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.
57
Open season, Jane thought. New day. Square one. Have a nice life?
She yanked her Audi into third and powered up the Mass Pike, top down, hair blowing and caution to the winds. In about fifteen minutes this morning, semi-hangover notwithstanding, she’d finished the silly bank customer service story on her home computer (leaving out Liz McDivitt, sadly, but including quotes from the officious Colin Ackerman), zapped it off to the news desk, making her Friday deadline and checking that dumb assignment off her list. Maybe she should put Jake in her rearview.
And why had Peter brought her flowers, anyway? The card said “thank you,” whatever that meant. Maybe an apology for almost getting her killed. Or missing their not-date. Which was either adorable or ridiculous. She’d have to deal with that. And with her whole life. Somehow.
By the time she got to the Pike’s Cambridge exit, she’d considered and discarded the idea of going blond. Through the toll booth, considered and discarded the idea of leaving town, maybe moving to D.C.? Hang out with her friend Amy. Or even going home to Lake Forest and starting over.
Starting over. A person could do that, right? Passing the Prudential exit, she made her final decision. No. Her life was in Boston, and here she’d stay. She’d make the best of it. Make it work.
She punched up her phone. Time to start making it work.
“Hey, Chrystal?” Rats. Impossible to hear with the top down. “It’s Jane Ryland. But hang on a sec, okay?”
Jane swerved to the South Station exit, spotted a parking spot outside the Federal Reserve. Banged into reverse, did the parallel park in one try. “One more second.” She aimed her voice at the speaker.
She wouldn’t be here long enough to have to feed the meter. She hit the UP button for the top, decided for the hundredth time that it should say DOWN, and waited, briefly, as the black canvas descended, with a whump, over her. Finally, quiet enough to hear.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Jane began again. “I know you’re sick.”
“No problem.” Chrystal’s voice came over the speaker, then another sneeze.
“So sorry. I know this is rude. But I finished the bank story, so that’s all set, okay?”