Peter held the police report in one hand, the blurry copy of the news story in the other. Dated 1994, a stilted but unmistakable account of the “rambunctious in victory” varsity baseball team who’d stolen a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon from someone’s parents’ house and “caroused” through the school and the parking lot. “Authorities report the students’ parents insisted they should be taught a lesson, and were kept in the city lockup overnight. School officials are considering whether graduation should…”
“Hardesty? Your client’s lie won’t work,” Brogan was saying. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt here, that you didn’t know. If he gives up the real story, right now, it’ll make things much easier. I’m sure you can explain that to him.”
There was a first. He agreed with a cop. He and Jake Brogan-who’d been acting like he had some kind of chip on his shoulder-were now in this together, on the same side. And now, flipping their usual roles, it was the cop who apparently had evidence his client was not guilty.
“Mr. Thorley,” Peter began. “Detective Brogan is right.”
Peter paused, letting that sink in. He was sure Brogan’s face registered the irony for an instant. “If you’re doing this for your family-whatever it is you’re doing, whoever it is you’re covering for-they’d rather have you home. They’d rather have you be the good guy. You helped them keep their house, maybe. But however you think you’re working that, whatever someone promised you, your sister will be haunted forever, thinking that the Lilac Sunday killer is her brother. You’re trying to help them by branding yourself as a murderer? Is that what you want?”
Brogan had taken out the photo of Carley Marie again. Showed it to him, then to his client. “And what about Carley Marie’s family?” Brogan said. “You can be the hero, Thorley. The hero. Not the villain.”
Jake’s cell phone vibrated against his jacket pocket.
Damn. He hit OFF. Focused on Thorley. An icicle of sweat had started, down the side of the suspect’s cheek. He’d swiped it away with the back of one hand. Thorley’s orange jump suit, county issue, wilted on his narrow shoulders.
Jake had one more card-at least-to play.
“We’re not done, Thorley,” Jake said. He checked with Hardesty, his unlikely new ally. Got a nod, go ahead.
“The only one who’d pay an innocent person to confess to a crime is the person who actually did it,” Jake said.
“So we need to know-,” Hardesty began.
“Hang on,” Jake interrupted. He pulled up a chair, as close to Thorley as he could get. Opened his grandfather’s files. Grandpa’s notes. And they’d led Jake to the answers. Commissioner Brogan helped solve this case after all. Jake would tell Gramma later, when Lilac Sunday was finally closed.
“Mr. Thorley,” Jake continued. “Showing you this photo of the baseball game again.”
“So?” Thorley didn’t look up. “I’ve seen it.”
“Who threw you that ball?”
“How do I know?”
“Let me refresh your recollection, then,” Jake said. His phone buzzed again.
Dammit. He punched it off. “It appears my grandfather had talked to some students at Attleboro High. Here’s a list of their names, and I found every one of them in the yearbook. The principal’s there, his name is crossed off, apparently he must have had a good alibi, too. There’s also this name.” Jake put the paper down. Pointed.
Hardesty stood, leaned over the table.
“Gary Lee Smith?” Hardesty said.
“Ring a bell?” Jake said. “Who was Gary Lee Smith, Mr. Thorley?”
“Parole officer. You know that.” Thorley mumbled the words, aimed them at the floor.
“Correct. Went off to play minor league ball, got cut, became a parole officer. Your first parole officer, specifically, the one who argued for your release at the parole board. The one who died in the car accident. The one who-well, let’s let your lawyer see for himself.” He handed Hardesty the yearbook photo.
“The-,” Hardesty began.
“Catcher,” Jake said. “The guy who threw you that ball. But he was in jail with you, too, the night of the murder. Couldn’t have killed Carley Marie, either. Maybe he knew her? But the Commissioner crossed him off his list, because Smith was in jail, too. With you. He couldn’t have known how you’d be connected with him again, all those years later.”
Thorley didn’t speak. He sat so still Jake checked, briefly, to see if his sunken chest was moving. Finally one of Thorley’s hands, flat on the gray metal table, curled slowly into a fist. Then, just as slowly, uncurled.
“Gary Lee Smith argued for your release,” Jake said. “And his boss, parole board chairman Edward Walsh, agreed. Lost his job over it. But eventually, as your parole officer, and your pal, Smith found out you were dying. Was that what made you the perfect fall guy? You’d confess, you’d get your family’s house back, you’d die. Who came to you with that deal?”
Jake leaned in close to Thorley, tried not to breathe the scent of bleach and cigarettes and fear.
“Who killed Carley Marie?” Jake kept his voice still, still as the room.
“You know this.” Peter’s voice, almost reverent.
“It’s over,” Jake said. “Just tell us. Who killed her?”
“I don’t know,” Thorley said. “I. Don’t. Know.”
He looked up, his eyes widening at the reality.
He’d confessed.
61
Tucked at the end of a cul-de-sac, the house seemed nice enough, though Jane could tell it was definitely a fixer-upper. Crumbling front steps. All the windows, even on the garage door, boarded up with plywood. Yet with some carpentry and construction, this place could be renovated. And of course, construction and renovation were Elliot’s specialties.
Jane sat in the front seat of her car, waiting for the Sandovals to meet her there. Just past three fifteen, but everyone was late in Boston’s Friday afternoon traffic. With the baby so close, it must be such a relief that Elliot was released. Bummer, though, that the DA hadn’t given evidence. Would have been interesting to know what they had on him. If anything.
Jane checked her messages. Nothing from the Sandovals. Nothing from Chrystal, either, on the Lilac Sunday witness names. Nothing from Jake. Nothing from Peter, though she’d see him with the Sandovals, at least, in a minute. Where was everyone?
A light went on inside the house. Didn’t it? Hard to tell, with the glare of the sun. Yes, there. Movement behind an upstairs curtain. Were they already there? Maybe their car was in the garage? She was an idiot. She was the one who was late. Dummy.
She grabbed her bag, crossed the street, trotted up the broken flagstone path. The justice system had worked for the Sandovals, Jane thought. And she was about to share the results.
Three steps, two and a half, to the front door. A doorbell hung, dead, from two blue wires.
She knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
What the hell was taking so fricking long? Aaron had paced this office in police HQ so many times, he knew it was ten steps from the window to the door. The closed but not locked door. He’d opened it long enough to see the uniform in the hallway, a stubby guy who scowled at him, hand hovering over his weapon, as he quickly closed the door again.
Aaron had made his first move, calling police headquarters, almost at midnight. Arrived this morning, well, afternoon actually, after he slept off the night before. A cop named Sherrey had taken his statement. Aaron told Sherrey he knew who’d killed Liz McDivitt. And would give them the name if they made a deal.