but she’d been “out,” Stephanie told him. Would he like to leave a message? No frigging way. No messages.
He’d ridden the elevator up to five, then down to the lobby, then up again, stalling. Should he forget the whole thing? But finally he’d called her cell and told Lizzie where to meet him. The front door would be open, he told her. And then he’d arrive, get her advice on the place, and then, together, they’d go someplace fabulous. He promised. If she’d take a cab, he’d drive, and she wouldn’t have to leave her car.
It had taken all he could to get the words out. But she agreed instantly, even putting him on speaker so she could write down the address. She was so trusting, and that puppy-dog face she had. How she always looked at him, all needy. He’d marshaled his courage-if you could call it that-remembering, with the clarity of inevitability, that it was him or her. What was he supposed to do?
Aaron insinuated himself into the pack of onlookers, back row, peering out over the heads of the curious. Baseball caps, like his, one woman in curler things. The cops were all over Kenilworth Street-where had Ackerman come up with this place, anyway? It sure wasn’t on his REO list. But made sense Ack wouldn’t choose one of their own props to… do this.
They would stay out of it, if all went as planned. If it didn’t-well, it wasn’t Aaron’s fault. If he had to choose “him or me” again? Again, he’d choose himself. That was his backup plan. He had all the dirt on this deal. He would tell, if need be.
He adjusted his baseball cap, pulling it lower, as two EMTs opened the back doors of the idling ambulance. Two girl TV reporters, side by side but ignoring each other, stood in front of the house, big lights blasting them. He could see their lipsticked mouths moving, but couldn’t hear a word they were saying.
He didn’t need to hear. He knew exactly what happened.
49
Peter heard sounds from Doreen Rinker’s living room, familiar, then realized it was the almost-muted techno-frantic theme of the TV news. Already eleven?
He could almost feel the copy of the newspaper article tucked into his pocket. The article written by Chrystal Peralta, the veteran reporter he’d met at the Register. She’d covered the Thorley parole. Interviewed the past board chairman, Sheriff Walsh. Maybe she knew something about the case, something to prove Thorley was innocent. He’d grasped at thinner straws.
Doreen Rinker led him toward the front door, apologizing again for burning the note, offering him more coffee.
“Maybe in a paper cup?”
Which actually sounded like a good idea. He was zonked, and could have a two-hour drive back to Boston. “Sure, thanks.”
“Be right back,” she said. “Have a seat. Watch the news.”
Peter didn’t want to get comfortable, didn’t want to risk dozing off, so he stood by the door, half-interested in the flickering image on the big screen. He tried to remember. Had Chrystal Peralta mentioned Gordon Thorley when they’d talked at the Register? She hadn’t, he was sure of it. But she had talked about Lilac Sunday, explained it to Jane.
The lights on the TV screen shifted. Peter’s peripheral vision was caught by a swirling graphic, BREAKING NEWS. Huh. Jake Brogan and a uniformed cop. On the front porch of some house.
The sound was too low to understand, but a printed crawl unspooled across the lower third of the screen. Police investigating… possible homicide in Boston… Jamaica Plain… woman found in empty house… no identification of victim…
Peter watched the video scenes, reading the no-details outline of Boston’s latest murder.
In an empty house. Just like the one on Moulten Street, the one Gordon Thorley confessed to, the death of Treesa Caramona. Peter smiled, a reasonably compelling motion-for-dismissal taking shape in his head. Since this woman-whoever it was-had apparently been murdered while Thorley was in custody, who was to say the bad guy in this case hadn’t killed Treesa Caramona, too?
And that might mean, based on-well, he’d come up with something-they’d have to let Thorley out, at least while awaiting trial. Possible.
Should he tell Doreen Rinker? False hopes were the scourge of the profession; the worst thing you could do to a frantic family was dangle the possibility their loved one might be freed. In reality, the legal system was such a minefield nothing could be absolute. That’s why jury decisions were based on reasonable doubt. Nothing was ever certain. Nothing predictable.
Lilac Sunday was the complication. There was no proof Thorley was innocent of…
Wait. Innocent.
Gordon Thorley wasn’t the only one who might benefit-yes, benefit-from this latest murder.
The three loveliest words Jane had ever heard.
New York City.
The door to the McDivitts’ faux-Georgian semi-mansion had opened almost before the last bong of the doorbell. Jane had told TJ to wait in the van-she’d try to get a comment, that was her job, but no way was she going to barge up to the door with a camera. The whole encounter was invasive enough without pointing a lens at a devastated parent. Liz had told her-Jane shook her head, remembering. Her mother was dead, another thing they’d shared. A trim young woman in a navy blazer and linen slacks opened the door. Housekeeper? Assistant? New wife?
Jane introduced herself, saw a flicker of recognition. Asked for Hardin McDivitt.
No, the woman told Jane, Mr. McDivitt is not in at the moment. A dog barked, somewhere down a corridor. Might she take a message?
Jane could barely keep from thanking her. Not the new wife, if there even was one. This woman was all business.
Did the woman know when he’d return? Jane had crossed her fingers the answer would be “never.”
He’s in New York City, the woman said. She’d asked Jane for a card.
“They’d like some privacy,” the woman had finally said. “If there’s a comment, they’ll be in touch.” Then she’d closed the door.
It was all Jane could do not to run back to the van. Score one, at least.
“No one home,” Jane said. “A housekeeper or something. Says they’re out of town. Great, huh? The police must have called. She didn’t look upset, but they’re asking for ‘privacy.’ We know what that means.”
“Yeah. Your phone is beeping,” TJ said as she opened the car door. “And the desk called. Marcotte sent an overnight crew to Kenilworth Street. So we’re clear. Day is done.”