“You hear about Liz McDivitt?” Chrystal asked. “Incredibly disturbing.”
“I know,” Jane said. “It’s awful. I kind of feel-but no, nothing new. Anyway, quick question. You know that list of bank customers you had? In your notebook? I couldn’t read them all, and was wondering, does the name Gordon Thorley sound familiar? Or anyone Thorley? Was it on your list?”
Jane heard only silence.
“I know a Gordon Thorley,” Chrystal finally said. “I covered his parole hearing, a million years ago. He was one of the last cons to get paroled, remember? Before the new law-and-order regime? Oh, right, you weren’t here. But anyway, yeah. Armed robbery, he was in for. It was a big deal-” She sneezed again. “When he got out. They fired the parole board chairman.”
Jane tried to envision a calendar, tried to make a timeline. A car pulled up next to her, window down, seemed to be inquiring about the parking spot. Jane waved him off, sorry, not leaving.
“Was Thorley in prison on Lilac Sunday?” Jane asked. “When that girl was killed?”
“No, the armed robbery was after that.” Chrystal’s voice had changed. “What’re you really asking, Jane?”
“Huh? I’m losing you,” Jane made some scratching noises on the phone, hoping they didn’t sound too fake, moved away from the speaker. She didn’t want to share with Chrystal. She needed Chrystal to share with her.
“About Liz’s customer list,” Jane said. “It was a little difficult to read. You have quite the handwriting, you know? Anyway, was Gordon Thorley’s name on it?”
“No,” Chrystal said. “It wasn’t. But listen, if you’ve got something on Thorley, you should let me know. I covered that.”
“I will,” Jane lied. Better nip this in the bud. “Hope you’re feeling better soon, Chrystal. Thanks so much.”
She clicked off, hands on the steering wheel, looking out the windshield. Into the oncoming traffic, and into possibilities. What if Gordon Thorley had killed Carley Marie Schaefer, then gone to prison for something else? No wonder they couldn’t find the bad guy. He’d gotten paroled, and then, a few years later, confessed. The cops had let him go-because of Peter? And then, according to Jake, he’d confessed to killing Treesa Caramona.
The Lilac Sunday killer had walked into the police station, confessed, and the cops had freed him to kill again. Is that why Peter showed up at her door? Had the legal system and the cops combined to release a murderer? No wonder Jake was distracted.
She cranked the ignition.
If Jake was blowing her off, have a nice life? Did that release her from their “I won’t tell if you won’t” deal? Talk about starting over. Did the truth ever trump off-the-record? This was the story of the century.
He had two hours, Jake calculated as he turned off the Pike at Exit 17, before the next session at the police station. The Supe was playing it close to the vest, but clearly there’d been a break. That was the phone call that had taken him from Jane last night. Not what they’d expected, not at all, but certainly good enough. The guy they had in the Superintendent’s side office meant the Liz McDivitt case was about to blow wide open. But nothing Jake could do, right now, to make it happen any faster. He turned right, sneaking through the yellow light, wished DeLuca was back in town. He’d love this. Now Jake could use this time to work on the Thorley case.
He rolled down the cruiser window, assessing the tiny brick one-story on a side street in Newtonville. The street’s centerline was painted green, white, and red instead of yellow, a testament to the passionate Italian heritage of this neighborhood, called the Lake.
Tramping up the front walk to Chrystal Peralta’s house, he realized he could have simply called her, but he wanted to show her the articles in person. The Peraltas were a big name in the Lake, another of those random facts in Jake’s head. A ceramic doorplate, green vines and purple grapes, promised BENVENUTO. The paper’d told him she was out sick, so fifty-fifty she was at home.
“Who is it?” A voice came through the dark green front door, female.
“Chrystal Peralta? Jake Brogan. Boston Police.” He felt like a salesman, trapped on the front stoop. A salesman holding out a badge wallet.
She pulled open the door, one hand on the doorjamb, didn’t invite him in. Gave him an up-and-down, frowning. She didn’t look that sick, except for that wild hair and faded orange tracksuit.
“Yeah, I see who you are, Detective. Is something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing,” Jake said. “Don’t mean to upset you, and I know you’re-”
Peralta sneezed, and Jake took a step back. Maybe he didn’t want to go in, after all.
“Bless you,” he said. “Anyway, if you have a minute? I’d like to ask you about these articles from the Register.” He flapped open his leather portfolio, showed her the top copy, one of her Carley Marie Schaefer stories. “For instance, in this story-”
“Are you kidding me?” she said. “That was twenty years ago.”
“I know. But we’re following up now.” Jake pointed to the names as he talked. “I’m looking for these people, this one, and this one, all the ones you interviewed at the scene. The ones who were there when the body was found. I can’t track them down, not any of them. Do you-and I know it’s a long shot-possibly still have their contact information?”
Chrystal’s laughter stopped only when she had a coughing fit, doubling over, somewhat over-dramatically, Jake decided. She straightened, wiping her red-rimmed eyes. Her hair had gotten even crazier.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. She clamped a be-ringed hand to her chest. “Best laugh I’ve had all day. That was twenty-freakin’-sorry, officer, darn.” She rolled her eyes, apparently making sure Jake understood she was being sarcastic. “Twenty years ago. Even if I wanted to help you-which, I must say in the interest of journalism, I don’t, since I don’t really appreciate being questioned by a cop. Forgive me, police detective. But even if I wanted to help you, no way I have those notes. Now can I go back to my VapoRub?”
Jake waited. Let the sarcasm fade. “We’re investigating a death,” he said.
She took a deep breath, shook her head. “Poor Carley Marie. Okay?” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me-”
“I saw you wrote the Gordon Thorley parole stories, too,” he said.
She eyed him again, up and down. He held his ground, hoping she didn’t sneeze again. She took a step closer.
“Carley Marie. Lilac Sunday. Hey. Two and two together, you’re saying you like Gordon Thorley for Lilac Sunday?” she said. “There’s a lot of that going around, Detective. If you wanna talk about that, well, come on in. Benvenuto.”
Jake stayed where he was. Of course she’d ask, but time to call a halt to this line of questioning. “Miss Peralta? We’ve arrested Thorley for Treesa Caramona, as you know.”
“Oh, right.” Her head tilted. “Detective? What’s going on?”
“You wrote about Gary Lee Smith.” Jake flipped the pages of the articles, ignoring her question. “The parole officer? Who testified at Thorley’s hearing?”
Chrystal moved her hand to the knob and began closing the door. “I see now. Cops. All alike. If you’ll excuse me? We’re done here.”
Jake put his foot in the door.
“I can get a warrant,” he lied. Whatever Chrystal thought he was asking, she knew something she wasn’t telling. Something she was unhappy about. He’d been a cop long enough to read that, and take advantage of it. “But look. As you like to say. Off the record. Between us.”
He paused. “And I’ll owe you.”
Chrystal chewed her bottom lip, holding the door tight against his foot. “I cannot believe you’d ask me about this, about Gary Smith,” she said. “You’re telling me you never had a ‘relationship’ with a source?”