Ironic that Peter’s career success, and Jake Brogan’s career success, depended on exactly the same question: was Gordon Thorley telling the truth about Lilac Sunday? There was only one truth. Both their jobs required they find it.
It took half a frustrating hour to battle through security to sign in, and an uncomfortable stint in a hotbox of a waiting room before he got to see his client.
Gordon Thorley sat like a handcuffed shadow in his metal chair, two empty coffee cups and a can of ginger ale in front of him and a scowl on his face. Could he have gotten even thinner? His dank hair plastered to his narrow skull, his cheekbones even more hollow than Peter’d remembered. If he were here much longer, Peter would get him sent to the infirmary. Petition the court if he had to. Thorley was not thriving in lockup. Who would?
Elliot Sandoval had told him he’d taken a two-hour shower, trying to wash off the memories. Now he and MaryLou’s lives were on hold. But at least they were on hold on the outside.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Jake Brogan said. He gestured Peter to a folding chair. “Mr. Thorley, with your permission, I’m going to lay out some things.”
“I’d prefer you and I did this alone, prior to including my client,” Peter began. He could not let Thorley respond to whatever Brogan was about to say. What’s more, he’d feel a hell of a lot more comfortable if he knew what it was before this cop sprang it on his client.
“Trust me on this, Hardesty, okay?” the detective said. “I know it’s against your nature.”
“I reserve the right to stop you at any moment.” Peter put his briefcase, a brown canvas barrier, between them. “Mr. Thorley, I instruct you not to say a word. Detective? We clear?”
Brogan nodded.
“You have the floor,” Peter said.
I could just head for the frigging hills, Aaron thought. He’d been waiting in this office for hours now. Way too long. He eyed the door. Closed. Was he a guest? Or a prisoner? What if he tried to leave? He rose from the leather armchair, briefly wondering who’d sat there before, and what’d happened to them.
Someone had recently vacuumed, he could tell from the stripes on the tan wall-to-wall. He went to the window, pulled back the heavy curtains, seeing the still-sunny day. People winding through the parking lot. People who knew where they were going. Unlike him.
He’d made the first move. He’d taken control. Now he had to see what’d happen next.
First to talk, first to walk. At least that’s what they said on the cop shows.
He held his cell phone, his lifeline, turned it over and over in his hand. They let him keep it, admonishing him not to call or text anyone, not to answer it, to let calls go to voice mail until they got back. They were “checking on things,” they said. Checking his story most likely. They probably had the room bugged, on closed circuit, were probably watching him this very minute. Seeing if he’d call anyone. He turned, did a three-sixty, scanning the curved molding that edged the ceiling, looking for little cameras. Let them look. He’d do as they said. He was here to play ball.
He paced to the door, ten steps, then back to the chair. Ten steps. What was their deal? Letting him sit here, freaking out? Not even a newspaper, or water, alone with his own racing brain and his own fraying nerves.
His phone rang, and he reached for it. Maybe they had-but no. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, ignored it, as instructed. The caller ID read Ackerman.
It rang again. He dropped into the chair, legs stretched in front of him, head against the padded upholstery, letting go. It rang again. Aaron Gianelli would win this one.
The call went to voice mail. And the room went silent.
59
“Let’s start with the money,” Jake said. “Mr. Thorley-”
“Don’t say a word, Gordon,” Hardesty interrupted. “Brogan, I’m warning you.”
“No need,” Jake said. “Hear me out. Mr. Thorley, we know about the mortgage payments. I assume your lawyer told you that.”
Thorley sat, motionless, in the BPD interrogation room. Blinked once, that was it.
“I told him,” Hardesty said.
“And, sir? We know how sick you are.”
Hardesty stood, his metal chair screeching as it slid on the linoleum floor, almost tipped over. “How sick?”
“I see,” Jake said. “Yeah. Mr. Hardesty, we have it confirmed, by the Department of Correction. I know this is difficult, Mr. Thorley, and I’m sorry-your client’s been diagnosed with a particularly unfortunate type of lung cancer. Diagnosed a little more than a year ago. When I talked to your new parole officer, he called Mr. Thorley ‘poor guy.’ That’s what he meant, I suppose.”
Hardesty looked at Thorley. “True?”
Thorley shrugged, got me. In that one defeated motion, a dismissal of Jake, and Hardesty, and the world.
Hardesty turned away, scratching the back of his head. Paused, then turned back to Jake.
“I’m not clear where you’re going with this, Brogan. This whole discussion is-irregular. I’m on the verge of cutting it off. Since my client did not divulge any illness, and since medical records are confidential, there was no way for me to find out. Only individual parole officers have access to the records, only they know the status of their parolees’ health, and they’re not allowed to discuss it.”
He yanked the chair back into place. “Fine time for Arsenault to play by the book.”
Jake nodded. Arsenault, Thorley’s current parole officer. Worth noting that Hardesty was in the dark about this. Thorley had actively kept it secret, which meant it was important. Jake would propose his theory, and see if anyone bit.
“Cutting to the chase, Mr. Thorley. I’m unclear on how much your attorney knows about whatever is going on, but I urge you to tell us the truth. If someone paid your family’s mortgage to convince you to confess to a murder you didn’t commit-well, let’s put it this way. That’s not going to fly. Because I can find out. And I will. And it won’t work.”
Jake waited, his words dissolving into silence. Gordon Thorley was clearly not the Lilac Sunday killer. But he certainly knew who was. If he decided to tell, Jake’s next risky tactic-asking a question he didn’t know the answer to-would pay off. Big time.
Thorley seemed fascinated by the pitted metal of the interrogation room table.
“Hardesty?” Jake said. “You know about any of this?”
Rubbing his forehead with his fingertips, Hardesty was silent. Finally looked at Jake. “News to me,” he said.
“So let me ask you, specifically, Mr. Thorley,” Jake persisted. “Who killed Carley Marie Schaefer?”
“Don’t answer,” Hardesty put out both palms, stopping him. “Brogan, you know that’s crossing the line.”
“I did,” Thorley said. “I killed her.”
Six o’clock was just over three hours from now. That gave Jane plenty of time to dig into the Lilac Sunday story. Mornay and Weldon offices were open until eight, but Turiello told her business slacked off early evening until the after-dinner browsers of homes took over. So, around six, he said, they could have a bit of “alone time” together.
Meanwhile, Thorley. Had Jane actually been attacked by the Lilac Sunday killer? Had Peter known that? Good thing Thorley was in custody now. Not that it happened in time to help his latest victim, Treesa Caramona. The nightside reporter on the story said Caramona was a street person, no address, no family, no obvious connections. Why’d Thorley kill her?
The whole story was full of dead ends. Not one of the original witnesses Chrystal Peralta had interviewed was findable. Not a trace of them. Frustrated, Jane had called Chrystal again, but her call had gone to voice mail.