“We thought we heard knocking. We’re ripping off wallpaper, right in the midst of it, and it’s hard to stop the steam machine.”
More movement. Maybe it was the steam thing. Her neck hurt from looking up.
“That’s a tough job,” she said. “Do you want me to-”
“The door’s open, right? Come on in. We’re upstairs.”
“Okay, Thorley, it’s you and me now.” Peter Hardesty sat toe-to-toe across from his client-his not-guilty client. Brogan had gotten some kind of crisis call, left them alone. A cadet had brought Thorley another can of ginger ale, Peter had a cup of bad coffee. He’d turned their metal chairs so their backs were to the mirrored window, just in case. It was lawyer-client now. Private. Time for the truth.
“I need answers,” Peter said. “Legally, you’ve recanted your confession, so that whole charade is over. The mortgage payments, the house, that whole thing-done. But you could go to jail anyway. You’re still guilty of obstruction of justice, providing false testimony, and no doubt a litany of other illegalities. You want to see daylight again before you die? See your family? Your house? You need to tell us who convinced you to confess to a murder you didn’t commit.”
The fluorescent lights buzzed, and one, with a snap, flashed, and popped to black.
“Walsh.” Thorley stared him down for a moment, defiant.
“The parole board chairman. The one who set you free.” Peter tried to make the pieces fit. The parole board chairman had power, but an entire board had to vote to release a prisoner. “But it couldn’t have been a quid pro quo-a deal.”
“Uh-uh. No.” Thorley was shaking his head, looked authentically dismayed. “My release was all on the up and up. Fair and square. God knows I’d worked for it. Deserved it. Turned out Walsh kept a watch on all the parolees’ health records. Guess he had access to them all,” Thorley said. “Seemed like he’d shopped for a-I don’t know.”
“Shopped for a sick person? A dying person? Someone who had nothing to lose?”
Thorley shrugged. “I was released back in 2010. Then last December? They called me, told me they knew my family was in trouble. I was told to confess, that there wouldn’t be any evidence to prove it wasn’t me. I was dying anyway. If I did what they said? The Cape house mortgage would be paid for, the back payments, and every month on time till it was all paid off. If I didn’t-my family would never get to keep the house. They’d make sure.”
“How did they-?”
“If I didn’t play ball?” Thorley put up a palm, stopping Peter’s question, “They’d revoke my parole. Put me back in. Said it wouldn’t be hard to do.”
“Gary Lee Smith told you.” A guess, but based on what Jake Brogan had uncovered, it made sense. “The parole officer. Your friend. The catcher. Talk about playing ball.”
“Yeah.” Thorley coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What did I have to lose? I was out, but long enough to see I’d never fit in. Long enough to see the Cape house again. Long enough to finally do something good for my family.”
“How’d you know what to say? The details of the crime? Didn’t you figure-this must be the person who did it? Or know who did?” That gave Peter an idea. A very intriguing idea. He’d wait, though.
“I always wondered if it was Walsh, you know?” Thorley made a breathy half-sound, almost a laugh. “He was a county sheriff back then, big shot, maybe knew Carley Marie’s family, maybe knew her. But hell, he was never arrested, so maybe it wasn’t him. He got rich being a ‘consultant,’ whatever that means. Guess it means money.”
“Was Walsh the one who locked you all up that night? As kids? Did he even know about that?”
“Nope, that was the Attleboro cops. And they’d sealed our case, Gary and I knew that. But Sheriff Walsh-he was fired as parole commissioner, you know? At least he didn’t get a death sentence. Like I did.”
“Did Walsh ever tell you he did it? Killed Carley Marie?”
“Nope. But he had that Treesa Caramona killed. She was another of Walsh’s parolees, had like, Hep C. Bad. That I do know. Guess that was so I could confess again, prove it was me. So now what?” Thorley said. “You need me to testify, better hurry the hell up, right? I don’t have long.”
“You’ll have to go back into lockup,” Peter said. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Like it matters,” Thorley said.
“It matters,” Peter said.
Jake almost started laughing. The look on this moron’s face was beyond priceless. The woman standing at the office door provided the proof that Aaron Gianelli, dupe extraordinaire, was not involved in Liz McDivitt’s death. He’d truly believed she was dead.
Jake knew she wasn’t.
So did the others on the Supe’s hastily organized task force. It had been the Supe’s idea to pretend Liz had met her fate and see who came out of the woodwork afterward. The real bad guy would know Liz was not dead, because he-or she-had not shown up that night to kill her. What came out of the woodwork was a rat.
“Hey, Aaron,” Liz said.
“But-you-they-” Aaron stood, slowly. Closed his eyes tight, then opened them again.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m really here.”
“Where to start?” said Jake pleasantly. “Ms. McDivitt came to us, terrified. She brought a chocolate pastry she’d taken, suspected it was drugged-you gave her those, right?-and the paperwork proving that you and your colleagues were covertly renting bank property and keeping the money. Why was she afraid? She’d heard you talk about Waverly Road, my friend. She worried she was next.”
Some smart lawyer in the DA’s office would have to assess how many laws this all broke. Jake hoped it was a shitload, including bank robbery, fraud, and larceny. Conspiracy. And accessory to murder.
They’d nailed most of their case. With Liz safely in hiding and Jake holding off the press after Officer Canfield revealed the Supe’s plans to him that night on the Kenilworth porch, Sherrey had done a blast-canvas of the homes on the list Liz had provided, found those college students, pulled the leases. Canfield followed the money.
What they didn’t have-was the brains behind it. And behind the murder of Shandra Newbury. And the set-up of Liz McDivitt.
“But you’d agreed to meet me on Kenilworth Street.” Aaron’s voice had thinned, as if he was not quite sure he was talking to a real person.
“Nice,” Liz said. “So you knew they were coming to kill me? After you got me to go there alone?”
Jake couldn’t imagine how the guy would get out of that one.
“Got to admit, that’s a tough question,” Jake said.
“Toughie,” Sherrey said.
“Lizzie, I-” Aaron sank into the chair.
“Lucky I had the cops there with me. But Aaron. Why didn’t the killer show up?” she asked. “Whoever it was? You told them I would be there, you got me there. Why didn’t they show up to kill me?”
“I don’t know!” Aaron’s voice went up an octave, then went silent.
Jake smiled. The Supe smiled. Even Sherrey smiled.
Aaron Gianelli had just confessed.
“Good boy.” The Superintendent raised his bulk from the desk, lumbered to the door. “Miss McDivitt, my gratitude. You’re a brave woman. Want to come with me now? I’m off to make a phone call to your father. Officer Canfield, you, too-Miss McDivitt has certainly gotten used to your company these last twenty hours. Detective Brogan? You know what to do.”
What to do? What to do? What the hell were they gonna do? Aaron’s arms were hurting, the cuffs pulling them back, and he was going to throw up, this was incredibly-Lizzie was alive?
How could that even be? But she’d been all smiley, standing by that cop, like she just came from a meeting or something, instead of from-where the hell had she been?